AI On The Rip

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I thought I was well above gettin’ ripped by AI but I’m now havin’ tonnes of doubt about it. To be dead honest about the thing, I think it would find me a piece of cake to imitate. Maybe it could write sequels to my works and sell rights around the world. I wouldn’t mind Bollywood for a change, instead of Hollywood. Does India have a rip-roaring AI program? I know they have a space program. If someone were to take the Michael out of my lifestyle, I would prefer it to be Bollywood.

Why not China and Bollywood take over this blog and write something like I am doing here now, about someone having his head done in by AI? I write about doing my own head in with booze and sex and drugs, can’t AI pretend to write about having itself off, and doing its own head in, by copying itself? Does anyone understand what I mean here?

I’ll simplify it. In the future, will AI be writing about other AI programs copying it? I want the thingymajig totally aware and wiping its nuts on my curtains after porking my wife when I’m busy being out buying economy A4 printing paper at the Post Office, not just slipping in with a new title suggestion here and there.

I want it as a cop, an AI cop, sleeping in my bed, taking my kids away, burning all my books, then declaring what he’s doing on my Twitter account. Wassup, have you never seen an AI cop out n about in China? I was calling the police ‘robots’ back in ’96, and getting arrested for it too.

“You’re nothing but a robot of Tony Blair,” I said to the [pig] (sorry) back then, and he nicked me for D&D (drunk and disorderly). We used to say this about Duncan Ferguson, that Scottish striker for Everton. He was known as Big Dunc. We named him Big Dump. Then it was simply Dump and Disorderly. Hope he’s reading.

If you are, you’re dump. Excuse me, I’m a red shite. But I loved the way you strangled Martin Keown! And your celebrations after headin’ the ball weren’t that bad either.

I thought I had too much in the locker for AI. Look back over some of my works, for example, which are always under threat from being ripped off (no lie there). They are about parallel dimensions, wormholes, psychological warfare, World War III, and all the rest of it. Should see me when I’m writing on ketamine with a spliff, I swear, its game over, or doing art under the same influence. That’s why I get mind-hacked day to day, and 'corroded' (what ze Germans called it) because my thoughts and mental activity are pure master class to be a part of. They say they are wicked and do it to hurt me, and that’s a part of it I suppose, but I’m known in people’s craniums as far as my aura extends to as THE DANCE and I am pure ‘visionary’ at times, in-A-divided-duel, if you don’t mind me inflating my own none-too-often-massaged ego for once in my life, and flexing my self-descriptive muscles. The dance. That's who I identify as.

More about The Dance later. I might even take you there. if you ask me nicely. and pay me adequately.

Ultra Awakenings (5)

My little hellfire soon got underway without any hindrances. I plopped back on a deck chair with a non-alcoholic beveragino to enjoy proceedings. I was dressed in my slippers and my nightgown, all snug, nobody to impress, relaxed without a point to prove now that the nearest threat to my downfall was now being destroyed. I was worried about the fumes getting all the neighbours stoned. I was worried about a fire engine spoiling the party. Between these concerns, and the medley of horrible faces emanating from the smoke, I couldn’t relax like I wanted to. I was fidgety, nervous, and on edge.

One of the faces wafted over to me on the breeze and took a bite at my shoulder. It looked like a mixture of several ugly people I used to know. The ill will was plain in its features, nothing but bitter foulness transparent there. I didn’t flinch. Whatever evil forces lurked over me in this world, I didn’t think much of them. The only thing that scared me was my own sense of reckless abandonment. Everything was a bluff to my knowledge, based on something else, with some unclear ulterior motive, there was nothing genuine, noble, honourable or true anymore. Apart from me and my angelico. Who was all smiles and pleasantry. Which was what all evil pretended to be, in my experience, happy. When they looked like bulldogs chewing on wasps.

My education, my two-faced friends, back-stabbers and gossipers, the state…even the powerful evil cabals at the top of the tree, who were supposed to be fearsome leaders and formidable rulers, were nothing but shitbag perverts who were addicted to other people’s children. At least in my opinion, if you believed that kind of thing. Nothing but a bunch of fearmongers the lot of them, into depression, oppression, and suppression. Trust me, I knew about it. I’d taken a lot of shit over the years, from my vulnerable perch, all from pieces of nothing who were nowhere near my equal, hiding in the shadows while administering cruel cowardly punishment. And now look at them, wanting me back in the world of drugs, probably overdosed or on the streets after a week or two, who knows, in the gutter somewhere, that’s for sure, no low was low enough for my abusive handlers.

I had another deckchair set out for my angelico, next to me on the porch. To my surprise she was a tiny winged fairy hovering with a magic wand underneath the roof beams, in the corner of my eye. I know what you are thinking, that this might be a brain projection from someone, but I trusted in the Holy Spirit and I had faith in the purpose of my own suffering. I was not a lost cause who needed something external to govern his own happiness, like a bully picking on a victim, or a stalker obsessed with his prey, I had my own internal core and my strict set of hopes and aspirations and my shining too, or my giftings, as you like. My giftings carried me in the light and caste me as a survivor all these years. It was just the way I saw the world. My perception made me a very valued individual. So much so that I had to be studied all my life in a limited scope of base invasiveness, by tyrants who didn’t have the decency or courage to show their own faces from time to time. My cuts and bruises were vast but I saw it all as the biggest of compliments, and despite my extensive trials and tribulations, I am pleased to announce that I never turned to devil worshipping. At least. I am not. A devil worshipper. Praise the Lord for that one.

And on that note, with my lively sprightly angelico, who bounds me up in heaven with forgiveness for sins and makes me feel indebted with never-failing love, I declare that my life is an insincere hoax but I myself am the real deal, with a rosy future free in Christ full of freedom and liberation.

So there, Ultra. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it. 

_∟,m~k^{┐.⸎ↈU..🧠💫}

smile with the gift of living well

Ultra Awakenings (4)

I wanted the fire set in front of the porch, on the patch of dry muddy ground at the top of the path. In better days it might have served as a vegetable patch. I never quite got around to looking into how to do that. A tray full of soil with some tomato seeds in, was that all there was to it? Or did you plant them in the ground? I had an allotment somewhere, as part of the main property, abandoned, unattended and derelict. Only now did I wonder how it was faring. I don’t think I’d ever trodden foot inside the thing.

The whole rigmarole of destroying the contraband felt like a marathon. Lugging it onto the front of the cabin wouldn’t take much muscle, it wasn’t all that very heavy, but as far as I knew, firestarting needed a flammable agent. Under the kitchen sink was a decent starting place to look for something like turpentine. In truth, I could testify there was no petrol on the premises. Did I have a jerry can, to fill up with some at the garage? Hmm. Somewhere, perhaps, maybe, yeah, correct. Probably under the sink, next to the turps. Both standing together, as two rather unique objects. Then again, probably not.

What else filled my checklist, for [un]controlled fire? Because so far, if I was relying on what lay under the kitchen U-Bend pipe, I might be running into problemos i.e., having nothing there. Surely there was something there. Had to be. Everyone had stuff under the kitchen sink. Mostly cleaning products, I bet. I seem to recall the meagre beginnings of a humble jumble sale down inside mine. I once found a bottle of vodka I can’t remember purchasing stashed within. Wrapped inside a hoover bag. Of course I necked it. Didn’t doubt it for a second. But I was absolutely certain I did not buy it. Or hide it. Why would I hide it, if I bought it?

Now, did I possess any firelighters? Firelighter was a strange term for a firelighter. Firelighter indicates a matchstick, or an actual gas lighter, something that ignites an opening spark to a flame. Firelighters are actually more like different versions of mini logburners. They should be called firecatchers, not firelighters. The ones I was familiar with resemble tiny squares of hardened foam or sponge, or cardboard, or little pillows. They burned independently for quite some time. On their own, they were a small fire. I suppose they started bigger fires. Ideal for barbecues, that kind of stuff. Even bonfires.

This fire, this one soon to be belonging to me, the special penultimate one on my mind at the moment, was set to be grand. I was drinking to it, yes drinking (!) in the presence of my chummy amicable angelico. I was sure there was an easy way to get it lighted. Once burning, we could both watch together whomever plans it was to seriously thwart my life go up in trippy smoke. And trippy the smoke would be! Wow. Best not stand too close! Part 5 due shortly

∟^,m~k┐.⸎ↈU..🧠

JUST ANOTHER WALK IN THE PARK

                          🧨🔥🧯

Ultra Awakenings (3)

Memories of my childhood abuse flared up while working out the conundrum of what to do with the contraband. I knew that the recollection, if stimulated with aphrodisiac narcotics, would place me in a sexually receptive state of consciousness. My abusers recorded proceedings with me; I possessed the sound files as part of evidence in an overdrawn court case. I think they were handed to me on purpose to turn me on one day. Seriously. I have always considered listening to the recordings they made of me being raped and knocking one out over them. I know it sounds sick but the idea was even more prevalent now with so many substances around.

I remembered how sexy coke and ecstasy used to make me feel. My abusers dosed me up on that good stuff before they played with me. It was an old aunty mainly, and her friend from the local River Island store. They used to take turns penetrating me with a wearable plastic penis. Honestly! I was only a wee boy, I didn’t know what was going on, apart from the fact that my legs seemed to be always in the air. I hated everything about it, but as I matured into adulthood I fantasised about the pair of them frequently. When I saw them in court during the case, my aunty had enormous maroon inflatable botox lips. Her mate had a brown tanned plunging wrinkly cleavage.

My aunt had gone on to own a nursery named Wind In The Willows Childcare. I was equally repulsed and attracted to her all over again. I half wished she would come around and rape me again, now that I was all grown up. Part of me would have loved it. I thought about secretly writing her a letter, making the proposition legitimate in print. I was only pressing charges because the CPS were twisting my arm about it. I didn’t much care whether they got away with it or not. Like I was saying, I became convinced it was all about getting those recordings into my possession somehow, a sly excuse to enslave me to the memories all over again, if I dared replay them in my ear, which I always thought about, but never did.

Hearing my abuser’s voice instantly set my loins alight. My head sighed with shame and my heart sagged with embarrassment but the excitement of my nether regions didn’t lie. Her cruel dominant lispy accent sent me absolutely crazy. There was a hurried impatient nuance to her clipped military tones, an expedient urge, which put me on heat quickly. Remembering her body, and her attire, and all the little characteristic details I’d forgotten over the years, made me crave for her on some deep level I hadn’t noticed about myself before. The longing was still there after all this time and it was not only uncomfortable, but almost impossible to deal with. What exactly did I do with this sexual need suddenly alive and alive well and truly within my members? I’d adored her as a little lad, and perceived the perversion as genuine consensual love.

The recordings…the drugs…I could have a tug. But when would it end? I’d be down there for days and days if not a week. I was diagnosed with masturbatory psychosis in my youth. That was when I was involved with another woman. This one used to undermine and ridicule everything I said or did. She would abuse me too, but in subtler, harder-to-prove ways, it was more verbal, she had a thing about stripping down to her expensive lingerie, she was only 25 but she had a breast implant jobbie. I think she had hurts like I did. She was weird and eccentric but she would never strap one on with a minor. That takes a particular degenerate breed of woman, wouldn’t you agree?

The psychosis had me seeing her mind projections in my abode. She would think something into my home with her brain from a bunker underneath and my eye would physically see it. She would spend all day doing this, layering the floor with snakes and having flying rats congregate around the lampshade. That was at the beginning, to get me back for finishing her. She bought a How To Draw Anything book and started making her own creatures up. Worse than anything, they could touch me on a physical level as well. I thought this was special technology from the program handlers but it turns out to be a perfectly natural phenomenon which close emotionally conjoined brains can do if in spitting distance proximity. Now I believe she has a brain-computer-interface, to enhance the signalling.

The wider community now bounce their zany mind projections around my home. I’m on a list for extra-judicial justice. That means vigilante punishment outside of the courts. It’s something I’ve learned to live with. Try the projection stuff one day. Attempt to put a slimy monster in your neighbour’s bedroom. You never know, he might just be able to see it. And feel it.

Hold it a moment. It’s my dear beloved angelico speaking. She wants the contraband burned on the porch asap. She fears both the scared and demonic energy of my feverish desire, not knowing where it will lead to. I hang my head and stare at my feet with lipstick and nipples in the back of my mind; in the front I am swinging in the sunshine in a bushy park about to be burnt up by a solar flare, or a nuclear bomb, like a scene in Armageddon or Terminator. I don’t know what’s with the dystopian aspect, but everything feels very end of days like to me, as if the final decision I have to make has monumental consequences on a cosmic level.

When you’re abused in such a way, and you have both divine and heretic lingering foes to distract yourself with for day to day company, and you have pure ULTRA blood running thru n thru your flexing veins, life seems to pan out in such epic ways. There’s no such thing as normal anymore. Even a pen and paper looks outstanding. Or a whisk. Or any old household object. In fact, all objects are fascinating. The creatures that girl used to make were always holding at least two. That was her one unique stylish trait she did when bombarding me with projections – have them holding at least two random objects. Anything. Didn’t matter what. As long they were always fresh and new and novel. It was her thing at the time. I didn’t understand it. She just had a thing for objects. Now I’m beginning to, in a way. You should see the state of the monstrosities she flings indoors with me now. Anything to pass the time.

My angelico wants that fire blazing. I’m gunna have to obey. See ya in a bit. Don't miss the next installment.

∟^,M₭┐...🧠

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Ultra Awakenings (2)

The next morning I received a package from who I guessed was someone high up in the program. It was the size of a small coffin, all stamped cardboard done up with masking tape. I suspected nothing except a joke, like a legless and armless blow-up doll. They existed. You could buy them in online boutique shops. They even arrived in fashionable bodices. My mate Simon had bought one once, in a drunken shopping spree. It had turned up at his parent’s house. He hadn’t known where to put his face.

I ferried the package down into the basement, where I kept my weights bench, and started peeling off stickers about Amazon’s warehouse. Armed with a pair of scissors, I cut the tape and ripped the card with my fingers. Its innards were confusing to behold at first, when I opened the front flaps; it all felt strange and unfamiliar, as if I were staring at an unusual array of objects I had never seen before. But slowly as my eyes adjusted I began to recognise what was poking me in the nose.

          Contraband.

It was the only word to explain it.

          There were several large bags of white powder. A fat even larger packet of brown. See-through bags of different coloured tablets. Strips and strips of prescription pills. What looked like transparent pencil cases of sludgy paste. An open bag for life full of hashish. Bars of solid resin. Wow. My fun was cut out here. Bottles of spirits. Cartons of cigarettes. A gun. Rounds of ammunition. Stacks of cash, cold hard tender. Even a few bankers bags of £2 coins, as if whoever had put together this worthy bundle had won at the arcade machines on his way over here.

            But me, far from feeling like I had dropped the jackpot, reached over to draw the curtains. Then I realized I was in the basement, under a bare bulb, hunched over my newly acquired batch like a vulture over a carcass. My expression must have been hard to read. I was sickened and inspired in equal measure. Mostly I was starting to panic. Already I was hearing knocks at the front door in my mind. Hello, police…

            I mean what was I looking at in terms of possession with intent here, ten or so years in prison? Don’t worry judge, I’m a super soldier for Ultra. Or at least I thought I was gunn be, until I got set up. I didn’t understand. Was this a DIY suicide outfit? I suffered from an addictive personality, you can take the kid out of the block but you can’t take the block out of the kid, I’d overdosed on prescript tabs as a teenager, bought off the black market and slushed down with vodka. That wasn’t the only good piece of narcotic survival testimony I had in my story backpack. As it was, I hadn’t drank for about a year. Looking at these bottles of spirits, gleaming with their syrupy contents, I considered having a good glug in a glass and smoking two or three cigs just while I considered the best course of action to take. Surely I would be protected by police if this was part of my programming detail? I doubted it. Sometimes the program wanted you detained, and it there was nothing to stop it from detaining you.

I sat back in my rickety chair and exhaled. Back in the day, this was the life I had very keenly coveted. To be a master criminal, a trendy gangster, with enough dope to sell and make a living and also plus get high with on. I must tell you how helpless an addict I used to be! I was truly one of the most hopeless variety. And the battle had never really left me. There were tiny little pipes in my property which poisoned me with chemicals all the time, but willful intoxication for a leisurely purpose was completely different. I had beaten the hedonistic half of me into submission, with pure drive to exist through this torture deathcamp scheme. Now here facing me were all my demons in the nice secluded solitary space of my own private basement, where nothing could go wrong or get me.

Scenes of desperation and ruin crossed my mind. I saw myself vomiting and coughing up blood. Is this how my uncouth handlers planned to do away with me? Screw them, I wouldn’t touch a morsel! More soon…

Ultra Awakenings

I have been formally awakened, fully into my Ultra identity. This was done by hearing a long complicated and confusing sequential string of words as I was waking up this morning, from a tiny microphone embedded in my skull. I don’t know if I was programmed in my childhood or in my past life, if I had one, but I am wholeheartedly confident that I am nothing like the person my sweet n lovin’ mother raised anymore. I wish she hadn’t of exposed me to Disney and Hollywood and Pokemon. And butterflies and unicorns and teddy bears. I wished I had had a strong father who could have toughened me up into a man’s man, instead of a mummy’s boy. That’s what I needed in this kind of program.

It’s strange, because I believe that after all of my psychological abuse at the hands of my faraway untraceable handlers, some kind of angelico has wandered her way into my mind, my psyche, and my life. Sorry, I mean angel, but I call them angelicos. It’s a little joke between the pair of us. (I also call a glass of booze a beveragino! Or a can of pop a tin of drink! Like the kebab shop menu does so. Aha – It doesn’t matter, none of this fluffin’ matters.)

Yeah, anyway, an angel, one of the Lord’s finest. I’m saying this, yet I haven’t met her personally. I just sense the presence of a little girl, kleine madchen I believe the German term is for them, although don’t you dare hold me on that. I like German things. They make good stuff. I’d like to collect German electronics, if I had the time. CB radios, walkie-talkies, pagers, stuff like that, that’d be great fun and nice to do. Kill some time and all that. I could talk about the details and functions of my collection with my precious darling angelico. In my mind, like, you know, talk to her in my mind. Like I always do.

Where is she? I wonder. Where could she be residing? Does she shower in my brain fluid? I think she’s located there somewhere. Or in the chemical-electro firings from synapse to synapse. I heard the brain has a subtle glow-like aura, like a lightbulb. Maybe she needs that brightness/contrast to navigate her way around my moral and ethical map. I’m sure that’s important to her. Unfortunately, that’s what is under threat here. Perhaps she folds my matter up like a suit around her, as I put an old comfortable jacket on. Who knows how angels possess their hosts?

At first I thought she was a darko entity bringing a jamboree of wrongdoing with her, a festival of lowly sin, but I started feeling overwhelmingly peaceful and joyous as soon as she arrived. She wouldn’t fake that, surely, I thought, it has to be from the Lord on high. I know the other guy is pain and suffering and death if you’re lucky. Believe you me, being in this Ultra program all of my life, I’ve kinda heard one or two things about him.

I’ve been around the mill thinking double-time about all things to do with angels. Wow what a head-spinner! What I won’t do however is read a self-help booklet about them, written by someone who was well-reviewed on Good Reads. What does some other dude know that I don’t? There’s hardly any mention of them in the bible. Apparently we all have one who protects our path are all times. I’m not sure my belief extends that far. And, also apparently, despite their ability to live inside another, they don’t actually have any super powers, like other mythical beings, they are just simply, well, human. That’s what makes them angelico. The sinless nature of themselves being human. But incase you didn’t know, basic human beings are pure power, even up there with the Gods. A human being can dismantle a God, fact, if the God is having a bad day, because creating begets creation and Gods make their children just as powerful as themselves.

Because let’s face it, take a look around at the world…what’s human about war? Are we really on the verge of World War III? Somebody pinch me and holla it ain’t so. Exciting, isn’t it? I’ve never been so ruddy bloody giddy about anything in my life. I hope it spreads to militia streets with me clubbing the invaders up with my fellow neighbours. There will be bombs, won’ there? I’ve been told there might not be. Apparently, again, it might be neuro weapons. Brain tech. Do you believe in all that kind of caper. That a satellite can shoot you with a beam and commit the perfect crime?

I believe in being awakened towards a fighting fit soldier. That’s what my message was about this morning. But do you know what? I believe my awakening is a direct reaction to the arrival of my prized and treasured angelico, which has possibly traversed from the heavenly realms to come and try, with an emphasis on try, to save me from the usual end of ultra messengers…missions which end in bloodshed.

 Despite my struggles, I hate my handlers, I am proud to be Ultra. But I do not want to die for Ultra while holding up a kiddies pick n mix stall on a country fair weekend, or shooting up a field trip of little nippers as they feed ducklings in the park, screaming “Allah is the greatest!” at the top of my voice before suicide by cop. Nooo, no way. I want my life, my stand, my fall, to mean something. Something important, striving to reach where someone else could never reach, or aiming to get to somewhere where someone else great before me once attained. One or the other, I don’t know. I want to inspire, and be inspired. I want to provoke, and be provoked. And now I’m just waffling corny cheese for a living. You know what they always said though, Aim big. Every teacher and benefactor has a similar sentiment.

Ultra has kept me festering in the gutter, instead of dancing on the rooftops, blowing kisses at the stars. Whenever I ascended anywhere of note a sidewind jarred me back down to the kerbside. I thought I was merely in the midst of a spree of bad luck; unbeknown to me, my handlers were pulling taut hapless puppeteering strings. If I can perch on the moon just once, while looking over somebody’s shoulder…

A n y w a y… join us again soon for more Ultra Awakenings 🔫

(…꜡M꙰k꙳…)

Skeletons in the Cupboard

1/coderedline1.IN#SET⁵.2026stopspelling=3.d[o]m0/7.¹0YOyoursecretsU#®.1979+tear#drop25.1wowsers2.todominant19961/1.0⁵.2026=3PpainteddollsERSON#AL

{De.fin.it.ion} ^[1] A painted doll is a sensual, sexual woman in make-up. ^[2] She is capable of having an almost supernatural effect on certain unsuspecting males. ^[3] She sticks to a manual from birth and the end result is usually a foregone conclusion. ^[4] One or two survivors of painted dolls testify that only divine intervention keeps them in the fight.

__________________________________________________

~ painted dolls regularly get accused of wearing white fox branding attire

...hi there it's ATD hows things mad dog I'm having a ball here talking about fittie women who look like they shud bee playing Cinderella at the Empire or in some drag show hey there don't you think the gay draggy men are just as fit with their glam as the women are? seriously the ladies are lagging behind the blokes i'd give half of these shapely dudes a good old boning if i was arranged that way. some people are some people aren't I guess...

💄(Emoji of lipstick) also can be used to objectify a canine's penis

What, you never seen a dog's lipstick? I remember a dirty blue version of George Orwell's Animal Farm. No, I never seen it or owned it or showed it minors or anything like that, before you ask. the movie, that is, not the dog's lipstick. I think you'd get locked up if you started flaunting your pet that way, although how do you think I fisted someone? Blacky, that bar stool I think it was, showed me his dogs lipstick, and explained what it was and why it looked like the way it did (because it was excited) I don't know if Blacky excited it or not or what he excited it with if he excited it with something or whether on the other hand the dog was naturally excited by another dog although Blacky only had the one dog. We used to think his sister was acting like she was on the movie 

{∞} what a sicko movie

While the adult approximation may have been tasteless, made by adults for adults, it was in no way created to be consumed by underage school children who often either found it to be a large repertoire of humour or a deeply traumatising event. Either way, such shenanigans were hardly never before seen.

Carl from Colchester says, "I was visibly disturbed by the imagery of these beastly goings on for years, and still am, in my middle age, to this very day. I just solely remember a blonde woman with her hair tied back in suspenders and sports bra entertaining a big black lab on the sofa in a room full of draped red satin in front of a tripod-mounted camera She lowered my expectation of ladies for the next three decades. She looked very appropriate in my eyes for the deeds I had in mind for her but so very very inexplicably decadent in her business with the barker. I thought it was stuffed.

If they will sleep with other people's pets, then surely they have to at least consider giving me some satisfaction. That's what I think of said woe-man.

isn't that enuff about sex and pets!

I'm just saying, it was well troubling blud. I'll never be able to unsee it. And you wanna know the most frightening thing about the whole fiasco, mandem...is that I never actually saw it! I don't remember viewing the material!

You what???

I never actually saw it. The images jumped into my mind from somewhere as a child. Loads of people are swearing the same by this, they are saying that the movie did not even exist, that images were exported into their brains by a special weather magnet. Think about it. Why would a woman sleep with a mutt, for however much amount of money, even if she was desperate for that money?

Makes sense. She wouldn't. Not even a painted doll would do that to gain total control over her submissive. But a weather magnet? You mean like Haarp?

What's Haarp?

Forget about it. The government showed you beast action. So what?

So I want compensating for trauma. I can still see it now. In my mind.

Tell your doctor.

What will he do?

Recommend a sequel. Animal Farm 2. The Pirate Bay.

I'm there. Although I won't be needing the Pirate Bay. I'll probably see it in a dream.

A wide awake conscious one. Even with your eyes open.

It was funny as a kid. That shish won't be one bit funny anymore, at my age. I'll probably hurl.

I'll bet she was hurling. All over her r e d satin...🎠

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Once A Week

A Detective finds himself in the woods. He doesn’t have to be a detective, he can be anyone, but these days, in crime thrillers, they are always detectives, aren’t they?

A detective finds himself missing in the woods. That’s even better, isn’t it? How can he find himself missing? I know the answer to that one, because quite often I’ve regained total cognitive consciousness while realizing I am lost somewhere. It’s as if someone had earlier unplugged me, spun me around, and dropped me in a maze on the edges of suburbia.

I wouldn’t go so far to say as that it’s always happening, far from it, but I’m no stranger to the phenomenon. I did also, incidentally, think of myself as a pretend wannabe detective at the time, doing the Lord’s work.

I’ve now got an image of a man stood lurking around in the woods. It’s half me and half not me. I like being a man walking around the woods. I like everything about it, as long as it’s not dark and scary. I read a book once where the detective lived in a shack in the woods, all he did is make phone calls. His ringtone was going constantly. I swear, the extent of his capacity was making phone calls in the woods. Far from being boring, it has actually inspired me. Sometimes, the simple images, the most basic notions, are the best.

I remember he was speaking to a lot of people who didn’t really matter to him. Casual acquaintances, mostly. It was all to do with work. The thing was always out of his pocket and jammed against his ear. One odd night he broke into another shack he came across in the woods and searched it thoroughly for special evidence of some sort with his phone pressed against his ear the whole time. I think he was conferring with someone high up in the police department. He left without making it look obvious there was no sign of forced entry and hopefully there was no harm done.

On one extra special occasion he was hunkered over a silver rolling stream on a rickety rope bridge with his mac blowing around his knees in the gust, smoking. He was taking his time with the cigarette, it seemed to slowly burn down forever, he hardly took a drag, just the odd toke now and again, it was his first smoke in six months but he felt no guilt or regret whatsoever, he was doing nothing more than enjoying it a lot.

One of his shoes was balanced on his toes, he was wriggling it around off from his ankle. I don’t know why he was doing that. He seemed distant-minded.

I learned that he was talking to somebody very unusual and important. I think it was his niece. It just goes to show. You do a similar thing all off the time, and it means nothing. And then something comes along, dressed up like everything else, and it means all. Funny, isn’t it, how we react to stuff like that? Someone once said that certain things only come along in life once or twice.

He gave her one final penultimate instruction that she must always persistently live up to right until the end of her days. It was this unflinching demand:

_________________________________

That she text him

but just once a week, 

to let him know 

she was okay.💗

_________________________________

No visits in the 4x4 with any amount of screaming nippers children, no bus rides to the beach together, no going out for dinners in tuxedos, no pen pal set ups…just a plain and simple text message, once a week, to keep him going.

errPIEJUSTBALDor /****7097.7#^#####.70TEXT~~ATD~~~%01_!1ME.”/e.x1906FLEXDONEGAN.sONCEemi^{errorlogicalhardwiringnonAaplliccable 77.7.7errorTERMINALRWEEKESOLUTION77.907.770%01_!1.”/e.x16speed.sem}

Ultramarine aka G h o s t w r i t e r

uLTramarIne

>_OK(₀5.05.79)

/e.x16speed.semi

-OPEN-reset-BURY/CREMATE/PRESERVE

*G h o s t w r  i t e r*

man.lies.on.shrine.writing.to.dead.wife.all.we.know.so.far

n o t i f y #AlbinoArtMatters

e m a i l  Alisonhodges@whofellupthestairs.net

for jacket design, bus stop posters etc.;-)

he.communicates.with.deceased.partner.via.a.scribbling.pad.or.is.it.a.dictophone.dont.worry.about.a.thing.darling.i.am.here.no.you.are.not.this.is.just.me.or.are.you.really.i.am.off.my.trolley.you.are.wearing.your.best.socks

insert new dead character: speakandread/can.i.come.into.this.please.

insert 2^nd new dead character: typeandhear/have.you.lots.to.offer

no.response.several.weeks Received [hereafter] Attached/w: JPEGs/RGBs/TIFFs all of shrine

IMPORTANT.TO.AUTHOR: colours, as in what, colours of the rainbow, colourful wardrobe what colours exactly (answer_question) PENS.PENCILS.FELTS etc (rephrase_for_additional_response) where do colours go  CANVASS?PAPER?WALL?incorrect non toxic colours go on shrine

[DID NOT ETHNIC COMPILATION DO THIS SOME YEARS AGO? CAN WE RENAME THIS THING 

U L T R A M A R I N E. YOU KNOW, THE COLOUR OF A PAINTED SKY?]

THE SON OF THE BALLIFF IS ENTERING HIS SMALL HOLLOW means that Logan and Grayson are in each other’s arms tonight. These are two extra deceased that she is down there with. Is THAT a message from the dead.wife?Name.of.either.wife.or.spam.package.you.have.ink.on.your.hands. your.repeating.the.obvious.again.darling.your.boring.go.and.listen.to.white.noise.down.by.the.rocks.the.coastal.rocks.knock.up.some. brekkie.in.the.cabin

what.happened.to.my.painting.of.you.when.you.moved.

where.is.my.watch.i.can’t.see.the.time

when.can.i.come.back.i.feel.lost

who.keeps.giving.me.that.weird.sensation.tell.them.to.pack.it.in

m a k e.yourself.comfortable.have.you.eaten

why.does.not.sammy.stop.scratching

Ultrmarine, burnt sienna, dusty rose…can we think about the shrine for once in a lifetime peoples is it waterproof for example? and can we put plasma lamps inside it make it look like a music video i want full-on mega production value A.I render please now

Man sits on wife’s shrine and writes to her. Is that it? They have a deep conversation so what. What next? I was particularly interested in the deeply etched markings on the shrine, and of a rut in the earth which scars the cemetery like a fault line, leading up to the shrine. How do they connect and react with each other? That’s what I want from this potential story. Is she immaculately preserved? Can he get her released with some power tools and a dab of elbow grease? Or will it take three days, like Lazarus? Maybe they could run/swim through some nearby streams together. People…does anyone get buried in their evening gowns anymore?

Ed Drew Narrowly Avoids The F**k It Button (FiB)

Seriously, thank God he avoids this

Font size in Word: 14 (210%zoomlevel)

Colour of Screen: Salmon (Change from White Void)

Time and Weather Status: 13.15pm Wednesday

11˚ (neither hot nor cold to the bystander)

Cloudy with a fair chance of salt n pepper wingfat

<!--(function¹) to kill an hour

<!_(function²) creative expression

<!+(function³) to expose gangstalkers

screaming heard nearby

 

Ed Drew lies on the floor, grass sticking to his elbows.

Ed Drew thinks long and deep about being a failure.

Cars drive by the railings, their metallic covers dazzling with reflected sun rays.

0~%01.” [no food intake] 0%01.”

0.%01.” [bundle credit on phone] 0%01_!1.”

Ed Drew’s perception of the park changed. Instead of being a sunny play area, full of warmth and fun, with picnickers sat around truffles and creamy cheeses laid out on towels, and dog owners flinging frisbees for their pets to catch in keen jaws, and hyperactive children buzzing as they jumped all over climbing frames, it became a kind of seedy rendezvous juncture for dope fiends and sex offenders. Before he knew it, darkness was settling over proceedings. Well, not quite darkness, but the shadowy gloom that preceded darkness. A chill accompanied it. Not a natural chill, that belonged upon the surface of the Earth, next to a lake for example, but a mildly howling one, that belongs under the draft of a corrugated door in some forgotten decrepit chamber.

As we know Ed has been madly in unrequited love with cocaine, which has ruined his finances and placed a hole in his nose beside other things. Now he thinks about pushing the boat out and going one further by introducing some amphetamine into the scene of play, which is cheap and nasty and readily available. This make-do drug will keep Ed’s solo partygoing adventures in the game for another 24 hours, although the effects upon the body are far more serious than snow, in his opinion.

Speed will make him melt away, and dissolve into the atmosphere in a sweaty blur of itchy mist, serving no good thing whatsoever. At the moment he has a chance of recovery – the prospect of a chippy meal garners in him a glimmer of positive mental activity. Just the nourishing idea of dragging himself to Cod Almighty (open till 11.30pm) for a large fish and mushy peas with ketchup draws a smile on his face. For days now it had been just him and the drug, in a darkened room, and now there was a real possibility that that filthy run could be extended with a ten or twenty bag of dirty whizz, plonking him right back there with no excuse for anything productive like tidying up or bathing or anything. If only he could zone out with a movie or something, or chill to some music, with a bottle of red, with his feet up, and a cheese cracker.

There was nothing on the agenda tomorrow, but an able mindset and fresh attitude could unwrap some purpose from somewhere if he didn’t kop out with the billy. Nobody knew what positivity awaited around every next corner. As long as you kept your chin up with an air of expectancy, that was the main thing. If one were in bed at war with the world, not coping very well and edging towards depression, then it was almost conceivable without reply that another bad day was due your way.

Ed Drew On Snow

Ed Drew has wasted the last of his money on narcotics. He got paid he spent up and that’s it. He is currently out of his home and sleeping in the park, just beyond the shadow of the maples and spruce. The odd dog walker disturbs him, asks him if he is alright. No, he replies honestly. They take no further interest. If he were stripped to his shorts they’d maybe understand him, sunbathing as if on a beach, but the dude is fully dressed, catching tan lines on his wrists.

He’s surprised he’s survived snorting that amount of Class A. It’s practically still falling out of his conk in brittle crumbs. There go his expenses for the next month. How he’ll survive now he does not know. A visit to the foodbank just won’t cut it. If only the substance wasn’t so rotten expensive. He could max out big time and attempt suicide with it. He wished he had a criminal scam to fund some more incoming flux. Another white water rapid of powdery surf would do just the trick.

And who gave one about croaking it?

Ed doesn’t know what is harder, living without money to buy a meal or living without just one more line. When he intakes a large one, his heart lurches, his bio rhythm pauses to rectify momentum, all the cliffs of the Earth retract to let the seas roll backward, the wind halts like solidified ice crystals, it feels like all this and more, until he realises its just him struggling with his own breath, tingling and rattling and quivering and shivering at home out of his head. It doesn’t last anywhere like long enough, he thinks.

And now it’s done, the pleasure is over, if only it could last longer, if only he had more brains to blow out and a wallet deep enough to keep them well blown.

Or, if only, he wasn’t addicted at all, and he could focus on being a decent citizen. A normal guy. Wouldn’t that be nice? Sitting at home with the television and family, instead of having no television and family to sit in barely no home with. Heating on, washer going, frosted glasses of drinks with refreshments, bit of company, where would be the harm? Except he’d trade it all for a bag of white, kids included. He’d walked over youngsters before to get his fix…begged for them back…then trodden over them again.

This time it was desperate. In his head, around his warped thoughts, he could get a grasp at it, but in reality, with no credit on his electric meter, it was a different ball park. Too early to go home and get in bed, too late to turn back and be a good man. Ed was caught in the middle but at least he was sober and at least he wasn’t smoking himself to death.

In fact, he was thinking about going to the internet café to write in his online diary. There he told the world of the chaos surrounding him, of the flames curdling within his undealt-with system, of his dreams and desires, his successes and his failures, his worries and his fears, anything he was able to not shy away from.

He would have to go unwashed, unshaven, and hungry. Usually, when he was sat there typing, he was nothing like that. In fact, last time he’d shared his life with the world, he’d been wearing his yellow Helly Hansen skiing jacket. Thinking on, he would now have to try and sell it on Ebay. Only thing was, he didn’t know how to use Ebay. And he liked the damn jacket.

Maybe he could write a letter to his little blood sister, who had all but likely forgotten about him by now. Perhaps he could take a long walk to see her on the doorstep where she lived in almost perfect ignorance of him, and claw back a morsel of her, if she was willing to butter him up with a hug or a smile. But deep within the dried-out wizened husk of him, he thought it a selfish idea. Couldn’t he rely on himself to clamber back to his feet? Only he and he alone had let himself arrive at such a cataclysmic low level, perhaps only he and he alone could muster the audacity to pray for a divine intervention.

Little did Ed know, that people were already praying for him.