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Scorpion on the center fifth still ringing with yesterday’s reverb, and this last little while has been a shotgun blast of high-frequency neurosis and apologetic chapter closings, but truly seems to be gliding into something less bedraggled and confusing.

One thing of note has been the recently discovered rip in the seam, which means another shedding of the skin is approaching. I feel like I’m building up a charge as my newest fictionsuit begins to unfold itself in some weird suburb of space and time. The frosted spaces in-between. Monsoons in December and the Happy Mondays are playing on the radio right now, reminding me that it’s just a map, and that after all is said and done, the labyrinth only has one exit, ta.

The coming of this newest platform isn’t without a few upgrades to the operating system: the elder statesman analog that has been percolating is being recoded, deleting the “lost loves” lines from the recipe, but also intensifying the spooky blue electric cool of the metapunk condition.

Reformat the soft tissues, rewire the electric brain parts. Killing the ancient, and assemble in future tongue.

Cold time travel.

Everything continues to become real, to be made manifest, and, as always, I expect to very soon meet myself here. The past, the present, the future… fractals on my crystal’s skin.

More later.




“The thing which was waiting was on the alert, it has pounced on me, it flows through me, I am filled with it. It’s nothing: I am the Thing. Existence, liberated, detached, floods over me. I exist.
I exist. It’s sweet, so sweet, so slow” – Jean-Paul Sarte, Nausea

Solemn black fingers stretching from room to room, a shadow’s love that has no reflection. The heart, once pumping with volcanic blood, now cold and barren as she glides through her own world, paying no notice, returning no gesture.



Into the dark morning march tired thoughts, little soldiers birthed of a once glorious idealism: true love, a love both boundless and exact, given and received between two ambrosial stars.

Then a flicker, a dimming. A star goes silent in this passionate cosmos, leaving the other to burn empty for an eternity of nothingness. A ghost star. A dead soul, hanging on to the hope that this true love will be reignited and scorch away these memories and this loneliness.

A hand held out, yet not taken. A kiss given, yet not felt.

But then, a pulse… not from the silent star of her, but from the still-burning star of him. A recognition. This isn’t the end. It can never be the end. The true love still burns in this one, however alone, it still burns.

Quietly, with humble promise.

It’s sweet, so sweet, so slow.


A Fiction:

I could taste the immortality like the twinge of a phantom limb, dusty specks of a greying desire. Switching back down this dirt road, the children stared me like I was a visitor from another star. Their mechanized eyes whirred quietly as they took in my confusion. I was lost. I was hungry. I was at my most broken, my prize seemed so out of reach.
But to them, I was a new mystery, a page from their ancient lullabies made manifest. They were a patchwork people, kept in existence by the worst kind of technomancers. Shoddy witch doctors with discarded tech, fusing metal and hydraulics to bone and skin, upgrading senses with the majesty of nothing.
A leper is still a leper.


“I walk the moonbeam roads of silver web connecting the many worlds of the Multiverse.” – Michael Moorcock

“We have been with you for a long time. Everything you’ve talked about, everywhere you’ve been and all the things you’ve seen together… we were there.” – Mr. Quimper

Strumming the automatic circuit zone, tasting the soul-touched reverb like so much burning iron but sweet like heaven flowers, a thickly syrup of recognition and lust. Two on the mark, always the mark, thinking same thoughts and knowing the same knowledge.

Far away. A millions miles, but the love is there, never waning, always beating. It beats through broken chests, wrestled cages made splintered by life and our own failings. But the love is there.

Never waning.

There’s the go away. The non-talk fading to telepathy in Slumberland where phantom boys and ghost girls breathe in space with surgical compression slowed down to memories cast.

Deep. Deeper.

Connection is where it is birthed, silent acknowledgement where it matures. Larval to Undying, sleepy specters born frail grow to stars and within it we’re together amid the blackest space and the love is there.

The love is always there.

Deep. Deeper.

Never waning.



“When you cut into the present the future leaks out.” –William S. Burroughs

The retrieval. The process. Infinite heavy liquid in thought/dream/action.

Been watching the border play, the fringe lands in vortical flow where everything drowns into oneness, and it’s exhausting. After a time, you begin to turn away from it all, let it all sink in fury to the bottom of the well.

Moving slower, the shifts and cracks in the Experience are easier to see. Where once you were hellbent and mindset, the imperfections now shine through like the sun through a million pinholes, exposing the beautiful thought for its true nature: fool’s gold.

It’s the death of chimerical sentimentality. It’s the admittance of a drudging and tedious truth.

So now? The quixotic quest is laid to rest.