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Author Topic: A self concious teacup.  (Read 7379 times)
Ashley
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« on: May 10, 2006, 12:57:07 PM »

Spanish milk carnivals,
remember your mother,
remember why you're not dead yet.
The lioness believes
fine sinew in milkman flames,
fine illness in the time of day.
A Helsinki heat
bathed in vaseline,
postman babies
told written letters
of watermelon rinds,
of cinnamon sticks,
of intent towards lovers.
Witness sheds a shade of green
an outcome conducts plum.
Sheets persist,
parachutes equipped
an enriched drink,
an eviction of habit.
The intense passion
of gypsy and brother,
basement and mother.
Dream of this day,
to give brith to a garden,
a plant of accordions,
a tend to existance.
Smiling to the angels,
submitting to the ghosts,
learning to breathe.
Giving gift to the present
a rural absolution,
a favourable rejection.
The temple conjures a scene
of butterflies binding hearts,
kettles hounding across tables,
a popular repetition.
The sound of a sacred plague.
Twenty five and a thousand.
An orchestra of flowers,
elegant and steady,
a marvel of explaination.
Determine the marriage
between prize and children,
similarities of sunrise and punishment.
Milling millions
summoning silence,
a self concious teacup,
a sacrficial snail.
The prodefinite prospect
of a reopened mind.
A motion of jalepenos and wolves
walls and wails of things adored.
Antique function,
seeking an internal framework
admits a basic material,
soil in a cultural context.
An absurd beat.
An absurd logic.
A previous spectacle.
The mouthings of a cranberry system
alleviation of coherency.
A fraction of the motive.
Treasture battle fought between species
quadriped attention simplified.
A week's moon,
a tomato's sternum,
enivironmental survival.
Render a provided answer incomplete.
Render a staged investigation familiar.
The acapella spider hides a preposition,
a sight of mess and tumble.
Tourists intimidate an irate violet.
A colour of regret.
A taste of May.
Hospital renames hesitation
for trumpeted forgiveness.
Various consistant emotions,
substantial liquid hours.
A vehicle for the flow.
A vehicle for the definition.
Jiving with influence,
the essence of community.
Pride and regulations,
rationality and vowels.
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Doraemon
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« Reply #1 on: May 11, 2006, 02:00:43 PM »

Broderick

I had a dream in my head so I was unable to type anything remotely logical. A man who dreams is a man who sleeps and for my money it is preferable to dream. Show me a man who works in his dreams and I’ll show you a unicorn.

Here is a unicorn. Unfortunately we could not find a big enough bag so you’ll have to put up with more traditional means of presentation. I hope that does not lessen your enjoyment.

(A soft whiney past the doorframe as a hapless work experience boy shoves it out of the office)

Broderick’s head was a flailing fish in a pointless ski resort. He remembered when sand castles were real castles and real castles were not storage for unwanted tourist brochures. He worked in a hospital where the ill were ill because they were in hospital and the doctors were doctors because they were ill and the nurses – well the nurses wouldn’t win Miss Europe.

The dream was locked in a casket shaped box where his grandfather had kept his light bulb collection. “If all the world had a pet light bulb then all the world could see”.  Well if it was all the same to Thomas Edison he would clear out the contents and donate them to the local museum where the period-dressing statues scared him as a child. He never wanted to see a dead person making breakfast. Thanks to science museums he always equated steam with the escaping of ghosts to heaven. The idea of preserving progress was to him contradictory and sacrilegious. You can say “sacrilegious” inside a laboratory and nobody will hear except the animals.

When he was a child was a time he was smaller, grotesque alien, and dribbling. Despite this he made much more sense than he does now, blinded by science. Science that is by necessity unknown to more than half the people who practice it. The idyll of scientific exploration is shorthand for stupidity in the face of the beguiling cosmos. Nobody knows what they’re doing from one second to the next – not even scientists.

This, he decided, is because we are all at the hands of some demonic puppet master somewhere in the vicinity of quaintest Prague. He beats the blood out of you with every command and forms a new string with every bead of blood. Like hitting a small child on its back, it lets out the smallest squeak. He fashions this in to words to speak against a fishes gasping mouth of air. The fisherman says to the fish – this oxygen is fine for me. You cannot breathe or walk. I doubt you are even worthy to be eaten by my lips. And they smack like small machines in paralysis.

When he was a child he had jail fantasies. Something of a blooming understanding of a madman that actually rung true and profitable – the usage of one by another party (“usage”) for the means of employment (“usage”) to understand one’s place as defined by such usage for the means of such usage (“usage”) for the understanding of one’s place and the maintainment of order (“usage”) for the pleasure derived for keeping another within a state of joyous subordination (“usage”) as opposed to the user, who has more books on his or her shelves.  He also had runaway visions – but they only got as far as the garden.


In Special Attention Room “E” two children were reported to have been thinking about birthdays. I was called to put a stop to this so I decided to take the Spider Cam. Unthinkable. There were no calendars in the ward. And certainly none that revealed the true nature of Sundays and Saturdays.

Broderick had long since dismissed the existence of these days as myth. On the day that was Sunday the Almighty worked his butt off.


“Do you have a birthday?”
“I don’t know”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. Is it painful?”

Broderick thought it was. He knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who met someone who knew someone who said with that familiar cowboy handyman's grunt;
“Uh-huh. Had one once. Never again. Terrible mess.”

I suppose it was thought best to change the subject, for Broderick knew little else on the matter.

Inside the spider Broderick was suffering from one of his characteristic nosebleeds. It must have been the distance between the wall and the floor. The strange angle that one finds oneself at when one is miniaturised inside a vertical surveillance insect.

The vessel shook like a pin in a windstorm. One of the two boys picked up my spider. Queasy, my conscience was now a mess of the airfreshner, my breakfast and my shopping list.  The spider now had no surface to stand on and the computer ejected the web, along with a couple of legs to keep the weight down. If an impact is imminent, you want the insect to be as light as possible. I had the good sense to open a window. It was hot after all. Out of the window seethed some of the sickening peppermint spray that was supposed to calm the nerves and freshen the breath.

We were plummeting at speed. The remnants from my nosebleed made it seem as if my nose was cutting into my face. And it was. I say “We” even when there’s only me around. I can’t stand to be alone. I’m a team-worker.

The spider plummeted on a square of the calendar. Leaving a red ballbearing to mark it.


“24th! 24th! Yaaaay!”
“I that your birthday?”
“I think so!”
“Is 24th what today is….?”
“I think so!”

Screeches of laughter, too much for a spider’s ear. A confusion of cheap worn, dirty pyjama fabric in the sky. I passed out.
And they ate him for a cake.
 
“Where am I…?”
“Not where you think you are!”
An old man scratched numbers on a seemingly infinite wall with a fork. Whenever the man wanted more wall he would just roll more out like a till receipt.
The numbers took on a daunting presence, inside the big white room.

4788907
“That’s a unicorn”
“What?”
“4788907 – that’s the number for a unicorn. If you ever find yourself in need of a unicorn, tell me.”
“Why would I need a unicorn?”
The man took from the pocket of his old rags one of my grandfather’s prized lightbulbs.
“You’re not very bright…are you?” the man said with a smile. The lightbulb was sputtering on and off, coughing with my grandfather’s tobacco affliction. A horrible cough that with each wrench would seem to bring his heart closer to his mouth.
The man nodded his head towards the bulb.
“That’d be a positively unholy fusion of two completely different numbers! My speciality. Just don’t tell the big guy.”
“You know God?!?”
“meh…I’ve been there once. There’s lots of talk about one for sure but I don’t think It ever turned up. The place seems to work more like an…erm…cooperative charitable trust. You know, shared ownership deally.”

But what about the almighty puppet master that beat him black and blue? What of the unquestionable force that comes down in a bit tornado regardless of the importance of the visit? Broderick wasn’t sure whether he wanted to believe in a “shared ownership deally”.

“Methinks it’s showtime. What’s your favourite movie, Broderick?”
Broderick could hardly snake out an answer. Things were pretty weird most of the time. But this was too much.
“er…Citizen Kane.”
“nah…you’re only saying that because you think you should. Nevermind. The essence of movie making is relocation. Relocating the viewer. Relocating the characters to different places…yahda yahda  - it’s all in my book – anyway, I make movies with the universe.”

The man scratched away at the wall. I wonder if he’s ever been tempted to draw a dick? Maybe he doesn’t go in for that sort of thing.

‘267787697878….76786….634667664….’  Gets me cowboy Steve here.

A cowboy in full period dress stepped out of the wall. He may have been dead, but at least he wasn’t making breakfast. The old man continued scratching for hours as miscellaneous people, things, ideas and sentiments popped out at him.

“Enjoy”, said the man. As the picture faded in sickly, Broderick heard a mutter about “…the rest of your life” that he wished he could zone back in on in a floating, impossibly and willingly severed conscience.

Cowboy Steve was tougher than the name implied. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to Hollywood herodom. He towered over a thin, malnourished, cowering Shakespeare.

“Swords! Swords!” cowered Shakespeare, pathetically.
“Yeah. Swords.” Snarled cowboy.
The Bard didn’t have a chance. All that imagery and not an authentic leg to stand on.
Cowboy took a tall sword from the middle prong of a three-prong candle holder, and the table flopped over like it was the biscuit, and we were all in the coffee.

Cut to. A naked blue silent movie minstrel-ess in a dark blue shadow-tinted room cowered on a chair, her hair like a helmet that could trap a wasp. A razor-like fringe. Cowboy was her stylist. Roderick always had jail fantasies. And he liked weakness. So did the Japanese. He often complained he could never get a parking space when he went to his daughter’s school for the parent-teacher meetings. At least foot fetishists only haunted the shoe stores.

He always shopped in his dreams for that extra thing. In this case a nice brittle boned woman. Anorexic with a certain lock jawed charm.

What did this all mean though?

Back at the hospital Mr. Damocles reported a missing Spider Cam.  This was the bate management were looking for. They could finally out the cripple. Her wheels muddied the floor and she put off the customers. They were always looking for a nice PC excuse other than the fact she only served to complicate the evacuation procedure.
She would be out before you could say “…life is like a box of chocolates.”

On hearing the news, the cripple grimaced at the squashed spider with dead pilot strapped inside. She shook her jet black hair, placed her cowboy hat on her head and cleared her desk of a second-hand copy of Hamlet. Mr Damocles shook a cup full of small boy-sized teeth with triumph.

“Somebody get that unicorn out of here!”
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imjustaguy
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« Reply #2 on: May 20, 2006, 03:56:33 AM »

Hmm this is sounding like poetry.
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 only look like a genius.
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