Monday, March 12, 2012


EPISODE TWO: THE INCIDENT- The incident. (What’s the best wish you can make?) The cold light of a deserted moon was a frightening thing to her, but she preferred it to the thought of a hive of reptilians. The syncronicities were like ink from a squid, a guilt squid hiding it's trails, the closer she got to the incident, the more persistent the coincidences that tried to distract her. How many people did she know whom she could tell that she saw it that way? holy cows don't die easily, she had to kill hers ruthlessly every day until a rock was just a rock again, a dead thing, shit happens, rocks can build a pretty garden or tumble in an avalanche. Dead as a domino, lifeless and dead. Wobert had said synchronicities were provoked by self analysis, and then she'd ruined a perfectly good lucid rape dream by telling the assailant he was nothing like her mother. Dragged back by the tentacles of the wakened state, she'd slipped her hands beneath the bedsheets down slowly down, responsibility for a sin. At last. Two thousand years of a saviour to die for, and they still couldn't stop the world coming alive. Is the sound when you put a shell to your ear the echo of your brain or the ghost of the sea? Why did she always hear such desolate applause? The sound of one brain hissing filled the room impossibly like a mirage in cold moonlight, serene in it's restlessness like a butterfly collection in a zombie film. What film are you living in now? yes you! Where’s your Hogwarts hat telling you you belong, and what's the best wish you can make? The best wish you can make and charge with guilt, she was only young and her body was never found the night she sleepwalked or the next night or the next night or the next. One foot in front of another, Cinderella, let your dreams guide your footsteps to the palace, take your teddy bear with you so the predators shall think you are pure, and the something inside you’ve been always denied for so many years shall whisper sad warnings of the emptiness should you ever return. Cold rock auras framed the shadows of the tangled trees where Cinderella walked in programmed dreams so thoroughly advertised expensive and unwise, delusions to kill for amidst truths to despise. After the power up, she knew she would still want to kill, a level two Cinderella just like the films. Lurid like dragons fighting sorcerers the flames flares and vortices flowed, and deep down she knew sure as glass is a liquid that only the wasters of energy glowed. Microwave arsenals fell like rotting teeth snapping, surveillance grids tuned to white noise, she fine tuned the anger in dreaming to smash up the nastier toys while Cinderella watched and saw nothing. In the silence of the Cinderellas to the slaughter, Cinderella proceeded towards the incident, encircled by a warrior fairy swarm, wielding their ray guns and rocket launchers with chi flowing grace laser sights tracing mystic signs of liberation, perfectly in time to the fluttering of their sweetly vulnerable delicate wings and Cinderella saw nothing. In the inrush of an explosion that had changed it’s mind, she dived onto the helpless Cinderella, enveloping her in her mirror silk spider threads holding her in her arms as the cocoon enveloped them both until her arms were empty and were not there. The incident. Ah yes, the incident. The sun was shining when her body was found after the incident, sitting upright in a circle of trampled grass, well it must have been trampled, smiling and predicting the flight paths of butterflies. K Savage

Sunday, March 4, 2012


PROLOGUE:Patterns... That's how it always begins. You open your eyes turn towards the screen and liquid pixilations of virtual reality flood your optic center located somewhere less real on the back of your head where you can't see it... Patterns swirl out of the ether of broadband signal transmissions and envelope-wrap around you and whisper in that still small voice to that hunk of calcified grizzle that glandular enigma that sleeper within its tomb-like chamber drifting in a womb sea of quanta, the Golden Key with in the bone white box... And these patterns whisper truths thoughts of eternity like fevered rants dulled quiet by years of attempts, all firm all convicted and steadfast but nonetheless muffled by weary old time-Old Man Saturn with hour glass and locks of curls in hand captivating the mind locking it into tic-toc awareness of delusion and madness. But the patterns persist with every transmission, every image, every message they persist and keep telling you things in jumbled scrambled to be interpreted mode: every glance at a watch, every gesture, every utterance of a phrase, verse from a song telling you something if you can hear and see the patterns... And the womb sea of quanta churning in that bone box mixes electrolytic charge with piezoelectric waves washing over your mind. And when woven together into one expansive tapestry the pattern hums like a balanced dynamo of possibility of potentiality and all converges into one pulsing everlasting moment and the patterns stretch in all directions like Golden Paths to the emptied oblivion of oneness of wholeness and perfect sublime ego-less knowing. And then, the next message arrives and the patterns begin again... Disappear here: FX...... EPISODE ONE: INITIAL TRANSMISSION- Disappear into the underground cities of the Illuminati reptilian bankers and their stolen gold bullion and mind-controlled sexy porn starlet assassins roaming the streets of L.A. and N.Y. like ravished ferrets on the prowl for big fat roaches, munch munch…disappear into the fifth density and say so long to time and timbucktu, too, you: oblong and dangerous in hidden reasons, your paid-for Harvard degree like Obama’s fakery…disappear into the choice of freedom, the free masons, and the free content online at sights that cater to German scatology and Great Danes from Holland making love to petite tattoo’ed French girls in need of quick Euros…disappear into youtube streams of interviews with contactees with the Andromeda Council; with grays from Zeta Reticuli; with tall slender/sensuous blonde female aliens emerging from beam ships, wearing skin-tight spacesuits that would make Captain Kirk cream in his beam…or simply disappear into one week’s worth of the spam folder, the lure of orgasmic scams, bogus money orders printed on smooth paper, e-mail-brides from forgotten countries, X-rated pen pals from the depths of servers deep underground in downtown Omaha, promises of bigger penises and fatter stock portfolios, instructions to activate the pineal gland while riding (and writing) the Kundalini Federal Express. To this I express thus: I was a Gnostic spider growing wider, forged and gorged on alternate timelines of the divine entwined; I was a chemtrail spraying on the masses like a cat in heat shoots on the walls of Eros; I was a trumpet in the sky calling for the end of The End; I was a Jesus hologram projected from the nose of a stealth anti-gravity triangle; I was a lazy potato sitting in the Montauk Chair and opening portals to condos on Mars; I was a three-hundred-mile-long cigar-shaped spaceship mining the rings of Uranus; and I was the ring of an anus located between the legs of a reptilian black cabal inter-ultra-dimensional hee-bee-jee-bee seducing jazz singers in smoky clubs, loving them all night, making hybrid-babies so the mothers can talk about it to Sean David Morton. No? Maybe George Noory then. I am a whistleblower tooting my own horn, running marathons backwards just to see what second place looks like; I went to the Virgin Islands and when I left, they were just the Islands; I live vicariously through myself, see: I am the ringing in your right ear, the implant in your left ankle, the piercing in your right nostril and the hidden cameras in both your nipples. I am your global conspiracy, your killer asteroid, your UFO, yo. Disappear into it, baby. (the preceding episode was submitted by Michael Hemmingson check out his blog: