Cool Blue

This cat coils beneath a denim trilby.
The transport thunders oblivion bound (or perhaps as far as Hammersmith)
Slouched in black suit, doc crossed ankles casual, thumb-rings and designer glasses.
57 and he still calls the tune.
Surrounded by sheep in trainers and tees. Just another black man on the tube.
Convention can kiss his ass.

Home of the Brave

Mutiny's Bounty

Alien Visitor ~ Boris Vallejo

As far as she could tell the end result bore no relation to the thought seed that sparked the original action. She wondered what perverse law of the universe dictated the pitfalls of intent. The moulding of her face, with the benefit of age, seemed perfectly rational, yet what accidents had befallen the process that had formed that face? Perhaps, she thought, she was sitting too close to the fire, her understanding distorted by the heat of the familiar.
Mutiny rose from her seat at the mirror and, leaning toward her reflection, wiped the perspiration from an eyebrow with a backward arc of her thumb. She could hear the approaching phalanx as it interrogated the environment; its rapidfire query routines bouncing off her ice program with greater and greater urgency. They knew she was somewhere in the building; it was just a matter of narrowing the location by a process of elimination – as soon as the blank space created by her ice had become the only space in the building not accounted for by official binaries, she would have run out of time and options.
For the Phalanx the distinction between intent and result was superfluous, since doubt was not installed as an option there was never any question of the objective not being fulfilled to the letter. It stopped At the mirror, oblivious of its own reflection, and loaded Mutiny's dust remains into an evidence container.

You Are a Waterfall

Mystic and Rider II ~ Donato Giancola

I taste your love upon my lips
Touch your heart your fingertips
Words that ride the moon’s eclipse
In wishes spent on Freudian slips

You hold me up against the light
Key my soul screwed shut tight
Send me out to face the fight
Take my sleep in falling night

Title from "Us Ones In Between" by Sunset Rubdown
You are a waterfall
waiting inside a well
You are a wrecking ball
Before the building fell
And every lightning rod
Has got to watch the storm cloud come.

Paternity's Blade

Gerald Brom

The door is an aperture for the lens of his passing
Drinking the day from a rose-coloured glass
The photos of babies between dust bound covers
Weighted now in their teenage years
He hears the radio’s echo in the kitchen sinking
Wonders the knife edge of persistent memory

Foregone Conclusions

Jim Lind

And your spine will tingle in anticipation of the diplomacy of our knives
And your bombs will fall in the vacuum of newsworthy items
Take your stance your sword-hand extended
Take your cut from alms amended
We are not men
We are agents of reaction
We are not women
We are the eve of destruction
Take our cut from ledgers amended
Take our stance sword edge lovingly tended
And your bombs will bring you to your knees on the late late news
And your spinal cord severed by the diplomacy of our knives

Meanwhile, at the Offices of Reality Ltd.

Wiping the dust that settles silent on keyboards that don’t keep their quota, we enter the data that keeps us alive. There are no vacancies in the Offices of Reason.

If the office had windows to watch out of we would cover our eyes – the markets don’t take kindly to the contemplation of solitude.

But pale green voices, institutionally neutral, ask us to stay at our machines while the sunspots disperse. We nod in agreement, in unison, indistinguishable; there are no high points in a Memeophene™ day.

We are not superstitious; everything happens for a reason.

Beneath the grey carpet, institutionally neutral, cables and fibres writhe uncontrolled by the rigors of health or the confines of safety. If we listen carefully we can hear them laughing at us above the click of keys.

If the building had walls they would close in to claim us: commodities are scarce according to memos sent round in the Office of Reason

Once we were free to follow the rules; now we are happy to be alive.
Once we were skilled in the ways of the world; now we are happy to be alive.

Once we were aware of the presence of our rulers
Now we only measure the gold in their weave

Sublimation

Philippe Foerster

I hear you stumble on the stair
Pocking the surface of my tune
I love you for your particular flair
For leaving the room too soon


"I don't quite know why I find this amusing... I just do."
-Pisces Iscariot 2010