Message-ID: <6049eli$9712021848@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: martinkn@james.stud.ntnu.no (M.K.) Subject: Damage Control Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: Text by T.H.Boe and Guttorm Nordö --------------------------------------------------------------------- D A M A G E C O N T RO L (O N LAG TR O EM DAC v6) ...and i presume it was the exact point of turning that surprised me...the sudden drop... splash of well-tempered wine...the slash of the wrist and the way to innocence and then, nothing to remember but the only memory; quiet, quite quiet, quiet, in fact, stone dead; stones crying for resurrection, me standing somewhere near with my madrigal, silenced, preparing a loop of some equisite dreamaterial, dusty winds that erode the mountains of torment / the piles of trash to be published. To stand up straight, blood rushing at the maximum speed of two inches per second. Minimizes the efforts to combine the (brainmilk) with the (seed) thus leaving the (dreamproject) open for misinterpretations. Somebody waiting for signals. Has been waiting for 4 years. Still without leaving the stage. Anyway, the ladder was cut to pieces before the carpenter even thought of making it. That¥s just how dreams function. In another dim light climbing up and clinging to pure air can be seen as the greatest of all arts. To draw rune-like figures and sketch up usable another dim light climbing up and clinging to pure air can be seen as the greatest of all arts. To draw rune-like figures and sketch up usable frames in black xylene-free permanent ink on the vast canvas of transparent oxygene is one thing. Shuffling them around and make them fit reality another and much more heroic act of absurdity than any turkey on a three wheel bike would care to consider as something worth making noise about: His art is of a heterodox kind, like a lay figure laid out in front of his vehicle, not noticed, driven by and over. Not like jorn¥s huge ceramic relief made with a vespa scooter. Not like any art, not like anything, even not like absurdity. Concrete turkey loves to be driven - doesn¥t seem to avoid any means to an end, reflected upon particularly by gay niggerlovin' neo-nazis throwing ethnic bombs in the mix, capture the word and world in japanese machines labelled as soul-rewarding, fuck these acts of random terror the straight zool with pierced asshole said dancing on officially sponsored acres of nuclear powerplants and other chemicals. Did anybody hear me, when i shattered the plexiglass frequency console, did you know that (------) pierce your own brain dreadlock-hitler (------) showe it up your (------) and descend to a cave far beyond Hell: Fall down stairs head first, pass 1 1/2 billion steps, count them backwards (if you¥re not strangled by your evil shoelaces) ‚ showe it up showe it down, your madness is too personal. While you¥re down there bring my greetings to the owner or inventor of this huge garbage heap called World. There¥s a Word War going on but i refuse to talk. Make your next move from a position underneath the Synthetic Cow pissing BrainMilk BrainMilk RainMilk PainMilk VainMilk GainMilk KainMilk InsaneMilk. And punch drunk on the mentioned BrainMilk, you slowly move into the woods on a rainy foggy night, to experience the three-dee polaroid painting taking your breath away, and she enters... Dusk dripping from the leaves above her, soft shivering slowly escaping restraint tuning into the pulse, the sensuality of being allowed to caress her body half naked totally vulnerable but too filled with strength to be noted as fragile, caress the monastery tickling with wet grass and warm pebbles, never to return in the same state as escaping, having an orgasm free of sex but arousing andevocating pregnancy deep within... Maybe to waste some more words on this incident would be naÔve, but not to would be an offense... And after the magik the melancholy, the bitterness and anxiety connected to taking the consequences of leaving this ThoughtTrain always in motion. Acts undone. Sights unseen. The GoGetters are in a state of constant hunger; inbetween minds and lines. Above our heads, the Controller, the ruler of knots'n'knobs and everything and drunken dreams: Intricate Cat Acts, sudden SimpliCities, conscious beyond considerations: ExtraTerrestrians, we¥re ready for leaving home! But She, the DuskDripping One, who¥d never believed in ufo¥s, she¥s the one who was picked up. Snorted by the Prime Nostrils of Clarity. The goal of leaving home is quite difficult to reach. When; a) you do not have one, or; b) you carry your castle in your heart. In order to leave you either have to find some substitute to leave or (again) perform some kind of self-surgery. A bloody mess if you ask me, but you don¥t. Way out (of line again)...the same words. Neglected by self restraint. Don¥t blame The Control on The Controller, the ThoughtTrain is that of Choice, the Snake and the Apple are present in your solar plexus gallery... Starting or ending, I don¥t know, I keep on crawling inside your mind, sorting out memories of apples: The fresh ones, the rotten ones, the red, green, poisoned ones ‚ eyeapples, soft, like glass melting in front of your view. Matterless stonetouch: Me the Snake within You Apple: Raise your eyes, look up inside your skull, see he universe you¥re creating, holding up. Atlas-Apple, you¥re the pepper of Cosmos. Your mind¥s map equals the Sum Incognito. You¥re the source of all existence, and you¥re me (no way to avoid such perceptions): I am You, You are Me, We are Us. We control lives and deaths. We come, see and go. From nowhere to everywhere, from everywhere to nowhere. If we knew knowwhere, we wouldn¥t have been here. Lift the starknife and prepare for the cosmic dissection. Prove that the influence of the full moon has nothing to do with your horribly restless sleep. Merry-go-round of memories. Hair growing on the InSide. Making your mind and heart more and more masculine. Women have their model/matrix from the moon, and we¥re burning like isolated suns. The moon; the friend of travelling kind. Constant alchemy and metamorphosis. „Lux. Luna. Mater.¾ The reflections in which you place your self in the midst, the bliss of some worldly sights of hypervisual voices (from where?), giving you strange but shiny messages, truthalike in a nonexplaining manner; freezing your attention ‚ quite quiet ‚ you can¥t just shut your ears ‚ the voice comes into your head through other perceiving channels. Electrified you wake up and wake up and wake up to find yourself sleeping, waving flags, signalling a long awaited homecoming. A rehydration of instinct. Rolemodel aware of implants. Digital consumption of the extreme mescal experience. All pieces become icons. Your heart is just a biomechanical motor. Your soul in bloom. No connection what-so-ever between the connected and the connector. Power o some other drug than the usual. Drop it forget speech another culture as well ‚ rooted in your collective assembly of InPut and Deterioration. Confused now by these KnowNots 'n' Knobs. Faint manitu. Your light¥s blinding me. Paint my eyes white open. I¥ve tasted my mind; oh, what you don¥t hide! 700 dimensions, each with 700 exits. Holy wood inside of me. BigBudgets floating by, presenting antistories and boring stardom. And all the independents working on different locations behind my forehead. Layers, layers. I used to wish that I was alive. and well. But ever since I met Mr. Mesc I¥ve been collecting, putting the pieces of past and presence together. A Giga-puzzle. I saw too much. Fell too fast. Came to Dashville, ended up being a hitmaker, hitting hard, breaking, recording damages so unbelievable that in a very short time I was awarded with a blow-up for two to Atmo, that stretched and fascinating island up in the spheres. Mr. Mesc, you tricked me into meeting you, into admitting that I was a worthless creep. Before our crashmeeting I just believed insuperiority. Hard to explain. Hard to maintain. But naÔvety saved my life. Now I¥m loaded ‚ so come on, shoot me if you dear to, the experiment is for free. I know the image has a crypted side to it. For I have repeatedly admired the unavoidable pre-roll loop. Scraping gently at the screen to impose colours of a quite different nature. There is a cello frequencing in my guts. Carry the bow between my legs. Skipping at every twenty-second bar. Brainwave pattern altered. Again a moonlight serenade. Effectuated by the spirits of The Score. Complexity triggered by EgoSolutions and the urge to belong in this videogame installed upon us. We¥ll all meet in the Die-In Restaurant anyway, so why bother ejaculating comfortly easy ache. Not worth it. Not worthy at all. On top of all this; not even worthless. Still I can use it, worthless or not. Know the feeling of it? Buying his old clothes. Doing the GuiltGame. Who do who think they are? Who blames who? Locked you up, you say? Who did? Posess you not the key yourself? Came you not voluntarily? ‚ Nights. Nights, I wanted to sleep. Nights, I wanted just everything. Nights, colours turning against me,shattering me, make me feel alive, kind and evil at the same time. Nights, wanting to see, but fearing opening my eyes. False, was it? Maybe. Did I reach out for you? No. Did I leave you? No. Was I frightening then? Suppose so. Sensitive above any scale you were. I didn¥t say "believe me, it¥s true". Like always, words blocked by the feeling of importance. A whole world throwing chances and dangers at you. Shaking the foundations of belonging to the same little town all the time. The gypsy inside press charges, want out, around, and you meet on the half-way. Agree on a basic pattern of movements. From this town to that. From this stage to that. >From this audience and bed to others. Awake, find you¥re among the initiates. Decipher the coded messages of mutual respect, trust, reality, excitement. But still with a million friends and contacts spread around the globe, you stand alone. You are the one who over and over again says "sorry, gotta go now". I think of the dreams and desperation of your predecessors. Young at heart you should memorise your communicative aura in the xerox-files. Be allowed to sleep and shine before returning to urbanity. "If we miss. We hit another target." Energy accumulation and new assets. No phony delusion in the chromaterial world. "If we loose. We win the defeat". The moonlight turns towards shades of grey. You remember the best idea of the year (Bigger. Brighter. Better). The Possible Dream leaves the rest with a mountain to climb. Phone rings. You don¥t move. It¥s late. It¥s time for bringing the house down. But the neighborhood was evacuated years ago. But the Sane People and the Heavy-People started moving out even long before that. For a two-year period (and some weeks) you couldn¥t use your eyes properly and you were captured by The Children of the Dust and were forced to collect and paint spiders red. Only red spiders were nice spiders (in their opinion). Of course they (the spiders) couldn¥t live for long (wet-red-paint) ‚ lifelength depended on strength of impressions + quantity of acts (they claimed). You escaped The Children of the Dust to arrange texts instead, suggesting that the nation¥s psyche was in fact dependent on your opinion. Then you understood that the forces of mediocrity and subversity are installed by the Nature itself. Not at all dependent on wo-man. Then you decided to follow these rules. The awareness of the Game gave you new perspectives. You became the cultural terrorist. Not leaving peace in peace. The ultimate object for all your projects and concepts turned out to be self-explanatory. You dressed up, sexy agent in difficult matters, then you went out in the streets looking for action, finding it, watching it. Then you smoked snorted drank until Sister Doubt assassinated you with rays of extreme comfort and pleasure. You emptied her, and by that time it was too late for other than RESSURECTION. Time, it went even further. Punk up the conception // the prophecy were about to be fullfilled by derivations and prejudice neglected by absolutions. Arroganse attracted to your body. Fear of being an innocent attachÈ of LUNAcy. Misachievements. Distortions causing pain and stupid solutions. You reached that point when you had foreseen too much. Future already lived. Pissed and Passed. You wanted more time, not a hard time. You mistook me for somebody else. All correct ‚ I lived with that through all of your life. You brought up my demons. I cashed them in, exchanged demons for diamonds, actually nailed my demons to the wall (after framing them behind glasses), sold them as objects of Art. What a fake life. All hype. Gunmen, armed with fog-horns instead of weapons, shouted to me: „There isn¥t any Justice! You can¥t build any systems without compromising the Nature!¾^ And: „All that is Gold doesn¥t Glisten!¾ ‚ Headspinningly, like a timeless spirit imprisoned in(side) an aging body, I tried to participate in the Social Drama. I bought me my own brainwashingmachine. I was nothing but a crispy biscuit. But. I-was-Never-Singing-In the Rain. Allthough, in secrecy, I spat at the Sun as well. Then I decided to fuck up my own decisions. Took the first train out of your bed. Messed everything up so thoroughly that complete annihilation was the only proper sentence for the crimes I pulled. Dirty-three years of doing the dishes. You¥re absolutely not paranoid when they¥re out to get you for real. Pin you down on your own weaknesses. It¥s my fault that it¥s their fault. Even when abused you¥re guilty, as you didn¥t kill the abusers. I know this and shut up. Nothing to gain, plenty to lose. Be bop a lula or be it whatever. Blood calm down, you¥re starting a fire. You arrive in good condition, undamaged. You¥re feeling loud and sexy. How come? Do not be angry at the sun. He could burn you, you know. And do not yell at the moon. She never did you any harm. You are para-cycling through the eye of a needle. You overcome obstacles, choose new identities, take great care to understand my aims, the whole week through, whether it is Manday, Useday, When¥sday, Thirstday, Fryday, Satyrday, Someday or not, same routine, over and all over again, trying to tape the voice of „it¾ ‚ the exact art of being. Is white good, black bad? Doo yo wop? Purify my soul, next to rotting I hate heat. I¥m overrated, not at all eye ‚ gratifying, but listen, I wanna know; what degree of risk are you willing to accept? Maybe any. Just as long as it doesn¥t hurt the thousands close to me. Stumble back from a trip in the real world. Make a decision to blow some fuses. Fill your head, a point of chemicals caressing your urge to crush your constructions. You drop a two millimetre square of paper. Fall in love with the nothingness of peace. „He who travels and never returns.¾ Your closest horniest friend tells you to calm down chill out, but you you¥re burning. Fiery heart. Gold. Alchemy. You know you¥ll choke on the sharp visions you¥ve had lately. You seek comfort in the smallest attractions. A blink of the third eye. You reveil even the most hidden systems and patterns. Then you follow them. Breaking the rules only when learning about them. Basic instincts of possibility. Tales untold again. Mumbled in anagrams into dead ears. This game of yours changes rules constantly. The moment I got the grip on the first set of rules, they were withdrawn. Another vacuum and a new setting. Another new period of learning: Climbing up just to fall down to climb up to fall down. We dance, weak-willed, to no-rhythms; raped by machines, fleshpots, flesh meets flesh, we kneel and salute the accomplished emptiness. Prophecies? Not needed. Trance. DisDance is finished. Completed, though it¥s barely begun for the load of us. That¥s exactly what makes me want to stay. Some miracle could very well happen. It sometimes do, you know, even though I have my doubts. The bunch of drugged robots, strobezombies, could for instance break out of the militant rhythm & discipline and burst into a real chaotic gang-bang. Would love to see (make) that happen, now wouldn¥t I? Yes I would, but so little sex-appeal among the initiates (inmates). I¥d rather get a glimpse of an ass and a back pumping away in the park, but that¥s not a miracle, unless it¥s you and me laying there (and then I mean you who don¥t read this). Anyway, beauty and magik is a matter of definition and comparison^  No given rules or regulations 'but the subjective matter of choice^  This text is talking about itself. Caught in a no-space-page-cage. This text has no author and is madgone totally. This text is trying to hide something, protects something unknown. An extermination of Meaning? Wordcakes splashed in faces of ghosts. This text kills itself. Soon. Or later. Professor Pro has squatted my mind. He tells me what to write. I obey. The day of can¥t-catch-more-sense has arrived. I must inform about all those dangerous mudinhalers; about their threatening non-existence. It¥s such a must. (Ratify patterns. Go clear. Unmask me. Pray for a good play. To continue. What goes on goes on and on). Somebody, or something, sucked me completely dry. I slipped out of the row. Had a jaunt into my horizontal abyss, looking for a missing heart: ‚ Professor Pro, don¥t you lie to me! (Who¥s Who? Where is I? Are I on top of needles, counting angels? Am I Visual Rage? Is I¥s echoes of common-soul? Do you belong to You? Or to I? Is I? Were I? Will you give me the I if I marry an insect? Reality slaughters I¥s: Dumbfounded Eye turn my blank back on I.) Text can¥t be controlled. (I slept inside an old harmonica. Freebaggin' across oceans of violet notes. Waking up in intervals corresponding with in- and out-breaths.) Adulthood for sure is a promising letdown: Soul like a pterodactyl covering the sunbeams of youth. Wrinkles and physical diseases tear down not just the body; spirituality and mind are attacked too ‚ physical wrinkles + general degeneration of thought and impressions. (Why were werewolfs woofin' and weeping while I painted my inner spider red?) Hang me in a cowbell. Fly me to a hairport. Meet me at the corner of my I. (You serious joker, don¥t seek to far beyond the "facts".) ‚ Clerks, looking like shampoo-commercials, dressed in invisible clothes, stand patiently at your service; ready to hand you the Towel of Babylon ‚ is it big enough to dry out blood, vomit, urine, diarrhea and tears? ‚ Shut up and inhale. Bob NoHope has been hanging around on your turf lately. S/he¥s the strongest. We¥re stronger than hir. The almost erotic attraction towards killing the delicious Anymals of BrainDeath with your own hands give you a strong feeling of Guilt. And s/he suffers. S/he¥s the weakest. We¥re weaker than hir. If the two of us make up the Word, will s/he read us? If we make up the Absurd, will s/he feed us? For the purpose of hir second coming we have to pave way on RotorWay One. It¥s all about space-time relationships. Ageing; a decade of style going kitsch? A centennial of denial? A millennium of decit? HirStory reveils itself. Bob NoHope paves way for Professor Pro. The same old pattern; times of territorial and trivial terrors demands its People to raise their voices for a strong effective DeMan. And we should know now that the MacroImage and the MicroImage are interchangeable when it comes to the Total Rate. Every move is regulated by this Law. But still, MicroMan strikes against the Giant Universal Forces (GUF). Doesn¥t recognize the Weak Ends of his own (and Everyman¥s) consciousness. Will he/we ever know? We, who demands a revelation? We, the bizarre thinkers, who shoot oracles, hunt down wisewords, construct new fashions for spiritual dwarves, swim around like cultural cannibals in the leftovers from the Pinheads' Party... Style the world, huh? Let¥s have a congress again, on top of a dull, great, ordinary bomb, before GUF strikes back (like a thief in the night) and Wins Big. We are I, & I need to find friendly faces, spellbinding events. I need to re-learn; learn to see again, learn to feel, listen, stay, read, walk ‚ learn to be me; MicroMan, with and without comparisons. ‚ If every creature on earth in the same moment decided to jump into an ocean, what would then become of our Armada: Friend-Ship, Relation-Ship, Wor-Ship? (Or, the Fear of Fears; if Big Fish and Ships?!) Ocean inside our brains, so sensible of (about?) waves and tides; Brainwater ‚ it is the Devil¥s Drug: Thoughts. So surrounding this BrainMilk mess ‚ you¥ll find the DeMan Mass. Protecting and feeding the arroganse and inconsequences of MicroMan. Seeds put in human soil by the Intelligence Agency of GUF. It¥s a war for the Street People, the Children of the Dust. Newly published you¥ll find the How To Blow Up Anything In Ten Easy Lessons cultural assassin¥s manual. Made available under the threat of the Social Democratic Fatwa by The Word-Pushers Conspiray Internationale^¡. So splintered by choices and approaches that your Ego dissolves into organisations. Your dangerous prode collides with your pre-ejaculated social -ism. Truth is something you can¥t point out, order is divine, and you can¥t escape any of the two terms. I & I sit down and wait for them to come for us. Armed with the Knife of NaÔvity in one hand and my dick in the other. Only thing they can¥t ignore. Keywords for the nineties, for the entities; hard juicy mutual sex performed with a devoted smile will make them twirl and crawl, visualized or fantasized. Up there at GUF headquarters, where the loyal non-tax-payers of control and double morality rule, to watch (or allow anyone else to watch) a couple of good friends play around with their bodies is judged by and limited to those few that can afford to attend. this and sort out directions from chaos. To pack a bag is one thing. To have stolen or "borrowed" the key without telling anyone generates a feeling of leaving school before the end of the day. A beautiful ball of (not guilt) but falling. Sorry, gotta go now. Reports will be given from the GeoGiant... Watch him belly-dancing across the street, interrupting busy men while they¥re doing important wireless phonecalls to his nervous system. They start rotating. Fall out of line. He, the Giant, circulates silently among monsters. Telephotographs persons in corners, situations, thoughts. It turns out to be the same energetic mass of clever confusion. You loose concentration; outdoor activities versus spiritual philately. But when God-knows-Who arrives with his geosentric legion to instigate the battle, your friends ‚ the rational gentlemen ‚ start drawing their crisscrosses above our heads. Invisible ceiling, you see. Lay out the options. Count them twice and come up with the total amount of two. Then wait patiently for the bearer of the third (eye). Reschedule your ambitions. Aim at four weeks in the wilderness. You stay there accompanied only by an old bunch of art papers. That smell of their years in a concrete basement. Captivity. Blood allowed to rush when you regist -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /