Assuming, and I am, that this goes off without a hitch
We'll see who's the bitch
Never been one to outright tell
Bloody hell
A little improvement never hurt. You could use a bit
You little shit
Life can always do with a bit of a nip and tuck
But, wow, holy fuck
So it's come to this. That's disgusting;
Excuse me while I go off and munt,
But, you're a right cunt.
I don't even know. Is this what exhaustion feels like? I should go to bed at a normal hour.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Heliamphora.
Of all the efficient little pockets of industrialization that settled on the Eastern Fringe, near the sea, Helianth is a city of a particular reputation. Five miles inland, early Post-Crisis era (the year AD1887 by common reckoning) settlers of the Technophile vein began a remarkable construction, in a typical Technophile fashion, expanding in all directions with little order and planning that remains unfinished and expanding to this day. The verdant surrounds are nothing remarkable for the East; moderately sized inland fauna and flora (Volume II: Flora and Fauna), a host of native uncultivated (Volume I: Peoples), offshore winds (Volume VI: Goegraphy). Helianth comprises a sprawling web of experimental architecture and radical lines and shapes, a cooling spire breaks above the cloud-line from the center of the city, punctuating and highlighting the haphazard approach to architecture often displayed by this diverse people. The superstructure is not unlike Old-World Paris, save the Seine (readers may wish to consult Selected Readings for the Old-World Scholar, Volume II: Empires, for a more detailed overview); an irregular hexagon conveniently sectioned into elaborately intertwining districts. Due to the libertarian nature of the Technophiles, no pattern to sequential ordering within the city is present. Simply examining the architecture going by can be enormously interesting for those so-inclined: efficient utilitarian boxed houses flowing into renegade pieces of construction, jutting invasive angry lines into their somewhat more classical neighbours. Having no regulation for this area of expression, the superstructure of the city quickly grew out of hand, nowadays more akin to an 'urban jungle' (if I may be so quaint) of complex interlocking cables and the majority of the recently made edifice seemingly at war with one another. To the outsider, modern Helianth can be a jarring experience.
The ruling body, known simply as the Bureau, had, as tends to be the case, well-intentioned origins. The core ideal being liberty in intellectual and artistic pursuits. To that end, Helianth suffered very little government regulation at its inception, which accounts for its rapid and unpredictable expansion. The Bureau existed to facilitate this through efficient public services, not to govern and impose. This largely anti-interventionist policy would inevitably serve as a fulcrum of much social tension in later years. A near completely autonomous society gave way to a steep economic division. Many of the polymaths of the original settlement within Helianth were well-versed in business-minded matters and quickly sought to elevate their position, steepening their socio-economic distance from the more artistically inclined of the Technophiles. The artist culture slowly fell into a poverty. Slums were established, shanties became the common accommodation in particular districts. And for all the public services offered by the Bureau, they could not keep up with the skyrocketing population. Before long it was not uncommon for effluent to flow into the streets from the underdeveloped sewerage system. At the same time, the boundaries and population of the metropolis expanded faster than the power-grid could manage, and for a time the entirety of the settlement was subjected to power blackouts. The Black Decade (AD1902-1913), as it's known. Infrastructure had largely broken down, and during this period of strife Helianth was to be thrown into a geo-political void. It would appear that the Technophiles had grown so distant from their host culture so as to lose their remarkable efficiency in all matters industrial, however the precise circumstances leading to the Black Decade are not currently clear to modern historians, and I will not be so uncouth as to descend into radical speculation.
During this time of economic, political, and social desperation, a number of solutions were proposed and ultimately rejected by the Bureau as unfeasible. Several possibilities were explored to the point of new power generation, but they were quickly shown to be hazardous and unsustainable for a city so large. In fact, there appeared to be no source of power efficient enough to support the population.
- Excerpt from A Brief Catalogue of the Eastern Fringe, Volume III: Cities and Settlements. Prof. C. F. Hutchens, 1987, New London Royal Pub. House
-
You ever been to Helianth, kid? I don't suppose you would've. On the Eastern Fringe, east coast of the Americas, out west across the Atlantic, funny that 'innit? Nice place to fly, even-like offshore winds, the whole bit. Maybe one day cap'n 'll stop fucking around and take us out where there's real life waitin' for us.
Funny thing, Helianth, settled by Technos, back in the days when that kind of settlin' was all the buzz. You know how it goes; ragtag bunch of social outcasts cast off into the void and make some'in for 'emselves. Anyway, these Techs were all about freedom, but they were so free that the whole city collapsed one day 'cause they didn't have enough bloody power for all the freedom people were needin'. So they went for a couple o' years without power and one day just surged back onto the map, they found new power.
I don't know what the hell it is, fuck, I'm no savant or anythin', but it's some weird type of science that, that does things like Helianth does. What comes outta' the power stations is clear, and hits the air and all of a sudden shines. Whatever comes outta' the power stations from makin' power hits the air or light goes through it or whatever, and it just sparkles, like slow-fallin' stars. What the problem is is that it's also toxic, this sparkle dust stuff, so the generators only go on at night, when all the people are locked up behind their filters and windows and chokin' brick walls. It's a city, it's like that, kid. So all the sparklin' dust comes out at night, and after a while, at about 2 in the mornin' I reckon, the whole city is shinin'. It's not part of the air, so it doesn't blow away, and it all collects over Helianth in this great bloody big lit up cloud of some'in. It's like a magic city from far away, you can see it on the plains for miles, a starfield, some call it. So, just picture it, yeah? This completely quiet city, crazy buildin' like the Techs do, glowin' from all places like the heavens come to earth.
The thing is though, about all the little firefly things, is that they are definitely poisonous. We were well sick after havin' just flown over it all briefly, back when I was quartermaster on a cowboy ship, bounty hunters, I'll tell you that one sometime if you're quiet. And it bein' all shiny-like, night animals from those parts head in every night to see what all this sparkly business is about: small birds, big birds, bugs, stray cats and dogs, bigger ones like sheep and all that, and even some of the local native people, if you'll pardon my animal comment before. Those ones have even some of 'em made it all part of their myths and stories, like the lights are the souls of their dead families. The poor blighters don't know how right they are. They come about from whatever it is night animals, er... folk, things, all that do at night, right into the middle of that big blob of poisonous starlight. And they just drop dead. You can hear it when you stay the night there; big thumps on the roofs and the ground when they just keel over and cark it, poor buggers. And then you wake up in the morning after the sea winds have blown all the stuff away and the Bureau, that bein' their government, come to clean it all up, and this is the really horrific part this, the streets are lined with dead things. A layer of dead birds and mice and bugs and lizards completely covers the streets, and the bigger ones, somehow they all manage to clump about the thinner alleyways, so you've got your sheep and cows and bigger cats and tribespeople all collapsed in heaps in the alleyways. And then, even bloody worse, all the poorer folk come in and take it all away, they take it all as a free meal. You can see big old women carryin' sacks of dead mice any day o' the week, all lumpy sacks of dead things and the like. A right sea of deceased animals and people, bein' swept away by the currents of the poor. And it all starts again. More corpses the next day to clean up, and they all take it as part of their life, the Helians, as they call 'emselves.
But, what's really right disturbin' is the tribespeople that come in at night. They drop dead right at the moment that they're believin' that they're talkin' to their dead ancestors or whatever, so they've got these great bloody toothy smiles on their faces. And the smiles stay even when they've choked to death on shiny poison dust, so everywhere in the mornin', there are these big piles of dead men, smilin' like there's no tomorrow. It's like rigor mortis decides to do 'em a favour.
Transcribed (with revisions for clarity) from a conversation with Quartermaster Dale, on board the Good Ship Nereid during my stay as a powder monkey (1939-1942).
The ruling body, known simply as the Bureau, had, as tends to be the case, well-intentioned origins. The core ideal being liberty in intellectual and artistic pursuits. To that end, Helianth suffered very little government regulation at its inception, which accounts for its rapid and unpredictable expansion. The Bureau existed to facilitate this through efficient public services, not to govern and impose. This largely anti-interventionist policy would inevitably serve as a fulcrum of much social tension in later years. A near completely autonomous society gave way to a steep economic division. Many of the polymaths of the original settlement within Helianth were well-versed in business-minded matters and quickly sought to elevate their position, steepening their socio-economic distance from the more artistically inclined of the Technophiles. The artist culture slowly fell into a poverty. Slums were established, shanties became the common accommodation in particular districts. And for all the public services offered by the Bureau, they could not keep up with the skyrocketing population. Before long it was not uncommon for effluent to flow into the streets from the underdeveloped sewerage system. At the same time, the boundaries and population of the metropolis expanded faster than the power-grid could manage, and for a time the entirety of the settlement was subjected to power blackouts. The Black Decade (AD1902-1913), as it's known. Infrastructure had largely broken down, and during this period of strife Helianth was to be thrown into a geo-political void. It would appear that the Technophiles had grown so distant from their host culture so as to lose their remarkable efficiency in all matters industrial, however the precise circumstances leading to the Black Decade are not currently clear to modern historians, and I will not be so uncouth as to descend into radical speculation.
During this time of economic, political, and social desperation, a number of solutions were proposed and ultimately rejected by the Bureau as unfeasible. Several possibilities were explored to the point of new power generation, but they were quickly shown to be hazardous and unsustainable for a city so large. In fact, there appeared to be no source of power efficient enough to support the population.
- Excerpt from A Brief Catalogue of the Eastern Fringe, Volume III: Cities and Settlements. Prof. C. F. Hutchens, 1987, New London Royal Pub. House
-
You ever been to Helianth, kid? I don't suppose you would've. On the Eastern Fringe, east coast of the Americas, out west across the Atlantic, funny that 'innit? Nice place to fly, even-like offshore winds, the whole bit. Maybe one day cap'n 'll stop fucking around and take us out where there's real life waitin' for us.
Funny thing, Helianth, settled by Technos, back in the days when that kind of settlin' was all the buzz. You know how it goes; ragtag bunch of social outcasts cast off into the void and make some'in for 'emselves. Anyway, these Techs were all about freedom, but they were so free that the whole city collapsed one day 'cause they didn't have enough bloody power for all the freedom people were needin'. So they went for a couple o' years without power and one day just surged back onto the map, they found new power.
I don't know what the hell it is, fuck, I'm no savant or anythin', but it's some weird type of science that, that does things like Helianth does. What comes outta' the power stations is clear, and hits the air and all of a sudden shines. Whatever comes outta' the power stations from makin' power hits the air or light goes through it or whatever, and it just sparkles, like slow-fallin' stars. What the problem is is that it's also toxic, this sparkle dust stuff, so the generators only go on at night, when all the people are locked up behind their filters and windows and chokin' brick walls. It's a city, it's like that, kid. So all the sparklin' dust comes out at night, and after a while, at about 2 in the mornin' I reckon, the whole city is shinin'. It's not part of the air, so it doesn't blow away, and it all collects over Helianth in this great bloody big lit up cloud of some'in. It's like a magic city from far away, you can see it on the plains for miles, a starfield, some call it. So, just picture it, yeah? This completely quiet city, crazy buildin' like the Techs do, glowin' from all places like the heavens come to earth.
The thing is though, about all the little firefly things, is that they are definitely poisonous. We were well sick after havin' just flown over it all briefly, back when I was quartermaster on a cowboy ship, bounty hunters, I'll tell you that one sometime if you're quiet. And it bein' all shiny-like, night animals from those parts head in every night to see what all this sparkly business is about: small birds, big birds, bugs, stray cats and dogs, bigger ones like sheep and all that, and even some of the local native people, if you'll pardon my animal comment before. Those ones have even some of 'em made it all part of their myths and stories, like the lights are the souls of their dead families. The poor blighters don't know how right they are. They come about from whatever it is night animals, er... folk, things, all that do at night, right into the middle of that big blob of poisonous starlight. And they just drop dead. You can hear it when you stay the night there; big thumps on the roofs and the ground when they just keel over and cark it, poor buggers. And then you wake up in the morning after the sea winds have blown all the stuff away and the Bureau, that bein' their government, come to clean it all up, and this is the really horrific part this, the streets are lined with dead things. A layer of dead birds and mice and bugs and lizards completely covers the streets, and the bigger ones, somehow they all manage to clump about the thinner alleyways, so you've got your sheep and cows and bigger cats and tribespeople all collapsed in heaps in the alleyways. And then, even bloody worse, all the poorer folk come in and take it all away, they take it all as a free meal. You can see big old women carryin' sacks of dead mice any day o' the week, all lumpy sacks of dead things and the like. A right sea of deceased animals and people, bein' swept away by the currents of the poor. And it all starts again. More corpses the next day to clean up, and they all take it as part of their life, the Helians, as they call 'emselves.
But, what's really right disturbin' is the tribespeople that come in at night. They drop dead right at the moment that they're believin' that they're talkin' to their dead ancestors or whatever, so they've got these great bloody toothy smiles on their faces. And the smiles stay even when they've choked to death on shiny poison dust, so everywhere in the mornin', there are these big piles of dead men, smilin' like there's no tomorrow. It's like rigor mortis decides to do 'em a favour.
Transcribed (with revisions for clarity) from a conversation with Quartermaster Dale, on board the Good Ship Nereid during my stay as a powder monkey (1939-1942).
Saturday, February 25, 2012
It's A Killer.
The perfumer's the first
The nose, Le Nez
Little seen
And little says
The perfumer while he works
A flash of rose
A simple scent
Lavender oils and then you're spent
Paralyzed in perfumed bliss
That's when he lays the final deadly
Kiss, of death you look
But you smell quite lovely there on the ground
We come to the chef
La Cuisinière
But only death will you find there
At the bottom of a bowl of broth
Collapsing on the tablecloth
She concocts such beauty on your tongue
Down the gullet
No more hope to run
Make no mistake: she will cook your last meal
She's a simpler one when it comes to murder
Some parsley here, some poison there
Not complex, but the best dishes never are
Le Musicien's a deadly thing indeed
He has no want, or even need
Of objects, instruments and such
He can just sing right into
Your waiting ear
(Though he does like the feel of a good woodwind)
Piping, singing
Playing his song
His macabre dance
The death waltz
That just begs to you "Come along, come along!"
A darker secret holds this one
He's never learnt a piece beyond
The first movement
He's led you over a cliff by then
With his siren-esque and lovely song
Next for danger
Is the whore
Pleasant to the touch
And she doesn't ask much
La Putain, while vulgar
Is her choice
She charms with that rather sultry voice
But it's her skin that really gets to you
Velvet
Silk
Satin
Angel wings envelop her
They unfold when her libido stirs
Down the hall into the boudoir
Locked in sweet agony is when she chooses
To do away with the desperate losers
A bite, a bite, a bite and then
You'll breathe your last in her love den
Le Peintre, he's a little tricky
Spans the forms of 'the arts' as they're called
Sculpts and acts and all that jazz
But you really have to look out
For his painting
Demonstrating a mastery of brush
And technicolour
What a rush!
It's invigorating to simply stare
At one of his portraits
And you will stare
If you had the mind to you could stare for days
In an impressionism-addled haze
Lost in every nook, details
Are more satisfying to those who look
And the painter, what of him?
While you look, inspect, admire
The painter starts a little fire
And from your ashes he creates
His newest (best yet) set of paints
Deadliest of all
The most dangerous of the six
Is Le Poète
The five before do what they can
With a single sense
With a single
Angle
But the poet
He aims straight for your mind
Not even needing to kill you himself
He gives you words
And these words help
You along the path to suicide
Hidden in the words, inside
Each stanza, every piece of verse
He's placed bewitchment
In short: a curse
Of his own design
The curse rears up, and out of the verse
And into your mind
Torment
Eternal anguish, and then
You run to the river
To drown the words
Drown them out
Terrible, beautiful
He'll show you fear
In dust and smoke
And rend your abstract thought in two
Like the opium on which he tokes
The poets verse
It will choke
And the water fills your lungs
The poet smiles a little
Thinking only
"There's a poem in that, I'm sure of it"
But you won't be alive to enjoy or suffer it
The nose, Le Nez
Little seen
And little says
The perfumer while he works
A flash of rose
A simple scent
Lavender oils and then you're spent
Paralyzed in perfumed bliss
That's when he lays the final deadly
Kiss, of death you look
But you smell quite lovely there on the ground
We come to the chef
La Cuisinière
But only death will you find there
At the bottom of a bowl of broth
Collapsing on the tablecloth
She concocts such beauty on your tongue
Down the gullet
No more hope to run
Make no mistake: she will cook your last meal
She's a simpler one when it comes to murder
Some parsley here, some poison there
Not complex, but the best dishes never are
Le Musicien's a deadly thing indeed
He has no want, or even need
Of objects, instruments and such
He can just sing right into
Your waiting ear
(Though he does like the feel of a good woodwind)
Piping, singing
Playing his song
His macabre dance
The death waltz
That just begs to you "Come along, come along!"
A darker secret holds this one
He's never learnt a piece beyond
The first movement
He's led you over a cliff by then
With his siren-esque and lovely song
Next for danger
Is the whore
Pleasant to the touch
And she doesn't ask much
La Putain, while vulgar
Is her choice
She charms with that rather sultry voice
But it's her skin that really gets to you
Velvet
Silk
Satin
Angel wings envelop her
They unfold when her libido stirs
Down the hall into the boudoir
Locked in sweet agony is when she chooses
To do away with the desperate losers
A bite, a bite, a bite and then
You'll breathe your last in her love den
Le Peintre, he's a little tricky
Spans the forms of 'the arts' as they're called
Sculpts and acts and all that jazz
But you really have to look out
For his painting
Demonstrating a mastery of brush
And technicolour
What a rush!
It's invigorating to simply stare
At one of his portraits
And you will stare
If you had the mind to you could stare for days
In an impressionism-addled haze
Lost in every nook, details
Are more satisfying to those who look
And the painter, what of him?
While you look, inspect, admire
The painter starts a little fire
And from your ashes he creates
His newest (best yet) set of paints
Deadliest of all
The most dangerous of the six
Is Le Poète
The five before do what they can
With a single sense
With a single
Angle
But the poet
He aims straight for your mind
Not even needing to kill you himself
He gives you words
And these words help
You along the path to suicide
Hidden in the words, inside
Each stanza, every piece of verse
He's placed bewitchment
In short: a curse
Of his own design
The curse rears up, and out of the verse
And into your mind
Torment
Eternal anguish, and then
You run to the river
To drown the words
Drown them out
Terrible, beautiful
He'll show you fear
In dust and smoke
And rend your abstract thought in two
Like the opium on which he tokes
The poets verse
It will choke
And the water fills your lungs
The poet smiles a little
Thinking only
"There's a poem in that, I'm sure of it"
But you won't be alive to enjoy or suffer it
Friday, February 24, 2012
Shifting.
Broken umbrella
Frames like
Stymphalian
Twisting
Cranes
Refracting harsh sunlight
Pecking into the dawn
Chimeric and dying
Fluid and changing
Into the maw of Charybdis
One and all are dying
As a mighty phoenix
Now a helpless chick
We will start again
Frames like
Stymphalian
Twisting
Cranes
Refracting harsh sunlight
Pecking into the dawn
Chimeric and dying
Fluid and changing
Into the maw of Charybdis
One and all are dying
As a mighty phoenix
Now a helpless chick
We will start again
Born to Die.
Twenty-one
And all's for fun
In good fun
It's rather fun
One-and-twenty
That's just plenty
It won't last
Don't be ridiculous
Fuck
Twenty-one
Born of rage
Born to die
Born of rage
Born in war
Twenty-one
Are we quite done?
The twenty-first
Of twenty-one
And perhaps we're done
Fuck, let it go
Just stop
Let it go
And all's for fun
In good fun
It's rather fun
One-and-twenty
That's just plenty
It won't last
Don't be ridiculous
Fuck
Twenty-one
Born of rage
Born to die
Born of rage
Born in war
Twenty-one
Are we quite done?
The twenty-first
Of twenty-one
And perhaps we're done
Fuck, let it go
Just stop
Let it go
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
A Vice.
Vanity never stops to rest
He sleeps when satiated, yet it does not
Know this
Feeding on the lifeblood
Feeding on itself at times
Vanity, he is rather unkempt
He looks at me like
I don't exist
But I know his secret
I'll catch vanity sleeping
One day
He sleeps when satiated, yet it does not
Know this
Feeding on the lifeblood
Feeding on itself at times
Vanity, he is rather unkempt
He looks at me like
I don't exist
But I know his secret
I'll catch vanity sleeping
One day
Monday, February 20, 2012
A Genesis of Fools.
I am sad for those I wrong
Though I have done no wrong
To anyone, and everyone
Does not quite understand this
They've blown a hole in the sky
And given it my name
No
They stole my name and threw it into the sky
And then everybody laughed at it
At me
And why?!
"Look at the angel!
In his stupidity he shirked the love of God!"
Yahweh, God, the Tetragrammaton
He turned to me to give a gentle nod
At least he understood
Wind rushed past me at the time of my falling
It stung but there was no regret
I will admit reluctantly, that I felt good
Free, if you can call it that
Though I was falling, falling as I should
According to plan, according to script
I was bereft of free will, that's the way it goes
So I threw off my wings for horns
Because it seemed right
Reluctantly, I will admit
That my plan was doomed to a well of regret
My plan to create a hell, I regret
Even bothering
God knows, I'll bet
His infinite light reaches even down here
There was a hell waiting for me
Foolish to have my own designs, I fear
I cannot help but feel it as scorn
As mocking
Though that is absurd to think of Him
Determined to start a hell of my own
What a childish idea
I do not grudge him
Perhaps it is the fear
I am not vengeful
I am not wrathful
(For that is God's domain)
I do not seek a missive made up of your sin
And your lust
I am not what I am
But I am so very sad
It makes me even sadder, I know
You'll never believe me
For all the things they've said
Though I have done no wrong
To anyone, and everyone
Does not quite understand this
They've blown a hole in the sky
And given it my name
No
They stole my name and threw it into the sky
And then everybody laughed at it
At me
And why?!
"Look at the angel!
In his stupidity he shirked the love of God!"
Yahweh, God, the Tetragrammaton
He turned to me to give a gentle nod
At least he understood
Wind rushed past me at the time of my falling
It stung but there was no regret
I will admit reluctantly, that I felt good
Free, if you can call it that
Though I was falling, falling as I should
According to plan, according to script
I was bereft of free will, that's the way it goes
So I threw off my wings for horns
Because it seemed right
Reluctantly, I will admit
That my plan was doomed to a well of regret
My plan to create a hell, I regret
Even bothering
God knows, I'll bet
His infinite light reaches even down here
There was a hell waiting for me
Foolish to have my own designs, I fear
I cannot help but feel it as scorn
As mocking
Though that is absurd to think of Him
Determined to start a hell of my own
What a childish idea
I do not grudge him
Perhaps it is the fear
I am not vengeful
I am not wrathful
(For that is God's domain)
I do not seek a missive made up of your sin
And your lust
I am not what I am
But I am so very sad
It makes me even sadder, I know
You'll never believe me
For all the things they've said
I Live To Feel.
What do I live for?
What do I live for?
What do I live for?
What do I live for?
Do I live to be?
Can I live to be?
Good heavens, no!
That's not for me.
Do I live for myself?
Now, stop right there.
You're right, that's bullshit,
That's bullshit right there.
How in the world could I not live for myself?
That is not a sufficient response.
"Live to love!"
Say the masses, say the masses
"That's uncertain and frail!"
I say back to the masses.
What do I live for?
If nothing feels right?
Wait! There it is!
How does it feel?
The feeling's the key,
The contract is sealed.
I will live to feel
Long enough
To feel myself
No longer want to.
What do I live for?
What do I live for?
What do I live for?
Do I live to be?
Can I live to be?
Good heavens, no!
That's not for me.
Do I live for myself?
Now, stop right there.
You're right, that's bullshit,
That's bullshit right there.
How in the world could I not live for myself?
That is not a sufficient response.
"Live to love!"
Say the masses, say the masses
"That's uncertain and frail!"
I say back to the masses.
What do I live for?
If nothing feels right?
Wait! There it is!
How does it feel?
The feeling's the key,
The contract is sealed.
I will live to feel
Long enough
To feel myself
No longer want to.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Hello.
He said hello, I don't know
Why anyone would do that
Going cautiously at his prey, he said hello
"Hello!" he said, what on Earth
Drove him to that? I've cause to wonder
O, finesse is dead and we charge
At the dead targets these days
Cold, the trail is cold
The elk are all cold
The geese are all frozen in their
Lake and the sitting ducks are close behind
Foolish to assume that
Nobody minds
We have watched them come and go
We have watched them go and then
We have watched them despair in hopelessness
In despair at their own foolishness
We have watched them all fall down
As gulls
They swoop
Down on a frozen sea
Bashing their brains out on the ice
A foolish choice indeed
Indeed
Indeed
Why anyone would do that
Going cautiously at his prey, he said hello
"Hello!" he said, what on Earth
Drove him to that? I've cause to wonder
O, finesse is dead and we charge
At the dead targets these days
Cold, the trail is cold
The elk are all cold
The geese are all frozen in their
Lake and the sitting ducks are close behind
Foolish to assume that
Nobody minds
We have watched them come and go
We have watched them go and then
We have watched them despair in hopelessness
In despair at their own foolishness
We have watched them all fall down
As gulls
They swoop
Down on a frozen sea
Bashing their brains out on the ice
A foolish choice indeed
Indeed
Indeed
Vernian Joy.
A Journey into the Interior of the Earth.
- Jules Verne
This book is wonderful. It's truly a magical piece of fiction. I can't even begin to describe the enormity of the joy I'm experiencing reading it, but I wanted to quickly examine it a little just to get a concrete idea of why it is as beautiful as it is.
It's the introductory structure, I think, that makes it so elegant. The first chapter contains absolutely everything from which the book extends outward, or downward as it may be. Yes, the structure. Naturally, you'd expect a first chapter to do just that, but I've never read a book that does it so well.
The first chapter is heavily descriptive. It is entirely a thickly descriptive narrative surrounding Professor Liedenbrock, the protagonist (though not the narrator, that being his nephew) and the instigator of the absurd events of the book. And they are absurd. The truly wonderful thing is that in the way Liedenbrock is described, the whole idea of plunging into the bowels of the earth seems much less absurd than it might. It becomes the only thing that could have happened. Liedenbrock is a notorious man of learning, an autodidact polyglot, a renowned biologist, chemist, philosopher, he's an intense polymath. He is also ruthlessly uncompromising in his learning and his insatiable, unslakable thirst to get to the bottom of ridiculously complex matters, to the point that he practically (although inadvertently) starves the house while he desperately tries to decipher the cipher that leads him to the center of an Icelandic volcano. He's a marvelous character. So, naturally, given all this, when the cipher is deciphered and the plot begins to reveal itself it's quite clear that it's all going to go in a very particular direction, dragged along by Liedenbrock all the way. Under other circumstances, with other arrangements of personalities this would be entirely ridiculous. And that's what makes this book so wonderful. It's not ridiculous. A character is introduced who is possibly even more ridiculous than the situation, but is impossible to hold in disrespect. You are dragged along by Verne much as the nephew is dragged along by his zealot uncle, but it's no bother because the whole thing wasn't going to happen any other way, now was it?
- Jules Verne
This book is wonderful. It's truly a magical piece of fiction. I can't even begin to describe the enormity of the joy I'm experiencing reading it, but I wanted to quickly examine it a little just to get a concrete idea of why it is as beautiful as it is.
It's the introductory structure, I think, that makes it so elegant. The first chapter contains absolutely everything from which the book extends outward, or downward as it may be. Yes, the structure. Naturally, you'd expect a first chapter to do just that, but I've never read a book that does it so well.
The first chapter is heavily descriptive. It is entirely a thickly descriptive narrative surrounding Professor Liedenbrock, the protagonist (though not the narrator, that being his nephew) and the instigator of the absurd events of the book. And they are absurd. The truly wonderful thing is that in the way Liedenbrock is described, the whole idea of plunging into the bowels of the earth seems much less absurd than it might. It becomes the only thing that could have happened. Liedenbrock is a notorious man of learning, an autodidact polyglot, a renowned biologist, chemist, philosopher, he's an intense polymath. He is also ruthlessly uncompromising in his learning and his insatiable, unslakable thirst to get to the bottom of ridiculously complex matters, to the point that he practically (although inadvertently) starves the house while he desperately tries to decipher the cipher that leads him to the center of an Icelandic volcano. He's a marvelous character. So, naturally, given all this, when the cipher is deciphered and the plot begins to reveal itself it's quite clear that it's all going to go in a very particular direction, dragged along by Liedenbrock all the way. Under other circumstances, with other arrangements of personalities this would be entirely ridiculous. And that's what makes this book so wonderful. It's not ridiculous. A character is introduced who is possibly even more ridiculous than the situation, but is impossible to hold in disrespect. You are dragged along by Verne much as the nephew is dragged along by his zealot uncle, but it's no bother because the whole thing wasn't going to happen any other way, now was it?
Friday, February 17, 2012
Styx and Stones.
GET IT? STYX. IT'S CLEVER.
Kicking against the pricks
Down here
Underground
On the river Styx
Under all
Down under
Beneath the bricks
Stone's throw
Throwing stones
And sticks on the Styx
Against the pricks
Against the pricks
Kicking against the pricks
Down here
Underground
On the river Styx
Under all
Down under
Beneath the bricks
Stone's throw
Throwing stones
And sticks on the Styx
Against the pricks
Against the pricks
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Should Not Should Not Should Not At All.
I read some Sylvia Plath aloud to myself and look what happens.
I should not be!
I should not be!
Thinking with such alacrity
Thinking so chaotically
Violently
In anarchy
I was simply amazed at it all
Soon the craven flesh will find
An escape route to take, and it will run
But I don't mind, I don't even see
There was little else to do, and you
Should not
Should not
Should not go, to misty
Mystery
You should not go
We are but men
No, we are but sticks
Ants
Predestined pricks of fated
Doom, the stars will show us all
Too soon
And I'm afraid we'll have to disallow that
We'll have to disallow
That you won't relent
That you won't find home
Among the clouds
Is the ground so great?
Well...
Is it?
I should not be!
I should not be!
Thinking with such alacrity
Thinking so chaotically
Violently
In anarchy
I was simply amazed at it all
Soon the craven flesh will find
An escape route to take, and it will run
But I don't mind, I don't even see
There was little else to do, and you
Should not
Should not
Should not go, to misty
Mystery
You should not go
We are but men
No, we are but sticks
Ants
Predestined pricks of fated
Doom, the stars will show us all
Too soon
And I'm afraid we'll have to disallow that
We'll have to disallow
That you won't relent
That you won't find home
Among the clouds
Is the ground so great?
Well...
Is it?
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Worse and worse.
Worst of all
I can't shed a tear
In spite of this
Prostrating fear
A nauseating sadness
There's a wall. I can feel it coming on whenever I listen to particularly emotional music. As of yet, I haven't managed to break through it.
Even worse, in fact
The tears just wait
Year after year
As they swell the floodgates
My nervous system is overflowing
The wall is impenetrable. Completely. No crack in the fortress betrays a weakness. Nothing can escape. I'm beginning to wonder who built this wall.
And worse still!
Is being self-aware
For those that are fine
They needn't care
But if something's wrong, ignorance is bliss
The very worst thing, I swear this is the worst, is that I know that eventually the wall has to break. Something's going to shunt the wall in the right spot and a brick will come loose. And I can't tell if I'm terrified or excited for that day to come.
And everything will bleed
Into itself
By no fault
By accident
When the floodgates
Loose themselves
I can't shed a tear
In spite of this
Prostrating fear
A nauseating sadness
There's a wall. I can feel it coming on whenever I listen to particularly emotional music. As of yet, I haven't managed to break through it.
Even worse, in fact
The tears just wait
Year after year
As they swell the floodgates
My nervous system is overflowing
The wall is impenetrable. Completely. No crack in the fortress betrays a weakness. Nothing can escape. I'm beginning to wonder who built this wall.
And worse still!
Is being self-aware
For those that are fine
They needn't care
But if something's wrong, ignorance is bliss
The very worst thing, I swear this is the worst, is that I know that eventually the wall has to break. Something's going to shunt the wall in the right spot and a brick will come loose. And I can't tell if I'm terrified or excited for that day to come.
And everything will bleed
Into itself
By no fault
By accident
When the floodgates
Loose themselves
Why Won't You Die?
Let's just record how I'm feeling and what's going on for the purposes of retrospection. If I can see any connection between what I feel and what happens then maybe I can... do something with that information.
Listening to Vernian Process. They're nice and metallic.
Today, all I want to do is cry. I just want to bawl my fucking eyes out until it hurts to blink or move my face at all or cry more. I'm snapping at people and being horrible and insular as a result, it's really awful. Someone made an ever-so-slightly snide comment towards me, he's one of my best friends, and I told him to go fuck himself, injecting as much malice as I could into those three words. I meant it, which is what was terrifying. Nothing like this has happened in the past few years. It's happened before, let's be honest with ourselves, but that was just sheer existential dread. That's unavoidable. And it was much less intense and constant; it was brief moments of terror at the infinite expanding void that I can't help but peer into even though I know how terrifying I find it all. Anyway. I'm not miserable. I'm stressed and helplessly frightened. The future has always been bleak, but now it's on fire too. And the fire is leaking back into the present and grabbing me by the throat, if that's an apt metaphor.
Step one, complete. Good. It's been a long time since I've written like this. It feels good.
So what's going on? 'Scarnon? Uni's about to start. By which I mean in a week or two. I've convinced myself that everything will be fine once I'm studying full time again, which it won't. If I can just get all my books and start going to lectures then my life will have order. Wait, step back, uni will actually bring a lot of relief. That structure will be really helpful in keeping me sane. I don't do lots of free time. I just can't handle it. I stop talking to people and a steady rumination is all I can muster mentally. Having somewhere to be throughout the week will prevent this. But, my god, getting the books I need, fucking oath. There's only about five for my four subjects that I need. Okay, maybe eight. Fuck, that's heaps. That's stressful, because I refuse to get them new if I can manage to find old copies. Biology is tricky though, new editions every year. Expensive to boot. Then there's the distinction between 'prescribed' textbooks and 'recommended' textbooks. If Dante had ever tried to deal with the tertiary education system we would've seen a quick revision of Inferno. Overall though, getting books isn't incredibly stressful. Worst comes to worst, I can get them from the library. Worst comes to worster, I can go to the Deakin library with mum's student card.
I'm trying to get some money coming in. I've had a job interview, and I was nice and everything, but niggling doubt tells me I'll be unemployed and hopelessly adrift on a parent-steered raft for a few months more. Optimism isn't a current choice, I'll try, but I doubt it would work. I think that's recursion. It is. Right, steering away from that. I could get a job. There's nothing preventing me from doing so except myself. How depressing and cliched. Your greatest enemy is yourself! And maybe sharks with syringes for teeth! I've also tried again to go through the Centrelink channels and make a claim for youth allowance. Living at home and being technically under the care of wage-earning adults complicates that. And apparently there's a trust fund I don't know about that's going to give me more forms to fill in. I've made the claim, but now there are ridiculously complex form to fill out. Over 50 pages of them. Demanding information about the household tax returns for the past three years. I'll get their money, make no mistake, but I can't help feeling that they'll take a part of my soul as payment. Isn't that how the adult world works? I want to be independent, I want it so desperately, but this is precisely the mood that prevents me from doing anything about it. Dread. A hand of ice jamming itself into my stomach. Hey, I've used fire AND ice as analogies for this intense fear and confusion. That's not nice, you can't do that. The prospect of working isn't the frightening thing, it's the prospect that I might have to.
Considering, and that means decided upon, ditching Minus completely. I hate it. I'm sick of dealing with the people, and I'm sick of having it have any influence over my life. I thought this decision would jar me a little more than it has, which is not at all, considering it was a large part of my life at some point in the past. But, no. Nothing. I have ceased to care about helping those people at all. Look, you have pride, how quaint, how fundamentally backwards. Fuck off.
There's always more to say than I do say, but that was pretty substantial and cathartic.
And now some pretty words!
-
Out of the way!
Move! Move
Out of the way
I'll trample you
Willfully
Purposefully
We'll see how well you work with
A spike through your middle
And then we'll see how much you can
Disrupt me then, you scarlet usurper
Of the mind
I'll have my revenge in time
Reformed is the theory
That you are the center
And do you pull the emotional strings?
Apparently not, it seems
But I've discovered your truth
Your nature is revealed
O, puppet master of madness
Deity of despair
I'll cut you out to prevent this
But at least you did it with flair
No more will I weep
Or laugh, but that's the price I pay
For peace of mind
Once you're out of there
So why won't you die?
You, heart of mine
Listening to Vernian Process. They're nice and metallic.
Today, all I want to do is cry. I just want to bawl my fucking eyes out until it hurts to blink or move my face at all or cry more. I'm snapping at people and being horrible and insular as a result, it's really awful. Someone made an ever-so-slightly snide comment towards me, he's one of my best friends, and I told him to go fuck himself, injecting as much malice as I could into those three words. I meant it, which is what was terrifying. Nothing like this has happened in the past few years. It's happened before, let's be honest with ourselves, but that was just sheer existential dread. That's unavoidable. And it was much less intense and constant; it was brief moments of terror at the infinite expanding void that I can't help but peer into even though I know how terrifying I find it all. Anyway. I'm not miserable. I'm stressed and helplessly frightened. The future has always been bleak, but now it's on fire too. And the fire is leaking back into the present and grabbing me by the throat, if that's an apt metaphor.
Step one, complete. Good. It's been a long time since I've written like this. It feels good.
So what's going on? 'Scarnon? Uni's about to start. By which I mean in a week or two. I've convinced myself that everything will be fine once I'm studying full time again, which it won't. If I can just get all my books and start going to lectures then my life will have order. Wait, step back, uni will actually bring a lot of relief. That structure will be really helpful in keeping me sane. I don't do lots of free time. I just can't handle it. I stop talking to people and a steady rumination is all I can muster mentally. Having somewhere to be throughout the week will prevent this. But, my god, getting the books I need, fucking oath. There's only about five for my four subjects that I need. Okay, maybe eight. Fuck, that's heaps. That's stressful, because I refuse to get them new if I can manage to find old copies. Biology is tricky though, new editions every year. Expensive to boot. Then there's the distinction between 'prescribed' textbooks and 'recommended' textbooks. If Dante had ever tried to deal with the tertiary education system we would've seen a quick revision of Inferno. Overall though, getting books isn't incredibly stressful. Worst comes to worst, I can get them from the library. Worst comes to worster, I can go to the Deakin library with mum's student card.
I'm trying to get some money coming in. I've had a job interview, and I was nice and everything, but niggling doubt tells me I'll be unemployed and hopelessly adrift on a parent-steered raft for a few months more. Optimism isn't a current choice, I'll try, but I doubt it would work. I think that's recursion. It is. Right, steering away from that. I could get a job. There's nothing preventing me from doing so except myself. How depressing and cliched. Your greatest enemy is yourself! And maybe sharks with syringes for teeth! I've also tried again to go through the Centrelink channels and make a claim for youth allowance. Living at home and being technically under the care of wage-earning adults complicates that. And apparently there's a trust fund I don't know about that's going to give me more forms to fill in. I've made the claim, but now there are ridiculously complex form to fill out. Over 50 pages of them. Demanding information about the household tax returns for the past three years. I'll get their money, make no mistake, but I can't help feeling that they'll take a part of my soul as payment. Isn't that how the adult world works? I want to be independent, I want it so desperately, but this is precisely the mood that prevents me from doing anything about it. Dread. A hand of ice jamming itself into my stomach. Hey, I've used fire AND ice as analogies for this intense fear and confusion. That's not nice, you can't do that. The prospect of working isn't the frightening thing, it's the prospect that I might have to.
Considering, and that means decided upon, ditching Minus completely. I hate it. I'm sick of dealing with the people, and I'm sick of having it have any influence over my life. I thought this decision would jar me a little more than it has, which is not at all, considering it was a large part of my life at some point in the past. But, no. Nothing. I have ceased to care about helping those people at all. Look, you have pride, how quaint, how fundamentally backwards. Fuck off.
There's always more to say than I do say, but that was pretty substantial and cathartic.
And now some pretty words!
-
Out of the way!
Move! Move
Out of the way
I'll trample you
Willfully
Purposefully
We'll see how well you work with
A spike through your middle
And then we'll see how much you can
Disrupt me then, you scarlet usurper
Of the mind
I'll have my revenge in time
Reformed is the theory
That you are the center
And do you pull the emotional strings?
Apparently not, it seems
But I've discovered your truth
Your nature is revealed
O, puppet master of madness
Deity of despair
I'll cut you out to prevent this
But at least you did it with flair
No more will I weep
Or laugh, but that's the price I pay
For peace of mind
Once you're out of there
So why won't you die?
You, heart of mine
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Lemuria.
Lemuria sleeps beneath the sea
A mountain peak submerged
Temple columns toppled
Vined in seaweed
See Neptune overthrown
Blue hair floats up to greet the sun
But the sun is failing in the deep
Fish will swim
Where Gods have walked
Step by step in whale song
The greatest people that ever were
With hair as blue as the sky
That they loved
With eyes as blue as the ocean
That killed them
Caught in a suffocating light
Rubble from ages gone tells tales
Tales of woe
And a greatness lost
Beneath the waves
A mountain peak submerged
Temple columns toppled
Vined in seaweed
See Neptune overthrown
Blue hair floats up to greet the sun
But the sun is failing in the deep
Fish will swim
Where Gods have walked
Step by step in whale song
The greatest people that ever were
With hair as blue as the sky
That they loved
With eyes as blue as the ocean
That killed them
Caught in a suffocating light
Rubble from ages gone tells tales
Tales of woe
And a greatness lost
Beneath the waves
Monday, February 13, 2012
Objective? Objectionable!
When asked the time he answered
In a timely fashion
And on his way
Empiricism and wit
Were a pair
It seemed
I'll see your fact
And raise you evidence
Well, how about that?
Dysfunction is an art
Respond in time, let them know
Please, just let them
Know something
Tell them something
Useful, pertinent
Bring on the world
A barrage of emotions
And a counter here
Of deftly placed objectivisms
Filling up
This willful schism.
In a timely fashion
And on his way
Empiricism and wit
Were a pair
It seemed
I'll see your fact
And raise you evidence
Well, how about that?
Dysfunction is an art
Respond in time, let them know
Please, just let them
Know something
Tell them something
Useful, pertinent
Bring on the world
A barrage of emotions
And a counter here
Of deftly placed objectivisms
Filling up
This willful schism.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Mercy.
Mercy me
Oh, mercy you
I've messed this up
So through and through
There's judgement
In these wings I keep
Oh, mercy me
Oh, mercy
Mercy that
And mercy this
An empty glass
A stolen kiss
A stinging lullaby of gin
The silence, God
Is deafening
Mercy this and mercy that
Mercy me
Oh, mercy
Mercy comes
Mercy goes
And every single person knows
The mercy in my eyes is gone
But the mercy in my heart's not done
Mercy me
Mercy you
What else is there to do?
Oh, mercy you
I've messed this up
So through and through
There's judgement
In these wings I keep
Oh, mercy me
Oh, mercy
Mercy that
And mercy this
An empty glass
A stolen kiss
A stinging lullaby of gin
The silence, God
Is deafening
Mercy this and mercy that
Mercy me
Oh, mercy
Mercy comes
Mercy goes
And every single person knows
The mercy in my eyes is gone
But the mercy in my heart's not done
Mercy me
Mercy you
What else is there to do?
Friday, February 10, 2012
The Vine That Ate The South.
Terrible and green
Terrible and green
Veined and waxed and growing it seems
It looks to be lounging
Out in the sun
But this vine can grow faster
Than any child can run
Choking the land
Choking the land
Sucking up water
Leaving there sand
Sustained by the creatures
It chokes up and spits out
And you won't believe what Mr. Vickers found out
Climbing on high
Climbing on high
Tendrils and leaves
Reaching up to the sky
As a green shadow swoops down
And the day seems done
The vine that ate the South climbs
With designs on the sun
Terrible and green
Veined and waxed and growing it seems
It looks to be lounging
Out in the sun
But this vine can grow faster
Than any child can run
Choking the land
Choking the land
Sucking up water
Leaving there sand
Sustained by the creatures
It chokes up and spits out
And you won't believe what Mr. Vickers found out
Climbing on high
Climbing on high
Tendrils and leaves
Reaching up to the sky
As a green shadow swoops down
And the day seems done
The vine that ate the South climbs
With designs on the sun
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A Tail To Tell.
This is almost as bad as Boadicea. I don't know where it came from and maybe I'm better off not knowing.
Arthur was a boy
Pretty simply put
Bright eyed, bushy tailed
Literally speaking
He had clothes tailor made
His parents said "It's just a phase"
But a phase it was not
And Arthur's tail stayed
A pre-simian appendage
A prodigious extrusion
Leading to naught but shame
And playground exlusion
Prehensile and precise
Predestined for mischief
By an excommunicated
Exempted, yet raucous little gruff
A fine rope, is a tail
Coarse, but not so
That it was unpleasant
In the final death throes
Mischief understates
His noose oriented deeds
As he hung them from the ceiling
And they all ceased to breathe
Arthur was a boy
Pretty simply put
Bright eyed, bushy tailed
Literally speaking
He had clothes tailor made
His parents said "It's just a phase"
But a phase it was not
And Arthur's tail stayed
A pre-simian appendage
A prodigious extrusion
Leading to naught but shame
And playground exlusion
Prehensile and precise
Predestined for mischief
By an excommunicated
Exempted, yet raucous little gruff
A fine rope, is a tail
Coarse, but not so
That it was unpleasant
In the final death throes
Mischief understates
His noose oriented deeds
As he hung them from the ceiling
And they all ceased to breathe
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Inheritance.
Though it was exactly what I wanted
In truth it was vacuous
It was badly written, paced terribly
At times circuitous
But, my word, that was satisfying
As narratives tend to be
The longer the better, I should think
I was involved emotionally
Little original thought
Flickers in the dark, in a
Lengthy sort struggle
Against deus ex machina
And the ending was familiar
Too much so, perhaps
But it still left me satisfied
Emotionally sapped
May your sword stay sharp indeed, Paolini
In truth it was vacuous
It was badly written, paced terribly
At times circuitous
But, my word, that was satisfying
As narratives tend to be
The longer the better, I should think
I was involved emotionally
Little original thought
Flickers in the dark, in a
Lengthy sort struggle
Against deus ex machina
And the ending was familiar
Too much so, perhaps
But it still left me satisfied
Emotionally sapped
May your sword stay sharp indeed, Paolini
Monday, February 6, 2012
Poets.
I was never much of a muse
But we were never really poets
And a poor poet, makes a muse
But they're not afraid to show it
I was never much of a poet
We couldn't see our muses
To be much more than a fascination
With momentary uses
Neither one of us that fascinating
To poets and muses both
From inside we don't see much use
For the things we are the most
Neither poets nor muses
But something other, something less
Or more, perhaps, unlikely though
We're both a terrible mess
I was never much of a muse
I was never much of a poet
I was never much of anything
And I'm not afraid to show it
But we were never really poets
And a poor poet, makes a muse
But they're not afraid to show it
I was never much of a poet
We couldn't see our muses
To be much more than a fascination
With momentary uses
Neither one of us that fascinating
To poets and muses both
From inside we don't see much use
For the things we are the most
Neither poets nor muses
But something other, something less
Or more, perhaps, unlikely though
We're both a terrible mess
I was never much of a muse
I was never much of a poet
I was never much of anything
And I'm not afraid to show it
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Old One-Eye
A thousand prayers for Old One-Eye
Thunder in the sky
Thunder in the sky
Thunder in the sky
Take another bite out of the moon
The time to fly is soon
It signals the doom
It signals the doom
Which way does the wind blow?
I don't know, we all collapse in the dirt
Which way does the wind blow?
I don't know, we all collapse in the dirt
The wind starts tracing out circles
I walks backwards and hope I don't fall
The wind starts tracing out circles
I walks backwards and hope I don't fall
Thunder in the sky
Thunder in the sky
Thunder in the sky
Take another bite out of the moon
The time to fly is soon
It signals the doom
It signals the doom
Which way does the wind blow?
I don't know, we all collapse in the dirt
Which way does the wind blow?
I don't know, we all collapse in the dirt
The wind starts tracing out circles
I walks backwards and hope I don't fall
The wind starts tracing out circles
I walks backwards and hope I don't fall
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Post-Developed.
This is his judgement
This is his Hell
Or is it Heaven?
I can't really tell
This is the sin
And this is the skin
He's beating with lust
And I can't get enough
This is his Hell
Or is it Heaven?
I can't really tell
This is the sin
And this is the skin
He's beating with lust
And I can't get enough
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