The Ayes Have It (But She Don't) Everybody knows the bill is dead Everybody knows the Senate’s red Everybody knows the deal is done The major parties had their fun The crossbench bargains were all just show The whips have cracked, the whistle’s blowed That’s how it goes And Hanson always votes no. Everybody knows the bells are ringing Everybody knows the mud they’re slinging Everybody knows the clerk can’t count With all the grievances they mount Everybody knows that the motion’s lost Everybody knows what the lobby cost The Ayes go high, the chamber’s low And Hanson always votes no. And everybody knows that it’s now or never Everybody knows that it’s gonna take forever Everybody knows that the act is rotten Old amendments best forgotten Everybody knows the tellers move With nothing left for them to prove The red room puts on quite a show But Hanson always votes no. Everybody knows the maiden speech The lessons that she tried to teach About the fish and about the chips And the tig...
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A very big decision
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A very big decision
The air inside the Subi spacecraft was thick with the tang of ozone and despair, a stark contrast to the pressure cooker of recycled air at Beagal's orbital dock they had left cycles ago. Low, red emergency lighting cast long shadows across the cockpit, illuminating the strained faces of JB and BK, who slumped in exhaustion, their energy reserves dwindling. Subi, the ship's AI interface, flickered erratically, its once vibrant blue glow now a struggling murmur, occasionally flashing a warning symbol.
Their initial quest for the Necropolis Corridor, an uncharted region bordering the Kelpian Expanse, was now secondary to their survival. This notorious hazard zone was a "black scar across the vast space," a swirling, ominous darkness where the "river of light" of Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine abruptly ceased. It was characterised by "dense fields of derelict ship hulls, rogue asteroids, pockets of temporal distortion, and severe energy fluctuations."
Katcha, the genetically modified cyborg spoodle, was hunched over the navigation console, his enhanced olfactory sensors and mind intertwined with Subi's systems, desperately searching for a solution. He knew no "stop and revive" station existed at the hazardous entry to the Necropolis Corridor. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible energy signature flickered across Subi’s ancient display. It wasn't a known station, but a "presence of hospitality" on the very fringes of Uncharted Space.
This anomaly became everyone's desperate hope. The display resolved, showing a tiny distortion at the edge of the black scar, a "needle in a cosmic haystack" amidst the "dense fields of derelict ship hulls and temporal distortions" of the Necropolis Corridor. Subi, its voice nearly gone, rasped a dire warning: "Katcha, it's unstable. Wild fluctuations". A direct approach to this flickering beacon carried a 45% chance of structural damage to their battered Subi spacecraft.
The alternative was grim. Their comms buzzed with an automated hail from a rusty container freight vessel, offering emergency docking services at an exorbitant cost: "all unallocated credits, plus seventy per cent of the cargo". Years of savings, their entire mission's profit, would be wiped out.
The anomaly, unstable and risky as it was, offered a "tantalising, almost magical solution". It was a high-stakes gamble that could potentially "save everything," or cost them "far more than credits". With BK's tremors worsening and JB barely conscious, time was a luxury they no longer possessed. Katcha, the genetically modified cyborg spoodle, voiced tight with determination, finally broke the silence, preparing to take the gamble.
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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...
The Metallic Bloom "It starts on the back of my tongue. A cold, sharp tang of copper... like biting down on a gun barrel. Then... it detonates. It’s not a scream—it’s a jagged, violent bloom tearing through my throat. Shards of silver... iron... and rust. I am no longer a man... just a dark silhouette exploding into shrapnel. The panic is absolute." The Metallic Bloom video-poem It starts on the back of my tongue. A cold, sharp tang of copper— Like biting down on a gun barrel. Then… It detonates. It isn’t a scream. It’s a jagged, violent bloom Tearing through my throat. Shards of silver. Iron. Rust. I am no longer a man— Just a dark silhouette Xxploding into shrapnel. My body isn’t mine anymore. My voice isn’t mine anymore. The panic is absolute. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art ....
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...
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