THE STREAMPUNK CHRONICLES EP. 4

EPISODE: 4-THE LAKE:...those judgements that we made, were now corpses floating on our lake. bloated, face down, surrounded by dirty spoons, cups and sorcerers. too much to move. you could walk from one side to the other on the backs of these stiffs. whatever happened to this clean pool. we used to swim here, finding treasure in the mud, pearls of fun, stuffed with love. eels, shells + bells... fish swam, laying eggs in our heads. hatching + growing. but some of those eggs were rotten and we farmed those fuckers. we loved those tiny monsters + they grew + grew till there was no more room and we could barely feed them all, let alone spew afternoon poison over milky tea + guerilla biscuits. so one by one they joined the greater number. this gang of black perspectives had cracked their final smiles.. 'judge jungle' was the first + he was also the last. i remember holding onto him as he sank into the congealed swamp water, now thick with thought made flesh gone bad.. 'drag the waters' he rattled... 'sure thing judge'...... so we did, one carcass at a time. a funeral pyre was hired for it's fire + prayers were said for each poor wretch, dragging them out, one by one by one by one.... 9 days on we could see water, not a lot but in the corner, where there had been hair + teeth + bone + skin for so long....the sun reflected off the watery surface + for a moment we forgot our solemn procession as nostalgia washed over us like gods own drug, hugging our souls + filling our cups. it's so easy to forget when you're lake's full of junk.. but of course, we were junkies, strung out on ourselves, sat on a branch afraid of the trunk....'the trunk is the love + love is a drug' ....used to be our mantra.. one of many...dr zeus prayers for the wild + sovereign.. but then we came down, back to the fishing + dragging + burning + sieving .pray for the lake. .........................ben lost - 22/8

THE STREAMPUNK CHRONICLES EP.3

EPISODE:3 THE STRIFE- We sit in the peak between udder devestation and pure unadulterated bliss I think Id prefer the devestation as it were a fresh start for this poor drained world as for bliss ill take a piss not kill our one world. maybe if id been born in a city id give a shit about looking pretty, get fake boobs ,plastic nails and a tan but as is stands I am worried about what im going to feed these people for dinner. Do you worry that your a sinner? No I just told you I have to figure out whats for dinner.What part of starving children dont you understand. I dont care if your a grown man if the dirt wont grow food then youll understand my mood. Frack that I mean it really pump water into the ground push the poison to the surface in every single farm and frack it. What happened to the man with a plan . Can all you can! Wisdom for your life no matter your strife. you ever notice how many movies are about our lives being changed forever thats a long time slam it together poof its all better. Also id like to make a list of possible alien abduction canidates I wont wish you dead but well thats better left unsaid. you ever wish apoun a star of course you have mars needs moms my son told me I should go help them who will help him. babies need milk there bodies will make growth hormones but go ahead with the frog dna in my corn and commericals full of porn. Everything about this world makes you sad well theres a diagnosis for that definetly get you a prescription or dont go just find a new addiction. heard about something real nice called spice go ahead sieze up. Another brain freed up. Afraid to protest against the man keep your head down at your smartphone no one will know your not a drone the sith lord didnt have it this easy except his drones didnt come with ptsd to there loving family not the family killed by the silent drones patrolling over our blue skies. a little bliss blissed out reality television doesnt show the real pinnicle I stand on but my garden does grow the old fashioned way tried and true that fed every single ancestor and to start again we start with you. full circle indeed that is what we need. theres no peaks in a circle ...Pizza (thanks to Michelle Smith for this post-modern howl! let's keep em coming...fx)

THE STREAMPUNK CHRONICLES: EP.2

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

THE STREAMPUNK CHRONICLES: EP.1

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: http://mhemmingson.wordpress.com)

DEFINING "STREAMPUNK" AS A SUB-GENRE...

the first distinction we must make is between the fully imagined defined and established sub-genre known as "steampunk" and a new term: "streampunk" I submit the term streampunk to be defined as a new sub-genre of cyber flash fiction: 750 words or less all inclusive pure abstract unrestricted by mainstream rules notions and traditions which constrain most other forms of literary media. This new sub-genre would by its very nature defy all rules...grammatically and scholastically! Drawing from the Essentials of Spontaneous Prose first expounded by Kerouac we find these principles:

PROCEDURE "...Time being of the essence in the purity of speech, sketching the language is undisturbed flow the mind of personal secret idea-words blowing(as per jazz musician) on the subject of image..."
METHOD "...No periods separating sentence-structures already arbitrarily riddled by false colons and timid usually needless commas- but the vigorous space dash separating rhetorical breathing(as jazz musician) drawing breaths between outblown phrases..."
SCOPING "...following free deviation(association) of mind into limitless blow-on-subject seas of thought, swimming in the sea of English with no discipline other than rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated statement-blow as deep as you want-write as deeply, fish as far down as you want..."
TIMING "...Nothing is muddy that runs in time and to laws of time-Shakespearean stress of dramatic need to speak-now in own unalterable way or forever hold tongue-no revisions(except obvious rational mistakes, such as names or calculated insertions)..."
CENTER OF INTEREST "...the best writing is always the most painful personal wrung-out tossed from cradle warm protective mind-tap from yourself the song of yourself blow!-now!-your way is your only way..."
MENTAL STATE "...If possible write "without consciousness" in semi-trance allowing subconsciousness to admit in own uninhibited interesting necessary and so "modern" language what conscious art would censor, and write excitedly, swiftly with writing-or-typing-cramps, in accordance(as from center to periphery) with laws of orgasm-Reich's "beclouding of consciousness"

These are merely suggestions from a master of language which are consistent with the spirit of this enterprise...

All Submissions should be pasted to body of email with ATTN:SUBMISSION INCLUDED in the subject bar and sent to: fraterxfreezone@gmail.com those selected will be posted on this blog.