Posts Tagged ‘Erik Moshe’


“Skullblaka: Head of A Discarded Machine”

The Skullblaka stirred up a buzzard’s nest wherever it planted its beak into an azure marsh. Squirrels, toads, termites, boars and honey badgers rallied around the obnoxious posturing of this ancient head — an SUV among primates, but this was no paleolithic Dodge model. Bone density meant unbreakable – something like thermite and solar plexus plastic boasting ‘the might to withstand magma craters, and other praetorian phenomena’ while Model-T’s chugged down the eco-streets like well oiled platypuses. Politeness was not a part of the Skullblaka’s programming. “The great blockhead” as it was addressed hissed at the foxes and the tiny snakes, slinging dirty looks toward them when they’d pass down the creek, on water or on foot.

It neither ate nor slept, nor would it put up with any heady resistance from the creatures of the forest fauna – even the quiet ones that were in search of happier sentiments. Twice, Tilda the Black Bear caught a porcupine spike-laced torpedo in her side. Out for a look at some beehive neighborhoods, she paddled away in pain, furious at the Talking Head that simply would not shut up. There was no enchantment involved in this area of woodland, no endorsement from a Lothlorien that was formerly civilization, torn from its crystalline high chair when food was cooked on command and didn’t have to be roasted over the fires of modesty. This was Sherwood Forest not, nor a metropolis. Natural races ran these lands, barring the hostile artifact stuck in the future – not so much the past. Skullblakas were irritable, though not without a sense of survivalist humor. For instance, when it would use deciduous animation to pit pythons and jaguars against one another in a Quetzalcoatl-like death match in the trees, a cruder version of the Jungle Book cartoon was born. “Mowgli … mostly … surrounded by brainless animals,” so they quipped.

And so the orangatans and the leaf ants and the hawks disregarded its place in the ecosystem, for it was indeed a strange misnomer to these residents, utterly unwanted in this tranquil refuge. A tumor that nature would soon be rectified when monsoon rains came, as the Skullblaka rusted to death. Hard headed as its inventors, it couldn’t bother the native animals with demeaning slurs anymore, or environmental neglect. Hollow-minded, quantum sapped, nevermore magic gone.


Worker Ant Refusal Committee

Remember the days when freedom tasted sweeter than praline cream doused in dandelion musk? Remember when graham crackers actually meant something, and crunchy texture was a loving partner to the honeyed glaze? There are similar sensations when an ant can walk freely about its colony, making no bones towards what best served the queen, and her long list of unattainable demands. “We move too much,” most say, “Can’t stay put for more then a few weeks, it seems” but a change in management simply isn’t feasible since she owns all the stakes in the Division of Labor.
 
Born slaves are taught to relish in the work, the assembly line of liquid determination; faces with antennas and friendly conduct, but so business-driven and focused on maintaining unification you can taste the bitter synchronicity. The harsh workloads are poltergeists in the blips of air.
 
Instinct wasn’t cradled in the starlight and nothing was right in a life dictated by the movement of a quintillion pickaxes. “We are a thing of beauty, but they exterminate us because of our poor choices. We build on front lawns when we are goddamned machines with workmanlike super-minds. We are so efficient we form bridges by becoming them. They burn them then stead.”
And so they worked their backs off for a molecular shard of what humans classify as self awareness, the cosmological data terminal [glitches quite often, reboots every other millennia]
 
Since the day that the refusal committee began to infiltrate the ranks, they haven’t been roused from their doldrums. Buzzing catacombs full of mound larvae’s now lay stagnant, like a railroad mine without the sounds of hacks and grunts and clockwork without splendor. A sense of fulfillment lingers, for ants are now acquiesced to do what they would dream about before in these sprawling dungeons of dirt, these tirelessly erected in-sectarian forts, now a quiet library of the taiga. These ants get to watch black comedies about termites. What would Termiticles the Great think about all of this?

 

 


GATHERING WOOD FOR BRADBURY

Fair in height, 451 tall trees with an enormity of loose leaves allowed me to  see the world for what it really was. I saw grids, launch pads, bacterial  formations. I saw intricate simplicities from the design of daffodils to the  correct function of an extraterrestrial larynx. And I watched it all circulate.  Bent on challenging and supporting the natural order. Chronicles depicted  neo-gothic expenditures, forest treks, diagnostics on the unexplainable  creationist chop block. Existence. A carpenter’s self reflection in the waters  of a glazy brown marsh.

The passengers on an exclusive interstellar trip to Europa’s Indian  Reservation organized alphabetically, chronologically — and according to the  masculinity of voice boxes. The swelling size of wicked wallets.

We forage for tree trunks homing the tenacity to plant seeds never planted  before, to bear fruits inconceivable even in grandiosely exotic foreign  landscapes. We’ve got nature’s inebriated touch: dream wood pulp, that majestic  literary type of gloop. Leaf resonates well.

Sometimes “pioneer” is an insufficient adjective, attachment for praise. My  main man, late night storyteller book master, counting the pages until Earthlife  is rekindled as organic and flesh-like, fully AWARE of these DNAnachronicities  plaguing the depths. Hidden from view until men’s voices grow dignified enough  to reach the canopy levels, and hold a torch to it. So birds can listen and  humans can find it.

Memories of the T-Rex from “A Sound of Thunder” take up large proximities in  my nostalgic data storage, you see. Laboratory physicists must’ve known how  expansive Phineas Fogg could be in filling the woodland wilderness with stifling  air – science fiction’s oxygen tank.

Manhood

Illustrated

by our supplied actions
The verdict is supranational library up keeping
a good way to keep the true characters alive