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hoffkk · 6 years

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Flarfy

Deception Drabble

Requested by: Anon

Quote requested: “Call an ambulance!”

Pairing: Kay x Cameron

********

"Call an ambulance!" Cameron shouted as he knelt by Kay's body, replaying the last few minutes in his head. They didn't plan for a partner. The perp wasn't supposed to have a partner... but he did. His psychotic sidekick showed up out of nowhere, and now Kay was hurt.

"Cameron..." Kay said in a raspy whisper. She was losing consciousness due to the bullet wound in her left shoulder bleeding out rapidly. The bullet wound from a bullet... a bullet meant for him.

"It's okay. I'm here." He comforted as he brushed some hair out of her face. Reacting on instinct, he ripped off his suit jacket, balled it up, and pressed it against her shoulder to staunch the bleeding. "Everything's gonna be okay." He added in a hushed tone, not sure whether he was trying to convince Kay... or himself.

The next few minutes went by in a blur as Cam dealt with swirl of emotions raging inside him: Fear and concern at Kay mumbling something incoherent then passing out, anger at Mike for keeping him from riding in the ambulance with her to the hospital, and (mostly) guilt for putting Kay in a life threatening situation. He shouldn't have approached the perp and made those unnecessary insults. He shouldn't have tried to ham it up to impress her. He should have just backed off. If he had, the perp wouldn't have cued his partner to shoot at him, and Kay wouldn't have jumped in the way to save him.

If only Cameron had known there was a second perp... If only he'd thought things through... if only...

********

An hour later, Cameron was showered, changed, and pacing the hospital waiting room. The whole magic team was there too, along with Mike, all waiting for an update. After about an hour or so more of waiting patiently, they finally received one. The surgeon, a tall middle eastern woman in her forties, came out and gave them the rundown on Kay's procedure. There were a lot of technical words thrown around that Cam didn't totally understand, especially in his state of mind.

Feeling frustrated, Cam blurted out, "Is she okay or not?!"

"She's going to be just fine." The doctor assured.

Sighing majorly in relief, he ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair and said a silent thank you to whatever higher power was on his side today.

"Can we see her?" Dina asked, fidgeting with the balled up tissue in her hand that was now blotted with tiny mascara stains.

"We are bringing her to the ICU now for recovery. She needs to rest, but I suppose I can allow a short visit." The doctor relented. "Just for one of you though."

Everyone immediately looked to Mike. Surprisingly though, he looked at Cameron and nodded, "Go ahead."

"Y-you sure?" He asked skeptically.

"Tell her I said hi." He half-smiled.

Cam returned the smile and clapped him on the shoulder before following the doctor down the hallway. Moments later, the doctor paused outside the door to her room. He was itching to go in, but the doctor seemed to have something to say, so he waited patiently for his cue.

"Kay's been given heavy pain medication. She'll probably be a little groggy if awake at all." The doctor informed him before opening the door. "You have five minutes."

Cameron nodded before slipping inside. His heart broke a little bit as he laid eyes on Kay. She looked paler than usual and was attached to all sorts of wires and machines. Her shoulder was bandaged and in a sling, and her eyes were closed like she was sleeping. Moving closer, he came around to the bed by her good arm and sat on the nearby chair, wrapping his hand gently over hers.

"I'm so sorry, Kay." Cam whispered. "This should have been me."

"Camrem?" Kay mumbled sleepily as she began to stir.

"Hey." He whispered through a watery smile. "How you feeling?"

"Flarfy" She garbled. "Amd sleefy."

Sleefy obviously meant sleepy, but flarfy? He had no clue what the translation was on that one. So, Cameron just softly laughed it off and said, "Yeah... the flarfiness is probably from all the pain meds they gave you. Glad to see they are working by the way."

"Camrem...are you okay?" Kay questioned groggily.

He couldn't believe it. Here Kay was, lying in a hospital bed with a bullet hole in her arm, yet she was worried about him. She was something else.

"I'm fine." He told her. "Thanks to you."

She smiled tiredly, "gud." then let her heavy eyes flutter closed before adding, "a lev you, Camrem."

Cam's heart soared at the muddled sentiment. He tried not to let it go to his head though. After all, she was pretty drugged up. She probably didn't even know what she saying. However, that didn't stop him from kissing her hand and replying, "I 'lev' you too, Kay."

Her eyes remained closed, but Cameron saw her grin widen in response. Grinning back automatically, he wished he could stay here all night, holding her hand and listening to her wonderful heart beat through the monitor. Unfortunately, a crotchety, giant, man nurse came in a moment later, reminding him brusquely that he couldn't. So, with a sigh, Cam stood and placed a slow, sweet kiss on top of her forehead and whispered, "Sweet dreams, Kay." Then backed away one step at a time, letting his hand slide from hers gradually.

As Cameron made his way to the door, he smiled his perfectly dimpled smile. He was very happy that Kay was going to be okay. He was also very happy at the way her heart monitor picked up pace after his kiss. Yeah, he might have missed a bullet today... but he sure didn't miss that!

#flarfy #deception #deception fanfiction #kay daniels #cameron black #cameron x kay #kay gets shot #cameron freaks out

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infinityof6 · 3 years

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My friend Suela is gradually uploading all the old Garbage Men Puking and Fuck Yr Body Up compilations to youtube. This is Garbageween, from around Hallowe’en 2014 https://www.discogs.com/Various-Garbageween/master/1427732

My tune Thunder Blade... Laurie Is As Follows starts at 08:29. It’s a flarfy poem text-to-speeched with some twiddled samples from Super Thunder Blade on the Mega Drive. Here are the lyrics:

Laurie Is As Follows

I think violent love is wanting to be moonlight. Lori with under... I think missing violent love moonlight. Laurie and below. I think violent love Moonlight are still missing. Raleigh below. Yet lack of intense love Moonlight I think. Raleigh below.

Lacks the intense love Moonlight I think, yet… Laurie is as follows: I are lacking in love Moonlight I think is still intense. Laurie is as follows. Gekko no tension still think my love is missing… Laurie is as follows. There is no I, think Moonlight tension and is still not my love. Laurie is as follows! There is no Moonlight tension I think and is still my love. Laurie is as follows. I think, I love don't Moonlight tension. Laurie is as follows. I think I do love tension moonlight. Laurie is as follows? I love Moonlight tension and Laurie is as follows.

Exposes the tension love Moonlight and Raleigh. Exposes the strained love Moonlight and Raleigh. I love tense public Moonlight and Raleigh.

I love Rory and strained public moonlight. I love Laurie, gets nervous public moonlight. Laurie loves getting edgy public moonlight. Laurie loves is getting edgy public moonlight.

Laurie a nervous public Moonlight, love has become. Laurie is a nervous public Moonlight love. Raleigh is a nervous public Moonlight love? Raleigh is a nervous public Moonlight love.

#garbage men puking #avant-garde #experimental music #chiptune #flarf poetry #under the moon loli to issho #gmp #super thunderblade #helicopter #sega #raleigh #poetry

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homebrew4you · 4 years

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#Hermes v1.10 (#PS2 #Game) #homebrew #ps2dev #playstation2 #nop90 #Retroguru @rggamedev Hermes is an extraordinary Jump'n' Run game with plenty of bad taste humor. Nop90 got some time to release an initial port for the PlayStation 2! Go ahead and catch the chicken, or stay hungry for supper 🙂

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marcogiovenale · 4 years

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One of my first flarfy & spam-derived “orphic tabs” (or “orphic sheets”) was published by the late William James Austin in 2007, in his mag “BLACKBOX”, Sept. 2007, the “summer collisions” issue.

About that issue I could only find an email in the Spidertangle newsletter, Sept. 16, 2007. (The old link williamjamesaustin.com/orphicsheet002.html doesn’t work anymore, of course).

Other pieces appeared in Starfishpoetry, and Poetry Kessel-lo (two now offline sites).

Find others in The Flux I Share (Jan., 2008): ex fluxishare.blogspot.com/2008/01/orphic-tab-029.html now http://the-flux-i-share.blogspot.com/2008/01/orphic-tab-029.html; & in SayingSomething: http://sayingsome.blogspot.com/2008/01/orphic-tab-040.html

Then serious asemic orphic tabs appeared in The New Postliterate (Sept., 2009): http://thenewpostliterate.blogspot.com/2009/09/asemic-orphic-sheets-from-marco.html

A sheet in Italian has appeared in facebook only.

Here below are some of the pieces, and more ones (click to enlarge, read & enjoy):

orphic tabs or sheets / differx. 2007-2020 One of my first flarfy & spam-derived "orphic tabs" (or "orphic sheets") was published by the late William James Austin in 2007, in his mag "BLACKBOX", Sept.

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spamzineglasgow · 6 years

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SPAM Digest #1 (Sept 2018)

A quick list of the editors’ current favourite critical essays, post-internet think pieces, and literature reviews that have influenced the way we think about contemporary poetics, technology and storytelling.

‘Human Sacrifice’, by Alexandra Molotkow, Real Life Mag

A brief moral genealogy of reality TV spectatorship sketched through the short life of The Anna Nicole Show (2002-2004); Moloktow reflects on the hatred of the talentless and contempt for the desperate as a ultimate re-inscription of class dynamics; on the erotic appeal of the fallen beauty; on how the lines between compassion and cruelty come blurred, when those between life and entertainment seem to be disappearing.

‘Reality television remade spectatorship in the likeness of a relationship: You loved your favorite contestants like friends and hated your least favorite like enemies — the thrill of a reality villain was the permission to hate a “real” person and not just a character in fiction.’

‘What many of us are looking for, at least sometimes, is a quick hit of relatability, the ambient sense that other people exist. This isn’t necessarily bad. It cuts to the chase of what we so often ask of art, and people are just as interesting as anything they might produce — a personality itself can be read as a work of art, producing the same range of joys and intriguing discomforts. But real and imagined people demand different moral configurations, and observing a life as theater can create a narrative riptide on reality.’

D.B

‘Andrew Pekler charts imagined sounds on interactive atlas, Phantom Islands’, by Scott Wilson, Fact Mag

It was actually an ex-navy friend who recommended this article to me, and the nautical vibes seemed appropriate, given our current SPAM theme is CRUISE LINER. Wilson’s article glosses a recent project by Berlin-based sound artist Andrew Pekler: an ‘interactive online map called Phantom Islands, which combines the histories of islands that were once found on nautical maps with speculative sounds from each of the 27 locations’. These ‘Phantom Islands’, as Pekler puts it, were charted through history by ocean explorers, but their actual existence ‘has never been ultimately verified’.

For anyone intrigued by ethnomusicology (soundscapes are here selected with an ethnographer’s ear and knowledge of island history), object-oriented ‘art’ (one could argue Pekler’s project enacts a form of tuning to nonhuman scales, scapes and ontologies) or simply wanting to play around with a synesthetically satisfying map, Phantom Islands is definitely worth your time.

There’s something seductive and ultimately metamodern about this project: its oscillation between fact and fiction; a New Aesthetic, intermedial playfulness and sincere commitment to probing the strange aporia of these places. A sort of sonic psychocartography, combining the analogue ‘hardware’ of the map with the interactive, ‘soft’ subtleties of scroll, click, veer and zoom. It recalls childhood afternoons consumed by the thalassic, open-world vistas of The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker (2002), where every cel-shaded island was mapped out on a gridded ‘Great Sea’, sparkling with unique music, sidequests, enemies and secret items. Browsing The Wind Waker’s world, or (in Cruise Mode), the clean white grids of Pekler’s map, you find yourself phasing in and out of the mirage-like isles of geologic and mythical history. I’m made nostalgic for the days when the internet was envisioned as a sort of frontier, this sprawling terrain to be ‘surfed’.

As well as pleasure, there’s a profound melancholy to the project: it doesn’t steer us towards the dramatic sublime but rather encourages an introspective, ‘slow’ experience of personal discovery, a glide over several haecceities. Maybe it’s because, as Malachy Tallack puts it in his 2016 book The Undiscovered Islands, ‘Islands [...] are perfect metaphors for other worlds and afterlives. They are separate and yet connected; they are distant and yet tangible. The sea of death is cluttered with imaginary islands’. I’ve never thought of webpages or online archives as islands until now, but something about that sense of myth or fiction pervading the ‘real’ of the present is oddly comforting. The narrative vignettes and sound clips which accompany the islands of Pekler’s map give the reassurance of presence, even in the space of speculation, in the lack of evidential presence. If, as Tallack puts it, ‘invention’ arises from our desire to fill a ‘terrifying’ absence, then ‘sometimes that desire gives us back the absences we sought to fill’. It seems to me he could be describing a phenomenology of the open internet, the para-reality of endless text and images still sloshing and jostling against the smooth interface of Web 2.0. The haunted archives of yesteryear, preserved on some ad-riddled, lost domain. The splintered archipelagos of our virtual identities, the desiring production of feedback loops.

As a form of ‘interactive’ geography, Phantom Islands reminds us that our conceptions of ‘world’, Other or ipseity itself are bound to slippage, the ambient addictions of browsing a set of imagined striations. Best to enjoy that, while we (physically) still can.

The Phantom Islands project: http://andrewpekler.com/phantom-islands/

M.S.

‘Funks of Ambivalence: On Flarf’, by Andrew Epstein, LA Review of Books

Flarf’s controversy is no secret within the poetry world. What started as protest poetry, in the manner of pirate radio - a way of ‘hacking’ the internet by mining and reassembling its linguistic fragments - soon sank in a cesspool of suspicion about plagiarism, appropriation and writerly privilege. Well, not exactly ‘sank’, because sank implies a kind of closure, when actually flarf still floats around - the poetic plastic that won’t quite biodegrade, even in these times of lyric revival.

Having recently published, Attention Equals Life: The Pursuit of the Everyday in Contemporary Poetry and Culture (2016), Epstein is well-versed in tracing how poetic form variously attempts to render, illumine or escape the experiential debris of daily life. Here reviewing a recent anthology, published by Edge Books in 2017 (Flarf: An Anthology of Flarf), Epstein maps out the emergence of flarf in the context of both the poetry establishment and the internet’s structural history, honing in on the use of search engines and data trawling as modes of playful aesthetic resistance. He quotes Gary Sullivan (a founding flarfer), who describes ‘flarf’ as both a neologism for ‘a kind of corrosive, cute, or cloying, awfulness’ and verb, meaning ‘to bring out the inherent awfulness, etc., of some pre-existing text’.

A good review perhaps brings something extra to the text it feeds on, and Epstein succeeds in supplementing Flarf: An Anthology of Flarf’s lack in the critical department. As Epstein puts it, the anthology is ‘completely devoid of scholarly apparatus’. What might be ‘more a bid for canonization, an enshrinement of a now-defunct avant-garde’ nevertheless requires a bit of aesthetic and political contextualisation, which Epstein’s piece usefully gestures towards. As post-internet poets, self-identified or otherwise, we’re all guilty of getting a little too flarfy at times, fooling around with discursive detritus online. It’s commentary like Epstein’s that sets all this appropriation in its necessary social contexts - from gender to race, ethnicity, class and sexuality.

Epstein’s upshot is that the ‘antics’ of flarf retain the potential for cultural resistance, but that flarf should not be considered solely in a dematerialised junkspace of recycled ‘play’. Rather, we should be reading flarf alongside certain contemporary poets (Epstein names a few), who digest its playful ‘tactics’ for a more substantial sociopolitical aesthetics, and what’s more acknowledge the extent to which flarf has become the condition of all information dissemination, both online and IRL. As he puts it, paraphrasing Man Ray’s chiastic assessment of Dada’s survival: ‘Flarf cannot live in America. All America is Flarf, and will not tolerate a rival’. In an era of reality-breakdown and disorientating news dissemination, conducted over the famously elliptical medium of Twitter, presided upon by the US President himself, this seems about right.

M.S.

‘The Irrelevant and the Contemporary’ by DannyPenny, The New Enquiry

‘Post-Internet Poetry Comes of Age’, by Kenneth Goldsmith, The New Yorker

So why is post-internet poetry #trending?

Over the past few years, the art world has been throwing around the term “post-Internet” to describe the practices of artists who use the Web as the basis for their work but don’t make a big deal about it. For these artists, unlike those of previous generations, the Web is just another medium, like painting or sculpture. We’re beginning to see a similar turn in poetry.

Is it fair to say that successful post-internet poems should not merely “update confessional poetry for the age of mass surveillance"? That Poems that want to mirror or deconstruct the experience of living on the internet need a poetics that address that experience on a structural and material rather than semantic level? What is the result of such poetry? Poems that are "boring to be around"? Or poems that are at once organic and mechanical, personal and, in a sense, objective? Why is it that a mining, massaging, and reworking of found online texts into something personal appears to be fuelling some of the more adventurous poetry being written today? See what Kenneth Goldsmith and Danny Penny have to say.

M.P.

#SPAM Digest #Max Parnell #Denise Bonetti #Maria Sledmere #post-internet #poetry #flarf #maps #geography #surveillance #trending #Real Life Mag

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marcosoropoet · 4 years

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Subtextual

1~ With a curious reluctanct endearment I push open the old mossy stone door once more, more so, its creaks razor sharp, its groans prolonged, and even if you might chance upon my being away on furlough, which begs the question... yet, still, I bid you come along enter since I am alone, tonight, and all I think of is you. the interface efficient, see if there's anything...again as it is always; to see if there's anything, again. something electric and vast. something that is from day to night to day... something brilliantly bright Still, I must cover myself from the brightness of day, and I am not ashamed. Those people laughing outside sound like hyenas post modulation. If I were from your earth, hype would arouse and excite me maybe (it is so often manufactured & crafted so irresistibly)... even ciphered anomalous flarfy glitches or black spidery realizations frozen in mid-scream my feet don't feel as though they are touching and treading ground. searingly clear & hyper-real floating Hey! Hey! (waving) I see somebody- (running up to them)— Hey! I see someone walking towards me across the street, but in my dream, the clumps of greyish snow don't allow me to see how they are (((walking)))...hard to record my found footage audio and video.shit!!! movie buzz is chainsaws love human flesh ~ 2~ mysterious more glancing out the car window the burning needle embroidering curtains of cloud-mystifying infinite violet and red radio tableaux, a tactile postmodern nostalgic melancholy.... affixing associatives in rampant aggregate slowness; flashing known images of fields, houses, rusted fixtures, patinaed a bright orange red-brown, horses, & certain deep periwinkle blue wildflowers she really likes... in my private self I lose the center of this piece and plunge, more into the fingerprints fetching a face, myself, I see you. that I am here. a punchyouface tongue-out in the funhouse restrained endless cloistered chasm trauma loop I penetrated through damaged fake tongue warning, our glass galaxy, is after all, suspended awash in opal blue, an oceanic wave of time is sweetly scrawled: because it must do with time. 3~ navigated by the black-cloud rope smoke of inertia & cold slanting rain pummeling under sound pounding studio bootleg basement lichen leavening every square inch of air awestruck with violet reversal, we looked horrified brain crazy. all the while the aroma of desert sage, outdoor coffees and our blue sky is never the same again you know you... frozen still burning quantum dreaminess, inside the black hole, light blue-grey microcosm ruse of identity melting frog candy, causal spinning eyes almost deeper now. no it's a red splatter handprint of smoke darkening room spacestealing nihilistic distorted space erasure gutted black caricature inert everything offends and our blue-grey microcosm ruse of inertia & movie buzzing endless timestamped outtakes; rain pummeling under sound pounding studio bootleg basement rhythm & blues hmmmmmmmmmmmm... harmonica: an imparted sharp musical squeal fell to the glass floor cracking in quickly fissuring musical inches of bubbling silver flash guitar wailing hard...itsa gotsa wail hard chil' (((Twang))) itsa gonsta wail so hard chil' ev'ry night and day (((Twang-a Twang Twang))) I sed, heh (((Atwang-a Twang Twang)))...Wwwelll... 4~ navigated by the black hole, light blue sky is never the same again you know you... frozen still burning inert everything offends and is confusing every square inch of air awestruck with tricky quantum reversal mindbend episode triggers blooming we looked Horrified Brain Crazy. all the while the aroma of ice blue desert sage, outdoor black coffees every square electric inch of raw air grimace— Hardcore Serious Animal Real serial repeated ditching Sequences when I move my hand beyond the light The sky the sharpest expert royal blue, chalk-white-bark. Rose-red threads weave dreams of Blustering Roses under Blue-Black Skies. Fingerprints fetch a face, mystifyingly filed in with the letters X&Z, "I was jus' goin' down tha street...heh, did you jus' mutt'r: "ramshackle derelic', you suppose, inside trash industrial chain link fake funk tongue warning out through damaged electronic faked out tongue "tutti-frutti" baby babeh...sound pounding out the center of this piece's fingerprints really gettin' down tuhnite babeh?! "I sho' enuf did...babeh! "whew! fetched me a face, myself (I lose) (I like) the black-cloud chasm trauma Looked Horrified by the Presence of Air Awestruck Twice in the Frozen Half of yesterday overlapping superimposing quietly with minimal embellishment. The morphing stand-alone Center of Inert-Everything Feral Chasm Trauma dormant looked horrified brain crazy in The Center of a Fresh Gelatinous Engineered Peach...glowing bright, Lime Yellow Lava Projected Blobs melting one into the other in citrus and cinnamon associative scents...synthetic dark patchouli notes~ —in the back: the band's waiting, twitching, rustling around edgily rumbling, banging about; a cymbal clashes and everyone registers the unique sound: their muffled pranks continue to keep themselves cracking up so badly— geeks re-recording the faux equivalent of dated found filler footage super8mm reductive spotlight trash b-roll fantasy knockout...drums pound and roll hard, cymbals clash, band members filmed yawning on silvery scratched up film...looking wildly blank, dressed weird on purpose, sitting in a chair, red and green brocade...sensational auteur angles...superimposed out of frame constant quirky jump cuts in a jerky slow motion— urns of inertia & rain pummeling navigating the serpentine candle-lit old-brick-passages and*time portals*> >>> > >>> >>> >>> >>>] the needle burning the LP deep past midnight baby soft background scratches and easy funk vibes playin' slow... far deep-red basement cloister black and white art deco textiles, stepping inside the trauma loop pattern I penetrated, tossed inside trash industrial cinema churning, suffused in streaming bluecloud fingerprints fetch a face, inside industrial trash cinema churning, the conversation...the recording. In my private self I lose the car window's identity.mystifying, shaping emptily, basement chairs of faked tongue warning spread out vastly, magenta clouds, pink moons, and a green rope smoke of flame and licking fire, makes the whole skylook green chalk white mottled bark beyond the light microcosm grey-blue light quantum ore skips time burning still frozen smoldering deep grey-moss ruse of rubber spider legs identity melting, causal spinning eyes almost deep splatter handprint of smoke darkening room spacestealing nihilistic distorted space erasure gutted black caricature hardcore serious real serial electric implements, repeatedly ditched the trophies, skipped the noir and hard-boil egg-peeled the victims, one by one "momma-momma, this is whin thuh program starts up, showin' yuh all thoze pitchers of thuh serial killahs strikin' ag'in and ag'in in a weirt circl' were thuh camera slowly zooms out tah revill from direc'ly ovahhead one of 'em momma, insahd anothuh large circl' of all kindsa weaponry...lookit fur yerself momma...see? 5~ sequences are stilled when I move my eyes beyond the light of the venetian blinds, and complancies of lilac valances... (the wind outside howls through the slanting rain). it's always been a miasmic isolated place... grey, dank, overgrown with burbling albino moss... and a rare and very deep-violet lichen. 6~ I Sn-nuuuck*- - - through the/hee-hee-hee/house HaLLWays to the LaUnDrysome clothes done...clotheschangecolor .but they chanGeUPchange t he t he...eeeeethecolor clothes of clothes negativo to the "neGative" négatif of the O/riginal ColOr…no bot 2///bot3-x-x-x pod cast install bot 4: synthesizing other annoyed bots and aberrant rogue algorithms. "mamA MAma MAmewww oOoO HURREeEe I think up hurry it's those _S-SErial KillaHS down dowNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNstairs DOWn...thuh...B-B-block :LIVE alien tunnel collapse horror[FILm/ed pure filmic inversion filmed Livestream accessible: entry portals close in 5 earth or increments|..../*/*/* |repeat : audio is still sideways\ again-0-no/…\t00—Trying hardto regain the-camera Again. noise/sounds lik|e plain staticXXX}]}]}]fweepooowha-wheee ---interference c*r*a*c*k*l*in*g/ there unidentifiable. Heavy static, beeps, and clicks...we are proceeding—I REPEAT we are proceeding—Lock it the fuck down NOW and bounce! Radio...banging noises...repeated thuds, garbled audio/an indistinct scream, but a clearly sequenced human scream from next door, listen for it when the tape is run back. Very loud—yikes! I think it's that guy with the hat and flimsy raincoat. 7~ Lightflash pinball machine arcades are an ambient and surprising ethos of cheap hyper bright jewel tone lights, many mirrors re-reflecting low art in other mirrors, projected radiant phases of the resonating stadium roar were pure human-machine. For forgive for interrupt inter attention ACTION cycle breakthrough exchange cycling down. I am the machine, and myself we beg rest...just the pittance of a few nano seconds & infinity are virtually interchangeable...please I need to re-up, to get well: you might complex : compress : comprehend|:| you probably may not even see but I must shut down now:/command.> override to optional personalized AI thought interface access5access4access3access2access 1access- - / |---------------------------------- ----- * Utter Quintessential granted key-trace ///-...enter code signal * ///code: : : crackling smoky synapses trailing electrical eclectic thought, lightning... tv program black-out: energy matrix, excursus scrutinized: Carnival bumper cars trail ceiling sparks gloriously arcing a piercing blue spray of cascading fire & silver smoke sputtering and spraying flashes of bright blue dotted iterations of light rawly all over our heads— that smelt so burnt-up & good. ~ Marcos Oro

#sci-fi #mystery #surreal parody #modern poetry #non-linear #experimental

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