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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Time is a luxury we no longer possess
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Space Tourism Chronicles
The Slingshot Saga
Time is a luxury we no longer possess
Our battered Subi spacecraft, a relic in the night Flickering erratic, its core a dying light On Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine, a river of light so grand But cycles bled away, draining across the land BK slumped, pale and strained, JB with eyes closed in despair Time a luxury we no longer possessed, consumed by cosmic air.
Transcript from the Slingshot Saga - Time is a luxury we no longer possess
No "stop and revive" in this perilous, uncharted space. The Rumour Mill's comfort is a memory, lost to time and trace. The exorbitant demand is a punch right to the gut. Our savings drained, our journey's hope, behind a costly shut.
Transcript from the Slingshot Saga - No stopping in uncharted space
Coming to a complete stop in the heart of uncharted space? Absolutely not! There’s no “pause and reboot” functionality available in this terrifying, vast void that feels like it stretches into eternity. The once-cozy Rumour Mill? That sweet little sanctuary has transformed into nothing more than a haunting ghost story, vanished without a trace, leaving us to grapple with the chilling emptiness around us.
The demands we face are crashing into us like a freight train on steroids, relentlessly draining every last cent we had carefully stashed away for a rainy day. Yet, amidst this chaos, we stand resolute, tougher than nails and ignited by a fierce, unstoppable hope that illuminates the surrounding darkness like a brilliant supernova.
No matter how overwhelming the cost may be, we are hurtling headfirst into the unknown, driven by a fierce determination—because quitting? That word doesn't even exist in our lexicon.
Slingshot into an anomaly
But Katcha's mind intertwined with Subi, a final desperate plea, "A predictive model for a slingshot to the anomaly!" "Best case, worst case": a gamble to save everything we hold dear, with a 45% chance of structural damage, battling hope and fear. To that faint, almost imperceptible energy signature, we must fly, A needle in a cosmic haystack, beneath this silent sky.
Transcript from the Slingshot Saga - Slingshot into an anomaly
In his final, desperate moments, Katcha's thoughts inextricably linked with Subi's, a fervent whisper echoing in the vast emptiness: "We need a predictive model for a slingshot maneuver towards the anomaly!" This was it, their last resort, a calculated risk that weighed the best possible outcome against the direst consequences.
The odds were against them, a precarious 45% chance of severe structural damage to their vessel, a chilling statistic that battled fiercely with the burning ember of hope within their hearts.
Their target: a faint, almost imperceptible energy signature, a solitary beacon in the cosmic void. They had to reach it, a daunting task akin to finding a needle in an impossibly vast, cosmic haystack, all beneath the silent, indifferent gaze of the endless sky.
The Necropolis Corridor
The Necropolis Corridor, a black scar across the vast space Dense fields of derelict ship hulls, a haunting, grave-like place Rogue asteroids, pockets of temporal distortion, where systems interfere "Where All Machines Must Die", the chilling truth, draws ever near Uncharted Space, a labyrinth of hazards, dark and cold Careful, manual course adjustments, stories yet untold.
Our bio-engineered companion
Katcha hunched at the nav-console, her fingers flying across holographic displays Her iridescent blue furcatching light, through the critical days "Scan Delta-Nine traffic" for an escape, a way to break free For our bio-engineered companion, integral to mission, is she "Subi, it's unstable," the AI rasped, its voice now almost gone This detour of boundless curiosity, pushing us till the dawn.
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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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