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 sightseen.
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
