Saturday, September 27, 2008

Skin boiling, blood scalding at the surface. Rip the jacket off, claw arm on arm till I'm free. Throw it across the room onto the bench. Get it away accursed thing. Take your comforting warmth with it.

I want to freeze.
Veins run liquid ice at absolute zero, hyper-efficiency. I will be the smartest computer ever. That's right.
Neptune blue information runs through deep. So fast will I process, every cell a wormhole, instantaneous shifts of data, matter and concept. From place to place any place. Through time.

Fuck you jacket. I embrace the cold.
The hairs on my arms stand up, goosebumps a million and more redefine my topographic skin. A mountain range, a dull homogeneous mountain range. Every peak the goddamned frozen same.

My whole body shivers. The whole range shakes. Doing its special dance. That one invented on an Ionian beach. The time my lips turned blue, manatee with no endurance for the sea. How could I forget how much my body hates the cold?

Hyper-efficiently, my body shakes, its breaks and oscillates. The circuitry falls apart. Information zips about, impossibly fast, data rattles, incoherently random.

Who the fuck took my jacket?
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Monday, July 07, 2008

Trip Mckenzie and the Entropic Slaughterhouse

Sweaty waking to find a head aching from heat suffocation, hours wasted to find moments of rest for more of discomfort.
How am I going to do it today?
But I rise before the thought can follow into action. Never let the unease take shape and I might make it back to this evening sleep.

Shower piss and brush your teeth, knock back a litre of water, consider: bacon or cardboard cereal bran. Choose neither, run out the door. Earphones in ear, skip down the stair and out, we begin here.

That first step though, every time. A doozy for sure.

Foot gripping pavement but you fall right down anyways. And down. Nausea rising, you're drowning in it. Until resounding, you drop out smack crash into the void.

Energy is flat here I think. Nothing...

The thought un-forms as form tears us back to waking. An image whispers in my wake. She is feet planted, standing. Wearing blood coat all over, red and animal.

At once and tranquil, whispers and is gone.

"I'm thinking of giving up drink."
"I've been chasing self-destruction too hard."
"Can't you just moderate?"
"How would that not be worse?"
"Worse than self-destruction?"
"Worse. Moderation is to self-give up."
"How so?"
"What are you moderating? Yourself. Only ever yourself."

"I'm thinking of taking up drink."
"I've been chasing nothing too hard. I need to self-destruct."
"Now that makes fucking sense!"

The glass is empty. And the one before.
Of course I have nothing to show but compromised coordination. So I walk out the street, leave the noise and people behind. Alone in the night light, self image's failure dictates it is so damned cold here. In just one sheet, a belt and so well fitting jacket.

Tomorrow we work or go again.
Next week's the same.
This cycle, mundanity refined.

Close your eyes as you embark for home. Blank out and ignore the weekend revelry, broken glass and drunken hearts. Close your eyes and let chance supply you a detour. Blind step more than a few, perhaps you will find something new.

A long shortcut later, befuddled confused; you open them. (Good god the sky is blue.)

Out stretches the sea, at the island's edge, wild it is all you can handle. The wind whipped up, lash and sting, salt tears well and brim. Ducts overflow, torrential. Waters rising, shut them tight and drown again.

Floating, drifting colder than cold. This time I've popped into heat death. Energy is flat here, I think, lifeless. Half formed, I'm conscious, anomalous. Out of place unique.

Pop, the mathematical bubble bursts. I'm gone.

But an image whispered, impinged. My head is bleeding.

"My head is bleeding."
"I think I fell"
"I think I fell!"
"That explains it, my head is bleeding."
"No, my head is bleeding."
"You're telling me!"
"Telling who...
I think my head is bleeding."

The waterfall showers and runs away the blood which runs. And runs, with no end. Staining rocks, periodically, menstrually, they turn to red. 95% you sponge down and towel off the rest. Dry and clean for now, only the brain is throbbing. A dull reminder, but of what?

Sweep, cheap drop to your back, concussed, or was it the ring fist to the eye you gay foreign cunt? Did you spontaneously split, cleaved in two by over-thoughts. Spiral and obsession out of control, 1-way attrition eventually cracking your skull open unseen. An egg tooth for insanity.

Just a dull reminder now. Live with the pain, shut the hell up!


Bacon and eggs or cardboard cereal?
Declining both I go with coffee simpliciter. Black and strong (now that's brewed for 31). Stimulation can get me by, though should be seeking nutrition. Four stories up, window open, pouring thick fog into my apartment. Unable to see anymore, the door is lost. I jump straight out the window.

As I fall the thought occurs to me: "there is no fog out here". It is the crispest blue crystal blue morning. A perfect sapphire (of a day). A tray of dry ice sits just under my window, suffocating the room behind.

Pulling out of tuck somersault position I finish with flourish and flare. Yank hard my right arm down, left thrown straight as an arrow overhead. Tight and taut, a plank, I spin four times to gracelessly smash face first into the pavement out front. My window faced the back.

There is nothing there now. Unable to breath, the room inhaled itself, imploded, sucked into the fog. A great gape left behind.

A hole is nothingness though, impossible to leave behind. That no-thing it's a vacuum, that's just gotta be filled baby. The ice cloud drifts away, solidifies, dries out. Faster than the eye can see, I do see. It creeps up the walls of the short-lived abyss, freezing nothingness. Crystal climbing, repairing the world. It is blue. A perfect sapphire. But then green and red and every other colour more. It's fucking Krypton but I sure ain't Superman. With my broken limbs and mangled face. Tickling the back of my left ear with my right foot.

You don't want to know where my hand is...

I think my head is bleeding.
With blood in my eyes and dead to the world I see clear, the world drowning in my life. She is a vision. In red, blood coat all over. Standing serene out front. Feet planted a billion miles away, never in this place. She holds out a hand beckons to take.

With my good hand, still functioning, just, I accept.

Onomatopoeic cataclysm. Nuclear sunrise goes off in my brain. White sheets, searing. Her simulacra hit, rockets bombard, star light up and fry every synapse. Every thought, every moment, every memory melts together. My life runs river over my eyes.

The lights go out.
Energy is calm here I think.
Empty, undisturbed. I am conscious, anomalous. My existence, tranquil, perfect.
I can only last a moment.
The universe snaps its fingers, the void fills up.
I pop back. Pre-jacked.

Cracking snapping, I am put back together. Pulled afoot and aloft, blood washed away. Ripped dry from every vein and artery, every pore and cell. A bloodless husk, returned to life. A return to this make what will. Low entropy, what a joy, what a thrill. Take a seat, a ride on the here-we-go around. When it stops we fall apart, we all fall down.

"Why so angry?"
"That's the first thing you asked."
"All the people. That's the thing. I always ask."
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
"You asked. Why are you so angry? I always ask, that's the first thing. That's the thing. All the people. Why are you so angry?"
"But what do we ask?"
"What do we ask of all the people?"

Ask the revelation. Where is this headed?
The universe swings anew. In and out pop the Boltzman brains. Gods, insusceptible to disturbance, contrary to logic and law. A statistical entity. Entropic probability breeds inevitability; atomic agglomeration, vast voids. In and out pour the Epicurean divine. Complexity arrives at consciousness, an existential loophole. Human achievement magnetized.

Ask the revelation, because I have yet to hear an answer. Human achievement magnetized, the void pulls on us and we reverse our polarity.

Upturned rocket trees, blast into the ground. Hiding obelisk chimneys, belching out the sky. Without exhaust fumes the sun would fall. I walk past it all, every day, 1am, every seeping sunrise.

The weight of all this matter, all of it so lawfully arranged bears down.
"An infinite gift!" cries Atlas.

"Rise Above.
Rise Above.
Rise Above!"

Screaming Prometheus.

"You never say anything about yourself."
"You hardly know me."
"I spend time in coffeehouses and fall in love with images. You still know nothing."
"You say nothing about yourself."

This is breaking down.
And falling apart. I told you so.
Didn't I?
The world is cracking, where are we going to be?

Alone I cry an ocean, enough to slake the world's thirst. They drink it all, 90% by volume, the human race in entirety wasted on my sadness, self-destruction. They piss it all out again, who has time for that?

Into the crack, desperate ambivalence to reduce the discordance that tears at this tiny world. Desperate for something new. The chasm is bottomless. Never to be filled. All their sense seeps away, into and under the bedrock, out the world. In answer, the chimneys belch out their noxion, poisoning every soul with its own filth.

Sink or swim.
Cherish and choke.
The engine grinds to a halt.
(John Galt)

I let go. Now here we go.
Every thought, every memory, every moment melts. I let myself drown in the causal floodwaters. One last time, my eyes see stars.

Cosmic crack and fizzle.
We bleed into the great void.
Everything is still here, tranquil.
Energy is at rest.
Probability has brought complexity, enough to cohere.
Nothingness. And us.

At once and tranquil. We whisper and the world is gone.
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Monday, June 23, 2008

Trip Mckenzie and the empty sun

Aimless, restless.

Bleach burst my eyelids are burnt through, my brain sears. Waking up to this day after day brings on the manic. So I foil the windows;sheets of light are replaced with the tiniest pin pricks of day.

Down the centre of the main street, party children strung out all along the way, basking in the counterfeit excesses of the night before. Family addled youth, dream addled tourists and age addled aged all join them, the joys of the world cutting through each and every ugly compromise. You wander through this, stumble, untouched, cold shoulder to the world. Aimless fucked, you burn alone.

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Half a toy car, red with blue windows, juts out of the wall behind the bar, 20 centimetres below the spirit shelf. Aound it are tacked an assortment of drawings, newspaper clippings and half a credit card with the picture of a pretty Swedish girl in its top right corner. A well dressed man in the store he owns, a red car in front of a typically eurpean town house on a summers day, chocolate covered bacon, crudely penned faces and a karate dog. Also a handwritten list of takeaway numbers.

her hair, find and cut just below the shoulders is strawberry blonde. A loose, light cotton top, its sleeves short at the elbows, printed with a multiöcoloured Indian theme design. Primarily blue but with details in red, green, yellow, orange and light brown. The top is thrown over, but with slight cling, comfortably tight black jeans. On her feet emerald green hi cut converse boots. Around her neck she wears a gold chain and her name celebrated in the Simon and Garfunkel song. This is the same girl whose face appears on the credit card tacked to the wall.
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Thursday, May 29, 2008

Trip Mckenzie and the geriatric ferry

Interconnecting two deck sides, each surfeit with camera laden and sun-dumbed passengers, is the loneliest place on solid ground.

Gaze out into the vast ocean sky, lose yourself in the waves, find yourself as you swell back up.
That is the dream I sailed with, at night, in day unachievable. Infesting, irritating skin and psyche, fucktards rob you, of peace and purpose. So you cross between the two decks endlessly, restlessly searching for a spot to dive in mind first to entropy's embrace.

White and cold, this shipshape functional tunnel space that facilitates your impatinece pacing. Its crossing allow those moments. Never stop. It is no resting place, but for moments you can slow to a crawl and race on at lightspeed. And when you travel that fast a second is more than enough. At night is another story. Deck passage and deck are all yours. Suspended in the void.
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Trip Mckenzie and the train at the top of the world

Zoetrope tunnel over clouded snow high.

Untold horror lurks in a glimpse. So terribly human and ugly. Nothing more than the derelict, unkempt corner of concrete underbridge. But in glimpsing is spied something deeper, deeper and rotten. Sedimentary, mineral attrition is made organic by my mind, the desolation produced stinks of fear and loathing. Sand becomes shit, the beach our children are playing upon diseases them with harrowing gastric plagues.

Light and life are the purest of cures, a glimpse is just a glimpse. Emerging up on top the world washes out the sores, all is cleansed and health again. The horror remains and recedes, between the cracks where it suits me best.

Breath deep the mountain clear, run oxygen tears down your eyes and cheeks. Let it out again tomorrow.

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Friday, May 02, 2008

Trip Mckenzie and the harbour murders

Space expands, ushering increased entropic probability. Divine streams, disconnected from existence, find their configuration void favourably re-aligned. In answer to the universe's mark of approval images race, out of the void into occupied space.

I sigh, with caffeine hyper-dosage running through my veins it comes out a hiss. People, of whom there are none around, back away. Disconcerted by my unintended display. They would if they were there.

With no witness the moment is wasted. Shame, I would have liked someone to take offence, or show concern. That would be touching.
Well it would to someone, I'm sure. I doubt I would care.

Ignoring the caffeine driving me twitched out tweaking I don't think I'd appreciate the company. Why else would I be with no-one right now?

Maybe that's just the caffeine though.
Clip my thoughts.
Run free-minded.

Wind blasts my face, skin torn away a bloody wreck. Sea salt spray, stinging the open wound. Nothing now but to drive in, wash the pain down and chase it with suffocation.

Bloated white and bloody I float right back up. Instantly.

If I don't expel this gas I could flight right on up and bounce around the atmosphere (troposphere, stratosphere). Wouldn't that be grand?

How many corpses are up there already?
Body balloons floating freely under exit velocity.

A canopy of fetid dead for the world.

I breathe out, a sigh, back on the beach at cliffs edge.
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Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Trip Mckenzie and the midgard serpent

The Northern Lights, dust stars, light years away by the millions. Trapped in our atmosphere, transported acoss universes. Through wormhole cracked space. I stare up and into.

A wing and a prayer on imagination´s back, inspiration fuels their frenzied dance. Colour and bright, try to escape our world.

Briefly I float. So tantalising. Up toward the tears, but one last flash, spectral shift and they slip break away. The tear closed behind them. I drop down to earth again. In the dark alone with serpent and sea.


Weak later I regain conscious.  Whichever I am awake, but unfamiliar. I have never been to this place. What though is it to drift?

It stretches, like the moon but worse.
A league against me, until then I may reach sheer mountain's barrier.
So this plane is where I drifted down and now I am trapped.

Look to the sky, no bearings there. Even the moon is gone, though if this is it then that bears sense.

I hike inland, nothing marks this choice but direction is comforting. As I walk features strike me. The landscape, not as barren as I thought first. It is scarred. Lacerated by gorge and river. Cut deep by the fury of angels wings.

I think of angels, but find no comfort there.
Just a dream, they pass through, cold and purposeful. (and their passing is terrible as angels tend) My mind or this land. The dream refuses to stop or offer a sympathetic hand.

Unsolaced I walk on.
I had not noticed, how?

In the centre.
Standing, sole defiance. No host could drown its beauty, not even a truckload of trumpets. This rock, this fort and monument. Rising sharp from lunar homogeneity flatscape be damned. It just and it cracks, straight up to the sky.

Now purpose is mine. I scramble and scrape, scrabble crawl, run and fall. I must mount this beat, it will bear me, take me away. I can ride this obelisk I say. Right through the tears.

20 minutes, 200 metres up. Maybe a lifetime an insurmountable height. I stand barely, ripped by wind cold as cosmos, sharp as wings.
It is more than I can stand and I press down. Prone. Supplicate, pay respect to the void. At the violent edge the storm is strongest. But now I am here, I look. Our far and deep.

This is it. The crack in it all. I think.
Foolish and giddy, adrenaline and inspiration surge, thrusting me onto my feet.
One roar and I am gone. A twig in a maelstrom. Tossed toyed and cracked. Star dust.

Later I gain conscience.

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