Star Trek ing

The days are not frigid or sweltering; but confined in longing for abstractness. The days have ways of sinking away in colors seen too many times. Shades of the universe are simple and limited. Electro suns are mechanized by corporate worlds for the generation of mass funds. Income slides down the hungry gullet into the mother fiery pit of insanity that is earth. Where still the conquest of the mind isn’t promoted, as old bio-mechanical nation statesmen sniff brandy on their verandas. Caring nothing for the self inflicted shackling of the common man. Greed like black matter splatters across solar divides, connecting all the human conquests with taint. Man has made that which incubated its own existence, with grease and sweat and science; but bliss lays hopelessly away, a spectacle like the stars of an earthly childhood.

Asteroids scatter tastelessly across the black sea. The ocean is endless. When a being leaves the earth and initiates the transformation to living amongst the stars, they morph from a creature of emotion and soil, to a monster of pure stimulation. There’s no conquest for frank, greed although present, is ultimately as meaningless as, say, rage was on earth.

Out of the field of minerals Bison Bob hovers like a moth to the flame of life. (Bison Bob was a nihilist, and in a dashing show of conviction, developed the neural combustor. A sound wave emitter that destroys brain cells massively and then gradually in order to preserve unconsciousness, and simultaneously preserve biological longevity.) The neural combustor warbles Bob’s chins like a pudding jackhammer. He gurgles at frank, pointing playfully at his crotch.

Happiness like a foul liquid pours into the black sucking hole of endless want. Frank holds it fragile, breaking in its essence, flowing away from invisible leaks. He rolls slightly left and rinses in debris; meditating, holding premise star-ward. Pockmarked moon sways to a depressive symphony. A choir pines for times when games were played, social games of give and take. Mental dams that dispersed chaos sociably. A stream of antidepressants uncoils into his brain (pulse strips spider web through ear cartilage); but chemicals can only make secreted mental obstacles shine with a sickly shimmer.

Confined ice sweat, thickly woven polar blankets, trapped in a tissue constructor. Focus runs and screams, but has little endurance struggling against the vastness of the stars. Frank presses a button on his wrist pad, and his depression stabs into space in a hypnotic light show.

“Hello Frank”

“Hello suit”

“You are feeling lonely, and confined to you’re thoughts”

“Yes, suit”

“Would you like to schedule a visit with the traveling mother?”

“I suppose so.”

“Imagine a bark mosaic, seething and foaming, dripping with fresh rain water. A trickling creak gurgles against wet leaves and dirt. The mother seethes and foams for you.” The sound of a forest buzzing in the rain amplifies through his suit.

“Yah.” he sighs.

“Your serotonin levels have approached even and your heart rate is normal. Brain function indicates you will tire of my description, and ultimately recede back into a depressive state. Farewell.”

“Do one thing for me.”

“Yes Frank?”

“Please implant foreign consciousness one hundred twenty three.”

“This will be the last time.”

Walking, fresh growth, cool air, nostrils twitch with pleasure. Sun seeds in the heart. Bounty is everywhere to be had. Soil crunches under a rubber soul. Joints compress, cartilage strains and pulls. Trees, great ancient monoliths, life emulators, soil suckers. Fields of them stretch in chaos, slanting against the wind and rain, the sun prisms through in a sad mist.

A girl, red hair and acne scarred face, sits humming into the woods. She’s love and worry. Death controls all of her features, pushes lust out of her pores. Frank resists rubbing his leg against hers.

A mountain crumbles in the far off lonely distance and sun light rains through the dust storm of her laugh. Her mouth open cry: rain to an aching soul. Slender twig body feels like pain in rough hands. Frank prospers, overwhelmed. She smiles, and emits a sliver of light the likes of which a man could never make with grease or sweat.

5 Responses to “Star Trek ing”

  1. “Where still the conquest of the mind isn’t promoted, as old bio-mechanical nation statesmen sniff brandy on their verandas. Caring nothing for the self inflicted shackling of the common man.”

    Don’t be afraid to link your clauses. Make the sentence as long as you like- if people get lost in it, or can’t follow it, fuck em; they’re not who you’re aiming it at anyway!

    Marcel Proust had sentences that were several pages long, I’m told. And look at the phenomenal level of obscurity that secured him. The only people who mention his name are those who’ve never picked up his book!

  2. Besides having to monolithically absorb every word … you did draw me into your fantasy, I found myself to read faster and faster. You may want to capitalize Frank’s name at the end of one of the paragraphs. I bet I will have echos in my nocturnal wanderings tonight. Well played.

  3. Your blog is very interesting to read and I love the story you are writing here

  4. Strong, visceral images wrapped in a wild mix and frenzy of words.

  5. Hey Ross, thanks for coming by my site and you’re right, we do share a somewhat similar style of writing. This is very strange with lots of great imagery. I really like it.

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