lit
(listed by author) agnostic: motto onaji agnostic: (untitled) angst: the fire king bryn ditmars and cthulu: urbanity (2) corinthian: 90210 cthulu: no GST* cthulu: excerpts from "god-box", a three-day-novel cthulu: walking to benny's late one sunday evening maldoror: the rocks at fitzroy maldoror: short thought on a short girl maldoror: an absence or a delay maldoror: subjugating the surrealist paradigm otnooishphoo: aurora otnooishphoo: it otnooishphoo: a gift of wings schtroumpf: in dreams i often wander skrubly: (untitled) skrubly: when the speak isn't easy tako: (untitled) tekk: hard going in paris warpus: moje nogi (my legs) retribution: ode to cthulu collaborative: living closet collaboration #2 bast, zamfir worshipper, silent knight, cthulu: magnetic poems

`Subj: motto onaji`
`Origin : 09 Dec 97 00:33:55`

`in the shower I thought about guys cumming with crutches.`
`it seems befitting for the activity:`
`the jolt, the loss of equilibrium, the forgetfulness (and embarrassment)`
`of where exactly this feeling is spreading to (so many places at once)`
`that having crutches would take over so much of the responsibility`
`temporarily lost while the body becomes a warm fruitcake`
`but with all the bits being sweet & good -- none thrown out with the napkin.`
``
``

`dare ga kore wa koe hoshii ka?
`

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Black pearls for June
`and a spider in tie and cumberbund`
`to share some curry;`
`turn signal outside the window`
`winks, and only she knows`

`its automatic message, its charm`
`without the fault of a fingerprint`
`pointing.`

`electrics mechanics`
`no intentions to sit down beside her`
`she rises with the blind`
`and throws Black pearls`

`doesn't care who trips`
`who gets rich; it's gravity`
`she's after, force`
`in the downward thud`
`when her baby saxophone learns`
`its first low notes`

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From: The Fire King On..Im 6 And / Base : lizard.tales
`To : Sex Maniac`
`Subj: Joy jelly`
`Origin : 06-01-98 20:48`

`Across a landscape of long legs and hairy pubes thur ya were. An angelic like apperition of gelly like proportions and bugs,how's he doing. I know you well enough to know when the suns not out inside your in. Modulati spelled come around downtown at five on the corner of richards and coffee. Get hip replacement then jive cool hairy thighs under moons of green. Get hip long hair dairy ding dong lube jelly split pea enema... bovine grease me up in a field of twirling night lit wheat... 214 to Julliard for the tone of sound and then left at mothers thigh... see you there.`

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`Urbanity (2)

In front of the shopping cart
under the bridge
a small, hand-painted sign sits:

1502 west 4th

I momentarily entertain the notion of sending him a letter:

"Dear Bum.

Things here are great. Suzi is graduating next fall and John is the captain of his football team. Henry's business dealings are turning up roses and next payday we're going to a grocery store to gorge until we vomit. Wish you were here."

The only thing that stops me is a shady misgiving, that he might look up the return address and revenge my insensitivity.

Magnanimous men take seize of the grain in my skull.
Even the Divine is dull
To the Mortal who will not See Death as being Holy Deed.
(Nothing really matters to the mind of who is most.)
So, carry on, carry on, carry ever on and on,
For the World has wish more likely that the wind in which

it rides,

And I don't know you, but I'm taken to Angels who piss in dumpsters,
So, let this be a warning for all the women you repulse!

Thus the reply:

"To whom it may concern,

your attention is noted but ultimately entropy. Much as the envelope served quite well to boil my morning tea, your letter is in front of me. I am in the largest room in the world and soon it will be behind me. Warn John not to catch any venereal diseases (a risk of professional atheletes you must surmise) and give Henry my love. Come visit the dump sometime, it is truly beautiful at this time of the year."

The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of being saved,
Saved from this world I once entered,
Saved from the planet of perfection sublime,
Saved from our mutual ignorance plea,
Saved from the past, where the people of earth laugh in

the faces of people like us.

But, in spire of our Intentions, let this be no concern of ours.

0

`
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`90210`

`Hey Brenda, you`
`bitch`

`Thanks, you were great`
`Now go do some B-movies`
`or something`

`It's not an Aaron Spelling production`
`but the pay's not bad.`

`Have a nice life, smile if you see me in the halls.`

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`No GST*`

`* We will deduct the equivalent of the GST from your total purchase price. Unfortunately, the GST offer excludes Cosmetics and Fragrances, Bath & Body, shoes by cK Calvin Klein, DKNY, Nine West, Enzo Angioni, Easy Spirit, Via Spiga, Stuart Weitzman, Calvin Klein & DKYN Handbags, Estate jewellery, Watches by Swatch, Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent & Calvin Klein, sale- and clearance-priced Prestige watches, sale- and clearance-priced Fine Jewellery, jewellery by DuNouveau, Memoire Paris, Diamond Essence and the Royal Canadian Mint, Roots merchandise, regular-priced Women's Designer Fashions (consisting of sportswear, denim fashions and bridge classes 359/118/654), Women's Claudel sleepwear, loungewear and robes, DKNY hosiery, $14.99 3 packs pantyhose, Men's regular priced Designer Fashions (consisting of sportswear, denim, tailored clothing, shirts, ties, underwear and accessories), Calvin Klein apparel & underwear, Hugo Boss underwear, Children's Tommy Hilfiger and Calvin Klein apparel, Sunglass Hut, Mont Blanc pens, sale-priced bedding & bath, housewares, regular-priced major appliances, vacuums, home comfort appliances, microwaves, Maytag appliances & Viking appliances, sale- and clearance-priced home merchandise (furniture, area rugs, outdoor furniture and accessories, BBQ's, sale-priced Home merchandise (consisting of Ralph Lauren / Polo bedding & towels, Liz Claiborne bedding & towels, Charisma bedding & towels, Royal Velvet towels), sale- and clearance-priced small electrics and personal care appliances, microwave appliances, Panasonic GAOO TVs, BBQs, Maytag appliances, pre-recorded video & audio tapes, CDs and film, greeting cards, Eaton Beauty Dolls, Beanie Babies, Lalique, Disney Classic Collection, Seagull Pewter, Swarovski, Lladro, Nao, Fine Bone China, Eaton Gift Certificates, Eaton Restaurants, concessions & serivices, Warehouse Stores & Clearance Centres except for Factory Outlet.`

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`Excerpt from GOD-BOX
Cthulu's 3-Day-Novel`

`Though most people envision them as noble predators of the air, the majestic eagle is, among with other notable food chain termini such as lions and tyrannosaurus rexes, a scavenger at heart, not deigning to dirty a refined talon on the hunt but preferring to sate itself on dead or dying meat prepared by some other agent of death - wolves, congenital bad karma, divine retribution, disease or doctors.`

Among monkeys and other simians there is a reflex to experience stark terror - the kind that closes your throat with a heartbeat and elicits screaming, howling noises truly suitable only for the lower primates - upon a few stimuli from our evolutionary past. Children will consistently rate snakes and spiders Least-Favored-Animal status in any zoo as a throwback to a fear to those animals on the savannah which would kill a large animal with an unnoticed bite without the need or even capability of consuming its prey. With age and experience many of us come to terms with sharing the Earth with those with eight legs and those with none, though we may float our tolerance in a boiling bath of a certain quantity of squeam. One shape which strikes hysteria into the hearts of all mothers and children alike, however, is the silhouette of a raptor's body eclipsing the sun, its feathered wingspan blocking the light in a shadow the shape of a rapidly-descending crucifix of avian appetite. This impulse of catastrophe goes further back than from man to ape, but verily from dirt to divine. We remember, in our heart of hearts, that birds are of the realm of sky-gods, retributive avatars of stern, cruel gods with unpronounceable (unspeakable? unnameable!) names, and that though we may feel charitable in sharing the fires with those less fortunate than us, come lunchtime it might as well be our eternal livers in the eyes of the punctual peregrine, perennially prepared for its feast of foie gras.

...

We named him Prometheus, Fire-Bearer, every time he entered the complex. It didn't matter that it wasn't his name (inevitably, Fate failed to be so literal) or that we would only be applying it for a few days; the moniker stuck. Upon entrance he would be concerned with a number of things - his accommodations (spare but adequate, as with the rest of us), his newfound inmates, and his conditions first physical, material (fingering the stitches nervously, as he always did, pondering scars which would never find time to arrive) and finally, ultimately (or were all other considerations merely aspects of this one?) spiritual. Was his spirit in good shape? Had he spoiled his Grace by allowing the removal of the large fatty lump from his abdomen? If his conditions worsened (if! if! of course, they never got the enlightening benefit of the empirical play both put on and witnessed by all of us, never realizing their walk-on roles) and (God forbid) death result, would ascension follow, to Heaven or Purgatory or some place better (read: less squalid) than here, this cesspool we called a place of God and defecated in nonetheless - or would his fate be determined by the floating liver, freed from his body and living on in a jar of nutritive solution a few thin walls' separation distance, bearing intense scrutiny. Would his Eternal Reward be co-opted by a forever as a disassociated phantom, doomed to haunt the crossroads where his hypothetically holy organ had parted ways from him?

It is true that his concerns tended to get more base as the day went on. This was viewed as some of the incarcerated as evidence of the liver's intrinsic link to the soul, as the chronological distance from its excision drove Prometheus' mental state further and further towards the banal, the base - but a much more scientific reasoning proposed by those of us who somehow managed to ignore the man's growing torment (and who somehow became a majority, growing complacent to his endless deaths) was his own growing realization that the discomfort he was experiencing was not going to get any less as time went on, and like mad butter all concerns for the future melted away, leaving a gleaming core of fear for the present - concern not where he go when he dies but merely if he die, and later, that he die, and soon.

We learned to measure these men as a sunset - high noon at arrival, and as the hours passed his complexion would darken and turn ever more jaundiced, as a flower losing moisture, as the moon passing behind a viscous mass of rich, frothy pollution or red, foaming tuberculotic sputum, as a man dying. His first meal would be sat at with great gusto, but by sundown he would be lying, enfeebled, on his hard mat and by daybreak the following morning the transition from mat to gurney would be complete - it was not unusual for his frame to be nothing but that, the picture pilfered, the contents snicker-snackered off to somewhere where they could warrant more appreciation than this abuse. There were a few hardy souls, giants among men who could tolerate the ravages for two days, occasionally three, but these men died alone and without sympathy, unlike the more typical one-nighters, as few among us could stomach the prolonged throes these stamina-cursed men would be put through, crying out to our Father above for the weakness to slip out without the Armageddon tearing through their guts, the Wormwood setting in their belly and turning one-third of the contents bitter. The fast dyers would die surrounded by friends but no one would talk to a man who had the audacity to live more than a day without a liver. These walking contradictions would retreat to their spare and spartan chambers and eke out the remaining hours in solitude - none of us would visit them, and sometimes we would only learn of his death (a terrible tension being lifted from our otherwise equitably-stressed existence) by the subsequent arrival of his replacement, Prometheus, the following morning.

I move my lips, and though no words emerge, still do I lie. The psychopomps, escorts to the world of the dead, would always be near. In fact, often it seemed these doctor-priests accompanied the man's progress completely from beginning to end, and beyond. One imagined that the gap between death and interment was sufficient for a final evaluation of the meat the scientists had obtained - proportions, causes of death and of course the ultimate indiscernible spiritual value of such a mass of dead man. With a meat thermometer still sticking out of him he'd be weighed against the Feather of Truth, but the information never trickled back down to us as to the fate of his ka. I mix and confuddle my mythologies here, but assuredly everlasting flame is no more absurd an eternity than a monstrous Devourer composed of equal parts lion, crocodile and hippopotamus, seized with an abject appetite for souls of all flavours and especially those disdainful of the appropriate rituals.

Doubtless the presence of the psychopomps was somewhat of a subconscious reassurance to him, that his spiritual condition not be entirely neglected in his inevitable lack of concern for anything beyond the palpable thickening of his blood, and surely none of us would sleep if not for the morphine they slipped him at Communion, consumption of the flesh, blood and pharmaceuticals of Christ - not enough to sedate, but sufficient for a numbing purpose, that he experience a somewhat premature separation from his earthly meat, where he can retain his perceiving faculties, he can still bear witness to his own destruction but not shake the nagging fear of disassociation from the lump of flesh surrounding him rapidly losing all resemblance as it darkened and erupted in sores and bruises to anything he might recognize as a body belonging to him, let alone as a lump of clay belonging to someone else and only on loan. At times it seems he was aware of his position only in a sense of drowning in a mass of someone else's meat, in a cage of bones and veins wrapped in skin with no lid or opening through which to escape - consciousness neglecting the egresses nature provides all of us via the nose, mouth, rectum or navel. I always considered my soul's escape to be best accomplished in the forms of words, verbal communication, where my ideas could escape my frame and fill those of others. These men, however, dwelled entirely on transference of something apparently less concrete and physical than words and concepts. Their escape wanted to transcend the passage of air through the lips or of an image from a sheet of paper through the eyes - rather to enact a magic act, slipping from a padlocked and welded box "now-you-don't-see-it, now-you-still-don't"-style. Ladies and gentlemen, you may note I have no soul in my hat, no soul in my wand, and no soul up my sleeves...

What the purpose was of exposing the man to our company none of us could surmise. He didn't benefit from the surroundings as we nearly universally shunned him, perhaps occasionally extending a sympathetic gesture to one who looked least deserving of the grisly end awaiting him but in these new surroundings he was wary, and though signs of generosity were rare, when they were extended it served to tip the man off that not everything was as right as it seemed, that these were not actions of charity but of premature consolation. As a reminder to us that death was all around us and eternal his presence was superfluous, all of us already suffering from various maladies as results of our incomplete conditions. It certainly indicated the ubiquity of God only in the sense of that most stern and cruel interpretation of the deity - the Abraham-doctors would lead Prometheus up the hill daily, but nothing was swapped at the last minute - no mutton, bleats of the benign Lamb of God shrieking in ecstasy as it spurted great gobs of animal sacrifice all over the operating room table, sexual gratification to an S&M sexless Something Above, a cosmic cum-shot. The great Clockmaker may have created something marvelous when he set the universe in motion, but that this endless procession of meaningless men waking up with one foot in the grave could be called a ritual in his name nearly constituted proof of his non-existence.

Of course, my views are fairly radical. In my old life, back when I had a real name, back when my name was applied to parts of my body and not vice-versa, I was known to be an agitator, sugar in the gas tank of society. Not content with the questions left unanswered by both religion and science I demanded replies, I led masses of thousands to shout questions at the sky and the Computer-box, replies consisting only of silence and baffled errors of syntax. My voice triggered riots, orgies of nihilism where the two things that purportedly give our existence meaning, alternately choosing faith or proof as your dogma, were summarily rejected, vandalized, destroyed, or worst of all, ignored. If you pull the plug to an automated prayer machine society stops functioning, the populace crippled by the guilty realization not that they have to live with the ramifications of their actions, but that they might have to actually worse - after-live - with those same ramifications.

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`the rocks at fitzroy`
`--------------------`
`standing on the coast of`
`that same distant shore`
`gulls sound`
`and red-ocean rises`

`I long for those rocks,`
`the same ones I took for`
`granted`

`such`
`a`
`short`
`time`
`ago`

`dreams are like vipers`
`never letting go`

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short thought on a short girl
`-----------------------------`
`I exchanged vows with the permafrost earth`
`no stepping for no crushing`

`searched for pomegranite freedom`
`saw god in an ashtray`

`"Will I see her again?"`

`forget dreaming`

`(note.. pomegranite is the intended spelling)`

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an absence or a delay
`---------------------`
`friday came and passed me by. today is sunday`
`or perhaps monday.. yes.`
`i'm not working this week`
`perhaps you'd like to stop by?`
`there's a show sometime this week, it should be great`
`some old friends of mine are going`
`or maybe not`
`i envy them`
`at least they have a choice`

`i've changed my name again,`
`or perhaps you haven't noticed?`
`yes, another tattoo to mark the years`
`we have to have something to count them by after all`

`i stole another number from the gas station price-listing thing`
`it's a 4`
`i never much cared for 4, but i thought it would please rosemont`
`and after all, i have almost 20 3s already`

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subjugating the surrealist paradigm
`-----------------------------------`
`hah! it's all mine`
`to exploit`
`to have and to hold`
`i'll drop the next line`

`i feel like dancing, but don't i always?`
`it's not strange to be in love with...`
`wrong word choice`
`obsessed with someone`
`62 years and 348 days older than oneself is it?`
`i'm still contemplating whether 150$ is too much to spend`
`for 53 pages, four illustrations, a reproduction, a signature`
`and a number 20 or 100 more than what would signify perfection`

`oh well`

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`in the air floating there`
`the colours they are everywhere`
`i can see you now through the night`
`surrounding me with your light`

`in the sky i`
`wonder why`

`see you in`
`aurora`
`meet you in`
`aurora`

`to the snow where rainbows go`
`ice flows and the sun he knows`
`and when the sun is gone the moon she rises high`
`i can feel you now, feel your light`

`in the sky i`
`wonder why`

`see you in`
`aurora`
`meet you in`
`aurora`

`(bridge)`

`red`
`green`
`purple`
`blue`
`i'm going up there`
`to be with you`

`in the sky`
`i know why`

`see you in`
`aurora`
`meet you in`
`aurora`
``

words & music

by gordon breckenridge

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you know, you need
`you need, need me`

`i know, you don't`
`you don't, want me`
`i know, you can't`
`you can't, leave me`

`you run, you hide`
`you burn, inside`
`you hurt, you bleed`
`you know, you need`
`me --- (vocal solo)`

`(intrumental bridge, mood change)`

`i am, only`
`how you, see me`
`if you, leave me`
`you won't, need me`

`(vocal ad lib and acoustic solo, tabla/djembe)` ``

words & music: gordon breckenridge

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`A Gift of Wings`

`(v1)`
`you step to the edge,`
`and you look back,`
`one last time.`
`leap through the hole`
`hole that they left,`
`in your life.`
`And as your falling,`
`they will see nothing,`
`they've closed their eyes.`
`They'll just keep on standing,`
`with their backs towards you,`
`never realize,`
`that you can -`
`(c1)`
`Fly`
`Into the light.`
`You can fly`
`With eyes open wide.`
``
`(bridge solo improv.)`

`You don't have to listen,`
`you don't have to follow,`
`the words they say.`
`Your life is for you,`
`You make your own choices,`
`Find your own way.`
`And if they start to pull you down,`
`drag you down underground,`
`remember one thing.`
`I'll be behind you,`
`I'll help you find you,`
`I will give you wings,`
`so you can -`

`(c2) Fly`
`Into the light.`
`So you can fly,`
`with eyes open wide.`

`words&music`
````

gordon breckenridge (c) shc 1998

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`by Skrubly`

`The Hazamat's sign hung at an angle because one of its chains had snapped; the yellow lucite had broken at the bottom of the H, and the lighting behind it glared over the top. I hadn't been around for when it broke, and I didn't know anyone who had.`

`Inside it was a series of tables with benches, and a semicircle of little cracked plastic windows set into the far wall. There was a changer to the left, where you slid your bank card through and it gave you little brass tokens. They had a man's head embossed on them but you couldn't tell who it was anymore because they were so worn. Then you'd peer into those little plastic windows, and when you saw something you liked you'd put in your tokens, it would whir for a little bit and the window would open. Then you'd take your thing, and if it had to be hot, you'd rip the heatstrip on it and set it on the table while you waited for it to warm up. It was a cheap place to eat, but it had all the ambiance of a muni station.`

`Ashton had wanted me to meet him here at eight; we sometimes ate but mostly just drank the coffee out of the vending machine out front. It was a lot better than most of the coffee places down the strip - in-your-face kind of yuppie waiters sneering at you if you didn't clear out of one of their flimsy wire chairs the moment you finished your cup.`

`He worked at a Renco in an arcology thirty miles out from the city; he lived in a Cube, ate three times a week, and poured all of the money he could into his bike. He had bought a Yamaha KLZ a year ago; he had skipped out on payments three months into it. When they came calling for the rest, he had to borrow from a dealer even though he knew he couldn't come up with enough in time. That's why he rolled up to Laytonville with the clothes on his back and a wallet full of useless credit cards. At least he didn't bring a set of broken fingers with him, too.`

`So he paid cash for everything, or more accurately, I paid cash for everything and sometimes charged it. I think he thought of me as his girlfriend, but he'd never talked of it like that. He talked about his motorcycle and occasionally asked how I was doing and then looked the other way. A classic case of "Why do you stay with him?" and you never have an answer to that, no matter what the situation.`

`--`

`So eight oclock came and went, and I kept sitting there sipping my coffee and wondering if it would be worth it to take off my jacket or just get up and leave. I had started to chip off the rim of my cup with my fingernail when he came in, rain beading off his suit, his faceshield fogged over with condensation and sweat.`

`He slid into the booth squeaking from the rain, wearing his sunglasses and black stubble on his chin. The first time I saw him wear those glasses at night I thought he was nuts, but he just shrugged and said he saw it in an old movie. Tonight he looked like one big shrug; shoulders hunched and his head tilted down.`

`"Hey" he said, waiting for me to start in on him about being late again, but I let it rest when I saw his face when he looked up.`

`"My dad died." I didn't know what to say, so I just sort of sat there for a second. "I have to get his stuff out before tomorrow morning."`

`When he got up and started to walk out, I trailed behind him saying I was sorry and wondering how he was going to manage getting anything out from anywhere on his motorcycle.`

`We walked to his bike, and he didn't even look at me. Just unlocked it with a swipe and a squeal of the alarm and handed me the helmet.`

`I didn't ask him anymore questions on the ride out. The rain started to soak in through my coat, but I just grabbed on tighter and hoped we'd be there soon. Falling asleep on a motorcycle isn't that bad - your legs tighten up to keep you on, and I had my arms around his stomach which he didn't seem to mind.`

`I woke up to a sodium lamp and Ashton telling me to get off the bike. My legs cramped and I nearly fell over while he put it on the centerstand. I took the helmet off and turned around and looked at an old brick building that looked like it hadn't been washed in a decade.`

`Ashton looked at me and shrugged, and went to the side of the building. I followed up the rotting stairs as he unlocked the door at the top.`

`Dust and more dust. Dust all over every conceivable surface, even the bed in the corner, and paper everywhere. We stood there dripping for a moment and then stripped off most of what we had on and put it out on the porch.`

`"This was my father's office. I have to get his stuff out of here before tomorrow. Tomorrow they knock the building down." he started to shuffle through some of the papers.`

`"Doesn't look like he used it much..." There was a weird map on the wall with all the names spelled in another language.`

`"He used to, I guess." His hair dripped onto a piece of paper and he quickly tried to wipe it off. I thought I was going to sneeze.`

`After awhile I slumped into an old chair and fell back asleep.`

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`It was Merlin's speakeasy, he ran it out of his apartment - six guys lived there, though you never saw but two of them at once. Large amount of space filled mainly with nothing, and we weren't drinking bathtub gin because we were just underage. Actually, we were drinking Tanqueray to the tune of thirty dollars a bottle. You pay for that extra bit of juniper, but when it comes to things like that, I figure why not, you know?

I had a pretty full bar, I was missing a couple of things like my Pernod and creme de cassis, but it didn't really matter that much - half a fifth of Black Velvet and things manage to turn out alright, you know? It was slow and I shook out a double bunch of daquiris and then a manhattan. I didn't have any syrup, so I had to shake those daquiris long and hard to get them to mix right. At least no one had asked for blender drinks yet, and all of the cocktails I'd passed around so far had met with rave reviews.

I was smoking a La Finca, a cazadore with a nice natural wrapper. They're from Nicaragua, and I'd aged them about a year. Not bad for less than a dollar a stick. Smoke hung low in the room, yellowed by the light above.

She sat back in the chair, blowing little ovals of smoke into the light. Dressed in a black slipdress, she smoked Dunhills through an ebony holder. A series of intricate scars decorated her arms, which were especially prominent due to the lack of sleeves. Both her eyes and skin had a sparkle that could cut you dead or make your soul free. She was very selective with her looks.

I blew smoke out in rings, across the bar, and motioned for Derek to deal. We were playing smokehouse rummy, and he had beat me three rounds out of four. He was young, younger than we were, and I wouldn't serve him anything but a sloe gin fizz every half hour. I didn't want to be responsible for that. Myself, I'd been drinking since six and hadn't felt a one. I had eaten and felt well, the towel over my shoulder smelling like Amaretto and triple sec.

"Two words come to mind," I said to Derek. He looked up.

"What's that?"

I leaned back, spewed some more smoke, took a sip from my martini, and sighed. "Cleeeeeaaan livin'."

He laughed, and we went back to playing cards, celebrating our vices for the first time that month.

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`From: Tako Base : --tab- nonsense`
`Subj: ÿ`
`Origin : 15 May 98 15:10:34`

`a vampire's canines`
`immeasurably sweet moment of contact`

`blinding flashes of`
`enlightenment haunt`
`& sustain me`

`I like sunlight`
`it reminds me of the overpowering`
`warmth & comfort a ground zero would bring.`

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`Pete was a normal, young boy. Well, he wasn't very young anymore, after all, he WAS already 36. Pete was a man who liked inventing stuff. Usually, he didn't have much use for them. Even if it was a cure for AIDS, or something that would create world peace in 3 seconds, it probably ended up in the closet.

But why did Pete do it? Apparently because, he just had a damn lot of spare parts. God knows where he got them, but he just had a lot.

One day, after he had been drinking a lot, and had a blinding hangover, he felt like creating something. So, he just took some pieces, and put them together in a fine, quick way. It had three buttons on it. A green one, a red one, and a grey one. He was going to make something that was like RGB, but he decided to do it a bit different this time.

Pete decided to test the machine. For this glorious occasion, he called for his wife, Mary. Mary looked at the huge bulk of greyness, and finally said:

- What on EARTH is that?!
- It's a machine. Uh. I haven't tried it out yet.
- Well, let's try it then, I have to go and see my sister, later.
- Your sister? She's -
- TRY THE MACHINE NOW, PETE.
- Ah. Oh. Ok.

He pressed the green button. It started making a whirring noise, rumbling a bit. As a result, out plopped (literally) three potatoes, looking quite fine, peeled. Mary was obviously impressed.

- That's quite nice! Where'd you get the potatoes from, though?
- Potatoes?
- You didn't add any?
- No, I don't think so.
- Wow! That's brilliant! Ok, let's try the red one!

Click. Whirr. Rumble. Splurt.

- Wahey, coffee.
- What's wrong with coffee, Pete?
- I don't like coffee.
- That's your problem, sissy.
- Sissy?
- Yeah, sissy, sissy.
- I don't understand you.
- Uh... I'm sorry, I'm just so excited about all this! Try the grey one!

Click. No whirring. No rumbling. LIVING.

- What's that?
- I think it just told us the meaning of life, Mary. I thought it'd be funny.
- Living? That's one strange meaning of life.
- Try it again?

Click.

COW.

- What's this??
- I don't know, I just made the thing.
- I think i'll call my sister.

She certainly did that.

- Hi, Laura? It's Mary here. Pete did one of his machines, again, you know.
- So? Should I care?
- Yes, there's one function that's rather strange. PETE, PRESS THE GREY BUTTON! Click.

FRIDGE.

- See? I don't get it.
- Ah. I understand. You'd be better off wrecking the junk.
- Oh, ok. PETE, WRECK THE JUNK!

Kerr-ash.

THE END

Heh.. This version became rather strange, since the original was in Finnish, and I'm (of course) more fluent in Finnish. But this version isn't too bad, either. -- Johan
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moje nogi`
`---------`
`moje nogi sa duze i zimne`
`a moja babcia nie lubi lizac lizakow`
`no bo nie ma zebow.`
`kurwa mac, ale tutaj zimno.`
`niech ktos mnie dotknie.`

``
`my legs`
`-------`
`my legs are big and cold`
`and my gramma doesn't like to lick lollypops`
`because she doesn't have teeth`
`holy fuck, is it cold in here`
`somebody touch me)`

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`cthulu buffer saved on Sat Jul 04 16:19:39 1998`
`<retributn> watch how quick i come up with this GREAT stuff`
`<retributn> his name is cthulu`
`<retributn> he likes the things that you do`
`<retributn> his name is cthulu`
`<retributn> he thinks my words are doo doo`
`<retributn> but i've got a few tricks up my sleeve`
`<retributn> no wait, don't go, i won't let you leave`
`<retributn> because cthulu`
`<retributn> you do what you do`
`<retributn> and i'll do what i do`
`<retributn> because here is the truth`
`<retributn> god, baby, i just want you.`
`<retributn> AM I IN YET?!@#$?`

`End of cthulu buffer Sat Jul 04 16:19:39 1998
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the living closet collaboration #2`

> First off, I had to manage transport of my computer all the way to Stanley Park, ostensibly for the (unrealized) function of sampling the musical performers and making computer music out of them. During setup we managed to acquire a table, power, and things were definitely looking up, as I rigged up some batch files with an ansi menu to invite people to 'come to the art table and create on the computer.' possibilities included adding to the story, tracking, and drawing ansi. Somehow, everyone opted for the former.

> During the first two parts of the evening people were afraid of the computer, and refused to add to it, as though it was part of the other technical equipment controlling sound and other stuff, so we gussied it up a bit, turned it so the monitor was facing the audience, cranked up glow3, ao and a weird dos font and let the batch files rip. Once it got dark and the audience could perceive the colour-cycling piercing through the night, a few brave souls ventured up to it to add their own thoughts to the text. Usually no more than a paragraph per person, towards the middle it started ending up as a duel between Zamfir Worshipper and I, who would alternate sittings at the computer chair to add some volume (if not depth) to the work, one paragraph at a time.

> This at least contributed to the pack, if not its punctuality.

`It has been said that there is no act which is not a political one; that there is no art which is not revolutionary; that there is no food which is not worth eating.

What you are about to read (write) will turn all of that on its head:

When proper conduct becomes the currency of society,
reason becomes a point of suspicion. When clowns decide to cry,
the conduct is unexpected, but it can't possibly be wrong.

Only when a thought is created is it ever pure...

When a goth girl gone good comes into your life one
should not eat the hand that feeds. As food is to be consumed
I shall consume the good goth girl when absolutely nothing becomes absolute.

There is a unit of measure on the window sill and it's calling your name.

"Blank, Blank, come to me!"

This is a qualifier which has not yet been defined, but as it is replaced with but a default substitute it is defied as well, and Something is created from Nothing.

Absolutely Nothing is not only Nothing but also Absolute, hence goth girls are to be consumed by I, including her hand that should not be eaten. If the hand feeds you how are you to be fed by it if not through biting it? Are you to swallow her hand whole?

A. Goth Girl, Esquire, was quite distraught. She awoke sitting on a dumpster with her classic black gear quite sloppily tinted with crimson spunk spurting from the stump where until recently her hand had been. Consumption of her hand was most assuredly not proper conduct, and thus reason passed quite innocuously. Where the reason exists within this situation is dubious, but suffice it to say that the clowns remained uncrying, thus it could possibly be wrong.

So there I was, confused at the bus stop, doing Absolutely Nothing, when this goth girl comes up to me and says, "hey, got a cigarette?"
And I say, "no, sorry, I don't smoke," and go back to thinking about Absolutely Nothing because, for heaven's sake, thinking in circles is more important than human interaction.

Circling vultures were my thoughts,
and I, the rotten meat at the centre...
So thinking was then the start of
action, I swung up to the next layer of the circle and stood.

I had places to go. There was a dim, dumb vehicle slowing, crawling to the front of the piece of sidewalk.

The vehicle slid to a stop in front of me, smashing the goth girl violently to the sidewalk without her cigarette. The driver of the car leapt from behind the wheel, cursing madly in a foreign tongue. The goth girl bled quietly on the sidewalk, unable to explain the endless pain of existence. But like I said before, I had places to go. Vaulting off the hard wooden bus-stop bench, I stepped over the prone corpse, past the ranting man, and into traffic:

vroom

traffic faded into the background as did the objective lines of buildings, faces, horizons, shortest calculations of distances.

    .                                                    .

I was gone, the vehicle was gone, and even the goth girl was gone, but the stain remained, testament to objective things with-out-lines, without spectators, without any reason to exist save an urge to be contrary. The blood wasn't stubborn, no, far from it - it was more than willing to have its actions concretely dictated to it by boyfriend's teeth, vehicles, and other such imposing obstacles. A pool in the gutter diminished as it approached the sewer grate, collecting and drying on the imperfections on the serrated surface of road concrete and reflective asphalt, until only a handful of drops descended the sanguine-tasting iron bars of the sewer grate.

That something that which gave life, or allowed life to continue in a human (read: blood) should carelessly mingle with that which life was secured from (read: solid waste which was formerly food) bears examination to our society's priorities. More care is taken to make sure that our shit ends up away from our water than to make sure that our children end up away from drug addiction, depression, creative bankruptcy and wage slavery. You can move away from a soiled spring, but offspring pursue one relentlessly.

I stepped down off my soapbox as the last of the blood was ceremoniously collected by a tall Jewish man in a vest and dress shirt. He looked at me and spoke, but I had trouble understanding the language. I realised that, despite a great deal of inaction, I still had things to do. I hailed a cab and headed up a long mountain road. The trees danced by and the cab driver hummed along to the unfortunate radio announcer's latest rendition of intelligence. I was surprised at the cabbie's ability to extract melody from words, but before I could ask of him his secret, we arrived at our destination.

The cabin would have appeared uninhabited to an untrained observer; broken windows, the door not merely ajar but a full fledged vat. But there were telltale signs. Primary among these was the wild-eyed madman sitting in the kitchen holding the fork and knife.

That this was my destination was clear. I gave the cabbie his fare and some good advice (not to quit the day job) and sent him away; either way, I would not be requiring his services upon completion of this macabre task.

And then everything exploded.

The end.

`

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`Magnetic Poetry, as done with Zamfir Worshipper's two sets (one standard, one Shakespearian) while at Crowkeeper's house; night 1`

`by Bast:`

lazy drunk man for life

manipulate please

with breast size &
sordid enormous luscious sausage meat
I want you to scream about my
barely springy though
essentially delicate but repulsive
apparatus
your chocolate urges

my juice worship

ask me girl

by Zamfir Worshipper:

lusty goddess of love

wants ugly men
to stare & drool at

my gorgeous skin & bitter tongue
will lie and play easy

but will not love true

by Silent Knight:

One iron knife chanting
as these thousand mid languid
mothers use her egg

by Cthulu:

Create Not

Riddance On Your
Mad Ambition

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[back to the mothership]
`