Posted by Rich Magahiz
Sun, 01 May 2011 00:38:00 GMT
act iii
the disguised princess meets
a quantum wolf
our script lies in tatters our pants too
blackhat
the musical drill tuned
to concert A
sixth anniversary: that’s chainsaws…
Bob Barnacle
knew a mermaid
gave him fish-lice
touch and a pang true Irish harpies
bouquet for Mother
sprouts of the
lovely coca
from a moose’s antlers champagne drips
at the climax
the bridegroom smashes
a moonlet
the deckplates scoured white corundum tears
in the bowl
of your plastic spoon
submarines lurk
with one ivory chopstick I slay tens
whistling kettle
it spews yellow and black
trefoils
Oort-bound scimitars of Tamburlaine
they cast a seafoam net
it pulled up a
lead skiff
siren. harpy.
Uploaded by F. Tronchin
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Fri, 29 Apr 2011 22:07:00 GMT
Minsk stole her heart
Zveta thaws out
a replacement
great beads of sweat drip from my TV
we called “Aprilday!”
passing ships would laugh
and pass
sex crimes in triplicate – it sells clicks
Bolle #explore#
Uploaded by supermariano81
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Fri, 29 Apr 2011 16:26:00 GMT
The only thing I have done is to protect myself from that fiend Maliafer.
The debilitating thing is the uncertainty of whether I have the gift
at all. It is clear that my lifespan is increased relative to most
people, diseases and poisons seem to have little lasting effect on me,
and degenerative conditions which seem to be the common lot of those
even much younger than myself are virtually unknown as far as my own
health is concerned. In a sense, it is like trying to prove a
negative: how can one be absolutely certain as to the truth of the
proposition “I shall not die” except by means of amassing proof,
slowly and incompletely, over time to the contrary? And who has time
to gather up all this proof, except for one who devotes the whole of
his attention to it in exclusion to all else?
I do have my doctors, some of whom I suspect of harboring interests in
my condition (or perhaps non-condition) not strictly speaking in my
own interests. Some of them are useful for treating the non-mortal
afflictions that come, the ordinary aches and pains of mind and body,
and those mostly earn their keep. Others are probably animated by an
interest in the origin of my continued non-death, speaking on their
observations and publishing articles and keeping busy the way that
learned experts are accustomed to. Those are nothing more than
parasites, who derive their sustenance from me without feeding
directly off of me as a host. and to the extent that I can ignore them
I cannot say that I have much quarrel with their continued
presence. Then, finally, there are those who have an interest in the
matter of a more active sort: the ones who are positive that I possess
the key to immortality, which they wish to extract and market
themselves, and those who grant that my long life does not represent a
guarantee of such in the future, and look for seeds of my demise that
they can cite earlier than anyone else. These are the experts who
intrude into my peace of mind the most regularly, proposing tests and
carrying out tedious observations and arguing with one another in my
very presence so that I have had to put some of them out
forcefully. And one of these was the aforementioned Maliafer, whom I
have ample reason to suspect of wishing to cause my death.
He brought himself to my attention slowly, even tentatively at first,
in among the swarm of other specialists and authorities charged with
keeping the petty maladies from me. I do not even know the first time
we met, though I assume that it was not the first time he set me in
his sights as a lucrative subject to exploit. I started to notice his
name being noised around among the others, “Dr. Maliafer this” and
“Professor Maliafer is of the opinion of that” and so on, as if this
individual possessed credentials of which I should already have taken
note, as have the others. Quickly, it seemed, he seems to have taken
over the leadership of the skeptics’ camp who call my extended
lifespan a living death and dismiss the hopes of the
immortality-believers as misguided and self-promoting fancies that
must not be inflicted on a gullible world.
Maliafer: if I call you before my mind’s eye now, I can once again see
your sneering face, your nasal, preening voice. I can still hear the
way he came in one day and proposed that I be put to the test, I who
have done no wrong ought to be put on trial for nothing at all, with
my own destruction being weighed against what I call my “ever
expanding doubt.” Hardly a fair contest, I call it. No mere academic
exercise was this to be either – I was to become intimately
acquainted with actual dangers, things that would either kill a man or
scar him for life – and somehow this was to fulfill an obligation to
the Greater Understanding of Mankind or something like that. He made
it sound grand, in his way, and made me sound petty for saying that
this Greater Understanding never did anything for me. It was a chromed
torture chamber and nothing less, with instrumentation and readouts
there to disguise that it at heart nothing more than a sadistic gang
of boys with aid from mechanical cunning would have come up with, and
they wanted me in it.
I am not without resources, naturally, or was not at that time, and
fought back from my side. Some of the rabble of doctors were
sympathetic to my view and perhaps they also feared losing their easy
circumstances attending to my needs for the rest of their own
lives. But though no one would tell me the truth outright, I could
tell that Maliafer and his chrome box camp were going to win and I
would have to give in to their curiosities, ultimately.
I was left with no choice. This, in fact, was my chief and only
successful defense at my trial. For I did indeed reach out and
conspire to have Maliafer, my enemy, taken down at a time and a place
which could not be linked to me, not definitively, at the hands of men
I have never met. It took a good fraction of my fortune, but it was
done, and I was free to turn my back on the chrome torture box. But
only for a short while, unfortunately.
Others rose up to accuse me, both in public opinion and through the
courts, over and over again. By this time I was weak, even though
(potentially) immortal, and my treasure and my allies were rapidly
spent. In the end I took a deal and accepted a long sentence, here in
the box where I sit. One of concrete, not chrome, where I keep this
statement in case Maliafer was right.
Posted in fiction | Tags flash, immortal | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Thu, 28 Apr 2011 18:28:00 GMT
through an aperture
to step into
Dangerland
crumbly on the fork: human rashers
soma mushrooms in rocketsmoke piles
caught on video
the melt trail
from the brothel
down Mont Blancmange racers telemark
ripple
Uploaded by Rob Ireton
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Wed, 27 Apr 2011 19:09:00 GMT
schoolchildren, hush: trays of fresh lotos
in the seams
of the old woman’s swimsuit:
diamonds
turpentine cascade glazed sunbeams thin
plasma spills onto
the bedsheets
a news crew gawks
bling
Uploaded by jenny downing
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Wed, 27 Apr 2011 14:03:00 GMT
Metatron lands
a quad Salchow
the earth formless still
eight legged flyers crop grass of gold
our roof tenants –
cheap insurance
for tornados
down biscuits heavy with fine goose fat
Sleeping Beauty’s
dirty Black Russian
now she’s set
from Dallas the Prophet floats skyward
watching for tree-lions
our guide expects
pink flesh
cheekbone salad a mothercheese plate
DSC_0105
Uploaded by jibber11
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Tue, 26 Apr 2011 10:49:00 GMT
six lead shutters for Succubus Hall
infernal combustion
chariots shriek
omens
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Mon, 25 Apr 2011 19:04:00 GMT
turn away while there’s time
those legs
those bedbug eyes
they shed their skins silver muscles stream
flow my secretions
this crackup shan’t be
tweeted
the gut furnace petrichor wafting
such pure thick
diesel to my true love
hey nonny
puff the Swisher through a diaphragm
wood screws
fall from our mouths
a firewood tongue gone numb
shut your eyelobes Gene’s got no earballs
my heart is torn,
merciful savior
high in carbs
her hold filled: Nu Ceti ambergris
wrinkles by the crease
our team captain
leaves them in
vest of vacuum sister lets it out
that girl
cuts the tails off sperm
eats them with hot sauce
a long drear trip to Ectopia
among forked realities
I sire
multitudes
two-more tickles we’ll have reached Base III
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Sun, 24 Apr 2011 14:23:00 GMT
thought made manifest
the stars move
they shiver down
dear, let’s be still, this left-handed nook
triumphal arch –
the smallest planet
around Saiph
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Sat, 23 Apr 2011 10:29:00 GMT
casually it begins
mapped
to ones inverse
F L U X from candas sisman on Vimeo.
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Fri, 22 Apr 2011 23:06:00 GMT
rabbi turns, frowning –
the thousands,
their Passchendaele
pawing the earth the snotty rhino
she unleashed her mammoths
guys and small children
wept
Sinbad the soiler an ifreet scowls
old Daedalus
his hot melt glue gun
in the trash
each molecule a chance to find grace
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
Posted by Rich Magahiz
Thu, 21 Apr 2011 11:37:00 GMT
tunnel
of the boring beetle
a clot of dusk
cool, flying elephants! …don’t wear white
Panthalassian
spells wound round
the waterspout
Beelzebub shuns the no-fly zone
Posted in scifaiku, poetry | no comments
