Ethics Dept (Psychopathic Branch)

Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal

The Prisoner

Orfeus og Eutydike ~ Palle Nielson

It’s all window-dressing; it’s how we adapt our surroundings to best shield ourselves from our fears.
Some cells are padded and some are bamboo lined and there are those who say you can tell a man by the state of his cell.
We are all here on a voluntary basis, so try not to think of this prison as having bars on the windows – volunteers... or so we’d like to think.
The security staff that we employ to protect us from the outside world are pretty unsavoury types who have no qualms about biting the hand that feeds them.
So, yes, in answer to your next question, the armour is necessary; by the nature of this prison it would be unwise to believe that everything is totally under control.
The trick seems to be to be sure that your armour allows you to see outward as well as inward.

Out in the exercise yard we circle daily; the distant tree-line paints vertical stripes on our uniforms while the guards hover like carrion birds to pick off those who fall behind. We are not men, we are not sheep; we are but commodities to be bought and sold on the deregulated market run by those who worship at the altar of power.
These walls: at first glance you would be forgiven for the impression that they are designed to keep us in; in truth, like a lobster entering the pot, any would-be escapee may find easy access to the meat set as bait but upon coming to his senses he will find that escape is prohibited by barbed hooks deeply embedded in his psyche. These walls, while imposing in their physical sense, when subjected to scrutiny, disappear like anxious ghost-parents that hover in the peripheral vision of a sleepwalking child.

Tales for the attention-span deficit reader

9.1 No.3 Battalion

Sodgers

The weather up here on the plateau is unfettered by subtlety. The earth is a reddish yellow concoction of 9 parts dust and 1 part sand that the wind has no problem whipping it up into stinging flurries.
Home at last, the specimen formerly known as No.3 feels the shape of his body squared and stretched into a vision of pride, standing, as he is, to attention in the fore-rank of the morning parade.
Soon they will be commanded to turn and the morning’s regimen of: back and forth back and forth leftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftright all at double pace; will begin, frenetic and thought-banishing, their bodies and minds will be caught up in the rush to get this done so that we can all get out there and do some killing.

Dancehall Daze

Concierges Rue du Dragon Paris 1945 ~ Robert Doisneau

Down at the water’s edge translating visions to flesh
Down by the river carrying dreams out to sea
Down by the water’s bright edge
Where the half-dead men dance
A sad and faltering fandango
With the ghosts of my vanity

Whisper don’t waken the beasts of my childhood
Whisper those secrets in vacuum night hollow
Whisper my dull wishes
In the hall’s half-shell echo
As if dances with dead men
Will capture my sanity

A Little Given Take

[Extracted from the files of Mark Time P.I.]

It is impossible to comprehend the lives of others.
We attempt to understand others by creating an other within ourselves; an avatar; a lens; a mirror with which to observe ourselves in a favourable light.
“You promised me, Mr Time, that you would not take me for a fool.”
“If you were a fool, Mrs Geranium, I would not be taking you for anything,” I handed her the dossier which stacked up a considerable amount of rather ugly evidence against her husband, “My accountant will send you the bill.”

∞.8b Cajones' Tail

A talking cat, it seems, is a walking cliché. And, were I to believe that to be true, I might cut off my own tail and walk upright like one of you lot: all baldy coat and self-importance, (as if you can show us all a thing or two, something we wouldn’t believe). But I cannot associate myself with you, or your culture.
I do believe however that where this to be told as a morality tale, nobody would buy it.
“They did what?” people would ask, “I don’t believe it.”

Photo courtesy of Jackie Morris

∞.8a Mad Scientist's Notebook

It's difficult to quantify the mixed feelings inspired by success. Especially for success that is hard won.
It is so seldom that we manage to meet the entry-level requirements for our product to be accepted into the machine that I often forget what it feels like to succeed.
Hopefully Nigel will have enough tech at his disposal to be able to track our little atom for as long as possible inside the machine. Feedback of that calibre is invaluable to the tweaking process.
It is easy to understand how my predecessors sometimes fell into delusions of deity, failing to perceive their own place in the machine that does nothing but notch up days on the progress chart by which we measure success.

The Opium Eater ~ N.C.Wyeth

Don't Fence Me In

Runner Bean

Haunted City ~ Michael Sowa

In a dream of Sunday
Warm on freckled shoulders
The boy that I once was
Runs like only
He can run in dreams
Weightless in the onshore breeze
That tastes of salted spit
And highway diesel
And leaves him on the homeward path
Away from all that reason
His thoughts are a ploughed field
Seeded with tomorrows mistakes

8.4 Reveal

“You’re gonna need to give me the communicator Atom”
“What!”
“I can’t let you go any further with that thing in your pocket.”
“Hey!” atom stuck his finger into Nigel’s facial area, “I have gone through a lot to keep this thing – I fucking earned it."
“heh” Cajones piped up, “He’s got you there Nigel, shot with your own gun.“
“You might think it’s funny Ginge, but you know as well as I do that letting him carry that through the transporter is libel to blow the whole deal to the far side of an anomaly; and for the record: I didn’t invent this game; I'm just the gatekeeper"

Everybody Hates a Rhyming Poem

[especially a rhyming love poem]

Iceland ~ Ragnar Axelsson

He sang her down the night tattoo
She said he taste like paper glue
Danced tonight the obligatory mambo
Two they went where only one go
They kissed the sky’s bright spat display
Swam the road to Mandalay
And when the night up-lit the trees
They rose through light in slow degrees
To touch the wind upon the brow
To drink the night in the here and now
To go beyond the morning news
That lines them up like polished shoes
To go beyond the shallow flake
That fakes the day with wedding cake
To see behind these blinking eyes
To blow the night in a feast of sighs

Cold Comfort

[Words of advice for the disenchanted]

Gavin Bond

You may be telling your story very well, but what exactly are you saying?
Spewing gospel is no way to catch a man’s attention; nobody wants to be judged by the story they are reading.
These are aphorisms for a generation beyond the religion that was planted in them at birth; these are notes to myself.
Sceptical anger is a driver that precludes ambition; dreams of high office and power are not sent to the angry sceptic.
Check your basic principals before acting on a promise of financial gain.
Check your wallet after being accosted by charitable souls.
Check your anger at the doorway to contented hours; drag it behind you when you leave.
Practice what you preach; there is nothing worse than a hypocrite.
When the learning curve is steep it is useful to remember that you are being supported by what you learned yesterday; don’t wipe your feet on yesterday’s news.
History is best understood from multiple viewpoints; it is a live insect on a pin and is liable to wriggle.
Tomorrow is when you get to do it all again in the hope that you might get it right one day; and, who knows, maybe you will.
I may be telling you stories, but what exactly am I saying?

8.3 Bite Your Tongue

Wires, lots of wires, a myriad of wires, more wires than would be deemed necessary in an increasingly wireless world.
“Never heard of cable-trunking Nigel?” said Cajones, "it really would neaten things up a bit"
“You know, for a cat you have an unnerving understanding of nuts ‘n’ bolts”
Atom and No.3 collapsed into suppressed laughter.
“He also has a PhD in bullshit,” said Miles, “Obtained from the University of R.Skissing.”
Nigel wondered how Miles could possibly think that antagonising a (notoriously bad-tempered) ten foot cat can be a good idea.
Nigel wondered if Miles had ever considered self-censorship.

Everybody Hates A Love Poem

Larry Louie

Love is, to a large extent, a calling
To the dawning of every coming day
To the twisting turning on the way
To the waking the aching and the dismay
That must hold you to its breast
To count the heartbeats there

Love is, in many ways, a surrender
Of selfishness to the moment
Of days to an ideal
Of thoughts that wander too close
to the edge of the day
Of the body’s new beginnings

Love is, in all instances, a dream
That pours you your next drink
That paints the skylight stars
That holds you to your word
In the wooden afternoon
And refuses to be woken