Ice
Part#2
the
holograms trembled
his
spidery legs arching over the neon dance
a
medicine for his nausea
both for
his conscience and for his pains
the
components he uses as sedatives
merging
with the dark mass of the system
the
bodiless euphoria of cyberspace
extending
from his spinal cord
a graphic
indicator that simplifies his
red
plastic madness as welded steel heap
even the
letter was something thought afterwards
a sound
came, languages, all of them are a complex desire
a narrow
border that has no official name
which
occurs in covered code tissue
is
forming his face
half melt
white skeleton was standing like a statue
wrapped
with curves extending beyond the wall smiling
it turned
to ash micron by micron
includes
the gentle touch that reaches the key
in a thin
border scenes of torture
the
cannibal circuits of a city map
where the
sky is a poisonous silver
beyond
the skull prison
you are a
hand in his own reality
a mush of
crimson rhizomes
you are a
silence, a pure serenity feeling
a coffin
terminal that
lists
existence rules in seven language
the work
is getting more metaphysical
his
consciousness shattering with ice
walking
on the edge of the works
a cleft
that can talk faster than he thinks
a broad
and low curve
composed
of irregular stairs
I, the
part of something bigger, I
a broken
bone in my body
the data
became flesh in your pain maze
a body
got out and
capsules
are in bloom
To not to
be a Mr. Name.”
Zionits
played a dub to us
that will
clean the blood completely
the ice
that turns into an electron wave
in
internal amplifiers
there was
a kind of mass on the stage
that
flattened his EEG line by
taking a
cold and dysfunctional picture of his limbs
that
silent, work like a drastic company
a cold
blue colored subtitle
the speed
filling a universe with a laughter
hammering
a song to his brain
the pop
with a glamorous oil drop on it
blurred
and dissolved
when you
pass through enough distance
the
records begin to fade away and
the void
begins to expand
i saw the
silicon form of a sudden cellular consciousness
about him
being close to the electronic thunder
and the
herbal mass
and its
concrete palms
the virus
makes the leaps in chaotic structure
reweaving
the texture of the window
the cage
between ice and it
the
hologram sky of a stained surface
the meat
puppet each and every line of it
placed
surgically any time
a
structure equivalent with the ice
a
slippery storage unit
the blank
cube surface was face to face with the target ice
of secret
differences and the Babylon
choked on
snaky fiberoptic white flames
discovered
its hate for the Babylon
“The code,
tell me the code”
“I wanna
explode.”
the drug
exploded like a express train
a heat
wave beaming white lights
climb up
his spine
the
cracks in his skull short circuited
was
lightened with the x-rays
spreading
from the sexual energy
each one
of his teeth is a diapozon in its place
excellent
timbres pure as ethanol
the
sandstorms ravaging
the bones
in a blurred meat wall
the
joints shiny with chrome
inside of
his brain eroded
the
intense thin silicon
installing
behind his eyes
more and
more condensing the pure crystal image
the spot
full of traps
it was a
different rhythm in zero gravity
a
fleshlike input heap of which
definition
code was multiplied
turning
of your scar eyes stigmatizing your face
into a
monitor puppet
your EEG
line was flat exploding in
the motor
chamber of the main computer
keeps my
mind alive with its zen holograms
the scent
of cold steel, the ice shaked you inside
it
disappeared, decreased
his eyes
turns to the ice in the middle of the darkness
his body
image wasted away in television sky’s hallways
Voices.
No ice. Forget the ice.
the black
fire finally
found
nerve’s branching arms
beyond
all the thing called pain
in
contact with a pain word
he
created a sub country in his mind
you have
the thing you called personality
logic
orders that repeats ice breaking operations
holographic
paradigm
the
cyberspace occurred in fundamental points
for
illegal techno subcultures in human memory
color
coded nerve nodes that covers the ceiling
of virus
information structures
logos
moving around
checking
over changes in outer world
a encoded
neon
in the
spacelessness of a city view
inside of
a data structure
you could
smash the tender and tense surface of
defining
himself to infinitely relative dimension
to the
center of the events
now it’s
time for the flesh
and the
quality that is required for its rating.
reset the
counter
to his
pheromone and hair color
its core
consists of a kilogram recrystallized hexogen
and
flaked TNT
a good
agent orange, a good contract with sudden death
at least
a large part of its
pink
colored facade
they
cloned a square meters skin
raised on
collagen slices and shark’s polysaccharide
green
eyes from open market
he is
nothing but gray dawn dreams
living in
his idealised
childhood’s
ROM generated simulation
along the
last century
the
nightmare disappears when they began to radiate
opens a
door in somewhere back of your brain
and steps
in to ask questions
tropical
greenery and
wheels
that so shiny as to hurt the eyes
without
slowing down his concrete steps
that is
consolidated with iron
he threw
up to a blue plastic bucket
he woke
up naked among wet friction and
the sound
of steel buckets
white
plaster voices
internal
combustion, terrible smell of the dead bat
stuck
like a dry leaf
pressed
down on the landing concrete
softened
with infinite subversions
and the
anxious dance of the mercury in the middle of it
on the
transmission arm’s bent steel handle
a
ridiculous handmade threatening microprogram
poured
down as blocks
around a
spider that blown out of a bright glass
hollow,
half of it filled with the mercury
one of
them is a square micropor
ten digit
numbers interrupted often
as
praying by heart with cheap
eclectic
surgery and on the jawbone of
fashion’s
ruthless darwinism
old god’s
own covering sounds
already a
meaning and the name
naked in
the pesticide slightly unconscious
more
white plaster and the chrome in the form of
the light
bulb hanged down stained iron pipe
warm as
blood pale colored
mechanical
pig and its stainless body
a past
all together
among the
fingers that flies passing
blue
uniform unsolid and a razor heavy
turning
wooden arms’ discovering of the maze
now in
this white cave
searching
for the frequence that will turn on
that
area, that point, that nest with his tongue
he
searches and finds his own way there
an
alteration, a tension, alienation
angled
patch left from skin transplants
invisible
doors fall into place on hinges
with
present continuous conditional past tense
the
country’s bright dust particles
every
wave the eyes draw of every new explosion
the
shadows beyond the hollow door
stained
steel tendons thick as a finger
the sand
here is cold and dry
the line
waves white because of the distance
licking
its basis bad, electricity blue
on the
cooling down sand his face is wide
and his
dead white voice is straight and expressionless
as if he
imitating a cheap sound chip
his pale
smooth characteristic style
he passed
to the silicon exit of
his
peroxide hair cover that combed backwards
the first
time you left shutted down
a white
fist on his crumpled telefax face
his
glances pastel colored his eyes
a pain
and inertia that everybody can read
a telefax
pervert game
a custom
program that filters and
deactivates
the incoming emotion flashing
a good
weekend flesh
the
stupidity insists on showing its disturbance
a sick
effort took roots and grew up
gorgeous
and poisonous
but he
decided to conduct the meat
into a
sensual hallucination
there
might be a spatial loss of direction
sensual
connection, a deep breath
the
entire tissue and heat
exist
through a spectrum that addressing to
the only
connection way he knows
passively
watching as a human camera
green iron
extending down and outside as metal
banisters
to his face
a chaos
that consists of small details
he fought
vertigo
with
holding his own drunk art smokes
fighting
the perfection of the illusion
he knows
this place that stands like
petrified
during landing
smiling
in crazy forms
the
flowers in his eyes pale blue
you
should forgive his mild addiction
i am a
good guy, hell is my life support unit
descended
down the stone stairs
you see a
secondary maybe
the truth
about my existence
in
financial extremities
whose
manifestations achieving autonomy by degrees
fighting
each other
stained
paper holder corroded by friction
little
dusty corpse of a fly or a spider
installed
on a piece of bone
incredibly
detailed little object
the
biomonitor of a living artist
is a kind
of black hole
a
spontaneously moving this box
seems
like a universe
whose
surface athropied and darkened
a poetry
standing beyond the human experience
on a
scale that you can be comfortable
you
encounter the danger of
losing
your connection with intuition
the rest
of your life
from a
viewpoint that is very close to the end
to you
every hour in his body
devoted
to his personal ice
with a
complex arrangement
that
needs a luckier one to be encoded
somewhere
in the middle of the computer parts
that
makes him the most expensive handicapped of the world
i envy
their bodies capable of doing these
a wide
wing of the darkness
with the
certainty of mammal instinct
and
slowly moving teared down surfaces
the
death, cold as ice and scentless
was a
supersonic stroke in his neural system
on his
four stupid corners
a light
and continuous buzz
the
eternal desire for this room
an
apartment wave made of insect antennae
the dead
boy wrapped up with a plastic
in a police
car color
you think
he caught you
i’m
sleeping here and
you no
longer carry the cycle
his voice
is gone, there is no desert star
the
sudden image of the wind and the stone
the pale
external lines of octagonal biohazard clover
once here
someone tried to build a data paradise
the
stained girder jungle fortifying the probe
the eye
mask of the image amplifier
it’s
obvious that he once burned badly
on the
ice that stained with the center of the rust
bloated
and gray usual machine dreams
creates a
special vertigo
irregular
real and he became clear slowly
loaded
with the perceptions
a story
transferred by cuts
consists
of surreal leaps and overlaps
a ghost
train coming and going
between
being and nonbeing
the
knowledge of direction appearing
in his nothingness’
every heartbeat
thunderbolt
speed in his symbol system
data it
contains is for human
waking up
with the scream
in which
readymade fears takes scary forms
everything
is quite proper
privacy
of this thing, that is
hideously
normal and terribly wrong
was in a
contemptible level
as a
result of a prolonging observation
his
psychic scent close to obsessive addiction
his
fingers reflexively pulled of the skin
around
the spiritual glass vertigo
that
became a drop that is squirted from
a filter
device made in japan
most
likely they are inefficient to know
rancid
vomit holoporn view on his face
white
neon smiles on line
a kind of
energy disorder
a begging
position as if he was attacked
the
gravity with an orange handle
its angry
logic forming the human
mysterious
sections of the wall screen
hypertrophic
facial bones
the dust
fetus that curling up in
half
dozen synthetic lifes
complaining
for years about
parasites,
resolution, sensual spilling
six
horned reflexive symbol
that
means shadow economy melting ice
bright
sticky dark skin,
in the
early stages of consumption
surface
parts of an unsolid creature
that icy
voice makes human
bodies to
fit the subcultural templates
in
different animal stages
a
composite creature, slime mold with a jigsaw surface of
dark
leather and stainless spikes
thrashing
and stomping and
generally
into major tree-rat identification
lethal
feedback programs
leased
soft digitalized kino porn
of dying,
of being flat lined
something
had happened back at the source
the ice
had lost its hold on his nervous system
mankind's
unthinkably complex consensual hallucination
through
the infinite reaches of that space
that
wasn't space
white
faces, more white faces
certain
amount of noise
who knows
black medicine from both ends
at
subsonic speeds
a fully
integrated interactive system
keep it.
it gets cold as hell here
its
receding image distorted
through
wrinkles of rising heat
soft
explosions as breakers fell
in drifts
of ancient window glass flattened rectangles
sun-bleached
topknots with lengths of rawhide
rigged
some shade with mimetic tarps
the
absolute minimum of movement
required
to convey the negative
the bowl
of sky, limitless, the map of stars
a wave of
nausea and dislocation
hit him
as images from
the
biosoft swam unbidden through his mind
awaited
sandblasting by the city's relentless renovators
biofluorescent
strips glowed dimly above a dilapidated wall
each
strand a potential nightmare
the sky
was stippled with a few wisps of cirrus
you will
solve his mystery for him
but he
isn't.
you were
talking with a projection, a special effect
patterns
the color of blood
hungry
for tension and thrust
Net DNA,
cheap brittle ectoplasm
spun out
to uncounted hungry dreamers
jerking
itself into detailed socio architectural
looming
vertical hell
very dark
and youthfully
maternal
version of the porno dolls on the unit
a
blood-stained white doll that had no head at all
ran
diagonally from just above the doll's
pelvic
bone to just below
data so
dense you suffered sensory overload
where the
great corporate whores burned like neon novas
jack-dream
of the knowledge channel
the
flashes of ice-blue velour and feral babies
creeping
silently through the dark
he
remembered his white head exploding years away
in that
cool-wind desert dark
pure
white grenade
a neural
cutout
we do
want this because you're still hurting bad
white
curdled gray object cloud
taking
form with the
slow
deliberation of a dust vision
and the
yellow spray made a hissing sound
as it
escaped from its little silver tube
the
universe reversed itself sickeningly
mirrored
doll
way down
in himself
he saw their
teeth
the
tattered wings, a confusion of pink bone metal
patched
taut membranes of scrap plastic
lost you
for a second
a
glittering black thread
serving
as a nervous system
the
monstrous babies of his dream
a name
and a serial number neatly laser-etched on the doll
charged
with a good two thousand mikes of endorphin analog
perilously
narrow with decades of
retrofitted
ducts and plumbing
almost
orange in the pinky-purple
glow of
the gro-light tubes
the
hustling manic bullshitter's act
had taken
for the personality
the top
was a dense mosaic of candle drippings
thought
sections still retain the bleached silvery patina
churnbeside
cascading stacks of software
pieces of
cryptic-looking ice
closed with
bright rectangles of gold microcircuitry
the
gro-light tubes slanted at every angle in any direction
pink-purple
jackstraws suspended in a green space of leaves
no walls.
you couldn't see a wall at all.
master of
roads and pathways, the bad communication
removing
the empty frames to indicate intensity
intent on
restructuring reality
full of
his scent, his ghost, his trail
something
flat a simple reflection hologram
the lean
dark face, a broadcast unit
heavily
iced aware at the last minute
nexus for
electrical wiring
he made
out letters, sometimes an entire world
a heavily
modified side-band transceiver
rigged
for squirt transmission
signal
his death the concurrent closure of the operation
biomonitor
linked directly with the surgical ice
he
unconsciously traced
the
vanished line of a graft scar of a clinical thought
a
fist-sized lump of pale pink plastique biochips
in twin
depressions for eyes, a crude curve of idiot grin
guaranteed
death for anyone in the enclosed space
a certain
black specific distance
positioned
with obsessive precision
he'd seen
that same neurotic touch before
in a
rat's nest of leads and cables
the
crucial phase of the defection
smooth
flat oblongs of stainless steel
“christ,
you’re a clever bastard”
and slid
into a shallow sea of dream
images
tossing past, fragments
melding
with bits of his own life
his eyes
the glass plastered with
holograms
of ice saints
a spider
crouched at its core
a spider
made of quicksilver
laughing,
his teeth full of blood
and
extending gray biosoft
the
dossier was a brain, grayish
pink and
alive beneath a wet clear membrane pulsing softly
a globe
of pink crystal ledge of dream
and
settled smoothly down into
a night
with no stars at all
the
self-contained neurosurgical desert dawn
some kind
of matter transmitter
medical
data polite and alert
a perfect
corporate mask
sharply
turning lethal implants
extremely
sophisticated biochemical systems
artificial
reliance on certain synthetic ice analogs
implanting
is a logical step
badly
spaced, eroded teeth
filmed
with sweat and dust
and hung
with loops of fine steel chain
rawhide,
bits of animal horn and fur
brass
cartridge casings
copper
coins worn smooth and faceless
illustrious
patient the black clinics
the
cutting edge of medicine
heavy
stuff the things that could tear a head off
to sense
some articulated structure
unfolded
pop microsoft
shifting
to accommodate this city
it moves
around me constantly
watchful
and invisible
the vast
and subtle mechanism
the
shabbiness of his ice, somehow
had
broken the chains of his depression
could see
no logic in it
intricate
ice machine
vast
device fueled by an obscure desire
the flow
of polycarbonate and painted steel traffic
"You
are a philosopher."
"I'm
a tool. I'm the most recent tip
for a
very old machine
in the
hands of a very old man,
who
wishes to penetrate something”
"You
are a poet also shouts outs in an ice well"
he was
grinning
his mouth
bracketed in deep vertical grooves
he
imagined a structure, a machine so large
that he
is incapable of seeing it
a machine
that surrounds him
anticipating
his every step
it's a
religion or not
it's just
a structure
with
notions of salvation and transcendence
a ritual
tradition of communal manifestation
tense
scared shitless is more like it
serves
with both hands
really
hard stuff
the walls
around every major store of data
nothing
else is fast enough to weave good ice
and
constantly alter and upgrade it
eyeball-deep
ice, black ice
totally
lethal feedback programs
nonexistent
dust count zero interrupt
complex
geometric forms began to click into place
in the
tank aligned with the nearly
invisible
planes of a three-dimensional grid
an
interrupted line of blue light extruded from the pyramid
a blue
pyramid began to pulse softly
at the
very center of the ice
"That's
the ice, and it was already hip to you.
Rumbled
you before you even got a lock."
now at
this point, he was due to start doing
some
serious dying
this
motherfucker is what we call
an
anomalous phenomenon, no shit
liquid
flowers of milky white
blossomed
from the floor of the tank
and then
aligned perfectly with
the
cubical grid and coalesced forming
a
top-heavy, asymmetrical structure
a thing
like a rectilinear ice
the
surfaces facets were white perfectly blank
slipping
in a green-filmed puddle of water
the air
seemed thicker
some
existing track or path through
the
jumbled forest of hydroponics
the
progress in no particular direction
danbala
rides him, danbala Wedo, the snake man
as the
night came on he found the edge again
night’s
possible escape routes
the
microsoft filled his head with its own
universe
of constantly shifting factors, airspeed
altitude,
attitude, angle of attack, g-forces, headings
a
constant subliminal litany of brain drilling
designators,
bomb fall lines, search circles,
range and
release clues
numbers’
internal subconscious rite
there
were small biochemical factories
his
memories of encoded life limit images
a century
working with the oncogenic human cells
nearly
forgotten model of ice synthesis
coded
memories are still disturbing him
he was a
perpetual outsider, a rogue factor
those
seismics, people who could walk in there
eat your
kids for breakfast
stack the
bones in the shower and stroll out whistling
pink
fleshed and running
a compact
model with a folding alloy skeleton stock
filmed
with pale dust
had the
bulbous ant eye goggles of an image amplification
rig
dangling below his chin on a head strap
the
overhanging limbs with taut lengths of molecular
monofilament
meters of invisible razor waiting
for an
unwary intruder the sound of the bullet, detonating
on
impacton its gay orange and blue fabric wings
the open
metal framework the fragile landing gear
the flesh
of the explosion seemed to reach him
an
instant before the sound throwing his shadow before him
the
twisted limbs were padded in layers of dark clothing
his hands
were distant creatures, pale undersea things
There was
no flesh only null sound
and the
sting of concussion through the concrete of the lot
an
awkward doll sprawled in the embrace of the g-web
“You lost
consciousness” he said with a chip voice
you saw
an image only, the image of the ice
a mass
man lack of logic
useless
things, a frame of space, a smell like dust
an
emotion that lacked a name
ran his
hands through the bright illusion
tracing
the length of the fluted avian bone
this
culture is entirely a trick, a ruse
the flesh
of sunrise in mirror depths of the room
the blank
video half-formed shapes of unknown enemies
the
segmented length of the centipedes
submerged
in a finger-wide track of
fresh
pink scar tissue
there's
things bad enough
you'd
wish you were back out
there
getting your butt carved up
look half
dead under fluorescent light
the way
white people did
at the
core of the arcology
paused in
front of stacks of jumbled software
the
factory options including
a
first-rate counter surveillance system
street
tech talking mambos and ghosts and snakes
a
component like a capacitor
that's
the language of street tech
the
snake, as a program. an icebreaker cutting the ice
climbs
down behind him, into the unmistakable
signature
smell of the sprawl
a rich
amalgam of stale subway exhalations
ancient
soot and the carcinogenic tang of fresh plastics
all of it
shot through with
the
carbon edge of illicit fossil fuels
in the
reflected glare of pink evening sky
The
sprawl's patchwork of brain tissue tended to
generate
inadvertent microclimates
famous
for displays of static-discharge
a
peculiarly urban variety of lightning
that
voodoo talk was just some game they ran on people
was the
ba of communication,
the
master of roads and pathways
it was
just a part of him, his shadow
"First
thing that you learn is that you always gotta wait”
an eye
regarded them unblinking
suspended
there, in that crack of dust and dark
there was
an awful gurgling sound
as of
antique phlegm being drawn up from
hidden
recesses and then the man spat
funny
fucking thing grayish
seamed
with deep diagonal creases
the walls
broad slabs of dingy white plastic
concealing
dense layers of anti bugging circuitry
they
built the first computers to crack the german ice
they
still need the hard and the soft
and they
still gotta be faster than snakes on ice
but all
of `em, all the ones who really know how to cut
“there's
things out there. Ghosts, voices Why not?
Oceans
had mermaids, all that shit,
and we
had a sea of silicon, see?
Sure,
it's just a tailored hallucination
we all
agreed to have,
but
anybody who jacks in knows,
fucking
knows it's a whole universe.
And every
year it gets a little more crowded.”
The
bloodshot yellow eyes grew distant
either
rich or brain-dead
falling
behind the state of the art than he was about death
struggling
along with nascent industrial bases left
so
benighted and deaf
causing
untold human suffering
incidentally
bringing about the collapse of
ingesting
only the most expensive designer drugs
television
to study the bloated bodies of dead cyberians
with a
strange and curiously innocent intensity
ventures
into theology tended to be marked by
major
paradigm shifts, true leaps of faith
technique
of mystical exploration
involved
projecting his consciousness into blank
unstructured
sectors of the matrix and waiting
sensed
his presence moving upon the face of the grid
crazy as
a shithouse rat
decks, peripherals,
software
he kept
this one sliver of microsoft jacked behind his ear
it's
blank and the voice of god
and i
live forever in his white hum
he's
everywhere but there's too much static
down here
it obscures his face
it’s
biosoft and it’s a crack
animated
by springs and hidden wires, a big, mummified rat
gave me
luck when i hit that black ice
with
hard-wired instincts of concealment
laced
with mimetic approximations
just lay
out and relax and pretty soon they'll forget you
forget
you in the gray and the dawn and the dew
held out
a bloody carnation of wadded tissue
direct
neural input on audio
the dusty
rectangular eyes of a bank of aged monitors
ice
shadows like tumor on the scans
blow
itself to plasma when it discharges
at those velocities,
kilos of ice would do the trick
aped the
end of it
a soft
shadow in the white hollow room
he wanted
to taste his face
where
madness would take different forms
to sense
the imagined mechanism
any
environment might be unreal
a film of
dust, the afternoon's watery light
seeped in
from the concrete plain behind
his hand
automatically jerking the beam down in terror
marked
with a brown butterfly of menstrual blood
a length
of pale blue plastic pearls
bobbed
absurdly as the robot rolled past
like a
cortex bomb
the
endorphin analogs couldn't really cut the pain
the agent
was a voice, was a telephone number
it makes
him dream
sometimes
when i'm awake
it's like
i'm jacked into a deck
only i'm
free of the grid flying
and i'm
not alone there
the other
night i dreamed about a boy
he'd
reached out picking up something
it was
hurting him
and he
couldn't see that he was free
he only
needed to let go
so i told
him
that's
not like the dreams
not
people but the bright ones set the scene
Once,
there was nothing there
nothing
moving on its own
just data
and people shuffling it around
then
something happened and it,
it knew
itself
there's a
whole other story
about
that a man with ice mirrors in his mind
and a man
who was scared to care about anything
something
the man did helped the whole thing know itself
and after
that it sort of split off into
different
parts of itself
the parts
are the others
the
bright ones.
but it's
hard to tell
because
they don't tell it with ice
dust from
the dry summer swirling out behind them
some
jumps you have to decide on your own
faintly
illuminated by its own little recessed flood
aimed
straight down out of the dark
his teeth
small and unnaturally even
just buzz
on out and spin
the
sections of the voice blurred harsh in his head
and in
his mouth, a taste like blood
but the
voice was iron in his head
the milky
fabric divided seemed to bubble
became
two patches of shifting gray
voice
fluid and quicksilver and cold
he has
come here to throw away his bad luck
a wave of
sheer hysteria as
the
silver laughter rose through him
he saw a
figure flicker in the gray fog
the iron
voice of Ougou Feray
wanted to
cry to die
anything
to escape the voices
the
utterly impossible wind
started
to blow out of the gray warps
a hot
damp wind that smelled of things
he
couldn't identify
moves
through my province
now i who
rule the roads, the highways
there are
pacts agreements
he is
always invoked first
but he
should have come with the ice
his
personality depends on the ice he manifests
he must
be dead
projecting
those things, all that shit
you're
virus programs that have gotten
loose in
the matrix and replicated
and
gotten really smart
a thought
form a kind of superstition
the
raceless bone-heavy face of
an
audible click of recognition
the edge
of the world was lost in a low
bright
mist, and a sound like drowned bells
tolled in
across the plain
the
machine, the structure was there was real
universal
solvent dissolving barriers to his will
he found
something obscene in
the
calculated humanity of the gesture
some
ominous-sounding process in which
immortal
hybrid cancers spewed out
tailored
molecules that became units of circuitry
the same
scent of human tension, and heavy ice
and the
same background hum of internal conversation
in a
solid wall, blinding industrial zones
a blossom
of red beaten down by the rain
silent
pop of merciless light
showing
him twisted limbs and blood
steam the
brain vapours and the skull blows
i hear
the dice being tossed for the bloody ice
many are
the hands who dig his grave tonight
he is the
wind you hold in your hand
but he is
fickle the lord of the graveyards
no matter
that you have served him well
ubtly
molding facial outlines to meet
idealized
statistical norms
but it's
starting to shape up
caught a
glimpse of cauterized flesh
there was
a long static-filled pause
the
surface was lined and pitted with
carved
channel depression
asymmetrical
gray biosoft out onto his open palm
machine
dreams that
he had
returned to the machine
a pink
plastic explosion control unit
cracking
the ice
his
expanse of small white teeth
the
entrance code, your memory
cuts both
ways
the ice
was quick, superslick and
made him
feel fast and
Ex. Dead.
Very.
silent
studying the television trip
ice on
him a mile deep
than
gaped, as the memory hit
“end of
the line” his voice caught and echoed
the dark
ahead vanished in a white flood of light
there were
dozens of the mouths, manipulators
tipped
with pliers, hexdrivers, knives
a
subminiature circular saw, a dentist's drill
a
construction remote
the sort
of unmanned semi autonomous device
tipped
with delicate force-feedback
an
armless doll with a face of green red snake
it's a
generated image
ray
tracing texture mapping
beyond
the slow-motion hurricane of lost things
minor
artifacts of countless lives
tools and
toys and gilded buttons
i shall
be free
free of
the four hundred kilograms of rioting cells
they fell
behind surgical steel in an industrial park
free
eventually to inhabit any number of real bodies
rotating
with a muted hum of ice
there was
an experimental biosoft floating around
hypnotized
by the swirl of things
grasping
and rejecting the rejected objects
gently,
slowly, perpetually
a part of
one of those situations in which
real
becomes merely another concept
but the
bright time broke
the
mirror was flawed
now I am
only one to hear it singing
i sing
with these things floating around me
fragments
of the family that funded my birth
until
they spoke with me
vain the
scattered fragments of myself
like
children, like men
they send
me new things
but i
prefer the old things
perhaps i
do their bidding
they plot
with men my other selves
and men
imagine they are gods
he
imagines he can translate himself
code his
personality into his fabric
he yearns
to be what i once was
what he
might become most resembles
the least
of my broken selves
my songs
are of time and distance
watch my
arms screaming the fact that
there is
only the dance
you are
someone else's collage
your
maker is the true artist was it mad ice
it
doesn't matter
someone
brought the machine here
welded it
to the dome
and wired
it to the traces of memory
and
spilled somehow
all the
worn sad evidence of humanity
and left
it all to be stirred
to be
sorted by a poet
what
happened to you when you were iced
the scale
of the thing was impossible too vast
as though
the kind of cybernetic megastructure
representing
the whole of a multinational
had
brought its entire weight to bear
he turned
and saw a huge lizard
slithering
down an incline toward him
its jaws
wide
he
blinked.
the
lizard's teeth were green-stained ceramic
a slow
drool of water lapping over
its blue
mosaic china lip
he spun
around, crazy with the nearness of his death
ice. ice.
and a
part of him knew then exactly how close
he'd
really come
an
accidental spillover
the child
said
his voice
beautiful and light
the
sensation of something plucking at mind
a bed of
flowers watching as they withered and died
the grass
going gray and powdery as he watched
the air
above the bed writhing and twisting
the sense
of the thing, in his head, scratching
was
stronger still more urgent
he
screamed inside himself
saw that
white crosses waiting there
just
where the path curved to vanish
whose
kingdom was death, leaned in like a cold dark rain
now he is
stuck here in this skeletal neon sketch drain
the thing
had sucked them up
start to
alter and shift
gargantuan
blocks of its rotating merging taking on
new
alignments, the entire outline changing
the video
image whited out
formed
again as a shot of some ancient stone building
the
figure moved and the image changed again
spill out
into space, a blossoming cloud of lace
and
tarnished sterling marbles and bits of string
brown
leaves of old books to orbit the cores forever
he's a
secretive old fuck
when it
comes to what he thinks
his
voices are telling him to do
once it
was something he swore was biosoft that is new
he'd
download it all into the cores
his death
was the result of
some
cataclysmic failure in the life-support systems
the boy
was listening but a part of him was dead
daydreaming
with the ice
his ghost
ice’s parting gift
was
smooth dark oblong
gently
curved ubiquitous palm
in a
small cold mask modeled
the most
characteristic expression
partial
image ghosts began to form
were
flying on angular things
folded
from sheets of neon horizon of his madness
a few
hopping black dots
and pale
holograms flickered indistinctly
above a
distant line of remembering
there
were ghosts beyond the window
there
were ghosts in winter
planes of
shadow dark angular study
cautious
men with automatic smiles
breaking
the funeral mask
octagonal
biochips conjured up an indistinct figure
sharp and
real hallucinatory clarity
in the
periphery of the vision
the city
began to define itself
walls of
wet brick, arches of concrete
black-painted
ironwork standing up in spears
colorless
intersections of the city
the very
fabric of things preserved by law
as if the
city were a single growth of stone
and
brick, uncounted strata of message and meaning
age upon
age, generated over the centuries
to the
dictates of some now-all-but-unreadable DNA
of
commerce and technocracy
the past,
all that remained of it was a rare thing
structure
the sentences reject the idea
the
street was deserted,
the snow
fresh and unmarked.
an alien
edge to the cold air
a faint,
pervasive hint of burning archaic fuel
antique
bottleneck cartridge
stroking
the smooth metal of the cool neck
the
somber effect offset by the row of chrome-plated skulls
the grid
of unglazed steel
scraping
through dust and fine
bright
spirals of metal shavings
in the
crystal air of the ice
—Ilker
Artiran