The Wicked Warhorse

The heavens are in flames. The sky is infused with a blood-red luminance. Charcoal-black strato-nimbus clouds float heavily across the ether. An ancient warhorse balances precariously on the point of an upright, mile-long rusted needle watching the earth and it's guilty inhabitants below. At the same time, it is poised and waiting eagerly to infect the infidels with its sick armory of death. The dusk's cruel, biting wind injects its nitrate breath into the mammoth contraption and an ominous groan escapes its deep bowels. Hanging from its bellicose belly, it carries a wicked wicker basket laced with the thorns from the highly poisonous xytheron plant. It utilizes this apparatus to effortlessly deliver to its calculating master the worked-on brains of its most-deserving victims. Having the ability to induce an inhumane form of mental vivisection, the monstrous machine extracts fresh confessions from its captured prey. It spreads these wretched winnowing voices over its its cold, steel hide like rancid butter over three-day-old burnt toast: the pumpernickel variety. It pumps visceral slavery like a nine-nickel bullet point ejected from a spent chamber of an Italian-issued Beretta blue-band pistol.

This beast of death has jaws. The heavy lacerating jaws of the Great White shark. Only difference is that its jagged teeth are made of heat-treated titanium. A cobalt-irridium core lines its thick black enamel. Gums as ugly and vile as masticated tar form a tortuous seal around its gaping mouth.

The warhorse is a mind-melting machine of a magnitude much greater than the angriest of earthquakes. Currently it is processing nightmares for the forlorn. Faster than the blink of an eye, its circuitry fires up the enslaved cerebral tissue to a deep-fried supersonic roast. Only the spent crust of human brain anatomy remains: a withered hippocampus, a wilted caudate nucleus and a schism where a festered corpus callosum once was.

Nothing escapes its icy, telescopic foresight. It penetrates the immediate future like a constipated syringe to the left ventricle of the heart of a blind cyclops. However, it has enemies. As protons are pushed over the event horizon as exhaust, little children rise up like pop-tarts to battle its bulge. A big booming bulge built hell-high on its bloated back. Brick for brick, it is one bad mother! Accordingly, babies babbling incessantly bake for weeks in its built-in bread-basket. But first it lulls them into a deep sleep. Deeper than the darkest bathypelagic vortex of primordial ooze, it ferments the babies into a cerebral mud of sorts. This is the glue for integrating spent brain tissue into terror tantrum injections: a going-away gift to The Incriminated after collective-conscience processing.

Nothing but the maniacal mayhem of the children can ever hope to infiltrate the workings of the warhorse. Babies and the blasted souls of sinners are one thing but children are another. They are the bane of the beast. May the children never conquer the demonic inquisitor for all time. It's what I, the comptroller, pray for as I don my iron wool-knit socks every morning over my cankerous claws-for-feet. Come, my wonderful warhorse. Let us harvest!

The Life-cycle of a Rose

Never beyond the horizon we saw what was there for us:
an amalgam of lightning crystals and the fumes of preconceived hopes.
My best friend, Destiny, desired the fall, but I could only guarantee the vernal equinox against her imploring, smiling eyes. They were like the future. Time, dragged by the riptides of some restless, oceanic spirit, let her body embrace the starfish on the sand as we lay beneath a dripping watermelon. We lazily lapped the perspiration of the sun. 

The lips parted like golden butter yielding to a blade. We bade the resistance adieu. We knew that we would be carried away someday by His gentle hands. Waiting is effortless to a rose. Not just any flora we adore, for seven epochs prophesized the existence of reality in radical bloom. 

Trade in the material for the ethereal, my dear friend. Lest you be cast aside in the chilled shadows of matter. The superfluous energy fields of the idle, radiate with the dull intensity of those X-rays originating from the viscosity-pockets of the Milky-Way. 

Murky, quaint, cute, her face and porcelain teeth bequeathed the aspirates and labials of language to my discretion. Like an astronaut held by the throes of the moon, words were subject to my deft manipulation. All the while, heaven was on her galactic mind. 

It makes sense that all this should come from the far left. The right model will summarize any quandary of the heart as it had for me. Volumes of pedagogy instruct us to follow the information freeway of linear thought. I brought disparity into reason. 

She kept me grounded. 

Unfounded colloquialism rends the schism of the mundane and the mystery of living. As they take and take, I’ll maintain my giving until tomorrow forces redirection. But you, my dear friend, will never be carried in afterthought. To truly understand the reason for this Earth appearance, one must gently part the fog that coats the density of guarded inhibition. Time to be like children. Reach for my hand. I’ll journey with your trust along the horizon until we finish what was started at the entrance of our conception.

The Brain-Sun Moratorium

The dying sun, colliding with the killing horizon, sets the scene. A mechanical freeze-frame device, mounted at the apex of the Brain-Sun Court-Coliseum takes a snapshot of the hexadecimal photon diffraction. An electro-static, Aurora Borealis event ensues with viridian plasma chips flung skyward. It's visually pulchritudinous. 

Beginnings: the breaking glass sounds of ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ resonate in tune to the antidisestablishmentarianism of the court, dispelling the unusual beauty of nature's fomentation. The fusion-parallax universe of conformity, reigns supreme here. The insignificant minds dissolve; acquiesce to the might of the multitude. Manifestations ofthought-fumes, scattered by the strong nuclear force originating from the gelatinous sulci and gyri of the cerebrum, work in His favor -- He, the god that failed. 

Queen Envy invokes the conduct-biopsy of Prince Reginald. Will it be 69-sublime, divine castigation for the hellion? The mood is deep mauve. The ambient milieu of unrest ejected from the sun, envelopes what is, into an aeon-augmented pope-head bipartisan statement. Polemic, controversial, civil relapse collapses into the blackbox of the bellicose chain-violating brain. He whelps, "help!" Only deaf ears feign listening, making better as echo-receptacles than input-propagation feedback responders.

He is admonished and left in embarrassment, the sheen on his cheeks glows ripe like the spring plum. However, recant, he can't. His pitiful elocution would smell of heretic hearsay. His verbal lexicon, once as potent as neuron-thunderstorms, fails him as it is reduced to scattered chatter. The chosen scion could be banished into the blinking blind-eyed hurricane of Trion. 

Sentence should be issued. 

Were the brain-sun finally to explode, it would do so with zero remorse for the young God. But imperial judgment has been deferred. He must have come from the corner of somewhere. Yes, His birth began from no end: a brain-sun nightmare that, like dreams, lacks origin.

However, he is blown along by the acerbic breath of Queen Mother Judge- Jury-Executioner as autumn foliage. After all, he does deserve merit for his sacred existence. And so, his ultimate outcome is put on ice. Meanwhile, the thermonuclear space-bunnies of his belly are consumed by the ultra-saturated dark matter of night as the day for the Brain-Sun reaches its terminal point. 

The Midnight Dreamers

At dusk the darkness creeps across the destitute canvas of the sickly sky like phantom fingers. The dreamers hold their breath as the dying rays of the incensed orb rapidly fade. Time punctuates every throbbing heart in this era of dread and the chaos of imagination rumbles like thunder in every mind. The children in bed cover their heads with sheets of lead. The cancerous x-rays cascade down from the ionosphere as the last light lingers, but their poisonous tentacles fail to penetrate the cold, heavy blankets tightly wrapped around the younglings. At least they can dream. In a brief reprieve from the sea of misery, their thoughts gently roll amongst fluffy marshmallows for clouds and interlacing rainbows floating in a vibrant stretch of blue. The curiosities of the kids rapidly lead them to beyond the golden horizon and into a world diametrically opposite from their own. There is no poverty of happiness in the direction that they venture toward.

During the daytime, it is a different story altogether. A great sadness deeply saturates the skin of the waking populace, trudging along like zombies from shack to factory, factory to shack, over and over again. There is immense poverty here but also sequestered wealth. At the end days of an industrial revolution, the laborers are merely a step beyond an existence of dismal slavery. There is no savings to look forward to. Only mind-numbing repetition day in and day out. The adults are no longer able to dream. The governing party has driven the populace with an iron fist and dark deception is in abundance of what really happened to cause the sudden and irreversible decay of Earth. The planet's manganese core now emits deadly radiation as the ozone dangles like cob-webs against the thick, polluted atmosphere.

The only hope lies in the minds of the children. They are the future cosmonauts. They will guide humanity out of the misery and into a new dawn. But not on this planet. It's a lost cause for poor, wasted Mother Earth. No, the children's scion will find shelter on the quartz-encrusted heloid satellite of Jupiter, called Ganymede. Of course, they would have to come up with a way of transporting the 1.3 billion cubic kilometers of remaining ocean water of Earth to their new home if they hoped to survive. But survive they would.

The years melt into decades, and then the kids who are no longer children, revolt, and overthrow the oppressive reign of tyrannical rule. A century roles on by and now the kids have developed the appropriate technology to escape from the toxic inferno that has become the planet they deem 'wEarthless.' They cast aside their lead-lined blankets and depart in there floating cities to begin their 26 year journey to Jupiter’s largest moon. For the first time, they find themselves as extraterrestrials sleeping in warm beds with soft, soporific pillows and sheets. They resume their dreaming at night. No longer are their dreams fantasies, but instead, they take the form of ideas and hopes that will help them bring in the dawn of a new age.

Doctor Shnagra Vadlinger IX

THE toxic smoke emitted from the devil pit suffocates the pallid light of the infernal hydrogen orb. It peers down with its billion blinding eyes from a hazy vermillion canvas. The shadows become ever more menacing as they elongate with the departure of the sun. Doctor Shnagra Vadlinger IX pries open his sustenance chamber with his warped claws for hands. The eroded enamel of his jagged teeth appears as cutting devices that some hell-bent assassin might use. The rusty colors of essential fluids cake the bicuspids of his maxilla. If this was his smile, I would hate to see his sneer. 

The burnt floor beneath us shifts under cataclysmic seismic pressures and my feet lose purchase from the wasted earth. Vadlinger IX callously reaches out to envelope me with his many oaken arms and legs on my inevitable return-trip. Then I’m tossed like yesterday’s trash into an ancient midnight-black oblong box. My skull cracks on impact and Sir Homunculus escapes using his tiny malformed legs. I endure a sharp negative 82g free-fall into the devil pit as Vadlinger IX’s heaving belly rhythmically moves in tune to the horrendous cackle of delight, brought on by my timely demise.

In the grey-goose universe of banal bourgeois, I was one of the most maverick of semi-sentient beings. My hallucinogenic and vicarious re-creations of what never was, seemed to pervade my marginally-mundane mind-machinations. For this reason, I was now here: within a Stone Mason’s coffin, with a cracked cranium, and catapulted by Dr. Shagra to beyond the event horizon of the devil pit. There would be no reversal to this fate. No second chances or slow romances neither. I was down for the count and in it for the long haul to do Hades dirty-work.