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I’m about to do something crazy. And I want the world to know it, but I can’t have anyone knowing. And I’m a bit scared, now that’s it here-this opportunity, this strange beguiling fantasy that’s becoming real, this thing that in a few short hours will be a done rather than a future maybe-a bit scared I might die even, and not just in sense of ( Read more... )

“The art of war”: that’s what it would have been. And it could have been something, really something, y’know? And it just seems to be building up like this, like layers of silt, forming whole islands; the thoughts of what it might have been like if: if I’d looked with big eyes, the full spheres not just that tiny fraction of the surface that we ( Read more... )

"And then my brain started working", I said, "all of a sudden, like it'd been muted, dumb, but then...". "Yes, then it changed, and the change was the clicks, the tiny machinery whose switch was flicked because of some tiny change in altitude or cabin pressure, depending on where you think you're sitting... And we have to work out what ( Read more... )

Beat down another door, pound in another few cheeks til faces are concave, shove another self-effacing creature in a wheat sack and let the dogs on ‘em. You’re one step closer, my dear, one step closer to the great Ascent, the trip like no other, the holiday that’ll have you pissing yourself in your flashbacks for ever to come. Hacked off heads ( Read more... )

and now, now it doesn't matter. with a little extra white and a little extra green, the sky load lightens and the colours are magic again. at least, transiently so. but beautifully. and no one knew me.

When there should be everything to say, a whole world to spread out (the way we make it representable, graspable, for us-that is to say, as a map), meteoric pathways to detail… but there is nothing. This is about silence, the silence of forgetting and not knowing to begin with, the silence of being born clamped closed, clammed closed. All this ( Read more... )

writing and writing.
that is all.
(oh, and butchering too.)

you are what the prophet told me
carry me to interface

precious little
pretty rough
you prised me open
priestly touch
private plot of
poisoned ground
this is how
your roses sound