Saturday, April 25, 2015

Waiting for a Plane


Gimpo Airport, Seoul, South Korea, 21 April 2015 ~ Photo by P.I.

Monday, March 09, 2015

Friday, February 27, 2015

Success: the bastard son of Integrity


To climb the ladder rungs of shadow cast
By floodlight through sanctuary’s fence
As if to reach that plateau fast
Would still the voices calling hence
To all the pieces missing
From the jigsaw of your past

Ladder rungs of smoke and dust
Your foot falls flat upon illusion
The plateau bitter returns unjust
Your corporate ambition a blue contusion
In the shape of pieces missing
From the jigsaw of your past

From the jigsaw of your past
The space where pieces are missing
Won’t hold fast fists to rails of mist
Won’t hold fast skin to suture
Cuts that by hand-me-down logic twist
The inevitability of your future

From the jigsaw of your past
You’ll fill the spaces missing
Not by the ladder shadow cast
Nor acquisitions hollow empty-hearted
But by sails hoist to a different mast
To journey upon waters uncharted

Saturday, February 21, 2015

Bolt Out of the Blue

Transcend Blue III ~ Joel Rea

When he came out of the worm he felt like a god; a man hanging in the sky.
Nobody prepares you for the moment when you get the joke, he thought, laughter icon-imaged on his ret display.
The Outriggers were preparing for landfall with an absolute efficiency that applied a visual gravity to the situation – not that gravity had no part to play, but being the weakest force in the universe does nothing for the reputation given by a name that carries such weight.
You can laugh all you want, but without Outriggers you’re just a man falling through the stratosphere he thought, mood swing icon-flashing.
Of course there is also the Exo to thank for cutting out the actual physical discomfort of the drop – he watched the temp degrees rise as he fell.
When he hit landfall his med tried and failed to stem the endorphin rush – his image drew light from all around him – the tech crew; the glowing Outriggers; the smile of god in his ret.

When he came down he was, once again, Murray Goodchild and he was under no illusion as to what he had been sent to do. The Gravity Engines thrummed beneath his feet, sometimes vibrating the liquid in his lungs like ripples on the stone-skipped surface of his impulses – he checked the charges, bone marrow deep, before passing through the entrance to the point of no return.


Tales for the attention-span deficit reader

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

In The Light of What I Know: Dead Babies

The Withering ~ Barry Windsor-Smith

I was recently surprised to learn that many stillborn babies are buried in communal graves - parents adding the names as they happen.

The cynical capitalist in me marveled at the value for money enjoyed by
a) whoever/whatever agency was selling the burial space itself and
b) the Monumentalist adding names to the headstone
The ghoul in me pictured this subterranean nursery for creatures not yet born; a nursery overseen by the earth's reclamation processes: bacteria, worms and time.

When it comes time to dispose of my remains I wish to leave nothing that may physically impinge on the world -
Take my ashes to a windy open place an scatter me with that wind (bearing in mind if you scatter ashes into the wind you will end up with human dust in your teeth)

Welcome to the new year

Yes I nicked (part of) the title above from Zia Haider Rahman's "In The Light of What We Know"; the reading of which I strongly recommend.