Better living within the machine.

(Author: Immanuel G. Moon, Stardate 1997)

Dread K departed the morning express into another anonymous day. As a member of ThE SeEN Soc., she knew that today was the day. Armed with the second book. This was her time.

“After all, they are having some fucking bad times up there in the city,” the pansy-boy DJ exclaimed into the microphone, in the empty midnight moonlight lit room of the community radio station.

Dreadlocked rastamen keep lookout over the castle embattlements. They let the white rider through the drawbridge. About three hundred thousand years later, there we see her again, soul splattering the sunset sky with the electric guitar playing.

Better living within the machine.

The three men were just black-imitation. A sweetening for the bow. A nice disk of fun.

The medusa rap-scheme: Part low … greater acres nine four complex Nine coins onto itself begin appear kind fake / The selling point: / Image before the bed, a resplendent dance-field / Towards Clown nine / Behind a mid-shrine between brown and white / A course of sleeping / Asillyturn of events

“Now for something that is very special to my heart. The sounds of an artist who lives in … Clayton?”

The astro-naught fed the huge monster, swooping and clawing its prey. How had he, Dr. Krawson of NASA, managed to fall into such an obvious trap? Time research, as had been common primary school knowledge for 2000 centuries, is the most dangerous of all discourses. One philosophical slip, and the history of an entire earth could be damaged. This idea of it was this. That this universe, this one of pastures and hills, greenery, little kids chasing each other in the summer breeze, of games and songs and flowers, of everything, mortgages and state elections and … above all else … NASA … do you wish to tell me that this world is to be but a mere envelope that mirrors in reflection something deeper and more real?

“I do,” said the dog.

Well, I’ll be.

Sometimes you gotta speak in tongues, he he he.

Against a blue sky of snare drums, / Between a thousand appreciative audience members, / Annointed by the Professor, / Alotted a plot of land, /Against a blue sky of snare drums.

Inside the lounge-room, the two trippers grinned – a little unsurely — at each other. Kevin A., 23, a part time maths major at the local polytechnic. Full-time producer, has done several outdoor raves and one club performance to date.  The girl was Nancy C., 24, a full time psychology graduate student. Her green Chinese-Indian eyes blinked. He considered that whatever happened next would be interesting, at least, to listen to.

I might call myself “Christian funk band”. That’s what I’ll call myself, thought the young man. Give the album logo a Funkadelic font, too. That’d look really cool. As we get older, we get sillier. It was after his 25th birthday that he began to feel a bit uneasy about things. A kind of vague paranoia had come over him, like a tension in his chest. But then the business of the trade began.

It was a wet morning for December. The weather of the now is progressively degenerating from that of the youth, thought the guy, running to catch his morning office train. Could it be that the weather was psychological or was there a deeper excuse? The Zen koan: the wind blowing the flag or the flag moving the wind. Maybe all imagined? And I mean all.

It was weeks later, during a holiday in the Bahamas, in fact, that he realized what had occurred on that fateful day. It was a turning point in his conception of what was needed to succeed. It was the ability to snake your way to the end of the gate, and blow up those who inhabit its sanctum … but also to never find oneself in any need to use this ability.

The day the listeners of the mandate awoke in their thousands / To the beat of a new drum. It was too late, too late in their hands.

Buttursworth recited the poem as he fixed his mind, meditating beneath a thousand cloves. By then it was too late, the herald exclaimed, excopiously! Mine is the inner ear, the eyes of peace, the need for twoship. Beneath the clouds, the juice of oranges in years between many ear.


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