The Myth-Hunter's Dream

I have absolutely no idea what possessed me to write such a peculiar piece, and I can only apologise for its dreamlike quality if it appears as just aimless meanderings, but as it had almost vanished I felt it was at least worthy of reconstruction.
I had just returned to the scene of the crime...I had resumed Work at a meaningless job, after an absence of 2 years...:

Hearken unto me all you Trollslayers, you Cyber-warriors, you deniers of celebrity fashion and the values of our corrupt world, you Wayseers of truth.

You mavericks, you black sheep, you renegades, vagabonds, misfits, anarchists and angels…you that shine a light into the darkest of spaces.
For I am with you my brothers and sisters, in your soulless quest to close the Asylum.
I too was born into a world filled with Pain.
I awoke shivering and twitching like a sea-squid squelching on the footpaths.
From out of the chemical depths I arose to face the scalpel of Sunrise with it’s surgical beams.
I opened my eyes blinking into the light and wept to see the unique suffering of the few, selected and paraded before us as an evening’s entertainment, eclipsing into the penumbra of shadows and ignorance the indiscriminate suffering of the many.
My ears were awakened to the sound of their screams and forlorn cries being drowned by the general cacophony, by the ghoulish saccharine music of advertisements and the endless waves of white-noise which hiss like serpents in our ears.
Only the blood remains now.
It remains as a mute testament of Man’s inhumanity to Man.
It stains the darkness of our ancient slumbers.
A crimson oil-slick which infects the surface of my consciousness and is captured by the slow shutter of my heavy eyelids like a crocodile wreathed in plastic rags, dreaming his reptilian dreams in the toxic half-light of an Industrial ooze.

End of Part One.
To be Continued…

Alas something indefinable has momentarily shifted outside and inside my head and i can no longer find the door…I can’t seem to make out where my digital muse might be indicating.
I just cannot ‘quite’ get a handle on this piece.
This miserable bloated attempt to define my own malaise.
Entropy has kicked in, revealing fine inherent flaws within it’s clockwork construction.
Gravity and time have finished the job.

I had written the bulk of this during a feverish, flashing moment in-between Tram stops along the Parisian, tree lined boulevard of St.Kilda Road in downtown Melbourne.

These tram stops punctuated my thoughts on my way to Work like a rumbling, clanking, shuddering armada of WWII iron tanks, as I bobbed side to side and up and down inside the belly of one of these huge 30 tonne behemoths.

Although I managed to retain something from the experience, to pluck some clich├ęd metaphorical fruit out of the repetitive, draining ether of the ‘commuter’ experience, I managed to lose something as well, at least for now, as I attempted to escape my environs and ascend those rarefied atmospheres all too hastily.

The pressure inside the beast, which appeared to have melted its iron belly into a monotonously repetitive, shiny yellow plastic lining, was rising in intensity as we all approached our final destinations.

No-one made any eye-contact, all looked submissively resigned to their fate, peering dutifully down and into their fabricated 'Reality' portals.

And a flickering heartbeat, on my way back to work, between stops 25 and 26, as I was being buffeted about, just another doleful-eyed piece of livestock inside a cattle-truck on it’s way to the Slaughter-yards, just another Slave in the system, something shifted internally, something which has no words to define it.

Something which was infinitely more valuable than the brief, shiny fragment of prose which I had gained.............................................................................

I was inordinately moved when I first saw this photo (the above is the same shot as mine).

It was from a new release by Ridley Scott : “Prometheus”.

I saw that by capturing this image, I had captured my own inner struggles.

Similar desperate encounters had been occurring for years in my dreams, and held me transfixed, locked in sweaty bouts of wrestling with an ancient God : " Moloch", deep into the night…

We all have our Demons and Dragons to vanquish.

Moloch, was one of mine..a cruel God who asked us to sacrifice too much.

This endless battle of mine had suddenly erupted into daylight, into consciousness and had scattered the skein of my prose, like a murder of Crows as black as the holes in Space...

So now, this piece, which began with such pyrotechnics, such vigorous flair and such mid-Victorian fanfare, sits unfinished and like an open scabrous wound on my assorted ramblings.

It festers and will require stitches…

I was hoping for some feedback, criticism etc., to alert me to the many errors of my ways regarding this paltry fragment.
We all feed on feed-back, especially here in Cyberspace.
Your response has been acerbic and painful in the extreme…
A damnable and damning reply!

‘You have no idea what you are doing to me!’…cries the digital Lover.

‘For I am but a ghost in the Machinery,
a soulless husk,
and less than nothing without your love!’…

This vast collective sigh of yours, this yawn of silence, sucks the virtual oxygen from my Timeline into the vacuum.

This cloud of forever imminent, yet permanently unspoken thoughts, this exquisite choir of hesitations cuts me to the quick as it soars by overhead, ripping holes in my atmosphere, singing as it plunges through the black-velvet canopy of night.

I feel like a lost child, abandoned and stumbling through a forest inhabited by giants.
These towering luminaries of history are men and women who have helped to define our current experience of ‘Reality’ by casting some light over our garden of forking paths.

Whether they were artists or scientists, ultimately they all contributed to where we stand today i.e to our cerebral landscape.

I cry, call out and sometimes shout into the void… listening for those echoes which hopefully pierce the darkness with splinters of light and thereby reveal just some of the brutal topography which we all share as we stumble like sleep-walkers… through the vast shopping aisles of our awakening moments.

And then I wake up, it’s my stop to get off…and as I get down from the Tram, all of the Newspapers, on all of the coffee-tables, all along the footpath, suddenly come alive…wrapped in a vigorous wind they begin excitedly rippling their pages.

Spoons start to jingle inside their cups.

Black & White headlines are cartwheeling in patterns on gingham-check red table-cloths.

Beneath corporate flags and a checkerboard sky full of reflective surfaces, all of the office workers are simultaneously catapulted into life, tap-dancing as they leap to their feet like giant marionettes which have just had their strings pulled.

White-crested and cheerfully bearing the unmistakeable mark of the striped chest, the office-workers appear on the footpaths and between the tables as they start to dance.

Strictly for white-men, in choreographed rhythms.

In unison they break into song from some new, catchy, repetitive jingle.

And as they take it in turns, to toast each others good coffee-sense, good taste in Phones, good choice in Football clubs and good fortune for being born… they tell me, they ALL tell me, in one jingle after another, one front-page, one screen, one giant billboard after another, that I must have been dreaming…


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