Friday, August 7, 2009

i hope you died in a decent pair of shoes

pale, she walked in, blue eyes shining, chrysanthemums neatly coiled in her hair where fireflies nested, glowing with lust. a unique bio mod. she'd read somewhere about indigenous south american women placing fireflies in their hair as jewelry, and if by some unlucky chance they fell asleep, the women would rub them to glow again. she'd ordered this simple vanity procedure years ago, and not soon after, had her skin optioned to the color of night. you can imagine the raw exoticism, swirling chaotic beyond-nature beauty.

"how are you holding up without dlens access?" she asked as her eyes drifted toward the green ambient glow of the bioluminscent palm trees outside.

"dimension lack mind hell," he snarled.

she took a seat on a crystal gland, which palpitated softly with her own internal rhythm in gentle and precise symbiosis. she watched intently as hrodebert twirled the heat gun, glitter splashing fragments of rainbows from the piece. somewhere from deep inside her primitive sense of sympathy, she felt a twang of pity for his anagnorisis, knowing he'd had to remove his telepathy chip; in other words, he fucked his mindplexes royally in order to avoid detection by the cognet.

the electric stream of cicadas singing bounded off the walls. a popular nighttime channel, as they're among the earth's greatest musical artists, and of course, deepest drinkers.

"arturo's waiting for you," she said. "but you already knew that."

he rose slowly, fearfully, knowing it was time to make the change and begin the trip to montreal. arturo kept a room on the third floor, the top of the motel, for no particular reason other than the fact that polaris, the north star, or possibly a lone antique russian streetlight far-off in the galaxy splashed crystalline into the room when the rest of the night had fluttered to merciless black. hrodebert and miss charlotte had consulted arturo a few days earlier in order to map a plan for hrodebert's scrubbing and mods.

arturo had been employed by 11layr, a pioneer in organic locomotive simulacra, among other more ubiquitous media ventures. the latest locomotive model, anthropometric to the last vigintillionth of a yoctometer, was housing hrodebert's mind. arturo was a key player in development at the los angeles-based firm, although as his heroin addiction worsened, the lies predictably began piling up. the men of science at 11layr were accustomed to joining each other for highballs at ling po's yoyo bar after exiting the lab, but after a couple of earth years, arturo no longer showed up at ling po's. the dreaming buildings, projecting themselves with vague longing and the shadowy ant-farm towers in downtown los angeles began to sicken him. the speed and highballs and pleasure models at ling po's made him cringe. six months ago, a pleasure model named trilyn approached him as he'd left his associates to talk with ling po who was stationed behind the bar.

"the serengeti ecosystem interface has been a boon for business," said ling po, staring out at the persistent grasslands where blue wildebeests and gazelles made their circular migration beneath the golden-paced serengeti sunset. they were gazing, enthralled by the plains when arturo noticed two brown orbs flash off the lacquered hemp bar, and he turned slightly right.

"you seem down," the pleasure model said, channeling his skynet thoughts.

"just in a bit of a funk," he said, knowing he sounded redundant, as she was tuned into his thoughts and spoken language had, in an instant, become a socially encouraged formality. he noticed her keenly programmed empathy and knew he didn't have to elaborate.

"i'm trilyn," she said, extending her ivory-colored hand. "arturo," he said, greeting her and peeking back at the serengeti. content brought to you courtesy of 11layr flashed across the wall. spinning on the balls of his barefoot shoes, he made a french exit into the mirror world street.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

i don't know (this post may self-destruct)

i hear myself repeating over and over, like some freak mechanical flaw, a slot machine spitting change despite not ringing cherries: happiness postponed due to inclement weather. check back next summer [there's not even an exclamation point here.].

the coffee's been bitter lately, and the carousel with the bright lights and smiling horses throws me off as soon as the aha! peers into the dark, mirrors reflecting empty benches.

sure, i've a glob of putty to work with, though it seems stained with the past, a surefire cut-to-the-chase archaeology of the future . it's as if poor english poet, owing to the languorous after-effects of filthy forethings in the forest, stumbled in Act IV when arriving at that bit of avuncular nonsense regarding pudding and a goose, but ladies and gentlemen, i'm getting carried away.

the blue pills and red pills are best taken in the dark when nobodies watching, the projector in my mind tells me. better for marathon sessions of don't stop there, and i tend to agree. so what of this fine little space, i inquire...