Creakle
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Messages
- 616
This is something I just started today. Don't know how long I will keep at it... it seems possible to expand it into a short story. It's loosely based on recent experiences I've had. I've always shied away from posting poetry and the like in a "drug" forum, but since I have no one else to show it to at the moment, and have read some stuff I liked here in the Words forum, here it is.
So far it's untitled.
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“A good summer day,” thought Mark as he made his way through town. The paved streets and tiled walkways had the essence of something familiar to him. The fumes of carbon monoxide exhausted from the organs of moving steel cattle. The plumes of vapour emitted into the sky by high columns of brick and mortar. And, of course, the elaborate facade of verbal exchange, a web of human agreement enclosed in the awareness of waking up in the same interior space every morning.
In this convoluted environment, one’s mind is apt to float above the body as it wades through flashing lights, tickets and billboards that all display the same minimalist purpose to ply the wares of some wretched merchant. Once, it had the illusion of a wonder paradise, fit to the rights of any thinking creature, able to provide for the unique requirements of an individual. But in time, it became reduced to the functions of the same creatures it evolved from: hunger, pain, something to fill the gaps of loneliness created in a world where each segment vies for power, separating slowly but surely from a whole that maintains less and less coherence. The absolute, “total” of it shattered into thousands of eyes peering from thirsty nervous systems, life forms intent on devouring sensory pleasure. Indeed, there is still love. And with each year, it comes more and more to resemble its brute cousin lust. For it is a feeling only needed to satiate the eternal desire of an entity clutched in the discomfort of industrial existence.
This tangent, however deeply philosophical and engagingly misanthropic, is irrelevant to the actions of the character introduced in the first paragraph: Mark, a body with a name like so many millions of others, unique as the rest of them, and just as deserving of environmental satisfaction. He gets into it at this very moment, in the form of a waiting car, a red Volkswagen, a small humpback with turbo steering and a limit of 260 km/h that is easily reached by a driver all too eager to compound the damage that society has had on him by driving fast and recklessly through populated streets as his passengers reel in nauseous expectation of that oh-so-likely moment when, as the beetle careers up and down the top of a hill, an equally red and stupendous vehicle rears itself unconsciously into the front of the testicular mass, resulting in the antipode of birth.
Later, shaken, he rests in a chair, facing a computer, holding something tenderly. The trophy of the dangerous escapade of the drive earlier that day, an assortment of drugs and mixtures designed to confuse and exaggerate the world while stupefying and relaxing the senses that behold it. There is no need to explain what he does and how he does it, but that the ending of his mysterious personal revelations is an ounce of drool collected on the carpet, eyes gouged into the brain and dark circles round them illustrative of the loss of oxygen the ingestion of the substance bestowed on him. And, taking the short road to paradise, the millions of brain cells that were permanently expelled from reality. Consider the Hindu saying: “all that’s destroyed is retreated to God,” and realise that it might all end well, that perhaps this sudden loss of life will result in a repeated blank slate of some kind.
So far it's untitled.
_____________________________________________________________________
“A good summer day,” thought Mark as he made his way through town. The paved streets and tiled walkways had the essence of something familiar to him. The fumes of carbon monoxide exhausted from the organs of moving steel cattle. The plumes of vapour emitted into the sky by high columns of brick and mortar. And, of course, the elaborate facade of verbal exchange, a web of human agreement enclosed in the awareness of waking up in the same interior space every morning.
In this convoluted environment, one’s mind is apt to float above the body as it wades through flashing lights, tickets and billboards that all display the same minimalist purpose to ply the wares of some wretched merchant. Once, it had the illusion of a wonder paradise, fit to the rights of any thinking creature, able to provide for the unique requirements of an individual. But in time, it became reduced to the functions of the same creatures it evolved from: hunger, pain, something to fill the gaps of loneliness created in a world where each segment vies for power, separating slowly but surely from a whole that maintains less and less coherence. The absolute, “total” of it shattered into thousands of eyes peering from thirsty nervous systems, life forms intent on devouring sensory pleasure. Indeed, there is still love. And with each year, it comes more and more to resemble its brute cousin lust. For it is a feeling only needed to satiate the eternal desire of an entity clutched in the discomfort of industrial existence.
This tangent, however deeply philosophical and engagingly misanthropic, is irrelevant to the actions of the character introduced in the first paragraph: Mark, a body with a name like so many millions of others, unique as the rest of them, and just as deserving of environmental satisfaction. He gets into it at this very moment, in the form of a waiting car, a red Volkswagen, a small humpback with turbo steering and a limit of 260 km/h that is easily reached by a driver all too eager to compound the damage that society has had on him by driving fast and recklessly through populated streets as his passengers reel in nauseous expectation of that oh-so-likely moment when, as the beetle careers up and down the top of a hill, an equally red and stupendous vehicle rears itself unconsciously into the front of the testicular mass, resulting in the antipode of birth.
Later, shaken, he rests in a chair, facing a computer, holding something tenderly. The trophy of the dangerous escapade of the drive earlier that day, an assortment of drugs and mixtures designed to confuse and exaggerate the world while stupefying and relaxing the senses that behold it. There is no need to explain what he does and how he does it, but that the ending of his mysterious personal revelations is an ounce of drool collected on the carpet, eyes gouged into the brain and dark circles round them illustrative of the loss of oxygen the ingestion of the substance bestowed on him. And, taking the short road to paradise, the millions of brain cells that were permanently expelled from reality. Consider the Hindu saying: “all that’s destroyed is retreated to God,” and realise that it might all end well, that perhaps this sudden loss of life will result in a repeated blank slate of some kind.
