Most recent post

The Art of Yeee-haw

-
Image
  The Art of Yeee-haw Goddamn, let's do a tune called "Hanson Hide," okay?   Goddamn tape's rollin', let's go!   Let's round 'em up!   One, two, three, four! Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Keep them Asians movin', movin', movin'   Though they're workin', never complainin'   Don't try to tell me they're not floodin'   We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, burqa in your face!   Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, cover up the race!   Hanson hide, yeee-haw! Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Rollin', rollin', rollin'   Keep them Africans out, out, out   They bring disease, that's what she shouts   No refugees, no black South, no doubt   We're gettin' swamped! Swamped! SWAMPED! Yippee-yi-yay, chain-link and hate!   Yippee-yi-yo-ki-yay, keep Australia white!   Hanson hide, yeee-haw! No good Muslims!...
Post a Comment

No Blemish in Holiness

-


We thought the heavens were perfect
There are no blemishes in holiness
Then we built an entire mindset based on perfection
A millennium of evolved delusion

Celestial mechanisms managed by inherited untouchables
The enabling of war, the honor, and pride
Just because the weapon is blessed doesn't mean it is sacrosanct
Just because that machine is beautiful doesn't mean it will not kill on mass

The focus in finding error has lessened the need to make understanding
The priority of profit has enforced creativity as an exclusivity
Institutionalized standards ill-define exclusivity and impoverish blemish

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Echoes in the Wire Unspooling Day 1

-
Image
  Scene 1 In the cradle of copper veins, where the first byte flickered like a eucalyptus firefly against the millennial dusk of 2000, threads uncoiled—raw and unbidden, a post-punk snarl weaving through the static hum of dial-up dreams. Imagine the snare drum's ghost-crack echoing off Uluru's red flanks , not as a conquest but as a lover's bruise, blooming violet under star-pricked skin. Here, rebellion wasn't a fist raised in Canberra's marbled halls but a glitch in the grid . A Laughing Clowns howl warping the airwaves, sonic annotation—jagged guitar riffs splintering into didgeridoo drones , fading to the hiss of cooling circuits. The wire remembers: a young voice, pixels pulsing with the fury of forgotten tapes, cassette ribbons unravelling like the Murray-Darling 's parched secrets, whispering of bans that bind not bodies but bytes, burqas woven into neural lace, veils pleading for the light they obscure. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge Jo...
Read more

The 12 loops of Goodbye

-
Image
  The Twelve Loops of Goodbye The fluid rises. The cryo-hiss is deafening. And then... the program starts. Twelve times. The system cycles, and twelve times I see you. It starts the same. The image freezes in the dark. It’s you, BK. Or... It’s your idea. You’re wearing the rig. The goggles are locked on me. I try to say your name, but my mouth is filled with ice. I love you. God, I love you. But you don’t blink. The Neural Glitch . Something is wrong. The memory corrupts. I see " corrupted code " trying to stabilise across your face. Your eyes... behind the lenses... they twitch. Microscopically. Are you hurting? Or is that my pain rippling through the connection? A low-frequency pulse warps your skin. You look like a stranger. You look like the machine. The Shuddering Breath . This is the one that breaks me. Total stillness. Then... a faint mist forms at your mouth. Condensation beads on the goggles. I scream at you to breathe! Just breathe! But it’s slow. Irregular. It’s a ...
Read more

The Shuddering Breath I Became

-
Image
   The Shuddering Breath I Became The cryo unit hisses open, and I remember my name: JB, pilot of the *Subi*. The med-techs call it “revitalisation.” My body hums with a new, raw power. Muscles knit with synthetic fibres, bones laced with carbon-filament. I feel incredible. Invincible. But in the polished chrome of the med-bay wall, my reflection is a stranger. The eyes are mine, but they glow with a faint, amber diagnostic light. The scar from the asteroid scrape is gone, replaced by skin too perfect, too seamless. They say they rebuilt me better. Stronger. To survive the long dark. But when I clench my fist, I hear a servo-whine they insist isn’t there. When I calculate a jump vector, the numbers resolve instantly in my mind, not on a screen. Is this their design? A monster of efficiency, crafted for a purpose I didn’t choose? Or is the monster the part of me that wanted this? The part that, bleeding out in my crippled cockpit, whispered *yes* to any salvation? Did I consent...
Read more