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Note

02/12/2009

Due to  a variety of things this blog is hereto-forthwith on hiatus. I hope to return to Nice Marmot at some point in the not to distant future.  Your humble blog master.

Automatic #256

15/10/2009

I am in the basement with Dr. Watson building a Frankenstein. We were sent instruction via the mail and met here on this day to begin the great project of our lives. Neither of us knows how it will come out, or what will be done with the endless piles of corpses that arrived soon after. Perhaps we are to build and army, but no the instructions said clearly one Frankenstein. It is days like this where I like to get out of the house stretch my legs and a take a nice walk among the evening sounds. But Watson will have nothing of it. He insists that we investigate each possible avenue, each possible computation. I am tired. I want to lie down and take a nap among the sycamore trees that seem to be sprouting up everywhere now. Here it is. I will lie down among the green grasses and rest my eyes. I will not think of Frankensteins. I will not think of this.

automatic #217

13/10/2009

It’s times like this when the wild-life, the unnameable wildlife, creeps down into the valley and waits in the weeds like some unexpected flower. An eye twitching in the tall grass. Everything on fire. The gates to the city barred shut, only they forget to let us all in. in the center of the city the smoke rises from the lone chimney, the last bit of this place left standing. Cats creep high backed and cackled, flashing green eyes through the smoke, through the fog, we don’t which is which. There is a sound of no sound in your ears. perhaps something in you is trying to escape, or perhaps not, you lack the ability to take measure. Instead you are measured out inch by inch one bleating point after another. A stone knows your name, yet you can’t coax it into revealing it to you. Instead you slip on your shoes, your rotten and beaten shoes and march into the city.

Automatic 156

12/10/2009

I had been traveling for months through an unknown land; my only companion was a spent mule who talked to me in a strange language. Horizon after horizon came and went, and yet nothing ever changed. Same grass, same corpses erupting with flowers from the earth. Same sun. I had forgotten where it was I was destined for in the first place. Nameless town piled up and then swallowed under by the sand, so that finally when we had reached the gates of the great city my companion turned to me, nuzzled with his nose, and give me a firm kick through the gates. I am still waiting to land.

Automatic Story #47

23/09/2009

In the beginning of the story a mother and her two children are walking across a moor. We can tell from the scene that they are most likely refuges from some catastrophe and from the moor we can tell that this is most likely England. They are dressed in ragged clothing befitting of the period narrative. They are framed by a cloudless steel gray sky, it is not raining but has been recently and the dewy grasses of the moor have soaked the dress and petticoat of the mother. The children are blank eyed and expressionless. Seen from a respectable distance, one that lingers right at the edge of humanity.

Later on, after the rats have slunk back in from the bowers to begin reclaiming their stake, the mother will pass into a deserted city. She will clutch her children close to her and shield their eyes from the rumble and viscera. She will pass into the blank black eye of a crow and through the door there into something beyond. The children wont know it, but they will be reinvented as ghosts, as shadows flitting in between the threads of the veil. The mother will rock them and curse god for not having invented the love story.

poem

11/09/2009

I am the smallest mouse scratching at the ecclesiastical door. Everywhere there is rain and I’m pretty sure the church itself is compiled of corpses, each one more holy than the next. There is a preacher in the bell tower forecasting the hour of our return. “Hallelujah hallelujah, the bells toll, All is bliss all is bliss.” The layman lies like a dog, curled up around his rotten master. The air is filled with cries for vengeance, with cries for recompense; but Oh the stench, the stench.

Uhh…

26/08/2009

I haven’t forgotten you really, I am just busy with my political career at the moment, but don’t worry that shall be over soon and I will be back here with you dear blog pumping out the crapola once again….here’s some more pictures:

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