10.1.7 malacca terminal

Tender fried chicken outlet. Selling 100 pound crabs.
That’s what the blind sister wants but, leg faulty mother
is talking down the numbers in front of a 25 year—old.

On the phone, sister is praying and complaining to me as I pump old, brown vomit from a soap dispenser in a toilet sink.

I have been eating cockles.

Cross line communication and mother is on the phone now from across the border. She says father is ordering a blue table designed by executive order. It will be expensive, with alternative dimensions.

I am hanging up the call but the messages still comes through a man with metal screws in his head. Father is spending money unreasonably.

I leave the eating village alone. But I am also still in a motel room waiting at a phone.

The man I was supposed to kill turns up at the car park.
He is telling me, my friends are out to weaken me but
I said, no! “You are weakening me.”

I show him my silver serrated hunting knife and he backs away, turning blue, tries to escape as I advance.

I keep yelling his full birth name. He vanishes with his lover.

Mother and sister is back from shopping, stopping by a short tree, trying to stop me from homicide.

10.1.6 Night Trails

Night trail 1

Happy people gathered
in hemp dresses, white, overflowing
laughing, up and down the road,
yogic sitting on gravel, waiting for the talk.

There's the Book of Sun

invisible, moving between auras.
various pages are needed, leaves from a great tree, excerpts to be read, following the path of green tributaries, veins of nature traced to a sea.

Night trail 2

The road is now on a high wall
a vast spectacle, great blocks fused, towering above world, not made for this world
ghostly apparitions follow me, air thin beings, almost vanishing into stratosphere

By the edge of the wall
three people huddle around an excavation, hands dirty
shovelling and moving clumps of wet earth
dug from rock features, boulders, clay of the creators

among mud, there are small golden flowers and
glinting shells of spent bullets
I look down from the high wall.

I see bodies.

arms outstretched, naked forms laid out in no discernible pattern
half submerged in soil on the shore, many of them unmoving,

They are not dead.

Weaving tide from the ocean, lapping at open palms, salt water washing skin.

Night trail 3

I wish I knew the names of
this dining company of drifters, to know of their faces.
but there’s a girl with me, belonging to shared history.
eatery staff sit around in black chairs
discussing whereabouts, plotting the path to shelters in business districts.

We are now walking on financial streets, living outside the sphere of corporate
the smell of sharks is overwhelming but we do not fear,

we are not bleeding.

10.1.5 the song

I wander in the mall
Lost in occult architecture
Where each floor, each escalator
Leads me deeper into a nest of stores
Each annex becomes larger
There is no way out.

A Japanese man touches my shoulder
His hair is straight and long, face chiseled
He asks me, “where do you bring a girl for date?”
I see his young daughter with him, five years old.
I tell him, “botanic gardens, or that Island…”

I wonder if he will bring her there.

His little girl is now a white puppy.
Wandering behind a cashiers counter of a pop up store.
Her father turns into a pink furred dog, the same size and age as his child.
They vanish, as they are no longer human species.

I find myself in an amphitheater.

All is dark, and it’s hard to see the faces of
the seated crowd. They are silent and anxious.

My once dead computer is on stage.
Each key I press plays a channel of music
The looped sound of coins dropping
A deep drone

I forget the words of my tome.

The sounds extend time, removes it from context, my presence on stage goes on without time

I see nothing on the screen.
No frame of reference or name of track
The sound plays, and I sing in a falsetto voice

“Sometimes I remember….”

The tempo is slow, dragged out, erasing this weight in my soul, lifting it out of darkness.

“Sometimes I am closer to the stars…”

An unnaturally tall woman comes to the edge of the stage
She is handing me a black piece of thick paper.
Attached to it is half an egg, skin silver
In silver ink, instructions.
I think of a stargazer I was once close to
I sing the song also for her.
I consume the silver egg
I Leave the stage, walking past a
a fire engine truck made of cardboard.

A chubby clown emerges from the top. Yellow light in its face.

He is a sad, silent mime with a mystical flower in his hat.
Doors of the truck open, there are wild red faces, searching for something untouchable .

A complex video plays on the screen as backdrop.
It is light and flicker haunting, abstract and figureless…

The song remains with me.

10.1.4 hunting

I’m hunting the teen by following her posts.
phone cam pics of landmarks, geotagging, comments and statuses.
roundabout on the double decker bus that goes nowhere to somewhere, I’m back to the same stop again.
Passing parade squares, central business districts, recurring lunch hours, after work buildings suffering from a deprivation of people

Roadways by forests. Japanese basement malls.

Her latest picture is of ramen.
Her small black dress.
Her friend in denims.
A black bar top.

I recognise halogen lights at 9.55p.m. The stores are closing. I close in, face to face with her and her young friend.

Expecting intelligence, I am disappointed.

She is mediocre. Small and foxy, but dimmed by device capture. Something is stealing her mind in fractions, pocketing time from her futures, eroding emotion, blurred articulation.

We can hardly hold a conversation.

I know I can’t bring her home.

We leave together when a teenage pretty boy arrives in his adult shirt and pants.

Is it the end of this world or the coming of New Year’s Day?
Where is the ballroom party?

The open air carpark is dark with night celebrations. The boy and the two girls are in his shiny gloss black car, window rolled down, bidding goodbye.

I take the bus.
Circling through the history of routes,
arriving, departing, the same place again.

A lanky boy breaks off from the group, strays from night path into the forest. He is replaced by a replica of himself, silver clothes, glitter in aura, stepping back onto the path.

His friends do not notice the anomaly but the lone streetlight exposes the reality to me.

10.1.3 the prophetic sea of sleep 

The boy is having a vision in sleep.

He is tiny within the scene. The world is heavy, storm poised and bloated with dark grey clouds. 

The sea is doomed, slow and churning. 

There is a water theme park, trapped like an island in the middle of this ocean planet. 

The boy is looking at a multi—level water slide ride, eight stories high. The slides at the peak have no safety sides. 

A large body of water falls from the roiling sky, a merciless mass crashes into the structure, then into a watery grave. 

The impact is creating massive waves that are rising slowly like a tsunami. 
The towering tides are knocking out nearby stations where there are other water amusement rides. 
The boy is observing from far away. Everything appears small to him, like a diorama. 

He strains his eyes to find micro figures:

A mother in a bathing suit is embracing her boy, seconds before they are swallowed. 

He sees other miniature bodies, especially children, tossing and falling with waves the size of mountains. 

A phone conversation is overheard. 

A husband is repeating to me what his wife is telling him, “His strain (strange) is very blur.” 

He says to me, “I don’t know what she means.”

Two Chinese girls are in a small office with no lights. They are opening a door they are not supposed to and find two cluttered desks with empty seats. This confirms for me the absence of specific office staff I’m supposed to meet. 

The wife says to the husband, who says to me, “He’s already strange (strain) on normal nights, but that night…”
Mother is asleep but she also kneels by my bed. I know there is metal in her body and I wake up to help her up and realise I cannot breathe. My heart pump is blocked. I force myself up with a horrific gasp. Air floods my savaged lungs. 

She saves me from apnea death.

She hands me a fifty dollar note. Two Guardian men are standing around the sleeping boy, about to take him out of bed. 

Mother gestures at me to stop them. I place the folded note between my palms in a sign of prayer and approach them. I tell one of them, “the boy is just having a dream. It is not a vision.“ I open my palms to show him the folded note. 

He shakes my hand to furtively take it. The other man does not see our transaction. 

They do not take the boy away from us, which is the protocol, if he was having a prophecy in sleep. 

10.1.2 tome

A disembodied, Icelandic woman gives me a book of arcane photographs.

Or

I find in my hands, a pictorial grimoire, with her spirit residing within.

The thin book is already open.

There are three, double page spreads.

The first is a high contrast monochrome image of a primal man. The page feels like a living texture of earth and sand. I see his strained back facing the camera, skin covered with mud and grime.

I cannot see his head, just a taut neck bending into nothing.

His body is contorted, twisted, naked, muscles tensed.

It is an image consumed by darkness. That which I can see, appears to be lit by ritual fire.

I turn to the second spread.

The pages are translucent and grey. I am staring down at solid lines of heavy black ink, vector perfect. A maze, a labyrinth, composed of squares and sharp right angles.

Through the semitransparent page I can see the photo of an ancient Chinese armchair with vague dragon like motives of faded gold the color of bronze. Its blood red cushions eroded by geological time. This solitary piece of furniture sits in the darkness of an ancestral house, long forgotten by man. The maze appears to be superimposed upon it.

I hear the Icelandic woman speak, though I do not see her.

With her words comes the knowledge that another planet has been found. A planet related to Mars and War.

Her voice is prophetic, clear and dark and guttural, rising from buried depths.

She speaks the name of this planet thrice.

“Frice. Is True Love.

Frice. Is The Enemy.

Frice. Is True Death.”

10.1.0 consular  

There was a calamity,
then a regrouping .

I’m in the house of my childhood, that brown and beige hall, trying to reach the others through dream extension.

I’m trying to contact the star, just as she physically arrives at the house.

I switch, in search of others…

We are pulling everyone back to the first node.

1.10 familia 

“The angel has chosen you.”

And so you are placed in this derelict warehouse. You’ve been here before but the memory is false. The signature of this space is familiar, its vast dimensions, the filth on the walls, the dim, the dusk lit world beneath the world, these things you have seen and it reaches out to you, to feel you.

The voice tells you, you are chosen, then there is nothing else.

Days, or is this hours after the girl takes you from the dream?

This is months, or is it years after the carnival? The cavern under the world, long after the war. (Where are the transvestites buried?)
You believe you know, they are outside in Siberian winter, where all the other Civilisations are. Body and spirit taken by the relentless whitewash of frozen wind and immense light, buried under a continent, an ocean, an atmosphere of snow storms. You are uncertain if they remain buried.

You are put into this derelict warehouse, sitting on decomposing crates full of empty bottles. You are wrapped in gypsy blankets and patchwork quilts unwashed for ages but it smells only of age.

There is a Romanian family of wanderers with you, packing analogue photography gear into damp cigar boxes. Bodies of dated daguerreotype, soot ruined plates, moulding lenses, trigger cables, exposure control, polaroid cartridges from bygone times, mismatched and wrongly fitted into makeshift compartments.

The boxes are latched, they slide into slots in the wall, chutes that angle down onto the unseen grounds outside.

You sense other presences beyond the shutters but you do not hear them. There’s no way of looking to be sure. The wooden panelling, aluminium barricades block out light (assuming there is any outside.)

There is only ice and below zero cemetery fields. You are not even sure if the presences are human. But you know they want human artefacts. So the family provides. Imaging equipment. Products for creating posterity. Whose , you don’t know. History is a vague dissolution trapped in glacial tombs.

It is after the war. Allies defeated by Axiiom. Very much long after. The carnival has dismantled. An exodus. Only the family, the original owners of the entourage, is left behind, forgetting their roles and names.

“See which one you like, after work, and take it.”

You know it’s not the family who speaks, it’s neither the voice of the warehouse nor the entire reality outside this quantum point. It’s something inside you that prophesies. A subject and object in shared broadcast space, a triangulation of common consciousness, inter mind communication. They beam unto you or you are that which beams. You send and receive, both signal and signalled, noise and the auralspatium that contains it.

What is this work?

The documentation of items, packages,boxes, handed over to the unknowable outside? Are you the final witness of slow starvation and disappearance of the family? They tell you nothing. They only pack their things and slot them away, building treasures in some after world. They do not make eye contact. They never will.

What are you to take?

Or who?

Maybe they’ll let you keep memory. To be extracted by camerama at a later period. Maybe they will let you make the film. A post existence documentary, where the cameraman you see is the cameraman you are.
Maybe they’ll let you keep the youngest child of the family. To manipulate the d.n.a, the chemistry, to procreate the post—family, to advance and evolve the wanderers path, once the last generation fades away into the white.

After this work, you take the box you like.

The least destroyed of filmic machines. The unexposed reel most untouched by fungi and flora of the past.

To film the bodies, the unmarked boundaries, the long and everlasting horizon.

Maybe they’ll let you rename the wastelands, the creatures of Sky and sea.

Maybe you’ll be the last of this kind.

The scour of dream activity

1.9 prologue house 

I never see the matron. 

She is following me through the confusing mansion. Wires to electric lights are cut by a masked hand, hunting blade. Been in the dark for hours. 
She’s like a breath, hot and sudden on the nape of my neck, always close. 

I pass rooms hidden from curious eyes. Inside, I believe there are urgent prayers being said, tenants on their knees by the edge of unmade sick beds, sweating profusely. Afraid. (Are the doors locked to keep them in, or invaders out?) 

A bloodline runs dense through the mansion (I have read ledger books, historical accounts from burned down libraries, names of cousins, uncles, grandparents, elders, younglings.)

I remain within this mystery because I am the best man of the friend who married into this family. He is no where, possibly far away with his pregnant wife and their first child. This is a good thing. I am not given the chance to go with them. Or I choose not to be given this respite. I remain, wandering the dark hallways, listening intently to the clocks that outnumber me in the family house. 

Somewhere is the right time. Not at midnight, not at three. Somewhere in the death throes of four. 

There is this inexplicable family smell of talcum powder, piss, age, greydom, antibiotics seething through skin, wafting down narrow flights of stairs, secret passage ways, bookshelves that twist into walls to reveal hidden rooms where other tenants reside, unknown to the owners of the house. 

There are other people still, unbound by kin, strangers on floors above, the unregistered, ushered in by furtive lords, sent quickly through unmarked doors to basements undisclosed in original blueprints. 
The main door has moved since I got lost upstairs. Days, weeks or maybe just hours ago. 

I don’t know which level I am on now. 

There are no numbers on the doors. 

There are voices just beyond the reach of human hearing. I suspect they are pre—recorded, speaking vaguely about treasure chests…

The matron follows me, I can smell the lilac of her hair but no matter how many times I turn, or glance at a mirror as I pass, I cannot see her. 

I do not hear my own footsteps, but I can hear the heavy footsteps of others. Sometimes running, two or six floors above…

Fleeing nowhere, room to room…

A bed is creaking from one of the hidden rooms. There is an intimation of moaning. I follow the sound. The matron feels denser, an almost solid thing behind me, the hair on my arms stand, a chill closing in. 

I find an open door. I do not recall if I had opened it. Figures are moving in the unlit, bodies writhing in bed. 

I crawl in. I join them. 

It is the helper, with the sir. 

The father—in—law who knows me, surely, from the days marrying off his only daughter. I was there, drinking tea with him. Now we’re in the same bed. His face is a pale worry. 

He looks past my naked shoulder. The maid, undressed, has no meaning in her face. 

He looks beyond me, trying to sense the lurking of his wife. He speaks softly, concerned. 

“Don’t tell her you have the key.” 

This is clarity to me. I am here to open the locked chamber, to find them nude but never in disarray. 

He points to his own face, then to the face of the helper. I see the resemblance. 

The father loves his daughter. 

She is showing him photographs, blindly and furtively taken. The pictures are blurred, dark, angled wrongly, poorly reproduced. It’s hard to extract real faces. Only bare skin, inner thighs, a shadow hanging over supple breasts. 

How did she end up in bed with her father? In this house which she cleans for less than minimum wage? No one knows if the matron knows, but if she is really following me…