virtually on the verge of vomiting

virtually on the verge of vomiting, i push myself yet again, DJ's Sisma and Vekta driving me hard atop the range of the sliding decibel control, spinning their seduction, averting hallucination, inducing hallucination--for how else can i still be on this endlessly-moving carpet of vulcanized rubber passing under my beaten you-know-whats, at an indicated 8 miles-per-hour.


this, after having subjected myself to implements of torture painted an airy, aseptic white, corners coronated by stainless steel to prevent the corrosion-inducing sweat and tears shed during these BDSM sessions, while tied to ligatures of 1/4 inch 7 x 19 MIL-DTL-83420M cables terminated by 10-pound chunks of recycled slag, shaped ingot-like, potential energy tortuously converted to kinetic--energy is neither destroyed nor created (or is it mass?--although i feel as if my mass has been destroyed, mutilated...)


stop i do not. i keep control, avert nausea, meet and greet Limit, my old camarada, who like i has changed, become more inscrutable, prone to abrupt shifts in presence, mind, disposition.


"adios, tia. me voy, dejo tu abu-grhahib, tu house of pain, tu facility of torture, tu medieval dungeon, el discretely-mail-ordered-from-back-page-advert-in-almanac-format-photo-journal-of-alternative-sexually-arousing-practices-implement-of-pleasure-equipped suburban basement you habitate; i am in desperate need of a carbohydrate bolus."


as i make my way up the stairs, i turn, look down, weakly smile. i know, Limit knows, i will return. and i so wish she has her friend Enlightenment over for an as-as-always-too-brief visit.




virtva llyin the verg aknabac firnate ogiti hiyrbak if akterbauve

60 seconds of your life

60 seconds of tabulated amounts of CO2 emissions, Becquerels of
radiation, cubic-feet-per-second of water flow, powering your
hardware, cooling your home, maintaining your prescribed thermostatic
setting, screaming electrons producing radiant heat passing through
skillfully-engineered strata of silicon, configured as transistors,
shrunk to micro-order-of-magnitude dimensions, you averaging 22
respiratory cycles, involuntarily generating an unmeasured number of
peristaltic movements, forcing measurable milligrams of simple
carbohydrates, your digestive system converting into
direct-proportion-levels of glucose, 72 beats of your heart (10%
measurement tolerance) pumping this nourishment and O2 to hungry
mytochondriae, feverishly processing adenosine-triphosphate, keeping
your core temperature at 37.0 degrees celcius (1% measurement
tolerance) in natural-selection-perfected autonomic-nervous-system
response to the R-134-vapor-compression-cycle-chilled air, via
perspiration droplets excreting salts along with them, you feeling the
social-convention-urge to remove this waste this very day, lest it
lead to body odor, proceeding to remove using chemically-produced
surfactants, whose byproducts are stored and neutralized with yet
other chemical compounds with their own product lifecycles, excepting
the volumes that self-described-savvy manufacturer's management,
deciding to dispense with all environmentally-friendly regulations,
simply dispose directly into sewer systems, thus securing short-term
financial gain, this sludge, flowing into streams and rivers, mixing
with your kidney-filtered, hydro-soluble remnants of
simple-carbohydrate-rich drink that, by virtue of its excessive
caffeination, triggers another autonomic response—evacuation--flowing
languidly, hydrating livestock that makes it into your bathroom, your
choice of soap being animal-fat based...

v2.0 like, hair, you know?

"…so, like, you know, Mrs.-stylist-or-whatever, I pay you to do my hair, and not, like, to bore me." so, like, I did not, like, really tell her, as-if! but she, like, kept going on and on, like she could not stop, like she had taken an oral laxative or something? And, like, my day to-ta-lly sucked, and all, and all I want to do is, like, relax, and like have her do me? …oh-my-gosh, did I, like, just say that? Do me? Eeewww! No, no, no…she is "doing my "do," doing my "do!"" oh-my-gosh: gross! Whatever…
So, like, my eyes, like, close, and it feels like I'm totally floating or something, and the hair just, like, falls, and all, and its weird 'cos, like, I feel it falling, and, like, I'm thinking, like, "if I was standing on one of those scale thingies, would I, like, weigh less, or something?" Whatever…
Anywho, she just keeps going on and on and, like, keeps totally talking my ear off, like when you call my cell, and, like, we talk, but, like, that is, like, totally different, and I swear, I'm, like, oh-my-gosh, like, "you don't get the clue?" "Hel-lo-o-o; is there anyone, like, in there?"
So, like, the tanning-booth-fan-thingies, or whatever, the ones that keep you cool and all, but you, like, sweat like the football team practicing, like, they are sooo to-ta-lly hot anyway, but, like, they are to-ta-lly gross later...anywho...and don't the lights, like, burn you with..."you-be," "ultera-v," "ulter-vio"...whatever, and, like, don't they, like, kill cooties or something, and, like, my nerd brother says they, like, show your drool on your pillow, and, like, totally—eeewww—stuff, like, oh-my-gosh, so-gross...
Well, like, they turn the fan-thingies off, 'cos some chick is, like, done, and, I swear, I'm relaxing, 'cos the noise they make is, like, dreamy, or something, so, like, I'm, like, "this is tooo much," and fi-na-lly, I'm, like, done, but a total bitch, 'cos I could not snooze and all… and, I'm, like, 'if she just shut-UP"...what-ever...

Requiem

Time numbs the memory, a loss of fidelity of synaptic analog recordings: the essence of the memory is there, but its intensity, clarity, range blend with the hiss of the tape passing over the read/write head. Add to this the surges-in-electrical-current-on-an-unprotected-IC-spiking-pops-onto-the-magnetic-media-through-the-write-circuit the bipolar brain causes, and...