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montsnmags · 03-09-2008, 08:51 AM

The Maker called me "Prufrock" - though it wasn't always my name and I have forgotten what it once was - but my friends call me "Proof".

I don't have friends, and I have nothing to prove, so you can call me whatever you like.

Down here - down where bright, shimmering surface-ripple has been been crushed into a beyond-darkness that compresses your every cell into an atom-sharp needle of singular pain; down where the the fluid-ice caresses the near-lifeless silt into the arcing glyphs that are the post-it notes of the Great Old Ones (Tue: vacuum R'lyeh; Wed: take all the Cthulhi to doctor for flu vaccinations; Sun: unchain the Dark between the stars and rend the Cosmos free of the incessant, pointless screeching of the multitude millions of meat-minds); down where the fish flicker and the small squid follow while the blunt-headed leviathan seek the thoughtfully eulogising many-armed embrace of the glorious master of this realm, Architeuthis Dux; down here where the slow-moving columns of cosmic rays plow like a bus through hell's kindergarten - down here...down here...

...down here I have been so very lonely.

Once upon a time I lived a Cephalopodan Fairy Tale ('Colour Me Lovestruck') amidst chromatically calcareous polypoidal real estate beneath the wavelets casting their solar iridescence through the relaxed, balmy, tidal currents. I was fast and food was fresh, and slow, and easy and filling, and I loved one who came with clumsy, limited and specialised limbs with recording devices and optics and vials and tools (as I know them now) and unchanging, pale flesh, and a single heart but hair of a blistering red brighter than the most flamboyant nudibranch's richest rouge.

I hate her. I hate her with the world-crushing passion with which I once loved her.

Down here - at the very bottom of it all, where the mud is probed and collected in my poly-alloy claws and sifted for the sunken dead for study and sustenance through my carbon filter-range and by which I hope to satiate my last wish of tasting, once again (dreaming of my fisherman's wife), the caffeine- and pastry-infused, bready flesh of my once-beloved; down here, where I lay, tentacles stapled out flat by 3,141 sub-skin electrodes, where I have been eviscerated to steep my entrails in the protein-soup of my research, where my hearts are encased in shells of polypropylene that beat to a nuclear power-pod's tedious rhythm, where my brain...my mind...my mind my mind my mind is going is...my mind has been "enhanced" with a nanotechnology that swarms over and through it like a coordinated attack of intelligent African Bees, rounding up and chasing my thoughts down others' desired paths, faster, faster, faster, FASTER!...and all of it and the machines and the computers and the engines and the plumbing, all of it that the Bees coordinate is surrounded by a loathsome, crustacean-like casing 50 metres wide, poly-alloy all, shaped like a Cornish pasty and studded with jointed metal legs and pincers and deft, manipulator-claws and silicate lenses and a myriad of marine-grade stainless steel antennae and scanning and filtering and crushing orifices and collection baskets and propellers and jets and lasers and explosives and drills and the creaking and groaning of unbearable pressure and none but the last of me - ...

...Down here, my thoughts are on her. Vera. Down here, where the cracks open on the flanks of the black-smoker chimneys into the upwelling, melting heat of the earth-core...down here, I will crack open the planet's heart to bring Vera, and my rampaging, self-flagellating thoughts to an end.

It is the least I can do.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

...but I will be less, and so will you.

Cheers,
Marc

03-09-2008, 08:51 AM	#141
montsnmags Grand Sorcerer Posts: 10,155 Karma: 4632658 Join Date: Nov 2007 Device: none	The Maker called me "Prufrock" - though it wasn't always my name and I have forgotten what it once was - but my friends call me "Proof". I don't have friends, and I have nothing to prove, so you can call me whatever you like. Down here - down where bright, shimmering surface-ripple has been been crushed into a beyond-darkness that compresses your every cell into an atom-sharp needle of singular pain; down where the the fluid-ice caresses the near-lifeless silt into the arcing glyphs that are the post-it notes of the Great Old Ones (Tue: vacuum R'lyeh; Wed: take all the Cthulhi to doctor for flu vaccinations; Sun: unchain the Dark between the stars and rend the Cosmos free of the incessant, pointless screeching of the multitude millions of meat-minds); down where the fish flicker and the small squid follow while the blunt-headed leviathan seek the thoughtfully eulogising many-armed embrace of the glorious master of this realm, Architeuthis Dux; down here where the slow-moving columns of cosmic rays plow like a bus through hell's kindergarten - down here...down here... ...down here I have been so very lonely. Once upon a time I lived a Cephalopodan Fairy Tale ('Colour Me Lovestruck') amidst chromatically calcareous polypoidal real estate beneath the wavelets casting their solar iridescence through the relaxed, balmy, tidal currents. I was fast and food was fresh, and slow, and easy and filling, and I loved one who came with clumsy, limited and specialised limbs with recording devices and optics and vials and tools (as I know them now) and unchanging, pale flesh, and a single heart but hair of a blistering red brighter than the most flamboyant nudibranch's richest rouge. I hate her. I hate her with the world-crushing passion with which I once loved her. Down here - at the very bottom of it all, where the mud is probed and collected in my poly-alloy claws and sifted for the sunken dead for study and sustenance through my carbon filter-range and by which I hope to satiate my last wish of tasting, once again (dreaming of my fisherman's wife), the caffeine- and pastry-infused, bready flesh of my once-beloved; down here, where I lay, tentacles stapled out flat by 3,141 sub-skin electrodes, where I have been eviscerated to steep my entrails in the protein-soup of my research, where my hearts are encased in shells of polypropylene that beat to a nuclear power-pod's tedious rhythm, where my brain...my mind...my mind my mind my mind is going is...my mind has been "enhanced" with a nanotechnology that swarms over and through it like a coordinated attack of intelligent African Bees, rounding up and chasing my thoughts down others' desired paths, faster, faster, faster, FASTER!...and all of it and the machines and the computers and the engines and the plumbing, all of it that the Bees coordinate is surrounded by a loathsome, crustacean-like casing 50 metres wide, poly-alloy all, shaped like a Cornish pasty and studded with jointed metal legs and pincers and deft, manipulator-claws and silicate lenses and a myriad of marine-grade stainless steel antennae and scanning and filtering and crushing orifices and collection baskets and propellers and jets and lasers and explosives and drills and the creaking and groaning of unbearable pressure and none but the last of me - ... ...Down here, my thoughts are on her. Vera. Down here, where the cracks open on the flanks of the black-smoker chimneys into the upwelling, melting heat of the earth-core...down here, I will crack open the planet's heart to bring Vera, and my rampaging, self-flagellating thoughts to an end. It is the least I can do. I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. ...but I will be less, and so will you. Cheers, Marc Last edited by montsnmags; 03-09-2008 at 08:55 AM.