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Monthly Archives: April 2013

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.