dog piss flows through the streets, the juice of an abscess, a fetid syrup painting a puddled patchwork of canine anarchy on the pavements; the art of a public toilet. i've entered this land as precarious as christ and become lost within a melee of mindless mannequins who pace the treadmill of time in reverence of their ridiculous religions. i intend towards the vanishing point to flee the indignorance that seethes over the skin of the oblivious. i'm alien here, i have but 21 credits remaining and as i walk these strange streets i hear the snickering of the dogs hiding in the shadows, stalking me, waiting for my poverty. i fear they will soon be dining on my flesh.

bugs land amidst the wilderness of my forearms. excited by the sweat they stamp and dance, stroking their eyes, cleaning before the feast. they suck at my flooded pores, the oily pools of salt, until bloated and content. unable to fly they tumble to the sand only to be devoured by the insane ants.

the glassy islands on the window reveal their interpretation of what i see. a warped world in miniature a fish-eyed microcosm of reflected reality sometimes crawling amoeba-like down the slick glass to pool in speckled puddles on the window ledge.

I staggered along the road to now in search of my 'masterpiece'. A non-convoluting vortex slowly unfolded above my head, its edges warping to a fish eyed microcosm of reflected reality. The vortex descended over my body, assuming my form through an ancient A/D conversion and I slid, overtly mutilated (in 15 bits) through an extended vapour chamber, complete with damp hinges and cavernous pretence - indicating that I had arrived at The Inn of Infinite Potential. I violently vomited what looked like cola-laced quinine into a small pewter ashtray. I sipped at the thick black juice. Without warning the door to my room burst open and three hundred Anti Neo-Nihilism police spilled in. As the sniffer device begin to sniff around my thoughts it's bulging jouissance took on the aural hues of a boiling tea kettle. You see....A sniffer device's snosser is designed to strain the air for the stench of words just like these - imagined to be future perpetrators of something that may sonically upset someone somewhere at some time or another perhaps. I spent eighteen hours of each day attached to the Anti Neo-Nihilism Retro-activation unit, a sonic manipulator modelled on a gas-burner driven tea kettle that was designed to placate the effects of temporal tangerines through reverse sonicosmotic pressure. Digitally perversified greenbottle nano-flies, which unbeknownst to the Anti Neo-Nihilism fundamentalists, inverted the effects of the unit, absorbing its influence into their own compositional desire streams - in order to be latent with emotive otherness. Having laced the TVP with the TTJ I then pressed a small amount into my forehead slot and turning to LP-OT, asked for his pages of un-possibility; producing a random soya model that was regurgitated far too often across the future. As the third random future climaxed, a dehydrated, juiceless speck of TVP ejected itself from my forehead slot and as it hit the floor its resonance spread throughout the room - re-re-celebrating the genius of my earlier model but adding their own verbiage to the tediousness as it un-progresses. Eager to escape the smell of the emperor's tunic issuing from the shadowy bits of this particular reality, I hailed an intra-sonus taxi and made my escape - crawled into my ears and began chewing on my mind. To alleviate the torturous torque I sought mental solace in the dirty sonus that swilled around the floor on the lower levels of the Inn of Infinite Potential, that operated beneath the dirty sonus within a thin membranous envelope that separated the dirty sonus from the frighteningly hyper-real universe that oscillated beneath at 96khz; this was a universe where those beyond us expunge and expurgate all things mucus-like from their bodies. Sitting back and gently sipping at the thick black juice through an articulated syringe, I absorbed the floor show - an unremarkable little pantomimic excursion titled three squared; performing a choreographically controlled decompositional epic on the chequered floor-space of an eternal kitchenette whilst a large clock, looming in the background shook its head, checked its watch and shook its head again. I proceeded to indulge myself in a fit of actual creativity, attempting to immortalise the previous events by scrawling their history on to my indestructible fanplastic panpolystyrene writing paper - as I progressed with my reification of the previous, during which I switched on the ceiling fan and commenced to shred last years ideas, I wiped the remaining digitised sky scum from my glasses and cupping my chin in my palms I lowered myself into a pseudo lotus position. I listened to the ridiculous picaresque and fake poesy until the ebb occurred; which hung at the crux of yesterday. Having managed to escape the sonic maelstrom by applying a reverse trajecotorisation of my aural awareness (concealed as it was inside the malodorous beak of a psychotic crow); and thusly spilling onto the floor of the Den of Iniquity in a somewhat karmic decentralised state, I was unable to escape the horde of 'neo-post-retro-modernists' recumbent therein who having 'consumed' my Sonic Narcotics and delighting in the intoxicated reverie thereby induced, the circle closed in and each stranger began requesting justification for my 'aural ejaculations'. Whilst they were distracted I sat and watched as the western sun chased a transparent icarus beneath the earth with the slickness of a malevolent amoeba. Shortly thereafter my head slipped into a passing nebula unperturbed by the 'bleu' smoke that rose in enticing wisps from the summit of my solitude, the lingering effects of many a night of auralised indulgences inavding my head, sucking on my thoughts like an intoxicated leech.

the sun dims its gaze but the fire of day remains with the tiny yellow finches tripping through the leafy canopy like circus people above my wasted mind. the beer is flowing, the blood of dionysus; and conversation is born at last. introversion pins us to silence like butterflies mounted on dark velvet; mute, growing dust and lice. intoxication is the re-animator, giving life to our uneasy interactions. life sags grey for many without a dose of drug. an hour later... as we spin like fools ignorant of the finch faeces that spatter our heads.