ghosts in the machine

im such a wanker sometimes. really.

A true story about a record-breaking starfish

When ella and i were about five and seven we found a starfish halfin the sea. She took two legs and i struggled with rest; one rough barnacled tentacle stuck by my ear, right through my hair. with solemn faces we carried our treasure, limping and hopping, our young feet hurting against the sharp stones of brodick beach. we passed many who put down paperbacks or fumbled for glasses to stare. our parents, in the distance, watched aghast from the tartan blanket we kept in the car for picnics. We felt uneasy; perhaps we should have left it in the sea. But we thought all starfish were five foot wide. Flushed and breathless we reached the spot and mother and father stood up, shiny eyes and awestuck smiles. We patiently arranged our offering with a mixture of pride and anxiety, gently unfurling the creature's rough legs. its sensitive whisker tips paleorange and bloodlessfistwhite across the amethysts and agates that make up the shingle. mother kneeled and tentatively placed her fingers over the seathing's quickly parching, briny feet. A slowgasping movement. "it's alive," she announced, smiling at daddy. we shrieked but then my cityfolk parents tenderly-awkwardly picked up our crazy giant starfish and carried it back to the sea from whence it came.

arrochar 23/12/05 3.18.03pm

camera obscura

ghost of a chance. But when you’re looking for something you see it everywhere. learn a new word, hear it on the news. See it over there. patterns again. Nothing to get excited about. Faces in the shadows, cameraobscuras. fitting sparks. . fuck all to do with reality. obsessions to keep under the perimiter lights. It's the hope that kills you not the [what?] But they're inked before I can sentence.

snowstars

cassiopeia
I saw you lying,
head tilt back to snowstorm sky.
magnetic, pulling
constellations to your bloodsoaked thighs.
Power-less and cracking
Too much the rising tides to carry.
Spooling warmth, flush and suckered
Dreamstuff never can be buttered.
traced a smile across your belly
in rampling jam with ravens feather.
Blood on snowflakes falling faster
blown pupils, stellar - hypnotiser.
Beats on wings of fallen angel
wrapped tight around you, in a vaccum.
swallow-smashed, laid bare to Tsars,
We crashed into the same stars.

now,now

heartsmacksbrain

burns

you can raze your temperature.
just by imagining you
are sitting by a fire.
telekenisis.
you can set yourself
on fire.
just by thinking about it.
The state of your perfect body.
burning wood.
when will this
burn out.

fires

i have two bodies,
one out.
And one in that haunts me,
torments me demented with its heat.

why only in dreams? that was the question which blocked all progress. every solution which could reduce time to something wholly present ruled that the pre-images should be just as observable when one was awake as they were when one slept. ~So why only in dreams?
A little consideration suggested the simplest way to set about a waking experiment would be to take a book which one intended to read within the next few minutes, think determindly of the title - so as to begin with an idea which should have associational links with whatever one might come upon in that future reading - and then wait for odds and ends of images to come into the mind by simple assocation.
The first experiment was a gorgeous success - until i discovered i had read the book before.

It is to be feared that the observer's power of interference doe snot suffice to make him wholly master if his fate. For there are other observers, employing similar capabilities. While our friend is in bed, dreaming of the happy possibilities of his future, some enerm, afflicted by this mania for intervention, may proceed to fire the house and reduce those probabilities to might-have-beens. [They would remain always, of course, entities in the substratum past of Time 2, but entities never encountered by field 1]. And, if the observer may owe his time 1 end to the intervention of other observers, it is fairly certain he owes his beginnings to nothing else. ~Beforehis birth he can be nothing but a probablility in the future of the race.

dog-eared, whiskery
doubled-cracked spastic
spontaneous-tense, tickly.
quickening.
steeling, bloodfilling,
sliding sides, static
bodyeyesblushing. shining
rhythm-blastedbreathing
fast, melting - swallowstuck salty
tongueclick, trickly
ticktick. beatskip

I woke very early this morning, by mistake. it was still dark but I couldn't get it back again. A small grey cloud thing was in the room with me. It was gauzy and shimmery, about the size of a tea towel and in its softling structure there was a storm: little lightnings, a tiny universe and small crackling sounds. I stared at it because it was really beautiful. In fact it looked familiar. I lay so still and it came to be above, it rained waves that bubbled just under, needlish energy, and shot right up through the synapses. oh it was warm, gentle, intense. I leaned into it, it tasted like a soul. We went someplace together in sleep and then I.Went to work as usual. Checked for EVP. So it's vabnsdvn vbdnsbv sy nsd sy sh adsnd s sdsnsndnm msndmsn sd,a sm, s back to the dolphins and angel shaggers. Did wonder how how the paper kings would react if I told them about the cloud thing from the morning. Ac this keyboard is fuct.