Thursday, 20 August 2009


Silver sky pulsing. Red lights flashing. Fog at dawn. Computers: "it would be okay." Machines: "ditto."
A harbour town at dawn. Machines pulsing. Computers pulsing. Red lights flashing. Dead fingers point thru fog. Machines climb out of the ocean. They've arrived to claim. It would be okay. Discreet shifts in the computer pattern. Red lights pulse thru mist. Computer terminals keening for her eyes, her breasts, the shore. (computer makes a sound like rustling leaves.)
Dragged into old behavior patterns. Computers screaming thru mist. Computerised smoke kisses these pages. It would be okay. Secret dawn pulse. Fragments of sublime autumnal memories washed up on a computerised shore.
Ruined terminals fizz sparks. Abandoned factories. Horses pacing thru abandoned factories. Smokestacks under a grey sky. Shelves of date-expired medicine (silent). Clocks falling off of walls. Mirrors falling off of walls in empty houses. Broken terminals purr obscenely. Hospitals smelling of grotesque visions.


She chuckled. Grating mechanical laughter. It unnerved him. There was mist in the garden. Pockets of apocalyptic euphoria. Mirror falling off of wall in reverse. Reformed fragments. Clock falling off of wall in reverse. Camera shutter clicks. Huddled, feigned grins. Vast walls, huge ceilings leaking anxiety.

Sad eyes. Moustache. He regarded me from the other side of the pool table. Took a slow drag on his cig. Smoke drifted ceiling-ward in slow motion.

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