The Effective Management of Mass Psychological Casualties

> having constructed a massive bar chart in an attempt to statistically measure the degree to which an impending global government has concerned itself with his personal freedom of choice, Stanley Blade became immensely frustrated and decided to cancel his subscription to the Scientific Journal of Cellular Division. Last months edition contained extracts from Alvin Toffler’s 1970 publication ‘Future Shock’ with italics emphasis added: quote,’ atlering his identity as he goes, super-industrial man traces a private trajectory through a world of colliding subcultures. This is the social mobility of the future’. Selective listening/selective reading, what’s the difference? The ensemble of symbols measured by the average rate of transmission of information through the system, intricate as a vision of prying out eyeballs with a well worn typewriter lever, is limited by the nerves of the listener of said sentences. Stanley’s mind, reeling with this wisdom, forced him to listen to the electric whsiper of the turned down low television in the adjoining room. Television, informal unwritten ciriculum, sit down switch on and watch a millionaire go through the motions. The kinetic image at 50 million oscillations per second, guaranteed to shatter your sense of self like the skin of a gunshot victim at a bad hand of poker.

Incrementalism, slowly boil the toad and give the poisoned water to the dogs of war to drink

> A book in the gutter swollen and bleeding its title. (The same day he tied a puppy to a kite). The same day he saw a boy tie a puppy to a kite. He watched it rise, until the howling faded and he let the string slip from his fingers. The kite and the puppy made the evening news, dangling from the powerlines out by the abattoir.

\\\TAXI 3: They search the car in silence rubber gloves and careful like an experiment. Stanley continues to listen to the electric whisper of the italics streaming from the radio, tracing a private trajectory through a world of extracts from…? The title obliterated, the facing pages molested by the rain. They soon find the things he tried to hide, a substance that’s remains unidentified (fragments of old films depicting various atrocities, the semen of a thousand perverts mixed in a wax matchbox). If this tells you nothing try watching the broadcast.

He walked out of the door and the park welcomed him. Raining at the park, more of a challenge to jump the dry ground where people had their umbrellas. A bird with a broken wing splashes in the puddles. I awake to find the carcass of the bird on my kitchen floor seems a carpet of feathers and there the ribcage with 1 leg still attached and pink intestines trailing out behind reminding me of the kitetail and the yellow fat smeared on the door the same color as that puppy and the blue feather carpet could have been the sky.

Keen to express the grater sensation, technology as its organs cool in my pockets, blurring my notes about the engineering school. Sticking from a hedge inviting my fingers an umbrella which pinches. (I would want to see all the footage, I would want the banks to burst, I would welcome the floods, I would cheer should this city wash away…but I is dead now. Poor I, crushed under his library. Better that than the masses which lay waiting with piles of stones wherever he used to go. I said that he wanted to die anyway, after he was made redundant by certain clauses in the socialist agenda which lies behind the world wide sustainable development trend. He pushed a thick hypodermic into his vein and bled half his blood into the bathroom sink the day we saw a bum die under a tree down the beach while nearby a crowd of people rescued some ducks from the diesel washoff of council buses. Dolor ensued (to resurrect the obsolete), as he spent weeks composing minimalist fascist texts (a manifestation of his extreme enthusiasm for the little known Laxist school of thought), that advocated the complete destruction of the human race, bar a few film stars and a supermodel or two. The Sherlock school did lead him to believe that Noah had caused the flood.

102, the only part of the street sign he saw as he ran it down. Some decay happens for fun, like the flowers that grow defiant on the fields of bones, cacti still stand in the deserts where they let bombs off. Your sense toad gloats over by the cacti, I would have thrown down your faith frogs also and stamped on them with his high heel shoes.

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 27th, 2003 at 09:06 pm and is filed under NEW TEXTS, NEWS. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.