The Shtuff Part 2A turnpike has been a long time coming, waiting, sitting at stools waiting for us to finish up the meaningless copy-making. Even the road points forward points outward directs up and onward beyond current footing and out the chain-linked hollows. Webs are minded, for sure, since each seer sees a course leading out and away, in a pack, perhaps, but always split like strands. All the ambient wafts and wispy visions dart to an untraveled Orient. It lies to the West. With the sweat of fish mongers, the weight of artists crashing down is ever held. Their hell lurks, a trap unseen. But they live amongst devils and share theiThe Shtuff Part 2
Untitled for nowThere are finer things to life, living, and being real. There are long nights of endless conversation. There are men with a naked mind shaving atoms raising their arms in search of a clouded shift of conscience, who see through youthful whimsy and find the nothing present and glaring, who hunt for wasted purpose and harvest fruits of the blinking sphere, which trench circling lights and laser eye beams through screens projected over the moon, whose surface opens scattering ash from 700 urns of dead thinkers who paved streets with lusty wonderousness all played out for the ruin of mindful neophytes, whUntitled for now
Waste of EnergyEdmond peaked around the corner of 35th and Constantine, aware of how strange it would make him look to passer-bys, but unconcerned. He could care less what people would think of a 35 year old investment banker running about like a child’s game of hide and seek. There was something following him, sinister in intent and primed to kill. Stick to the main roads, he thought franticly. “They won’t kill me in open air, even at this late hour.” He said this second part out load, but hushed and with grave tone. When it was clear, he ran. It was a tight spot he had put himself in, dealing with the scum of the corporate hierarch, dubious and veryWaste of Energy
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zygote. maggot. buzz. splat. nil.
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Hearing I ask from the holy races
From Heimdall's sons, both high and low
Thou wilt, Valfather, that well I relate
Old tales I remember of men long ago.
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