Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Justin Isis - Reasonably Satisfied with New Abdominal Definition + Successful Attempts to Fuck Girls Who Have Recently Vomited

The heart of the Amish girl was a wasp's nest; Utterson had caressed it carelessly and now found his hand crawling with the drones of her love, probing and militant, surveying him meticulously, almost gently, but ready to sting at any moment.


Tuesday, September 23, 2008

After 2012 and the End of Capitalism-as-We-Know-It (A Prayer)

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it humanoids of all conceivable modes of reality will converge on Chomu like butterflies building a rainbow hive of myriad underwear and gussetry, and they will extend probisces and sip thereat and proclaim that the nectar has reached its time of sweetness. Chomu, they will say, was the pollen, and Chomu the seed. And they will design lingerie in the mode of Haeckel.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it Betty Boop will be ressurected upon a sunbed, borne on the shoulders of six executive suicides, and she will disembark thereform and the silken hair of her vulva will be as grapes upon the vine, bearding with wine the mouth of Krishna, where she shall ride as on a Babylonian bronco to the rhythm of "Shut the fuck up and make me come!" Having got her satisfaction in such manner, she will once more dismount and apologise for her forgotten racism.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it all I have ever done will become irrelevant, and will evaporate as waste. All I have ever done will be integrated as fulfilment.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it comedy duos who enjoyed their greatest success on television during the 1970s will perform one long round of live action saucy family entertainment, and will be welcomed, and no one will know any longer whether or not it is meant to be ironic.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it those with whom I have been mutually plotting a tragedy of silence will mutually decide upon a comedy of continual conversation, and will find that the projects we were invested in, which we had predicated upon tragedy, will work just as well under the management of comedy, if not better.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it the Galapagos Islands will be the new seat of government, and the parliament will be of tortoises.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it none shall be embarrassed, because none shall be committed to believe in anything that they do, be it aromatherapy or emo.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it everyone shall read Deja You by Lynda Sandoval.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it people will age in random order.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it all religion will be redundant except as a fashion statement, and people will therefore pursue art through a series of veils. Art will be the new food. It will taste like liquorice, Marmite and cinnamon.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it the U.S. will be the world's number one destination for sex tourism.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it there will still be a surprising amount of paranoia and melancholy.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it the grass will be silver, people will cry when I speak, and there will be omnipresent fame.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it Justin Isis will enter a recording studio and find Kingsley Amis kicking back with Sifow, whereupon he will challenge Kingsley to a duel, the winner of which gets to play golf with a golden Daoist egg, using Arthur Miller's head as a tee. When the egg is hit and enters the hole in the green, the ghost of M. R. James will be evoked, singing the songs of Nalle, and he shall erect a spectral temple made of disappointment, wherein shall be housed sad and holy things, such as Tori Amos's "pumpkin PJ's", an amputated smile from the face of Donald Rumsfeld, in which the teeth have not stopped growing since the rest of him was atomised, and from which there comes a noxious, witchy, hissing vapour, James Frey's weeping rectum, the strange, holographically paralysed lovechild of Momus and the Cheshire Cat, the nature of Monkey, an exact scale model of 109, with living simulacra, Dare Wright's doll, Edith, H. P. Lovecraft's prose style, Kate Winslet in Heavenly Creatures, the very first silverfish ever to crawl the earth, and Lalla Ward.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it publishers, editors and readers will treat writers with respect.

After 2012 and the end of capitalism-as-we-know-it I will have a relationship with a human being.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Justin Isis - Fuck Off, Dad

You started reading a new story on Chomu, only to discover that it was written in the second person. You resented the writer's attempts to narrate your actions, and soon stopped reading.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Scramble City (Part II)

[This one took a turn that I didn't really plan for, so it wound up shorter than I'd planned - we'll be back sooner with the next one to compensate, I think. Simulcast at Patchwork Earth!]



It is said, at the time of the founding of the Capitalized Lands, that there were two great figures, The Author and The Architect. One would weave the story, and the other would bring it to life. The buildings would rise from the mire as though birthed; utopia with a fare, sliding along the surface of a set of catacombs, and adrift from the dying world.

Rocky, Nick, Naomi, and others, they were children born to the Capitalized Lands, taught at the Camps, and knew only the roles they'd been chosen to play, the only history was the history of their city: The Cola Wars, the First Ride of the Monorail.

But The Author no longer spoke, and without him The Architect had no balance. Great works rose and never finished, entertainments no longer drew from the old myths, and shadows were cast by the structures where before the sun had lit every work evenly. It was as in the story that Rocky knew best, when a lasso of chain was wound about the sun and tied to a place, a lone mortal, below: brilliant, but static, and so thus unable to grow. For without the passing of the sun, time stopped and the ages ended.
It was, perhaps, the drugs that came first. Nick had taken to them all too easily. But it was not that sin that drove them apart, but rather Naomi: the discovery of her royalty.

For an instant, as Rocky's fingers trailed along the borderground's walls and fences, catching on thorns and chain link, he thought he glimpsed her torn gown through a portal, but it was gone too fast, as it ever was. Even as he passed through a vault into the tunnels, he could hear the voice of the lawman growing louder.


“No! Benton! I don't want to hear about debts! Benton, listen – I want you to explain it to them very, very slowly, so they understand it. Yes, we're aware. Yes, we'll be closing the old cases. No, I didn't lose the evidence, I stored it. Because! Because, Benton, when you're called to the... to here, you don't really argue, do you? No. No. Benton, listen to me. I'm about to meet with somebody, okay. No, I don't really... no. You know how this stuff works. All but brought here in a duffel bag. A pizza box. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, buddy. You, too. Don't get captured.”

Max Mann, le d├ętective terrible, put the talkcard away, looked over at the plinth in the center of the plaza. It was old, older than most of the things here in the center of the C.L. A child was sitting on it earlier, until a security man came from – where? Behind a bush? - and dragged him of by his ear. Now somebody had left an empty cup there, where it was being explored by a bird. He could still, however, make out the inscription.

“To all those who once passed through.
To all those who built what once was.
To all those who still stand atop our shoulders.”

He rubbed at his nose a little and headed for the magic shop down the path, where Little Lyons met Dreamworld. Where the avenue split, an old green sign was rusted and curled around, which would take the strength of too many not to be noticed. Someone had hung a fresh map sleeve on the knotted steel with something approaching irony, which was in short supply here. He slipped a map free and into his pocket, next to what he believed was the only firearm on the grounds.