Casphergini Atonal

by  shaun lawton 

  Heur wuz insofera billgnoll  encuenter villes nieve affront entwinistered amungst therukus 

along the gently modulating lines of current divergence rearticulating the insoluble pitch 

Adrift in a Sea

 by  Shaun Lawton 

   Adrift in a sea of digital information, it occurs to us that it has always been impossible to know what's real, the only difference now seems to be that we can be freed from persecution for believing in any of it.   

   I know that sounds like some sort of sick joke, believe me it isn't supposed to be.  Some things always stay the same, for example the persecution of orderliness. Other things keep on changing, like being granted wider access in the streets.  

   Adrift in a sea of digital information, here in what's left of the post-pandemic world, the survivors continue to spill over from their various waterspouts into their cozy receptacles aligning the interior labyrinth of the new age.

    Exploding underworld growing exponentially through the now hypercubed network of dimensional portals branching out into the compressed colonies assembled into aggregates now considered part and parcel of the cubic kingdom of Faraday.   

SM Reports

1.  

The servant arrived pedaling his bicycle.

He was not standing on the pedals.

He was not sitting on the velocipede seat. 

In fact there was no bicycle, which was alarming. 

It turns out he wasn't even an operator here. 

No Damage done. We are just making you aware.

There is someone working for you not employed by you

who does not arrive to work on a missing bicycle. 

2. 

Infirmary ward transporter returned our patient to the wrong room

without having done so. Convalescent was found in his bed asleep

with the rail down and his cell phone unplugged from the wall.

This victim was not on oxygen yet and was wearing a nasal canula.

No harm done. Hospice envoy failed to be polite and smelled faintly of Old Spice.  

3.

The courier rang our unit's buzzer without touching the buzzer button. Staff alarmed and confused. He was also naked while being fully clothed. There were no wrinkles in his clean work shirt. He shouted at us without making a sound. He used inappropriate body language without moving. We noticed his shirt was tucked in too perfectly. No harm done. 

4.

Patient emissary did not arrive with subject because there was no

cause for a transport at the time. We checked the sufferer's room 

and confirmed they were not there. The bed was empty and the side rail was down. We called X-ray and the case was still getting their exam. The carrier was actually sitting down doing nothing during the exam. No harm done and the courier returned patient to their room after the exam was over.

graph of the title

 

I decided to write a book whose lines are

9 characters wider than the reproduction

of a photograph of the title page, in this

case Death Head's Moth a collexion of

poesy by shaun A. lawton may be seen

as an exercise in late night futility on a

scale we've practically heretofore never

seen much less imagined could be possible

Crentennial

In this age of cracked codes and fractured imperatives

  in the era of shattered shafts 

and broken drives
there's no way that either you 

or I could say

 a conservative mindset 

would still apply itself 

to the ongoing situation world wide
 there's a lash beyond the measure
by which the pain may last forever
 counter-spinning to the terror
warding off the toxic shame
of the epoch into which we venture
the sameless age that still unfolds 

The Devoted Few of the Magnetic Cushion

 

   In the turquoise infused early evening before the crickets could take over the wavelengths with their comforting ripples of sussuration cascading in and out among the gently forested blocks of a city who'd forgotten its insectoid sisters-in-law of the olden order and age, lost so long ago in the fading mists of history, the turning of the page had been forgotten by the most stalwart among them who yet remember the vivid horrors of that night.  

   In the darkened glows of the deep recessed forested alleyway there came unguent shapeless beckonings on the the crawl from the shadowy corners. In a sisterly slanted murmuring constituent of unexpected consent, the separation tendencies of suddenly swiveling magnetic frequencies align themselves into repellant platforms of anti-gravity thrust away from each other's offending onset. A mutually beneficial exclusion concurrent with their mirrored desires for survival. 

   The devoted few stood still in the gathering darkness incurred by a swath of dark gray clouds smudging over the gibbous moon on a sudden updraft in the wind. 

Starcomb

You must clutch the leather 

sagging below the waterline.

Trees don't matter to the ragworts of industry. 

Handle the ruptured portions with care.

Celestial bankruptcies repair themselves, 

but we are not certain about tigers. 

There's a common time of day

when the professors all align

themselves into a new formation

heralding the Coventry of the reborn. 

Stranded gravitational ribbons loosely

bound in the wakes of passing stars 

found drifting too far off course by

the latter day sanitation workers

are collected into lambent energy bytes

on leave to orbital docking upon 

any issues derived from nomenclature

on up the ladder of opportunity 

as they said in the orrery at the top

of the winding staircase down

in the darkness of the cellar dropped

creeping up an inch on us every day.

Harlequin Symphonies

 Once the mist became disregarded

and the chill dissipated just a bit

The quiet grew to engulf us

Homed in on as the target

We listened on in silence

To the quiet of the wind

As it whispered softly

Reminder of a friend

refreshing memory

courtesy of nothing 

blessed be the drifter

cascading symphonies 

filling honey in their drums 

harvesting the slumber of the sun

for a future devastation of the dream

outgoing transmon

we have no knowledge of a transmission other than the one
penetrating  our airspace now

This is a screenshot while listening to Thrasher. We're in the immolation now, deep beneath its reeking waters on the verge of boiling over with the seething filth of millions in disarray. 

Occupancy becomes maximized by opportunities. Suffice it to say the Irradiated Way lights corners black and twisted enough as to appear to be staircases winding down into the darkness of the cellar.

Fishmas Tree

 

Dream and Day

The difference between a star and the Sun.
All of them are long gone dead except one.
Even the nearest ones just out of our reach
are on the fast track slipping into death's lane.
Just behind us in line it will be our turn next. 
On whose shores will the echoes of our radiance
appear upon and on the surface of whose eyes
will the image of our light continue to shine? 

But what if we could teleport in an instant 
to any distant star and see through the eyes
of each other? Receive the impressions of who
we are and what we each feel and experience.
No matter how strange and far it may seem
we have nothing to really fear past the fence 
except our own expectation of willful ignorance.
The sun comprises nearly 99 percent of the mass
of the total solar system covering a terrain 
that is an astonishing distance from the Sun. 

     Amid sinister hissing whispers heard in the gloaming under the lunar tides of night did I step as quietly as I could manage into the small grove of slender trees isolated up the trail of the canyon.
The moonlit glare cast a feeling of cold foreboding on the scene. It enhanced the idea we weren't even there. Since we couldn't see ourselves, and there was no one else around to be seen, we were the ghosts. This apparent truth never becomes fully realized until the day we die.

     That is the day we first begin to become just a memory of a ghost. There's nothing left to haunt us after that. This is the hardest lesson to remember. We can only ever do the haunting while we're alive. Human beings alive and well are the very definition of a ghost. There's no one left to remember them. Being haunted is just getting reminded you were once alive yourself. If you have a thought you are being haunted.

     These words represent the thinking of a dead person. They are haunting you in a state of full blown possession. The only known effective exorcism is to stop reading this. By then of course, it is far too late. The human mind absorbs the memory of what it has read. Such is the power of language and the shape of words. Weaving a binding spell on generations of readers. Sustaining a symphonic crescendo due to break on the rocks of twilight any day now.

     The hooting of an owl in the dark recesses emerged spookily from the shadows of the looming forest. For the first time I recognized it as an invitation or a request to step forth and enter its domain. The twinned image of the moon reflected in both of its wide open eyes.

Cross-hairs on the Angel

art and story by shaun lawton 

The Blue-bell of riddling bays, the facial ponds of Straven Avenue, the bird nest under the magnifying lens, lurking on the beach beneath the Caribbean winds. Focusing on a memory quite beyond the ultraviolet. Stepping down the stacked stairs of water down the well. In rapturous memoriam. Reflection of a harlot. Cross-hairs on an angel. Getting erased by the violet dusk with the sun's own rays. Dissolving one granule at a time into the end of days. 

 Drowning under the sands of eternity. Glimmering under a blanket of haze. Breathing in another aqua marine dream. Granted passage by the agents of echo location. Enshrined by the ceremony of forgotten birds. Preserved for a very long time under the pitiless gaze of the shunned indigenous council of solitary beings. Captured under glass for posterity in a glossy full color photograph taken by the panopticon with a series of long since fallen apart cameras. 

To dream of transubstantiation in a bottle of moonlight

 Broadcast after dark in the shadowed mists of the forest

Bleating Parts

Furrowed palate fits together 

Bone fissure slit allows sunlight

In from a pole standing ten feet

Hide stretched over eye cavities

Motionless processions survey

Every cycle of the moon's drop

Lifts more waves of bound waters

Poised along a crest held aloft

Wind chatters along pebble crest

For moments while clouds look

the other way at star's approach

from the dark sidereal blooming

4th phallacy

Okay my blog's set up now.  As of today, March 6, 2017, David Gilmour's birthday, I've finally managed to get my blog under control (more or less).  This post represents one status nodality of a myriad published over the years on blogger site. I've annexed as many bylines and criss-crossed as many interwoven hyperlinks as I could in the span of thirteen years. Over hundreds of blogs and many dozens of posts haphazardly applied in an unpredictable array of subjects and toss ups, I can finally begin to recognize the Azathothian quality, call it an outspread manifestation on one of the folded origami corners of space, or an outward array of chaotic issuing streamers as fine as white hairs, or a deranged sigil of sonic sibilance ushering in the oblique microgravitational wavelengths of our own cascading unfolding hyperdimensional moment in the herenow we like to think of as spacetime. As the senseless psychobabble ensues across the audial and visual spectrum we process through our ears and eyes every day of our lives, we adapt in a myriad individual ways. Erasing the bottom line of reality remains everyone's speciality.

SALT LAKE CITY 2016

Our Luminous Molten Star Slowly Dissolves

Into the Inversion During the Afternoon Sunset

Intercranial Depths

http://ceruleannocturne.blogspot.com/2015/12/censerliteracy.html

Sin Seer Eater Feed Her Peter Don't Delete Her

A seer sees a series of seas he's seen since he seated himself at the seeing table to season seared seaweed ceaselessly since he insisted his sister said certain significant systems seemed sinister to her. After asking her Alice automatically answered at an astronomically advanced abstraction an affecting aesthetic he'd never even heard about before. Really he said. 

Yes you yammer and yap and yawn all you want while I warn you we're wasting away here when we're wanted for weeding out whatever was in our way. The manner in which he stared at her could have filled a silver plate up to the rim with warm drool from the moon. 

Ew she said, why are you looking at me like that. I want to eat you he whispered. You mean to make a meal of me she seethed. That is exactly what I mean he snicker hissed. She got undressed and splayed her what he paid for. An intimate relation with another member of the human family. 

Wham blam the trick is dead. Get an executioner if you want to get ahead. Beat a batch of butter balling in the bed. Raise em praise em might not phase em but they'll graduate to hate well fed, well said, until we're all quite dead, go ahead, tell you what, why don't you instead do a good deed and take the lead, I think it can be agreed, what we feed consumes us, and assumes our identities too. 

Please realize we have eaten our father and passed him on as waste for the process, why yes he would be elated to find he was fated to play the next role in his decomposition to help fund raise the growth of the land which the hand understands was handed hand in hand on a grand scale to apprehend or wrap your head around before you were found down town drowned in a crown and worn upside down with you bloodless and hung up from the ground held up dry and bound to whether to wither away altogether or wander on the wind one must wonder, so the seer shook his head and took himself to bed to rid his mind of the reddening sight and what did he find in the middle of the night but a dream of a red river running through his head whispering  heatedly that nothing true was said.    

unspiracy concurring

If you put 'publishing license' into a search engine, you'll get music publishing results.
Put in 'license to publish writing', and you'll get 'publish your book', 'self-publish your book',
and 'self-publishing'.  Put in 'publish others', you get a link announcing 'The Other Publishing Company is now accepting submissions', and 'How to self-publish a book', '4 ways to self-publish a book', 'self-publishing', 'Publishing...and other forms of insanity.'   Put in 'How to publish
someone else's book', and you'll get 'How to get someone else to write your book',
'How to get someone else to pay for publishing your book',  'How to publish a book blog',
and 'Publish someone else's copyrighted book'.  You get the idea.  Is it just me,
or do these search engines seem catered exclusively toward the individual user?

While we're on that topic, consider this.  Does the aforementioned question also apply
to each individual's consciousness in regard toward our perceiving the universe?
Reason I ask is I can't decide if it was all of you people out there who are directly
responsible for having shaped and evolved search engine results to the example above,
or could it possibly be true that the entire universe about me including all the history
of our planet and species combined together amount to nothing more than what is contained
in my very own head, and furthermore this also applies to every other individual on earth?
I don't know why don't you tell me.  There's a comment section below, please let me know.