Excerpts of the Sleepless Cycle - Massage in a Bottle

 

Frank says that fear is the mind killer.

My mind though is a prison.

And I'm too afraid to break out. Too weak. Paralyzed in place. Inside a graying depressive prison which I built myself and furnished with all the things I hate the most. A fucking toilet. The walls are glass so I can see all I won't let myself have. A bottle that from within I can watch and envy.

I'm surrounded by people. Not inmates. They're all free. I'm the only one incarcerated.

They're my friends. A bright light coming from the highest of attic windows. The only light. It is hope. It breaks the darkness and lets me discern detail. Texture. Grounds me to life again revealing all its fascinating intricacies. They show me reasons why anything of all this crap can matter. For moments I can feel again. Only moments.

The light, it seems to be moving away. Or I'm moving away from it. I really can't tell.

They're here to remind me of freedom and of happiness. Of real enjoyment. I often forget how these feelings feel.

It's been very long since I didn't fake those feelings in front of the others. I did it so they wouldn't pity me. I hate pity. But it's too obvious to everyone since I'm the only one behind the bars. So I look stupid too.

Loneliness is permeating my cell, pouring through my every cell. It's so thick, so constant, so present. So heavy. It's crushing me.

I can't take the weight anymore.

Turned out the others weren't here for me. They were just passing by, happened to notice me and stayed a while for a visit. Now that they found whatever it was they were looking for, they left together for a party I wasn't invited to. It's OK. Soon they'll forget about me and my “situation”, and it'll be better for them. At least someone is having fun.

I'm left alone once more and now it's dark. The weight is getting heavier. I'm getting smaller and unable to reach out anymore. I'm just staring at the bars tightening and the walls turning opaque. Waiting for the end. Alone.

I matter not.

I'm matter not.

I'll return to nothingness.

I'm the cosmic pariah.

It feels lighter already. More relaxed.

Like getting a massage.

In a bottle.

 

* * * 

King Agalmaton's Untimely Death

 

And thus, the king was dead

and though he had no foe

not someone to dislike him

so much to pull a bow

He only had one enemy:

unbridled curiosity,

searching for hidden treasures

in temples eons closed

Despite amounts of wisdom

one riddle he got wrong:

Are witches made of wood?

And do they also float?

So ancient traps unlocked

a mechanism so bold

as to unleash an arrow

through kingses' brain marrow

But it was way too dark

and he forgot to duck

 

* * *

 

Diary Entry - Flood

Friday 22 September 2023

  We weren't really aware of it before it came. Three days of constant downpour. The flood took everything. The houses, the cows and the sheep. It took the crops and the mountain roads. Shops drowned in floating dairy and offices transformed into swamps of rotting paper forms. The waterworks destroyed and everyone left without electricity and running water. Cars taken by the sea. Villages being cut off civilization. A few dead.

  That was three weeks ago.

  Today, we still don't have quality running water. The toxic waste and the dead animals are still in it. The frantic mob is out for the hunt of overpriced bottled water. We're still shoveling the dirt from the mountain that came down on us brown and sickly, from our pavements. Filling forms and complaints against the city for compensation money for our lost property. The supermarkets offer discounts on all products as an act of solidarity. The original prices have gone up beforehand though.

  It's a Friday at the end of September and there's heat, unbearable humidity and a constant cloud of dust. The weather forecast predicted a second downpour come Tuesday. The land can't take no more. And the city is not ready.

  Today the mayor announced that by Monday the Christmas decorations will begin. Maybe it's the sky of blue lights which causes epilepsy. Maybe it's the festive spirit of a pure adolescent childhood which compels us. Or maybe, it's just the firm belief of our mayor that we'll make it to December. We're in for three long months. 

*  *  *   

Excerpts of the Sleepless Cycle - Bass

My bass guitar was broken. I knew that but I couldn't quite define what exactly was wrong with it. The neck was too short. Like it was broken and then roughly been put back together with most of the middle part missing. So the neck was too short. I could see that, but I couldn't realize the problem in it. It seemed natural. It must be something else wrong with it.

My friends tried to persuade me that there's nothing wrong with the bass. It's just in my mind. I didn't lend it to the squat guys so that they can practice and they mistreated it. They didn't disrespect my offer and my willing sacrifice. At the back of my mind there was always the idea that I could not trust these people, but I always pushed that thought away. Because we are supposed to be the good guys. The ones who care. The empathy team.

But now my bass guitar is broken. It looks weird and unnatural and the neck is too short. And yet I still can't pinpoint that that's what's wrong with it. My friends insist it's just my imagination. Why do they do that? They're supposed to be my friends. They're supposed to tell me when I can't see what's in front of me.

The bass guitar is resting on a chair at the far end of the room. It's so hard to pick it up again now. The thick layer of dust would mean I'd have to clean it up first, and I can't go into all that trouble.

So maybe I'll say that it's broken.

* * * 

Daily Goals of Awakening

The more I live in what I consider to be the real world, the more I want to escape it. I sleep on porcelain. Then I dream. The curtain slides aside mildly squeaking, revealing a window. Like a random show on TV, my dream is performed in front of me. The characters, I know them. They're friends, colleagues and lovers. They're also villains and monsters and those who want to keep me here always.

I wake up. My head hurts, so I shave my chin. At least I look a bit better in the mirror. Like a little garden, maybe, it helps when one tends it. I trimm the bushy sideburns too. Looking at a rampant garden can be discomforting. Even intimidating. I can't lose my touch with reality, the mission is what matters. Only the mission. Otherwise I can't justify what is real. It's the only way, so it makes sense. A shaved chin is my anchor here. I see grown hair and I can tell time has passed.

I'm really trapped here. This bathroom is my shuttle, sitting on the toilet seat, traveling through the galactic corridors of the cosmic gallery on the back of a gargantuan carp. Or is it a catfish? I've never seen it. I only know it's there, and has always been, even before I came along. I took it from the previous tenant not knowing that in reality he also was a prisoner.

I hope one day I will complete my mission and be set free.

I will find God.

And when I do, my chin will be shaven and neat.

 

 * * *

Eki? 41

Eki anakineki I was watching the moon. Its warty silver face was grinning, probably mocking me. Hanging from the night sky like a Christmas decoration it should know better. What does it have to shine for itself? I will kick it down and put something else in its place.

Eki anakineki doesn't really mean anything. If l replace the moon with it, then it will be the thing that fucks my nights over and it won't be better, just different. There is some sort of allegory here, but I can't quite philosophize it to realization. I'll just say it has something to do with radishes and spinning tops. Both things I like, so everyone is happy. And that's it for today. I consider my duty to the world and radishes and spitting toads done.

Bye, I said flying toward the moonshine and into where meanings go for a smoke break. The thick cloud of the pink cigarettes engulfed me and got into my flesh vessel through an orifice that was previously my navel. It felt like a genie coming home and now I was a stranger about to get evicted, for genies have zero tolerance for squatters. Even if all my life I had been living here.

My body then became animated and colored in the color a defecating squeezing face would be painted if smeared with beets, but a mild gust of air dispersed my gaseous form, and all I could see was something unpurple getting smaller and smaller until it popped like a pimple. Then, the voice of God said something like: "Ouch" and I got some minor relief. 

 

 * * *

 

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Bicycle

 When the earth cracked open at the park, the little girl was swallowed inside the chasm. It wasn't my first time positioned in entropy's graceful side, and even though I knew the wrongness of what I was about to do, I didn't even flinch. I moved past her - emptying my heart of guilt and making room for a strangely familiar reprieve. Her accidental fall was but an opportunity for me. Her little bicycle, toppled at the edge of the chasm, was there for me to take.

Erik

Whenever Erik would visit Rust Alley, he'd see the donkey-headed man grinning at him. Erik would look at his big white teeth, even though he isn't supposed to, and the donkey-headed man would say a thing so weird, that the contemplation of its meaning would consume in unhealthy ways a good portion of Erik's waking life. Sometimes it would haunt his dreams too.

The donkey-headed man is three legged, blind and vast. His appendices stretch away, hiding in the shadowy corners of the alley. Heart-shaped sunglasses reflect the lamppost's light, looking back at Erik with two bright pupils, and like graffiti on a wall, his body merges with the derelict shacks behind him. He says:

“Why do I hear a telephone ringing? The wiring isn't installed properly. Am I blind? Am I not deaf? Ruined by your vindication, I smile to welcome fear, for a broken messenger I am. Would you fix me with your coins?”

An Exclusive Interview with P. H. Clockword

 

Great Adventures & Whimsical Disembowelment (GAWD) periodical probably presents an exclusive interview with belly button fluff collector and irreverent quote enthusiast, the totally existing cosmic bard, that is, sir P.H.Clockword (PHC).

GAWD: Welcome sir Clockword. It is an honor to hold you here against your will. Why is it that you rarely give interviews?

PHC: Oh but indubitably, the honor is all yours. The answer to your question is: because, I don't always exist.

GAWD: Can you elaborate?

Cosmic Pariah

The one doomed to drift

    the realms of Sh'Ect

Will always repeat

    the cycle of life

    in circles of death.

 

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Train

I was telling her something.

But then I turned my head to look at her, and I realized, I wasn't. I just imagined I did.

I then went to open my mouth to tell her what I wanted, but I couldn't remember what it was.

How did I get here? Is this even real? Is she sitting right beside me, or is her bewitching perfume the longing of a distant memory?

I am now alone, in the middle of the rails.

Waiting to catch the last train.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

There is just more tunnel.

Queendom Come

A clock begun to tick.

And I charged into the battlefield.

Leaping feet, sword in hand and a silent battle cry filling my mind with blasting rage.

I saw her coming from the other side. Shinning white armor, determined stride, face painted death.

Overtaken by a terrible ecstasy, my eyes blazed with glorious hatred, my arms transformed into weapons of justice. The command had been given. The enemy was in sight. First blood was about to be drawn.

But then, she stopped. Right in the middle of the battlefield, she stopped. Idly staring at me, staring at her own demise.

Pagan

There was a time not long ago, when man believed.

When morals were held in hand alongside faith, and people were content to surrender to powers beyond their mortal capability, for a divine favor.

And life is always harsh.

The people of the village of Onslo knew it well.

Stuck like a limpet on a sea rock, the village rooted against a steep slope, close to the highest peaks of Mount Vunio.

On its feet, the thick cloud blanket kept the village away from an old, forgotten world beneath. The Cloud Gods were not remembered fondly, or hatefully there. In such a place their names were nothing more than a distant memory.

Someone else's tale.

But for the people of Onslo, the giants carried a relentless winter on their backs. And spring, was something that had to be earned, by blood and sweat and sacrifice.

So the people of Onslo believed.

Handker Chief

I hate it in here.

It's dark and wet. I'm wet.

I'm accompanied by things unworthy of my great heritage. The crumbled candy wrap, the coins of petty value, the surrounding lint and hair. A key amongst sesame seeds. Has this pocket ever been emptied?

Why did I end up here? I thought I deserved the world.

Because I haven't always been a napkin. No. I was made for more. I used to be proud and brave and ruthless. Once, I was a flag.

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Candle

Some nights the chandlers would come.

They would take me in my sleep and do things on me.

Tied on a wooden altar, I could only stare at their bleak, static faces, as they scrutinized my body.

The one who doesn't speak, always cared for my perfect alignment against the altar. My hands touching my thighs, my knees and ankles touching together.

The one who never talks, carried a heavy, leather bag. The metallic tools contained within were carefully arranged along an invisible surface. Even though, I could not turn my head to look at them, I knew they were pointed at me.

The third one, the one who only smiles, she would just stay unmoving in front of my face. Eyeless and white. Like trying to distract me from everything about to happen.

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Ants

Ants came while I was asleep.

They took my left eyebrow.

Carried over and planted all the hair above my right one. Now, I have just one big eyebrow. It doesn't feel right.

It's uneven. Asymmetrical. Odd.

I find myself leaning to my right side when I talk to people. They say nothing, don't even seem to notice it. But I know they're are either being polite or ashamed of my unfortunate face. All in all, I'd rather have their outright mockery, than a silent pity.

I don't know why the ants did that. Who told them to? Could it be the King of Ants, whom I've never heard about? The big shadow cast above my right eye blurs the answers.

One thing is for certain though, they're coming for my nostril hair next. They'll put it inside my ears.

That's why I filled them up with silicon. Insulation. That'll stop them. Trading some of my senses is probably worth them leaving me alone.

As for my nostril hair, it won't be easy finding it, while along with my nose, it's in the garbage can.

If only the blood would stop pouring on the paper, I would consider this a clean victory.

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Hag

The night hag comes while I sleep. With her wooden ladle she eats soup out of my open head. She stirs my dreams and sniffs the vapors through her hairy nostrils.

That's why they're always whirling when I wake up, and only the bits she left I can remember.

I will find you witch. I will take my dreams back. I can shatter them myself, all but the same.

Spiteful Ode to a Butter Fly

Butterfly, damn butterfly.

You're not a real butterfly.

You're just a normal fly,

which sat upon my butter

that's why I'm gonna now,

I'm gonna fetch the swatter.

And I will surely avenge

my now infected butter,

for it's the only thing

which in my life does matter.

You sat on my left cheek.

Some say it is a bless.

But if on me I hit you,

my own face I will mess.

So go away fly,

go away.

Spit down on your path you lay.

I don't want you in my kitchen

and I hate your buzz to listen.

I don't like you as a pet

You're just here for my nape's sweat.

Did I get you?

Did I not?

To find the body I cannot.

So I sit on triumph's verge,

while you, from behind emerge.

And you fly to the next room,

cunningly delaying your doom.

Fly you toadfood!

Fly you cunt!

I will get you when you land.

* * *

* Traditional anti-fly song by the peoples of Swamp Cukoucukacou, during the first Swamplordiness election. The toads won that time, with the mosquitoes coming very close, contrary to the general belief that the Electric Racketman has always claimed lordship.

First published in Kernel Kiki's 1894 poem and song collection, titled “Silliously?”

 

News - Introducing News and Rev. Fitz's Challenge

Welcome to News, where we talk about the past.

The following series is created by the exceptionally perceptive writer and cartoonist (among others) Rev. Fitz

It follows Malcolm Steadman along his early-morning meteor shower of ominous realizations, while he only does what he believes to be “nothing”.

The proof: Existential Terror and Breakfast  

It's the simple stuff that get you nervous.

The inescapable, mundane activities you have to go through in order to be and therefore think.

Every little detail of that small around you. They perpetually repeat before your eyes until reality's colors fade away and the things which were previously defined and common, are now something new.

They have become a question.

A completely unexpected and superficially illogical one, yet enough to fire the engines of an inevitable train of thought.

It can be anything, really.

Like breakfast.

Malcolm Steadman has breakfast every day and every day he has mixed feelings about it.

It's witty, humorous and contemplative and bottom line is I enjoy it a lot. It's as enjoyable as if food for thought is actually ice cream and you just realized you're not lactose intolerant.

So check it out.

Also, check out the “31 Days of First Impressions Challenge” he started: Day 23: Denham's Dentifrice

  

Every day he's judging yet another book by its cover. He was kind to speak his mind about Denham's Dentifrice.

He likes squares too

That's all for now.

News Out.

Once Upon in Al' Dah Kash

Once upon a time, there was a sultan who was mostly stingy and enjoyed counting his money and numerous possessions more than anything.