Collage : Garrison Burke

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Cheap hydroshock Millenium crisis yoga

while I hide from a

Rediscoverd act of kindness

That cannot be denied.

To think I once forgot

To open my naked silver garden

To irridescent dreams of

Awe, Hope and Joy;

That gunpowder fragrance of unearhted

Cool radium fossils that testify

To Love's sweet readioisotopic mysteries.

That pheromone ballet

That describe the delicate bloom

Of April Kama Sutra romance

And you.

mardi 14 juillet 1998 19:42
WSB and a routine

It was another attack by Viagra Boys-dangerous erection addicts gone mad and blind after years of overarousal throught the misuse of male-impotence treatments. It is even rumored that they have had their cirulation rerouted with a secondary cardiovascular system to supply the beloved, augmented members with enough blood on demand without taxing their drug-damaged hearts.

The fluid glops onto the men and women in the crowd. The fluid itself is in fact a compound of human semen lovingly collected by the Viagra Boys' stretched-out groupies, a powerful psychoactive called "Blue Swallow", and dimethyl sulfoxide to accelerate absorption of the compound into the skin of its victims.

The effect is spontaneous upon contact, sending the cluster of humanity into an orgiastic frenzy. The soggy, drugged out sports fans tore off their clothes, stuffing the aquamarine goo into their eagerly awaiting mouther, pussies and assholes, already slick with their own private mucosa.

Thank the Powers-that-Be that long ago children were banned from public events. Since Governor Ajax's "Let's Keep Adults Safe" referendum passed, kids of all ages can happily shoot and maim only each other to their heart's content in their schools where they belong.

On the playing field the band, sans uniforms, abuse themselves and each other with their instruments. Trapped air pockets in personal body cavities blow their hellish wind through the slippery instruments and belt out a terrifying aria; with the singer, himself nude and smeared with the blue jism, sings a retro-cover of "Fly me to the mOOOOOOON!" with his handheld microphone firmly up his ass, while sky-clad dancers fall to the ground and spell out 'VB 4EVER' with their lithe, undulating bodies.

This horrific event was being recorded for posterity by a lone network VT Engineer named Raincoat Mike. He earned his moniker by smuggling his stash as well as his video equipment under his signature green and yellow poncho.
Mike, stoned again (another perfect season!) held his shotgun mike like a torch from his position on the fifty yard line.

"Whoa...Bootleg for serious fans", he remarks after taking another toke off his Dallas Cowboys pocket pipe.

From high atop the stadium in the TV Pressbox, two bland announcers in matching orange blazers watch the horrible melee below.

"You know, Jim. I've been in professional sports. as well as a TV announcer for more years than I can count. But I tell you this Half-Time Show is one for the books!"

Jin faces the forward camera. The world hears the screaming orgasms of the naked multitude in the stadium below. The blimp has turned into the wind, and is leaving the collseum's airspace.

"Yes Don," said Jim. "You're right. One thing's for sure. The Zone sure knows how to host a Super Bowl..."

Cut to: Don (Close up).

"And we'll be back after some brief commerical messages."

<end>

mardi 14 juillet 1998 19:44

"Can't give...any more", Icarus said with a teat in his eye. "Only so much...I can take."

Regina was professionally unimpressed. "Funny you say that, hon. Once, in a small bar off Toledo Block, this payload insurance agent said the same damn thing to me. He was a kink for menstral dancers. This was a cheap joint, you
know? The dancers cut their flow with soda water.

"Anyway, we sat up front by the stage, and this dancer was spinnin' around sprayin' watery blood and clots all over the damn place. This trick gets so horny he's gotta have it off right then and there. Hey, who an I to judge?
Like Grandma used to say: 'His dime his time', you copy? So he's pumpin' away with me on top of the table when he stops. In mid stoke. Just withers up right inside me."

Regina lit a contraband cigarette, her third one of the night. She exhales the used smoke onto Icarus' balding pate.

" 'Can't give any more', says he. Then poof; he goes dry as a Texas summer. His silly little ashes floated into my gimlet."

"No...please..."

With every passing second Icarus shrivels an eternity. Dessicated flesh and bone slowly implode in the darkened hotel room as granulated dreams, memories hopes, and desires spill onto her chest. Soon, Regina's ample nine-foot frame
was covered in a coarse grey ash.

She dusts herself off with a freshly absorbed vitality. She leaves the bed, and give the sheets a huge sweep with the back of her tattooed hand; a black spider clinging from a muddy red rose by a thread of ink. Before a quick sonic shower, she goes through the newly departed's clothes and grabs his wallet.

"Yeah Reggie baby", she said taking Icarus' cashcard. "Some Johns got no respect..."

-exerpt from Valhalla City Blues 2.0

Under Weathered Convex Skies, Reflected in Inverted Requiem Glass, Earthmynn Holds Court and Awaits the Eight Comings of The Assember.

After enjoying a light, elegant meal prepared by the one and only Henri 9Smythe-Fong Jr.-"The Bare-Ass Gourmet" himself- the time was 31:22. Tree wandered with Clockwatcher Dex towards the Main Parlor. He had for the most part became comfortable with the oil-on-water jaquard flightsuit that Earthmynn designed. After all, it was hir ship, and by every Spacers credo, esprit de corps was to be maintained.

Down the hall, Earthmynn had for display several pieces from Tree’s former Captain. On the wall to their right, past the standing sculpture of a platinum handkerchief tent enclosed in a floating bubble covered in braided multicolored wires and vines, was a rocket powered speargun encased in a polished rectangular wooden box. Although the clear plaque beside the case said "Edwardian Vesperine Rhapsody in T-prime Minor", written in fine red
script across the glass was "In Case of Angelic Visitation Break Glass".

Tree had to look closely at this object. Holy shit, he thought, it’s wood! Real wood! The case alone would cost more than he would make in several star-runs.

"Your skipper, ahr-eye-pee, was quite the poet", said Dex. "She was Earthmynn’s number one before she amscrayed to the stars. S/he used to affectionately call her ‘my dear little historian.’ After s/he heard what happened to the Jazzy Li, s/he had scrambled hir brokers to leave no private collector or thrift shop unturned, and buy every one of her works, especially her earlier pieces."

"You knew Cap’n then?"

"Sure. Been squatting here the longest in the Villa, and have seen them all breathe in and slip away after scoring their fix of pure Hir: low, medium and high bandwidth mediafreaks, content fillers with eyes of black velvet and cheap tempra, the gorgeous look-at-me-oh-please-look-at-me-you-bastards, brokenhearted knight-errand credmen of assorted flavors and stripes, ho-hum Nouveaus in industrial strength quantities who feel like being seen, or go shopping...whatever.

"And we", he continued, " of the Eternal Yet Desperately Needy-of which, due to the nautre of my tick-tock vice, I am a card-carrying member in good standing thank you very much heh heh."

Fresh off the boat, Tree would have wanted to cuff this little yapper. Now, he didn’t even bother to give the twitchy ChronOrgone addict a second glance. Always the way with a new crew.

"You’re quite the poet, yourself" said Tree.

"Nah. Just recycled Jo-Joey sermons with a dash of personal perspective. It kind of happens here."
*****

Whereas most of the general decour of the Villa was neo-minimalist, the Main Parlor was an explosive swampland of furnishings: huge satin pillows tossed willy-nilly on overlapping centuries old hand woven Persian rugs covered the alabaster floors. Thick banners of tapestries made by early orbital colonist artisans depicted their conquest over physical and personal gravity covered the off-white stucco walls.

Figurative statues of all styles and periods, supported atop kitschy roman columns; subtle and gross pylons the casual guest had to unavoidably slalom their way around them, blatantly navigating the guest towards the center of the parlor.

Suspended from the center of the parlor was a wide rattan chair that swung as if caught in a mild indecisive breeze. Netvid and audio pickups clamped along the sides of the chair’s thick rail of the chair would record the person seated-Earthmynn-for whatever posterity awaited.

Tree downloaded a blurred memory. Something from those accelerated pub crawls before exams during his midshipman days. On his hands and knees, he crawled under the chair and looked up.

Dex was quietly checking his face for the slightest wrinkle in a mirrored statue of some naked buff guy. A line for a line, as the old motto goes.

"Looking for change?" he asked. "S/he doesn’t carry any cash, you know."

Yep, there is was. The well-positioned hole in the bottom of the chair currently plugged with a green pillow. Complete with another vid feed to replay memories of broadcasted moist, undulating action on grimy bordello walls to intice the retinas of drunken, horny shills down to their liquored groins and wallets, waiting in the queue for their own televised shot at the Big Spin. Tree wondered what gravity-well fuckfactory rummage sale the Great
Hir discovered this antique.

One by one the rest of the entourage graced the parlor. Tree got off the floor, stood away from the nostalgic furniture, and caught himself. No, not entourage. Crewmates.