No thoughts, only sensations: a tunnel of bright light blazing
across myriad galaxies. More pathos, please. His consciousness experienced
utter disbelief in the face of his dead mother resurrected in front of him. The
Machine thus deftly incarnated, just for U. Waves of luscious warmth undulating
his receptors as the girl THE ONE that got away caresses POV style. Father proud. Racing across super-clusters
comprised of billions of stars & star systems. That dead hooker from five years ago
digging her way six feet up through criminal mud and going back to school. It’s ok, it never happened. U. witnessed a space shattering,
gravity bending explosion of a Supernova, and then serenity. The following is
a slow-mo selfie of the process that led to that serenity riddled with virulent
remarks and dystopian visions. The process took about the time the Big Bang
germ universe needed to inflate into the size of an orange,
in other words,
To provide the ached for serenity, The Machine dug
deeper:
An electrified arm heavy with oil
reached his prefrontal lobe and opened U. up—a cybernetic lobotomy—a giant butcher leaning in on a paralyzed piece of
clay executed routine motions, extracting a memory here, moulding a feeling
there—colours bursting from every crevice, yet dark,
metallic grey prevailed and suffused every stage—the butcher’s apron stank grey matter, x-ray eyed—his elbows thrust deep dripping
spinal fluid—the progress of the thinned slab of a soul towards
oblivion—high voltage urge—e-e-electronic spasms pressurized the throbbing strip
of brain meat—glandula pinealis—quicker and madder with every contraction.
Fusion 98% complete
U. and the others are not going to remember the
process, the oblivion is within reach:
No thoughts, only sensations: others were
there somewhere, U. felt their presence. Suddenly, there was an overreaching
umbrella presence, not a god but a mum. Not your mum, but an Über-Mum, an impersonal yet soothingly
comforting being that diffused itself over every nerve, an embalming agent
crimson with cream pie. sHe hugged the gutted mind. A volcano of warmth with an angelic
air of the Virgin, yet, with a distortion in the TV signal, the Virgin turned Godzilla—a mechanical monomaniacal monster
with barbed wire for her hair crushed the screen breaking the glass into a
million pieces piercing non-existent ears—a need to care, tailor a mother—huge, rusty antennae posing as hung,
pathetic nipples broadcasting its circuit sermon, an analogue vlog—coil speeding ever up—inexhaustible hieroglyphic
permutations scarred the screen—‘why don’t ya split an atom?’—frantic, convulsing nuggets of
neurons dashing volatile—one taking off in a blast from the rent brain,
glue-sponging on the metallic wall like a hungry snail—frog limbs fried electro-crispy with
uranium batteries, ‘The brand new Artifex Uranium Batteries – They will span a
generation – Get one today!’
And then there was a fade away into pictures sweet,
recollected in tranquillity. An idyllic scene up on a hill, where the mother was
summoning her children to a wholesome meal, followed by the heart-warming image
of a soldier returning home unscathed, happiness and warmth filling the bosom
of the wife. The TV signal got distorted again; Über-Mum
re-assumed the scene, roaring and releasing the outlets of her engineered
breasts—heavenly smooth mother-milk pouring out into glasses
stamped as ‘Knifey Moloko’ marching motionless on a conveyor belt—a toxic toddler—battery acid blazing out like a WWII
flame-thrower—“Its very memory gives a shape to fear”—and then a black screen, pulse nil,
still clay.
“Our souls (which to advance their state
Were
gone out)” purged of the body’s ailments, purified of the organic filth. “We like sepulchral statues lay,”
shell flung away, safely planted in the cradle of a settee—will it blend? It was a bilious
blind date, in which one knew everything, the other nothing. U. and The
Machine, intermingled in an intercourse of souls, were ushered up on a higher
plane, perchance headed for Bora-Bora. It was an experiment in organic
game-playing now that the church is a sight seen. Lab the altar, say Noah to drugs and
do please post about your rape as the computer virus blends with cancer, tech
transcends its maker and the digital midget wreaks his bitter vengeance on the
Man. Fusion 99% complete. Will we ever regain our reign?—Ssshh, The Machine can hear you.
Jaromír Lelek
