SOMP

Rushing creativity seems blasphemous because sometimes you (or I at least) have to wait for when you do not plan to accomplish some thing. That made me recently re-question the way that many 'acts' or 'entertainers' albeit artists and creators, too, often have deadlines for releases or imagery.
It may stuff a hole in a quick dagger of mildly wet plume, if you may let me put it that way!!
All of this makes me feel like a furious slug. 
(Note that blasphemy also seems ideal to me in many ways so I shouldn't have a problem with what I have just written in a way that seems I may have a problem with it.) Sometimes you don't plan what images you use or cutting your neck shaving but it just happens. None of this has to do with downloading the album of what the above image refers to from here or waiting for it to be properly released with full album artwork and highest kpbs possible. And now back to the nonshow.
...
..
and now back to:

Now a procedure will take place.
This is it.
And from here I will proceed with a short story draft. It really is best to read aloud. This goes for certain if you are in a space of strangers around you. In fact, given the obvious interest and adoration of this trendy and life changing blog (which such steady subject matter,) it is not a bad idea to, if you are at home, leave and go to a public space simply to read this out loud. The results will be a practice in courage and fun. On a similar note I soon plan to give a book review of "How To Lose Friends And Alienate People"  by Irving D. Tressler and Quinch. Having never given a book review in my life I figured I am just as qualified for such as a homeless group judging food. Which would be more commonsense than well-fed sneebly critiques critiquing food that they eat 1/3rd a portion of. Snibs.  But now,
a procedure will take place.

****************
DISTURBED in a mildly erotic way,
Chafey merged as one from two colliding plummets of street debri blown from
either direction.
***********************

Chapter two: The Eloping Antelopes of Bramble Bay

The prophecy wasn't too hard for him to fulfill.
Eight q-tips,
a package of Elephant rope,
a pulley and
three plunkets of eyebrow hair from a green eyed,hazel-haired ballerina
and the next second he's sipping a brandy thinking about how he had just fulfilled the prophecy.
Good stuff, but easy work, he thought as the semiotic bar maid squeaked on over to offer more brandy.
It mixed in with the grease quite well.

Compliments of the agency.
They had their own lounge nestled on the same corridor that housed the life-sized pinball machine.
Nobody ever escaped that.
Twelve crushed.

He sat sipping the drunkenness as it settled into the grease watching the shadow of the beautiful lime-haired bar maid recede along with the sounds of her squeaking all  leaving him to chatter his thoughts internally with a background of inaudible radio transmission pulsing from the front bar.

He had to restore everbody's secrets from Section 802 before they splattered everywhere. He created worlds then sucked them up in design 706's version of the quantum vaccuum package as a demonstration to mass-market the sucker.
He custard'd culprits of the ice cream sandwich clam-hampering escapades and bagged the big one after it escaped from the city zoo but it all became so boring so quickly for him.

"I'm sorry Somp, but we're all out of elbow grease." The bar maid, on her squeaky wheels, said upon her fourth return.
Apparently he drank it all.
The brandy was useless without it, so he returned back to his office.


He heard the screams coming from the pickle room as he passed through the hallway and back to his private office.
The Styrofoam cup sat beside the photo frame of his ex-wife Mecky and his son.
Both stared back at him as he sat up straight in his chair in some meditative trance of zone-out.
The stryofoam cup wore some pathetic expression of uselessness. He wondered why he still kept that portrait of Mecky and little Jonesy Bibbins there all this time. Then he remembered, and wondered why he forgot. Beforehand, As if the styrofoam cup failed to deliver any answer, he swung his left hand in a chopping motion and swatted it from the table.
It bounced yet didn't gesture any sign of pain. Such a pathetic cup, but glorious in it's inability to perceive pain or agony.. Agony like that which occurs when he thinks of his dear Mecky.
Faint sounds could still be heard coming from the pickle room.



                      SOMP T. SPOMPS
                          Head detective
            Astarabco Investigation Agency
          We're better than what you'd expect!

He put his business card back into his inner pocket 

The Crugar spotted ceiling, the polished ostrich desk and the Nematode clow appaulstry,
the place really had it's perks but for some reason Somp's heart had always resided at that world
that existed before being a detective.

Poor Mecky, he thought. Poor Mecky and Jonesy. They never should have taken that submarine vacation to
the Bermuda Triangle. He would have disintegrated too if he hadn't been busy on the 408 Diabetes Radish
assignment. It was either off his job and disintegrate on a family vacation or save North Carolina
from that atrocious Radish disaster. Deep inside he knew he could have spared North Carolina just for that slight chance to get back his loving Mecky.

The stryofoam cup continued to lay there.
A muffled "weeeeeeeeeeee!' was heard coming from the pickle room.
Somp stared at the wristwatch drawn around his arm in black felt tipped marker before realizing it was time for him to punch out.



**********************
Loti left in the sky bridge. Noodles hampering in the Scroggleton stem.

The disaster was averted as Chafey balanced on the radio-wire. Crossing from one building to the next.
He felt a set of eyes manifest but scrambled into the air before he was recognized.
*************

Chapter 2

How to gargle battery acid and keep promises made to baboons



A woman turned and ran.
Somp was heading back to his apartment after walking down Jorbis Street near where the steel centipede had dropped him off. There was a blur in a white dress so bright that it looked as if it were a hemlock shark pearl against the dark evening of the Thrisdaugh night.
He swore he saw a blurring jaw of jagged teeth swing against the air as this child ran off from near the front
cavern of the apartment stand.

They are still here... he reminded himself. Case 230:The Unspeakable!!!
He shuddered and tried to forget about that as he squeezed himself through the elastic proportions of the
building's entrance. Down the three fleights of stairs he unlocked the door to his room on the 6th floor and
set down his briefcase by his Victorian bedside per usual. His breath tasting moreso as elbow grease as usual that night.
He walked out to the kitchen and went to the cupboard to pull out an opened tin of elbow grease.
It's been a while since he had any.

The thick steel mainframe and durable walls provided a comforting and reasonably peaceful living environment often ignored or passed up in the likes of a setting of many books or movies. But this was real life, Somp thought, then wondered what the heck he was thinking about that for.
Elbow grease without the brandy, he thought, it causes for some unremarkable thoughts so he decided not to remark on any of them.

For the past five years he had been here doing his detective work.

He flicked on the TV after getting Betty out of her cage and going over to the Ibuson Goose feathered love couch.
Betty was his pet mouce. The antlered Mouce that Mecky had sent through the air mail as a souvenir on her way to Bermuda.
It was a last penchant from before she and Jonesy had disintegrated; A present of life and joy that waited him at the desk of the Apartment thingy after Operation 408 Diabetes Radish had been sucessfuly completed by Somp.
Now Betty was all he really had.
They both rested in front of the TV

'Everything's going great. Life is lovely. A hot air balloon landed safely today in South Venice and donations to the swift snoppling youth group were given out with joy by the generous celebrity foundation.

Able's Worn Soles (A short story)

Aible's Worn Soles
Written '08/10/2009' by Leemonster

I tramped into town--- Silence. A slight humming from badly structured electric lines and radiator fans later chimed in, but nothing else. A breeze through the air being strangled still by the thick, hot wet air. Teenage daughters locked in their bedrooms staring to mirrors only reflecting faces of bone-hugged superstars. Fathers winding down on living room sofas.

My feet slip against the ground. Dead skin on my foot, toes almost extruding through the holes in my shoes, barely contained from piercing through by my wet socks. I sit on a milk crate in the middle of this universal mess… Searching for subjects to write. A pen between my grip as I hold it like an arrow pulled back ready to pierce the flesh, but the act of story and structure feels like the ideal of skinning and preparing the meat… To starve for the ease to avoid given preparation? Starved like the daughters about to sneak through their windows or staved like the life away from the single mothers all ugly to the eyes of entertainment.

One casual glance at Eden. It exists, out there. I’ve breathed it in. It is that breath where you can exhale freely without a large choking jolt or series of coughs from bad air. I look at the street signs and see wall street quotes. The phonebooks tell me “Obituary,” but I don’t write the books. No wonder I’ve remained forcibly unlisted for so long. An owl stares down from a flickering streetlight. Metal barricades and steel sheds, the broken lights within the letters of store names, all surrounding me. Drug houses and foolish musings of bar scenes are the only source of night activity, but no source of life.

I look up towards the owl then back down at the empty note page. I scribe the date “08/10/2009,” A start. I get up to continue walking… In a section like this it’d be miraculous to avoid a patrol car pulling over and interrogating me. My footsteps continue the count taken since I had learned to walk. I taught myself distance even though when learning to tie my shoes I was hesitant at young age. Well, we all have to graduate from velcro street light shoes someday. My thoughts meander me with a heavy crush while I walk away from the neighborhood to a less populated area, with frequent eye-jerks from peripheral vision as I swear to see shadows moving across the ground alongside my own.

Any novel about the horrors of mankind or any science fiction of the mind chamber are put to dust now. Who am I to partner the subject of these topics? The trance wears so heavy that we often forget or deny that it exists. Growing fat and weary, poisoned and forgetful to a ground down stump that once had branches, and leaves and life, now just a circle of rings to remind of times once lived and roots that grasp to the soil. Roots that grasp trying to remember. Starting from velcro then dying with velcro shoes. What use in tying knots?

CLICK,CLACK,CLICK,CLACK
Shoelaces keep tempo with my steps. Left, right, left, right. A marching man a-wol from this fantasy world, ridden from these projections but still stuck in the hoax. I pass factories still opened with lights glaring through caged windows. The sounds of loud fans drowning away small streams beyond highway signs. I swear there’s a shadow, but I look back… Nothing… Nothing but the stars in the sky that we gaze up upon to dream… Those left remembering they live.


Any normal man will die having nothing answered. The mysteries remain mysteries along the way and any ounce of respect must be either inherited or dodged from blackmail or heresy. To play in the game is to leave all of the bullets remaining in roulette, and this has become the standard.


I can look you up in the phonebook any time from anyplace, but the more I sore my own feet I see that my name is in there too. I just hadn’t looked hard enough, maybe afraid to browse the details. The thickness of the air holds me in it’s grip, like friction’s hand squeezing me. I take off my overcoat and roll it up into a ball then stuff it into my back pack. This shadow, this shadow! I breathe easy then laugh… There’s a brightness from a stop light, from red to green. I look up to see the owl peering down to my eyes. It is the owl that had been perusing… Following.
I stared back, deeply projecting my anguish, hopes and past, Slightly humored that there’s a feeling of better communication and understanding between different species than my own. We shared a depravity of need: To live in a different environment, A different world. The owl, Stuck within a platform built around it trapping it within and myself: wandering town and town again never being able to adapt. There was something I needed to write but I just couldn’t start it… Then I thought to myself, in explaining it all… A blank page was just enough. The date, and then nothing. The only change would be to update the scribbled date, once a day for eternity.

Luckily, my footsteps were untraceable. The soles were worn so scorned that they hadn’t a chance to leave a track. I’ve had my sins and I’ve had my charmings, Had ripped away winning tickets. The jackpot was not the answer nor the arrow or the angst. We’ve had a blank page to fill forever, but my footsteps were never there. I’d made it to Eden but each path had gone covered.
Call me,
Aible.

Ragged Ideas - Fighting Rats

This is the raw sample of a story I am currently creating. Like a ball of destruction, I have absolutely no indication of where it is headed, and strangely enough I am starting this from the mid-point.

So the premise is this: I collected a series of photos from strolling around late night after the rain had retired. Insomnia struck me hard as it frequently does. The wave shocks of need for self-entertainment once again took me over so i started to take take photos like I usually do (this was in June before my camera had passed away.) Anyhow, I decided to use each image to connect a story and dialogue together to see where it ends up, as well as to focus some words and details away from the other stories I am currently working on. It becomes strange because you have all of these side- scenarios that get thrown away from one story and don't want to completely lose them, So I suppose this story is where many of them will end up. This one will be gritty to the bone and full of corporal commentary to spew away those healthy criticisms.

Every aspect of the town became dead to me. Each breath had been lived at least twice and now all there was to do would be climb every rut and stand atop, watching it all melt away. Signs I never wanted to read and a ten-count on both fingers of patrol cars constantly warding me away from the boundaries. No matter which turn, the eventless alleys would welcome them to swoop by in a condescending manner. I must have done something wrong to be out at these hours, right?

Sluts, assholes and bums and booze hounds, all wiring me into a groggy atmosphere in a place where the sun will never reach... Like the base level of some William Gibson novel... I too, stuck in the Matrix.

The trees sway but I feel no breeze. The word 'revolution' is written across old beat up metal garbage cans, appropriately. Thrown away, like ragged ideas, rats fight over food crumbs like shoppers in the holiday rush literally killing each other over television sets on sale price.

Tommy Tucker

"Oh Gosh, you sweet thing, you must've been stuck out there in the rain all day!" Mrs. Williams was a cat lover. 45 with long brunette hair and a fancy for Velvet blouses, she knew the windy city was not such a place for a striped stray-- Not one such as Tommy Tucker the cat, at least!
He had been traveling for a month and two days. Kansas, Missouri, a strange loop following the howling of feline pussy in heat and derailed by the trails of fresh salmon by the dumpsters or yummy leftovers in suburban garbage cans. Alongside the raccoons he would scower through trash bins, leaving residents rightfully pissed by each morning with the mess that would have to be gathered up and re-bagged, but Tommy wouldn't have to be there to take the heat! Once a farm cat living off mice and nestling in the haystacks, he thought best to up and leave after growing weary of being chased off by the mean 'ol farmer and his hussie bitch wife whom would shatter poor Tommy's ears with her demonic howls. "Geyt yerself up on outta here you mangy bagg'a fur!" He took fine advice from those very words and was quite tired of the same sluts he would bury into each night and dickhead dogs that would howl like muscle heads and it wasn't until that very leap of fate that Tommy would see his first river, or grow fond of the same very scraps of luxury mentioned earlier that humans would consider leftovers. Sure he would miss the pure trip of watching the windmill spin circles or the entertainment of batting around the grass snakes and letting them dangle between his teeth, or the possums, skunks and squirrels which he would always talk it up with, but his welcome was stale like the sips of the dirty mud puddle. Hell, even would even moreso miss the fine quality catnip that he would get fucked up on every evening, but for every will there is a way. Now, he did not know any other cats named Will, but he found his own way anyhow.
He made sure to eat heavily the night before giving the place the 'ol "see ya later, suckers" and fed his belly with two field mice, a bucket of water and some lovely shards of grass to clear his digestive system.

That is all of this tale for now. To be continued?? What will Tommy's adventure will consist of? Will the story ever get finished??