mvuent
Void Dweller
He had been dreaming. It was the Age of Discovery. He had disembarked in
Acapulco. There were lucid categories of things. He rummaged in the marginalia.
He conquered his fear of flying. He was ruthless in his pursuit of the smallest
competitive advantage. The parrots kept materialising out the fog, and vanishing
again. It disconcerted him. The cantilevered joist had been his invention. He
thought proudly. It was the cornerstone of the company’s success.
It bothered him. The falling out with Jay.
He longed to make amends. It was a parting of the ways. It was a cataclysm.
Sean was presenting difficulties. It was the hour before dawn. It beguiled him.
The seabirds were preparing to fan out across the bay. He wove his web of deceit.
The Governor had worn a brocaded fabric. It was a blue and patterned sleeve.
He’d need a few days to go over the details. The cannons pointed out to sea.
He imagined a cannonball splintering a wooden ship.
He had inside information. He was able to
leverage a bargain deal.
He wouldn’t think twice before crossing him. It was his signature style:
leather jodhpurs and a pashmina. It was the sea of dreams he had been
travelling. It made sense. He had been carrying contraband. Antiquities
of Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia.
The winds had been good
to him. He bit into a nectarine.
They had barrelled through the horse latitudes. They had made a surgical
incision through the spruce and laurel. They had spent some time in Denver.
They had only had one cassette. They knew those songs off by heart.
Nong had got caught with the guns and was doing bird in Acapulco.
He’d have to shed this identity. The skin was beginning
to itch. Alessandro was loitering by the pool.
It was a pig of a summer. They reached the Pacific through Panama. They
scalped the codex. They made an impression in soapstone. They littered
the trail with iconography.
Lotus flowers shimmied in the courtyard. What lay within that
mighty blue lake he asked himself. Could a man truly lose himself there?
It was a simple tea hut. The couple who ran it had the gift of simplicity.
They were simple. It was a nice view they had. The grass grew tussocky
on the dune. The waves lost their balance.
The hotel was about a mile’s walk away, along the coastal path.
People round here didn’t like to talk about the island. He couldn’t find
a single fisherman to row him over, no amount of money could change their mind.
The map pointed to a cove concealed on the seaward side.
He licked his lips with avarice.
He’d backed Gross, Adams to the hilt. It had been a gamble.
There had been a minor shareholders rebellion. Their forces had
suffered a stinging reverse and retreated to the Pamir mountains.
There wasn’t much harm they could do from there, he thought with
satisfaction.
He crossed that hurdle as he came to it. He jumped through the
hoops. He opted to blow up the pipeline.
He was a Master of Affairs.
The cave was only uncovered at low tide. They had counted on
that. The island had an ominous aspect. He could see why the
locals avoided it. The sea-slosh menaced him. It slapped the
tidal pools. He would have to be quick. It was a treasure beyond
compare. It was the holy grail of automated reply services.
Kelp clung to his wingtips. He’d see about installation later.
He removed a guppy from his breast pocket. A plaintive wind
struck up from the west. It caromed around the ruined tower.
The moon popped up over the horizon. It was getting dark.
He would have to spend the night here. Lightning split
our hysterical sky.
Goosegrass chivvied his leg. Burdock gave him anxiety.
He prayed to Santo Domingo. The land here would furnish
a meagre living. Beef lettuce grew here, and there were rabbits
aplenty. He crumpled up his map. He already had what he had
come for.
God was his sustenance. He gobbled the gold of the sun. He
grew aromatic. He wore a donkey skin.
His market competitors opened up
the land route to Asia. His eggs were all in one basket.
He lost grazing rights to the Green Beyond.
He retreated into himself. He found a cave of treasures.
He lived in the miasma of belief. He believed they could
drastically reduce production costs. It was a jersey with
the letter ‘H’ on it. He had domesticated, shyly at first,
several species of gourd. He nailed his colours to the mast.
He boiled the skin from frogs. Camembert was a rare delicacy.
Value was his lodestone. He knew where the eels congregated.
He knew where the turtles lay their eggs. He said Nature is a
Harmonious Balance. Wowie Zowie. There were tin deposits
in the hills to the north.
It was a curate’s egg. He’d found it in the souk of Marrakesh.
He’d found it in an antiques shop in Chinatown. It was the
soul of the party. It was Pandora’s Box.
Nigeria would fall into his lap. Mandalay was a foregone conclusion.
The Director of Unusual Circumstances was shooting him a
meaningful glance. But what might it mean? It was a fine
line. He had legitimate concerns. It wasn’t the proper place. The
punch was getting warm.
It was a great, lost civilization. It was a loose affiliation. Let me call you back, yeah.
They’d long had their suspicions. Yeah, right mate.
It was the jungle perimeter again.
A python had swallowed the architrave. Rain rattled against the banana leaves.
In the shimmering city above the clouds. Tonto was dead before he hit the ground.
Kane hit the remote. Arrows swooped in from the upright.
It was worth it just to see your face.
And then you remember the world again, with all its painful necessity.
The garbage heaps up, even in a state of inertia. Dust barricades the doorway.
It is an easy, limber morning. Work stamps and stakes its claim. The meadows
outside of time grow rank. The fruit is not so sweet.
Lethe choked and spluttered. Computer games spit out their slogans.
Back in the world again.
He was cold again, in the small room, with the window open, for the smoke.
Sleep was a stranger in a panic. He always woke in the dark. He wished
he’d had more support. Perhaps he could of done it, with the proper support.
He always drove them away, in the end. The price they required was too high.
He washed in cold water. He smoked a neat cigar.
He’d locked horns with the administrator before. The lie he had been
so proud of the week before suddenly seemed so flimsy. It was a
crumpled shield. He left with a bitter taste in his mouth.
A single doubt is enough to defeat you. It is a chink in the aura.
The blade finds its mark. Infection pours through the breach.
Until then, you never know if you are invisible or if you are already
on the books and under observation.
It is the Dow Jones Index. It is Napoleon. It is the well run dry.
Acapulco. There were lucid categories of things. He rummaged in the marginalia.
He conquered his fear of flying. He was ruthless in his pursuit of the smallest
competitive advantage. The parrots kept materialising out the fog, and vanishing
again. It disconcerted him. The cantilevered joist had been his invention. He
thought proudly. It was the cornerstone of the company’s success.
It bothered him. The falling out with Jay.
He longed to make amends. It was a parting of the ways. It was a cataclysm.
Sean was presenting difficulties. It was the hour before dawn. It beguiled him.
The seabirds were preparing to fan out across the bay. He wove his web of deceit.
The Governor had worn a brocaded fabric. It was a blue and patterned sleeve.
He’d need a few days to go over the details. The cannons pointed out to sea.
He imagined a cannonball splintering a wooden ship.
He had inside information. He was able to
leverage a bargain deal.
He wouldn’t think twice before crossing him. It was his signature style:
leather jodhpurs and a pashmina. It was the sea of dreams he had been
travelling. It made sense. He had been carrying contraband. Antiquities
of Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia.
The winds had been good
to him. He bit into a nectarine.
They had barrelled through the horse latitudes. They had made a surgical
incision through the spruce and laurel. They had spent some time in Denver.
They had only had one cassette. They knew those songs off by heart.
Nong had got caught with the guns and was doing bird in Acapulco.
He’d have to shed this identity. The skin was beginning
to itch. Alessandro was loitering by the pool.
It was a pig of a summer. They reached the Pacific through Panama. They
scalped the codex. They made an impression in soapstone. They littered
the trail with iconography.
Lotus flowers shimmied in the courtyard. What lay within that
mighty blue lake he asked himself. Could a man truly lose himself there?
It was a simple tea hut. The couple who ran it had the gift of simplicity.
They were simple. It was a nice view they had. The grass grew tussocky
on the dune. The waves lost their balance.
The hotel was about a mile’s walk away, along the coastal path.
People round here didn’t like to talk about the island. He couldn’t find
a single fisherman to row him over, no amount of money could change their mind.
The map pointed to a cove concealed on the seaward side.
He licked his lips with avarice.
He’d backed Gross, Adams to the hilt. It had been a gamble.
There had been a minor shareholders rebellion. Their forces had
suffered a stinging reverse and retreated to the Pamir mountains.
There wasn’t much harm they could do from there, he thought with
satisfaction.
He crossed that hurdle as he came to it. He jumped through the
hoops. He opted to blow up the pipeline.
He was a Master of Affairs.
The cave was only uncovered at low tide. They had counted on
that. The island had an ominous aspect. He could see why the
locals avoided it. The sea-slosh menaced him. It slapped the
tidal pools. He would have to be quick. It was a treasure beyond
compare. It was the holy grail of automated reply services.
Kelp clung to his wingtips. He’d see about installation later.
He removed a guppy from his breast pocket. A plaintive wind
struck up from the west. It caromed around the ruined tower.
The moon popped up over the horizon. It was getting dark.
He would have to spend the night here. Lightning split
our hysterical sky.
Goosegrass chivvied his leg. Burdock gave him anxiety.
He prayed to Santo Domingo. The land here would furnish
a meagre living. Beef lettuce grew here, and there were rabbits
aplenty. He crumpled up his map. He already had what he had
come for.
God was his sustenance. He gobbled the gold of the sun. He
grew aromatic. He wore a donkey skin.
His market competitors opened up
the land route to Asia. His eggs were all in one basket.
He lost grazing rights to the Green Beyond.
He retreated into himself. He found a cave of treasures.
He lived in the miasma of belief. He believed they could
drastically reduce production costs. It was a jersey with
the letter ‘H’ on it. He had domesticated, shyly at first,
several species of gourd. He nailed his colours to the mast.
He boiled the skin from frogs. Camembert was a rare delicacy.
Value was his lodestone. He knew where the eels congregated.
He knew where the turtles lay their eggs. He said Nature is a
Harmonious Balance. Wowie Zowie. There were tin deposits
in the hills to the north.
It was a curate’s egg. He’d found it in the souk of Marrakesh.
He’d found it in an antiques shop in Chinatown. It was the
soul of the party. It was Pandora’s Box.
Nigeria would fall into his lap. Mandalay was a foregone conclusion.
The Director of Unusual Circumstances was shooting him a
meaningful glance. But what might it mean? It was a fine
line. He had legitimate concerns. It wasn’t the proper place. The
punch was getting warm.
It was a great, lost civilization. It was a loose affiliation. Let me call you back, yeah.
They’d long had their suspicions. Yeah, right mate.
It was the jungle perimeter again.
A python had swallowed the architrave. Rain rattled against the banana leaves.
In the shimmering city above the clouds. Tonto was dead before he hit the ground.
Kane hit the remote. Arrows swooped in from the upright.
It was worth it just to see your face.
And then you remember the world again, with all its painful necessity.
The garbage heaps up, even in a state of inertia. Dust barricades the doorway.
It is an easy, limber morning. Work stamps and stakes its claim. The meadows
outside of time grow rank. The fruit is not so sweet.
Lethe choked and spluttered. Computer games spit out their slogans.
Back in the world again.
He was cold again, in the small room, with the window open, for the smoke.
Sleep was a stranger in a panic. He always woke in the dark. He wished
he’d had more support. Perhaps he could of done it, with the proper support.
He always drove them away, in the end. The price they required was too high.
He washed in cold water. He smoked a neat cigar.
He’d locked horns with the administrator before. The lie he had been
so proud of the week before suddenly seemed so flimsy. It was a
crumpled shield. He left with a bitter taste in his mouth.
A single doubt is enough to defeat you. It is a chink in the aura.
The blade finds its mark. Infection pours through the breach.
Until then, you never know if you are invisible or if you are already
on the books and under observation.
It is the Dow Jones Index. It is Napoleon. It is the well run dry.
