Trains of thought

An odd & poignant metaphor for the office life. Beware The Robot can 'read your thoughts' & has an 'Octo-Gun' to freeze you where your stand!

The two Asian women sat there furiously massaging their temples, occasionaly one would stop and the other would pause as well. They'd start talking quickly like windchimes in a hurricane rattling, gesturing excitedly at their head, then they exchange a quick reassuring nod and resume the skull rub down. The train began shaking hard, sputtered and screeched to a halt with a terrible noise, a sack of knives spilling off a roof. The lights flicker, the AC shuts down. No one says anything. The two Asian's keep rubbing their temples- comic book style telepathy, the kind that only works when your fingers touch your brow- Steve Ditkoesque energy lines radiating off their head, a spike crown halo implying unseen dangers sensed! Someone coughs. The ghost of a ten minute old fart floats by. A bundled mass of rags shells a sleeping piss bum who even half a cab down can be heard stage snoring. 'Did we get a flat!' A retard shouts. Stifled laughs. He repeats the question three times, louder & louder with each telling. The women, believe or don't, are still rubbing their temples faster & faster. A cell phone plays the opening bars of 'Superfreak'. I go back to my book only to immediately read:

"The train shudders in fever, its woodwork creaking and splintering. The roof tears away like skin on a custard. The night rushes through us. The wheels glow to scarlet over the melting track. Uprooted trees hurtle against the side of the carriage. It cannot be sustained."
- Iain Sinclair Downriver
This is a scene where the author experiments with time manipulation on the train, only to witness a ghost battle between Mary Butts aka Soror Rhodon(the faithless) & her spurned lover, Aleister Crowley. The lights flicker, the machine hums, a headphoned teenage diva begins singing. I can't make out the words, just the intention: This little songbirds gonna sing & sing til the bars on her birdcage crumble like tin. The train shakes and lurches a few yards. Stops. Repeats. The retard is clapping his hand. The engine drowns out the snoring. The AC hums back to life and the announcer tells us
"Lindbergh, Lindbergh station is your next stop. Exit here for the North Springs transfer..."

Verbal snapshots of the week

Monday. A truck stop restroom, an hour South of Macon, Ga. Black Magic Marker graffiti on porcelain white tiles:
I've Shit In Spain
I've Shit In France,
But before I shit here,
I'll shit My Pants!

Tuesday: A long walk home from Krogers. The sun boils the fallen rain and steam rises off the asphalt. Half way back and I realize I forgot to buy smokes.

Wednesday: Sitting in the Eurotrash Cafe off Piedmont Park. Exotic waitresses flow by me, each one their own unique flavor of beautiful, each one ignores me as I sit there waiting for a friend. Bright pastel paintings across the room are my only witnesses until he arrives.

Thursday: Rocketship hangover. Max Ernst collages hidden in a dusty book. I mix VNV's 'Strata' out of Juno Reactors 'High energy Protons' and into Prodigys 'Smack my bitch up'. Then I remember who I am now: A retired gun fighter opens up the locks on the secret box in the bottom of a chest drawer. Fingers stroke fondly an old six shooter. The satisfaction of cold iron weight in the palm, spins the cartridge, checks the sight and returns the pistol, gently to lay on a red velvet bed. He locks back up box and goes back to his retirement.

Friday: My roommate future_kill's BDay party tonight. Stomp Kittens in big boots and blank attitudes. Apathy is the new black. Cold Beauty and concealed intentions. Power drinking. Andrognyous children of a lost war tribe.

The Weekend: A few ideas I wanna jot down for the Script. Sharpen up the old Javelin for my weekly "Collective" joust of the Windmills. If I don't hook up with L___, I'll sit in my room & read. Wanna see 'Land of the Dead', maybe i'll get Bill to fix my bike up, have'nt gone for a ride since the accident, maybe i'll take her for a ride to the movies. We'll see.

I've got a Kung-Fu grip for Jesus!

So I was all bored here at the Office of Solitude. I began cruising around for rare wax and found this little baby...


KARATE PREACHER!!!
I can't help but think of that scene in 'Dead Alive', where this old Father Ted looking priest starts doing high kicks & martial arts on a pack of zombies and bellows one of the all time greatest horror movie lines in history:
"I Kick Arse for the Lord"
Father Mike here is the real deal. Here check it out: