Monday, 8 June 2015

The Machine II.

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 therecolours bursting from every crevice, yet dark, metallic grey prevailed and suffused every stagethe butcher’s apron stank grey matter, x-ray eyedhis elbows thrust deep dripping spinal fluidthe progress of the thinned slab of a soul towards oblivionhigh voltage urgee-e-electronic spasms pressurized the throbbing strip of brain meatglandula pinealisquicker 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 Godzillaa mechanical monomaniacal monster with barbed wire for her hair crushed the screen breaking the glass into a million pieces piercing non-existent earsa need to care, tailor a motherhuge, rusty antennae posing as hung, pathetic nipples broadcasting its circuit sermon, an analogue vlogcoil speeding ever upinexhaustible hieroglyphic permutations scarred the screen‘why don’t ya split an atom?’frantic, convulsing nuggets of neurons dashing volatileone taking off in a blast from the rent brain, glue-sponging on the metallic wall like a hungry snailfrog 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 breastsheavenly smooth mother-milk pouring out into glasses stamped as ‘Knifey Moloko’ marching motionless on a conveyor belta toxic toddlerbattery 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 setteewill 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