Junctions

The Stars My Destination ~ Donato Giancola

Unfortunately my attention is concentrated on finding work at the moment, so creation needs to take a back seat (The law of the jungle).

I will be back

Self Addressed Envelope

Aurora Australis

It can certainly not be argued that I had no part in the events that occurred during my time aboard The Mantra Ray.
Indeed, no man can argue that his fate is in the hands of some unseen agent – Reason has, after all, removed any justification for the vagaries of blind faith and the monstrous atrocities inflicted by the theists in general, and the monotheists in particular.
No man can argue his culpability in consequences of inadvisable practises, for to step outside the bounds Reason’s dictates is to invite the attention of those who hold power.
Human interaction, after all, must follow the laws of entropy increasing, allowing, or rather, insisting that all reactions flow downhill in an attempt to equalise personal accounts in a manner sometimes indecipherable to the debtor.
Payback often results in ostracism, varying in degrees of subtlety, from withdrawal of communication to banishment, from verbal equalisation to physical attack.
I look back on the man I was then and I am filled with shame; shame not only at my shallow expectations of life but also at my mistreatment of those around me; as if the months of solitude, rather than deepen my appreciation for the company of others, stripped me of all the bindings of social contract that require us to treat those around us with, at least, a polite respect for their personal space. It is a shame that cannot be entirely blamed on my consumption of Igneous.

From Decaying Orbits

Offensive Language

Black is Burned

Eruption ~ Jacek Yerka

The crow descends in silhouette
Trees scratch his name against the dawn
While last year’s leaves as yet un-swept
Declare the day in whispered scorn

And from my thoughts hang twisted kites
Which steal the night unhinge the locks
Their fingers search out every tumbler
Their tails jump-start the mourning clocks

His silhouette descends through boiling clouds
Calls my name across the dawn
The flock mark my passing and check my pace
I pick my beak with talon thorn

Breath condenses words from steam
Balloon thoughts here too soon dispersed
This music feeds my fever dream
Leaves me walking paths well versed

A Condition of Nonperception

Lovecraft ~ Abigail Larson

We do not know who discovered water but it was almost certainly not a fish.
Anybody's total surround, or environment, creates a condition of nonperception

~ Marshall McLuhan

You Talkin' to Me?

Present company excluded (of course)

Non Sequiturs for Un-pruned Roses

Loving the Alien

This groove and tongue tirade
Channelling some chic samurai
In pitched battle teevee dreams
At the edge of a fashioned world

Runs with the blood
Of a thousand slain poppies
In the veins of some velvet morning
And the children of an arcane moon

Ultraviolet waves once crashed
Upon the keys of your skeletal coast
Derailing trains of Cartesian thought
Leaving poison pens impatiently poised

Now this machine with morose-ghost standards
Tastes your tender edge, your acid etch
And whispers a secret two-step
Into the dancehalls of your inner ear

And the stones once placed upon your eyes
Make holes in a papier-mâché mask
Send ripples through the mind’s catacomb
And echo in the face of an alien son

The House of Gatecrashed Dreams

Burlesque ~ Tony Notarberardino

Patience awoke every morning to the warmth of a clean day; a day to be climbed the better to view.

Were it not for the ghosts Patience would have left the house to its very slow decay.
As it stood she felt compelled to attempt those repairs that she felt she might most be able to secure.

With inept hammer and recycled nails she battled the porch roof, winter wind and gap-tooth lifted; where the ghosts of the night sky glimmered, unmarred by light, lamenting their loss to progress. The tiles themselves were troublesome and uncooperative; the ghosts of a baby’s cries in the night.

With bent screwdriver and rough hewn wedges Patience re-hung the hanging door, thereby restoring some privacy to both the empty hall, whose silence was often marred by the battles between the ghosts of sword hands severed and the spectres threadbare sun umbrellas, and the moody sitting room whose tattered and under-stuffed armchair was occupied by the ghost of a father’s laugh, echoing in the afternoon.

The treacherous staircase was decayed by the spirit of an arrow that had found no heart and nightly ascended by the ghost of a life impaled by love. Here Patience hammered planks recycled from the nearby sawmill, (itself haunted by the ghost of a night spent in enforced and heart-broke solitude).

By evening Patience darned and mended bedclothes and blankets to warm the dreams of lovers lost in time; the rooms haunted yet by the ever fainter composite odour of their life together

And while Patience slept, the ghost in the attic cherished a tender kiss on the lips when only a cheek had been offered.

Extraordinary Rendition

Whirr Keffik

REASON DICTATES THAT IT WOULD BE A WASTE OF EFFORT CREATING SOMETHING THAT DOES NOT AT LEAST TRY TO BE SPECIAL.
WHAT WASTEFUL FORCE WOULD STRIVE TO CREATE THE MEDIOCRE OR EVEN TO RISE TOWARD THE FAMILIAR; THE COMFORTABLE PAST?
THE ACT OF CREATION SHOULD SURELY BE APPROACHED AS IF DRAWING WITH INFINITELY VALUABLE BLACK INK ACROSS PAGES OF SKIN WHOSE EVERY LINE, EVERY WORD HOLDS EQUAL SWAY, EACH AN INTEGRAL PART OF THE WHOLE – A MOLECULE IN THE SUBSTANCE OF THE PAGE; A PAGE IN THE BOOK OF EVERYTHING.