kfjc

THe time had finally come when the radio was living much as my cousin from Alsatian afterburners. Goidjuhdah was her fleshy nametag dangling from the wetwinter underwear, the two lips from serrated fangs some grand number height tall. Overdosed on england and octopus, Goidjuhdah hearkened to the feast that was full of starry stapler, rather, gaseous daggers easily slicing through our arthritic hookah science. Half the glands are fine, the others are stinky as boston, in another time zone the earphones loved pastrami, singing the odes of Markspient-on-Drafferxian, number of the sickle blanche. Give him your leash, your pet van is influenzmatic, the livid tape-deck blasphemes continuously near the sordid playpen. this is your abode.

2:07 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

devil

calling all cars,

Rrose can't come to the phone

right now, calling

all cars, Rrose

can't come to the phone

right now, calling all cars,

Rrose can't come to the phone right now,

calling all cars, Rrose can't come

to the phone right now, calling all

cars, Rrose can't come home till the

cars call first.

11:50 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

My Summer Vacation

The dog walked a long time.  It's paws began to feel like piston valves, a trumpet with hair, fur rather, and claws, unretractable.  When the bell rings, the dog hits a button with its coiled tail, always coiled, a coiled mass it is worthy of knocking a man clear off his leathered feet. Feet do not coil. If a strong bolt of lightning strikes the man, he'll forgive the dog. The dog isn't available right now since it is burying a lightbulb. The mud is transparent and hides nothing, revealing last year's bathtubs, last year's vinyl records, last year's assault rifle. Last year the heat was unbearable and the grass stank.  This year, no one can walk.

11:54 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

it's our son

yes it is, and he isn't too shy anymore.  now then, how difficult is it for a near 21 yr old to make a sclErotic film? not very difficult. just go out and do it, with a nice dosage of talent who haven't the foggiest of what horrid "art" they are contributing too. another bag explodes in our faces, who's gonna lick it up in the manner of dissected soldiers? dream...when i dream, i don't see them as dreams but as just another cinema-show for the road.

2:29 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Forgive and Atone the Gracious

Sourdough with potatoes (mashed), no lettuce but a hearty dose of mustard.  It was Darby's favorite sandwich at his lover's deli, a quaint establishment named Jefferson Airplane-seaton's Aunt, a gaudy name that matched well with its edifice of neon brown pastels. He had just finished a self-dissection of his left calf, sensing an abnormal growth spurt of rabbit-shaped tumors.  "I cannot eat in one sitting"---> this is his mental target...once he settles the truth of this phrase, he balances roosters at the tip of his vertically sliced nose, sliced in the exact manner of Grang, the Lordly Fowl, His headless neck slit, flaps pulled back like a pre-pubescent boy's anus.  Mud leaked from the roof and bubbled up from the wire-matted floor.  Darby is my friend, but he can't stay for holiday.  

11:05 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

hope lain less birth
Current mood: my eyes crusty
Category: my eyes crusty Automotive

OH BLAMELESS EARTH
Unappreciated as though
choking on silk
in sweat.
constantly pointing in the wrong
agreement,
I direct your attention down to something
(my Nicean wedding to a green
bluebird)
that must
be done.
your simple carriage arouses masculinity,
wherever My Mask goes
to follow the heels of a dog
chewing on the splintered
yesterday YOU AND HIM congratulate
that dead boymeat caressing
caressing-caressing-caressing
the Marquis de Nosebleeding-streams
hollowed out
pinto gusta leche
deers in frogs out.
lying in the poplar meat-trees is Lynn-
why is he
Loving Our Smothering
Mother (Drenched in the Allunsightly)?
no son would feel shade coming,
a departure from stories instead of fantastic ditties
"femur a femur a dear old femur!"
caught again, with hooks
you can't swim from, like Abby
Normal (she says your red eyelashes are peeling off)
I was the 10yr. old statuette falling for
the eternal lizard twinkling its cruel anatomy,
its chin of elegance
I savored.

12:02 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

even writers of the macabre die
Current mood: pleased

Machen lived longer, Dunsany lived longer, Shiel too, and de la Mare I think as well.  He survived Poe by seven years (in age, not in actual years since Poe died about 88 years earlier).  This has probably been said before, but it's still amazing that Lovecraft's writing is as popular as ever, here in the year 2006.  Of course at first it was popular only among the readers and writers (some of them, at least) of Weird Tales.  Writing a piece of literature seems to be one of the ways to "transcend death", along with having a child. 

But now it's not just his stories (there's at least one in a majority of horror/fantasy anthologies, probably in some classic science-fiction ones too), but a whole sub-genre based on his stories, a whole field of scholarly interest, a T-shirt logo, a video game, a role-playing game (I don't think I'll ever understand those), plushy toys, a book that doesn't exist, countless inspirations for metalheads, punks, and "freaks" everywhere.  And a whole score of fanatics.  There are children across the street dancing in the light and they appear no more as ghoulish, insectoid shadows...thankfully they're at a safe distance, but it doesn't help that they are overlooked by a pair of star-like eyes, gazing into my room, where the overhead light and the desklamp is on, where I type on this laptop with 60s pop-rock singles no one has heard before, except for Lonnie Scain and Dorothy M. Indigioa.  A mask of the devil is on the wall, the great god Pan.  Tomorrow is Thursday, which means I shall be out at class.  But the night is not yet over.

8:47 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Prowler, or, Officer Sharp
Category: Writing and Poetry

Officer Sharp knew that it was going to be a particularly long night. These boring, meaningless jobs meant only for the half-wits were the ones he was always stuck with: no action, all politeness. Public service.

Reluctantly he gave a sheepish smile and jerked his head in the cruel parody of a nod to a well-dressed elderly man with dark skin. It was one of those intellectual-types, a philosopher from the convention Sharp had been assigned to act security for. Sharp thought he saw the suited grey-beard give a malicious wink, but he couldn't tell under the pale orange light of the flickering electric lantern.

It didn't make much sense for a group of befuddled thinkers to convene here in the forested sea-side town of Willow Grove. What interest could possibly hold these old guys' attention long enough for them to make a pointless enigma out of something anyone with a sane mind would clearly understand? Sharp didn't think too much about it. If he weren't stuck here, he'd probably be hitting on some of these old guys' wives at the lobby; easy targets they would be, lounging about the chairs like a circle of does. Or he would be in the city, getting into theaters free just because of the uniform.

Of course, he was still there in front of the Sea-Horse Room, shifting his weight, pulling up his pants, swapping at invisible bugs upon his neck. He didn't give a flying rat's ass about what those crazed thinkers were yakking about. He was begging for some hard physical action, or at least a goddamned change in assignment. Anything at all would sound good now: helping a lost child find its parent, shooting down the renegade racoon, or busting suspicious prowlers.

Sharp had always hated prowlers, always causing such unnecessary worry when usually they were just innocent losers. He remembered one night while on patrol when he spotted a dark figure sneaking up to the doorway of a lit house. When Sharp snuck up on the figure and tackled him to the ground, the distraught man claimed he was merely checking the address. It was then that the door was opened by a young man who quickly grabbed the other from Sharp's arms, pulled him in, and slammed the door with a nasty "Lay off!". Sharp decided they wouldn't get off that easy; with a Swiss-army knife he popped two tires of the car parked in the driveway of the house.

Sharp had heard stories of a local prowler. Apparently this was a typical old man in a long coat. He also wore what seemed to be a conical hat, or a hood of the prowler's nebulous black robe. In all truthfulness, no one had reported any instances of the man (no one was even sure if it was a man) creeping up to houses either at night or during the day. It was just a growing suspicion that the neighborhood was not going to take lightly; in such secluded areas as Willow Grove, familiarity and comfort is the key while the lightest hint of harm must be dealt with. Especially since there had been a growing amount of missing children in the area.

The prowler had always been spotted in the heavily wooded area just on the edges of the neighborhood, north of the 8th and Grimm intersection, standing as still as could be just like any other tree. Only a few decrepit houses stood in that border region of the familiar human world and the unfamiliar natural world.

Officer Sharp's walkie-talkie beeped into action, a tinny voice speaking out.
"A-9 to A-12, come in."
"Yeah what's goin on" replied Sharp.
"Officer Sharp, do I have to remind you on our network protocol?"
"Nah, course not. Whadya want?" There was a brief pause as Sharp felt the tingles crawling down his arm, his muscles anticipating whatever action will come.
"Alright, Sharp. We've got a 10-107." As if sensing Sharp's inability to translate the code, the authoritative voice buzzed back in. "It's the prowler."
Sharp's attention picked up. "Oh yeah huh? Did he steal anymore children?" He chortled. "Subject was last seen at the corner of 8th and Grimm, possibly heading north."
"I'm on it." And just before the tinny voice could finish its next batch of orders, Sharp switched off his walkie-talkie and bounded for his car. He narrowly missed a couple of the intellectuals who exited the convention building. They shook their heads at the bouncing gorilla in a blue uniform.

"About time " growled Sharp as he entered the squad car. He shoved his foot down upon the gas after turning the ignition; the car bolted off of Kelp Avenue and headed north into the neighborhood towards 8th and Grimm.

Recounting the descriptions he heard of this "tall, funny figure that flies instead of walks", Sharp couldn't help thinking of a vampire. "I hope it ain't of those Dracula dingbats" he muttered. There was nothing more pathetic than a misplaced youth donning a black cloak and wearing copious amounts of makeup along with a ridiculous pair of fangs. If Sharp had his way, he'd slap each and every one of those kids. The only scary thing about them was that they were allowed to go out like that as if it were Halloween.

Perhaps this was why Sharp never liked Halloween; he'd never liked fakes. He's always wanted the real thing.

"Bring me the real stuff " he'd often shout at Halloween parties to the sheer misfortune of all the other revelers. "I know you'rall cheap plastic masks, but letzee yourreal pigasses " The partygoers had rightly taken his words as the sorry shouts of just another drunk off-duty cop, the most despicable sort who didn't have the respect to take his uniform off for informal occasions. And his respect would shrink to non-existence whenever his sausage fingers clawed at the masks of the partygoers, revealing their astounded faces and bespattering them with his own saliva.

Officer Sharp cruised down the desolate streets of the neighborhood, spotting only the ovoid lights of the houses that lined the streets. The only hints of life beside the growing amount of overhanging trees were the sudden but dull bangs against the undercarriage of his car.

"Damned critters " Sharp didn't have the reflexes to stop in time for a barely visible squirrel or rabbit to cross the black road.

He noticed that the dim lights of the houses had a habit of shutting off without warning. Perhaps this was the time everyone went to sleep, the natural clock simultaneously warning the people that consciousness was no longer needed.

Taking advantage of the solitude, Sharp turned on the radio to assure himself that there were others who were awake besides him in this world. As he rounded another corner, the headlights swept over a street sign bearing the word "Grimm". Perpendicular was the street sign bearing "8th". North was where the prowler would be.

The regular silhouettes of houses stood out against the cloudless, moonless night sky, their solid forms passing by his windows. Sharp slowed the car down, keeping his eyes peeled for any jagged, narrow, upright shapes. A monotone voice which intoned over the radio began to cut in and out before a different voice spoke up, also cutting in and out. The static increased, a harsh, inhuman whisper it seemed. Just as the words "missing, keep children away" escaped from unseen speakers, Sharp switched off the radio. There wasn't anything good on anyway.

Sharp wasn't aware of how forested these northern blocks were for now he couldn't spot the houses' silhouettes anymore. In their place were vast areas of blackness and odd, jagged shapes. The rapid, faint scratches of wood upon metal from the top of the car irritated Sharp's ear and he didn't like the clumps of pine needles that dragged themselves over the top of his windshield like tails of mythical beasts. The scratches now became longer and drawn out as Sharp slowed from 8 mph to 2 mph. He blinked his dry eyes, making out only the rough road before him tapering into the shadows.

The weirdly bent trees were no longer comfortable pals in the desolate world. Instead, they seemed to be ill spirits, spewing forth bushes of an impossibly dark green. An unnatural green. It was as if Sharp were peering into a thickly tinted glass. Or if he were a child, once again staring at the unbroken surface of that ancient swimming pool, the same pool he used to throw squirming frogs in. It was a naively morbid game; late in the afternoon after school, he'd sneak through the gates to that forgotten, neglected pool, carrying in his pockets as many frogs as he could. He tossed them one by one into the pool. Whenever he came back the next day with more frogs in his pockets, he'd see the same ones frozen just below the surface, belly up and horribly glazed in an unnatural green.

The yellow headlights paled in the all-pervading sheet of darkness, the car a lone sheep amidst a pack of salivating wolves. It shivered to a halt.

Wonderful muttered Sharp. Just terrific. Stuck in the middle of nowhere... But Sharp was not really in the middle of nowhere, for he knew well enough that he was just a couple hundred feet north of the Grimm and 8th intersection. He only had the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere since there were no visible signs of civilization. It was all an unseen, unnatural wilderness; no nocturnal birds chirped, nor did any of the crickets.

Sharp twisted the key in the ignition with the only result being the mechanical wheezing of the car. This was repeated again, then again, both times with the same result. He forcefully pushed himself back into the chair, the vehicle shaking with his weight. He stared out through the windshield, a thousand fragments of thoughts whizzing through his head, just being an inactive body in an inactive vehicle.

At first it wasn't apparent to Sharp just how inactive his vehicle was. When he decided to glance at his watch and see how much time he had wasted, he then perceived that there was no light anywhere. The headlights had died out some time ago, though Sharp had no idea when. Frozen by confusion, Sharp once again sat in his seat for a timeless moment of a disjointed meditation.

His vision gradually became focused on a spot not too far from where he estimated the head of the car would be. It didn't seem to be a solid object or merely a light. It was more of a fuzz of an object, a lightbulb seen through paper. At the same time, there was an echo somewhere. Sharp hadn't the mind to suggest that possibly the spot and sound (if it could be called a sound) were related. Despite the briefest suggestion that the echo was from a creature in the trees, he did not look away from the spot. The longer he stared at the spot, the more he could discern what it was.

This spot which had caused Sharp to stare dumbly seemed to be a wedge, or a cone, a pyramid, growing more. It was dark, but not as dark as the background from which it grew. This pyramid didn't seem so much as to be growing or stretching as to be revealed; it was as if a curtain were being lifted from this soon-to-be-revealed structure.

As the object grew into eminence, the echo grew into a hollow whistle. Then a low moan. It continued on as a low moan, the vibrations rumbling up in waves through the body of a sitting Officer Sharp, staring straight ahead like a worshiper in trance. He did not pay attention to the sound until a sharp squeal pierced through his ears, causing him to wince his face and clutch at his ears. The squeal had subsided, giving way to a much more ominous sound; Sharp jumped up from his seat and now began to look about him for he swore that he heard the rushing of a waterfall.

His searching turned to a more frantic nature when he realized that he had felt no steering wheel before him, no clutch, no low hood of the car to prevent his standing up. The squad car had been replaced by a faint luminescence. But this luminescence spread all about him, above him and, sparkling in clusters, below him. The waterfall rushing died down only to be replaced with an inhuman screaming, either a desperate call for help or a maniacal shriek.

"W-who's out there " Sharp hardly heard himself attempt to yell the question. He truthfully wished no one would answer.

Nevertheless, there was an answer. The answer came in the form of the fully revealed and weirdly bright object before him. It gave off only the illusion of brightness, for it was completely black against a background of deliriously lighter shades.

"This, this ain't real" Sharp rasped. Though Sharp's mind registered this large, cone-like shape as being black, it pulsed with a hypnotic pattern of lightness inside the shape's slanted outline. Sharp peered into hallways amidst hallways, mountains growing from mountains, mouths within mouths. He couldn't tell if he was falling into a pit of spikes or if he was being punctured by lengthened daggers. The smoky background transformed into a massive network of squiggly lines which lead back into the middle of the cone like various wires being connected to a main junction, these wires entangling Sharp into its midst while the screams descended in pitch into a low and savage garble. Sharp fell in.

Once Officer Sharp had been told by mute voices that he was inside, there were just the frozen, distorted forms of playing children.

Jay Sinha 2006

9:29 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

something written 7/8 hours ago in 30 minutes

Standing outside the 3RONER Museum out here in the Backside (really, the only stable stretch of land in the southern hemisphere of Wrom). Today is the opening of a new exhibit; it's the newest collection of small insects recovered from the first discovered planet this side of K213. These little critters have been dubbed the "flame flies" not only because of their light-emitting-abilities like fireflies, but also because of the ever-present intense light that is their bodies. Light with an exoskeleton and six legs and veiny wings and antennae. Funny concept that!

I thought I'd give it a shot, seeing as how I've got a couple phospho-hours to spare. Maybe it'll do me some good just to get out of that dump that I call "work". Actually, it's creating forms.
Even now in the 38th century, paper is still hard to come by. Comp screens or mental-forms aren't as reliable as everyone takes them to be; it's still best to get it in writing. So I and my mechanical buddies make paper. Another thankless job, but one I volunteered to do.

It was that or serve as the curator for this very museum. I can't stand all them frozen creatures just staring at me behind those electric fields. Maybe I'd feel better if they were in those old-timey cages that used to be so popular 18 centuries ago. But, there it is. I'm off work, and waiting in line to get my pass. Temporary skin-badges---only a slight tingling. Hardly any blood loss too, assuming you still have blood.

Speaking of which, I'm part of the club. Haven't you heard? The blood club-we're the ones who refused, refuse, and will keep refusing to have our blood (all of it) replaced with BILL-ud. And yes, there IS a difference between the two. Blood will usually appear with even the most minor of cuts, like a dismemberment or a laser-wound. Thankfully, it'll begin to clot in a couple oldtimey hours, which ain't long enough for the police to come after you. BILL-ud, on the other hand, won't show itself until you're ready to die. When you chose to do so (after taking the gov't assigned drugs, filling out the forms I create for them to sully with words words words, or asking for help from one of our many switch-off-ers), the BILL-ud just leaks from your empty body and will be gleefully collected by, who else?, the BILL-ud collector.

But we of the blood club (and it's in lower case for a humble reason) keep our blood because...well, it's human. Yes, we were born this way, unless you were an unfortunate victim of BILL-ud transferral at birth (BABs). It's what sets us off from the OGs and the XWs (too complex to write their complete name, they're all just "aliens" to us). The blood is the life, as ancient as it sounds.

But now they're telling me that badges for the museum are unavailable. Just as well, I wouldn't wanna go to a museum that's got people running out the doors with their pink/violet BILL-ud spillin all over the place, gushing out in funny squirts with some sort of antiquated handgrenade-thing latchin onto them. Oh look, it's a Helion discordia!

1:00 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Emergence Delerium

from lips made to move about an elastic field

of barley and gin, have it all if the uses are

simply derogatory or instead, choose to mirage

the gates of flim-flam.  epithelium and the 3rd degree,

from the pages designed to understand around this

elysian farce, can the dragon and choose to simulate

a gangrenous effect of the drum.  it puts the glue to a shelf

and points the gluttons to their jem-filled excellency.  scouring

just like I used to do when I fished in the soursweetstuffs of Chinatown,

ripped out of a smoky brain (with all 392 joints out of period).

so this is what we spend time digging? 

seems like a petulant wisdom spent on a dump town.

1:05 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment