ha rd-won

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Stu Hatton

in the y
ear of
our
rar est digit
al flow
er
the de

ad ’re i
n the
ir g
rid

the algo
r it him’
ll give
u their stat
em ent

who
can
clean

for get
the unrecor ded y
ears
the mainstream plane
ts cloa

king
trad
bot trad
er
tax have
n $$ mo
fos

!w
hose
ease do
n’t im
press

us we us
ed 2 g rind f
or ’e
m to
o

workflo
wed
ma
chined it
up ’t il the flick
summing mys
elf ’neat
h screeng
low

working 4 my micro
bio
me

2 give
it
its …
risk

ed be ing ‘lo
ved’
such th
at i’d rip en
int o so me o
ut
senti
(t hen i 1st hear

d it
spoke
n a
loud : )
what ever

t
hey try to puff
on me @ the
moodshop

2 take
good war
d of my
plea sure
i. e.

not w
anting it 2
end no t
wanting it 2

n
ever end nor sur
render to som
e defaultcore
long long vo id





‘The dead are in their grid’ is a line from the poem ‘Everything Must Go’ by Matthea Harvey.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Nox

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Maria Takolander

A poem addressed to Anne Carson


My husband is wheeled from emergency to theatre
along a hallway carpeted with silence.
Escorted to a waiting room, almost fin de siècle Victorian,
I survey medical books encased by glass and
blighted like old taxidermy.
The registrar, wearing a Freudian beard, stalls at the door,
unimpressed by my progress in mourning.
The heart has failed, he insists.
He draws a childish diagram on a scrap of paper
pressed onto the coffee table.
I must strike him as thoughtless, but I am thinking.
Hospitals were not always like this.
When I was a girl, gurney wheels trundled on a bright-and-shine floor
that disinfected all memory of grief
—sanitised the griever, whole.
Now, with the registrar spilling words, I am cleaning up after him,
revising his sentences into tidy units of five or ten,
repeating the most pleasing combinations again and again.
My fingers type at my side, next to invisible.
The only person who would see them has, by now, been anaesthetised.

I did not invent the typewriter, but at some point in the high school
typing pool, it secretly invented me:
aaa space bbb.
Before then, I was silent as a rabbit beneath
the zig zag of a classroom ceiling,
enthralled by Pythagorean heaven.
Then suddenly: a surge of electricity.
The machine was oneiric, like good gothic technology.
It brought words to my fingertips—words, words, words—
to be purified through mathematics.
But here the registrar, persisting with his lesson on the heart,
knows nothing of my scientific art.
When he finally leaves, satisfied I am pathological,
I remove a laptop from my black bag of tricks,
usurping the drawing of cardiac arrest.
Nox is not here.
Your book on grief is at home amongst my alphabetised books,
a perfect accordion sheaf folded in a rectangular box.
You might understand how I compose.
This elegiac poem, recounted just so.

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acT

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Mez Breeze

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A Body Carried in Cars

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Louis Klee

Now this is a body carried in cars
Polished tan by lotions and hair
Made to smell
Like thistles and sweet
Rotting lumber on a pine-forest floor.
“I was sketching. I was shifting.
Dodging. In brief, poor.
But now—” notes
The body’s owner, notes
The body carried. “Now this

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

New Romantics

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Sarah Wreford

House light goes down around our argument. My mouth corners creak with cake openings, old-timers’ black and white loop story. Preferred code. I’ve forgotten already the part and you watch like a junkie cut laser neat: wife wife wife. Echo makes the salted table inconsequential, the fruit bowl falls away, the render crack waits blind in the wall above the gas heater. I hold your hand and you squeeze me electric. The bed is white noise.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Bildants

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Ronald Wilkins

At first citizens were fascinated to see how, when one automaton began to move a heavy beam or a plate of glass into position, others would be drawn to assist. It had been an acknowledged triumph for biomimetics—unlocking the behavioural code of Amazonian nest-building ants. The automata, the size of a small dog, with carapace and musculature modelled on ants, were produced by fiercely competitive corporations in rival cities. After tweaking the code, cohorts of the automata, known as bildants, engineered adobe houses to specification. Incorporating rocks, bricks, wood and glass, bildants constructed novel dwellings, as complex as termite mounds. Imitating tradesmen—omnipresent, constantly testing the integrity of their structures—they became more like us. In parallel, humans gradually adopted the behavioural traits of the bildants.

But who were the conquerers? What weaknesses passed on?
It was a golden age; there was great harmony within the city.
That was before the war.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Thy will be done

Posted on August 1, 2016 by A D Harper

there will be videos of two of them together someone will get off on watching or the sound of synthiplastic rubbing or the sheen the hum the hands the feet we will send them round the world student travellers will sit next to them on the plane will drive them to your home you will go on skype with each other while you service them they will get kidnapped stolen waylaid there will be a variety of memes about them having electronic cigarettes afterwards there will be horror films debates about human rights special destruction rituals at obsolescence a cybernetic funeral after you have gently closed their eyes

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Human Co.

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Jefferson Navicky

Human Co. is filled, as necessary, with thin, near-torso-less bodies. Graceful arabesques falling from the oval thumbprint of the head. One must imagine the curve of the ribs, the splay of the back; even, to some extent, the span of the shoulders. So much of the body has been given to the stage.

Humans are posable dolls inhabited by egos that resist posing. This is not the case with Human Co. Members of Human Co. are supple, adaptable. Their soft bodies are malleable muscle masses, able to be controlled by the relaxed mind of the actor. Emotional and physical contortions of the greatest degree are easy for bodies so limber.

The last of their productions I saw was a discursive musical on the invention of gynaecological stirrups. The bodies reminded me of dancing pliers, pliers within pliers.

Afterwards we all, actors and audience, went back to our day jobs. Note: it would be pleasing, if only for a short time, to be a professional audience; not to laugh and clap on cue, but to contain multitudes and simply observe phenomena on stage.

On my desk is the card of the co-artistic director of Human Co. It includes his cell number and email and a drawing of the human form.

Human Co. is headquartered in an apartment somewhere in Brooklyn – I couldn’t tell you where; the car ride was too long – inside a white brick building that looks gray at night. There are a few garbage cans out front.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Garage

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Anna Reed

Our new house is on the outskirts of the city: our apples are small apartment windows lighting up the country trees. Silence walks over our roof. At night, my husband works peacefully in the garage. I feed our new baby, counting his harried breaths by the sounds of the hammer on the wall. My husband sends a message: hope baby feeds better tonight. Do you want self-opening curtains? I bundle up the baby to watch him connecting wires, carefully, like origami, in the trees outside the kitchen. Did you know, he says in bed, when we’re on holiday, we can turn on the lights and television as if we’re in it but we’ll actually be somewhere else.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Triptych

Posted on August 1, 2016 by S K Kelen

Sirens

Speed of light insomniac runs,
angry mantras burn the tongue,
falling masonry fire shock it’s over.
Lifetime ago anger grew unbearable
a leader’s words touched the spirit,
reading the texts elated: do this
for love and land, strike the heart,
avenge injustice. Old nightmare’s fury
proved accurate driving there (no turning back)
smuggle the steel cylinders to the basement.
Flashlights beam the rubble. Remote-pilot
assassin birds visit villages, shower rockets.
Flashlights beam the rubble.
Cold winds blow from angry hearts.


Robot X

No lightning bolts from my fist
today, nor dramatic transformations
human to machine and back,
my zigzag ceased at midnight
I was a killer machine
confessing badness to the moon
when my brain seized
and the fighting stopped
I resumed a peaceful life
among animals and plants.
but (no buts) robotic impulses
occasionally drive my actions
till the nervous system
reboots.


Sleep

Diluted by moonlight, industrial
strength sleep is not too deep
beyond what you imagine—
Ah to be in the crazed time and place
the music took us into space
and we saw flying saucers for real.
Before that it was rickety
metal and home rotting red bricks
the missions to the moon, vitamins
and transistor radios designed by mad scientists—
sudden pharmacopeia, precision
machines, hallucinatory night-art-3D
an endless supply of paperbacks,
all were good reason
to shoot rockets into the heart.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

whether the ghost is

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Catherine Vidler

demonic or divine
associated with the house
as real as he appears
constructed or not
strong or not
telling the truth or not
a good ghost advocating public justice
still up to its old tricks
true or false
empirically disproved
really active
going in the x or y direction
behind or in front
in video, photo, timelapse or photoburst mode
in a hollow state
a century old or more
continuing his life pattern
a product of cyclotomic polynomials
ever the authority of its own actions
attempting to warn the protagonist
truly an outside consciousness
still considered human
a legitimate ghost
actually there
registered
okay

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

You and me x

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Oliver Driscoll

You and me x
some funny kidwho
grabbed hammer and hit

Music to my ears
anger anger anger angeranger
he keeps hitting that note

New season fanta
when duringthe talk
she wrote down interstitial

It was so clean when we arrived
we’ll never get it so clean again
I didn’t think it was that clean

I shouldn’t have had that
next time you’llknow
she’s about ready to leave really leave

You could have done more
yes

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Landing

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Jo Langdon

Hour of bright & dim; such stillness you could
skate, crack to beneath –

Circling out, not yet dark
enough to watch
traces of universe, blinking down. Only

the glimmer & still. One last swerve & you
are returned,

the view softly
frozen over

at your back: lanterns & palms &
the sheer-seeming drop of grass & stair –

Water as though it might hold you
on your feet, figurine-like & turning.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Back, to the basics

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Nguyễn Tiên Hoàng

The hills have receded
so was the attrition war
You hold in cup of hands
what remains
listening to a sign
the visuals may betray
soil then, gritty
a flinty snuggling feel of a rock
can’t hide curves, smoothness, fine and harmless so
but then near the tip, a sharp edge
a tool, a word
P, Paleo, …
only that much
the rest of the word is hiding
hide-and-seek neatly in a box
‘Box’ as they said, they could help you to put down, rest
An island of white cumulus
that has been with you for days
Rains come from the North side, pattering, in installments
How much did I still owe?
Leaking roof and kerosene stove
tribes of rusty reeds, a feather of an unknown bird
Songs are coming out
behind unmarked stoneheads
protruding roots, vines, birds, invisible. Birds when nights fall
chthonic shifts make them giant
Paleolithic
that word, it comes back
How the size of human brain
changes over course of evolution
A thesis, but you were too late
(it’s too late for you)
A piece of graphite will do
write any thing down
a name then
one that first comes
to mind.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Uses of Poetry VIII

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Shane Strange

You begin service in an unnamed base in the Nevada desert about an hour from Las Vegas. You fly unmanned airborne vehicles over countries in the Middle East and Africa with the purpose of making poetry of enemies of your country.

Due to time lags in the satellite connection, and the fog of war, it is rarely clear that you have achieved the aim of any mission, and you are haunted by the growing suspicion that you may have inadvertently made poetry of innocent civilians: children, the elderly, as they go about their everyday lives.

In time this suspicion turns into a neurosis that leads to an early (but honourable) discharge. Procedure dictates that you are handed an envelope by your commanding officer. The envelope contains the number of poems you have either made, or assisted in being made through your actions. You suspect the number is large. You open the envelope.

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The Place of Emergence

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Jennifer Denrow

There are many middles.

Everything that touches the middle, touches each middle.

The room
The earth
Ash

On the way home from Albuquerque the Christmas before my mother died, I purchased ghost beads in Old Town and held them in my lap all the way to Denver. A small amount of snow on the fields. The desert full of small mountains. I attended to what holds us here—permanent and communicable. Each horse I saw I felt. Each tree.

I believe in the entrances to this world. How we swim excessively through like torpedo fish with prompt hearts. How we are fastened to earth. Our agricultural love for it. How the earth continues to contain us. How it is gigantic in its containment. The wild airy deserts made visible.

Mortality is singular.

There are many things in this life that we touch and of the corresponding states, there is only what we express of these things that stays in us properly, waiting for the future, like packed down snow we glide effortlessly across.

The first year I lived in Colorado, I photographed the sky from the same location each morning at 8:00.

The place where I stood to photograph the sky was in between two brick apartment buildings. Nothing existed in this space except for grass, a view of the sky, and, if you looked forward, a street with parked cars and an empty parking lot behind it.

I can’t remember what I was trying to learn by doing this, but it became a meditation on the expressability of light because that was what most noticeably changed throughout the year.

The light began to express the things I looked for.

I grew up in a small home near woods and on holidays, or after big meals, we would walk there.

In winter, the branches of the oaks and maples froze. The work had moved underground, where the roots diligently waited.

The things I searched for then, I don’t now—messages, buried objects—

I feel like I’m full of weather.

I can only picture myself as I was then as I am now being who I was then.

I’m not surprised that people die.

Each person is her own hive.

I’m learning to take consciousness as an astonishing phenomenon, explained only by the location in which it occurs.

I don’t think this is outrageous, but I try to imagine that it is. I try to imagine everything as only external—all our processes and thoughts, our senses and understanding, each recognition of a face, each image of a neighborhood, the Midwest, other people’s pulses from a long time ago, the hidden animals that exist and the ones that don’t, imperialism, bias, what is dead and what will come to be so.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

An Elementary Treatise on Human Anatomy

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Lindsay Tuggle

After, Joseph Leidy

1.

The string is a catalyst not
a specific set of instructions.

Of afterlives, she has
empirical evidence,
in spades.

Still it defies you,
this canopy of velocity.

Nothing for it but to endure
newfangled brocade deliriums.

Instincts on rampage
balk at investigation.

Cellular memory recoils.
Brackets repress
a more mysterious lacuna.

Bruises bloom under coltish grace.
We might be vicious

down here
the shock stays with you.

Altars float all around her
wilderness, waste.


2.

Sunburned girls gone horse mad—
seized with mirror fever.

It only takes the once.
These days,

she drinks laudanum
laced with charcoal.

To obliterate an upbringing
a sedative of false composure.

Leave the door ajar,
hips tilted toward

widening aisles and bed
dust wound down.

The patient cuts her hair
in the waning moon.

She is permitted to shower
once per week. Under guard.

Miasmal fashions cut
for the asylum panorama.

Such whorish artifice;
horizontally alarmed but

demurely absent sentiment.

Come home, her dialect mutation calls.


3.

In his experiments,
a fine wire was made

to encircle the shaft of bone.
Seemingly, in its interior,

a hollow columnar condition. Lost
thumb that cuts into an absent palm.

After the water cure only
blood attar dulls the fits.

She’ll be in the sunroom
dressed for the weather

arranging seating charts
for the dead letter dance.

The only party worth
attending is a funeral.

I know too well the cost
of that remedy’s call

bright placebo ghosts
(scarlet and subaltern)
lost to verso charms.

Will you remember me
after the wintering sieve?

In a diversity of baths
wet dressed penitents

salute their redeemer
in three-part harmony.

Such reverence breeds
only dulcet curiosity.

Enter as a bullet
sequestered in blind faith.

Leave her floral marginalia—

just another face
for to be burnished in.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Off-Planet

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Rosalind McFarlane

Sell an every-third-day sunset, buy endearing ocean. Live well—the swell. Tides and markets speaking like they know you. Newly entitled ocean cities do not float around just any corner. Each quarter acre beautifully plastic packaged—fish in transparent bags—where the water is replaced daily, no need for algae gardens. Designer prism reflections planted tastefully in flashes. All sewage specks pumped far beyond such dreams. Have you seen a sunset? No-one save the ocean where acid rain and tsunamis become such inevitable discharge. Nothing should howl like it knows you but the pollution is replaced (mostly) daily and becoming oyster horns without mouths. Were you right each of these reflections—a number—and so many people only goldfish market eyes.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

I think of

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Anne Gorrick

This is what I think of a man wearing a Utilikilt
If you wrap your celery in tin foil before placing it in the fridge it will last for weeks
and it will still be fresh and crisp when you pull it out!
First get a bucket of warm water, not to hot, with a cup full of Epsom salt
Allow salt to dissolve before placing your feet inside. Once the salt has dissolved, place
the arched with its final ache

You know
I think of you for free
I think of you searching for Sugar Man
Let’s dismiss our time together
as simply a by-product of American country music
as physical recovery, as well as, a difficult moment
Plain Sharpies do not work

I drive a truck, it carries money
Rest your bones. Somewhere far from my house. Yeah
What do I think of when people text me “bahahaha” instead of “hahaha?”
Tip 86 Inventing your anchor rode from chafing on the bobstay
Tip 259 Creating extra stowage space in your V-berth
Tip 1,019 Preventing barnacle growth
What’s red and smells like blue paint? Red paint. That’s right
Of course there are no significant details yet, there are few points
But there’s lots you can do, and lots you wish you did
in a scalable manner
Without the bizarre origins of ingenious inventions we couldn’t live without
the sky would be empty

Everyone wants to be a Guardian of the Galaxy
He’s got all kinds of time
There are windows flying in blue heat. A room that flies
Two Million subscribers! We thank you for your drunken ramblings! Welcome!
Hull does not recognize him, and explains that his visit is to inform him about his brother’s killing spree and disappearance
He thinks of throwing up. The fever, the focus
We cannot judge such a period of transformation by its own consciousness
He thinks he’s in Colorado with a girl left behind by the circus
He thinks he sees daylight
Japan Question Forum
What does a man think of when he thinks of nothing?
Maybe he’s lost his gutter-devil
or he’s crushing on you
The Giver starts transmitting more and more painful memories to Jonas
Then he tells him that he thinks he’s proud, insulting, and pretty. Quite the cocktail of qualities

She thinks of
a blue nonchalance
Songs shipwrecked on an album
She thinks of nothing but papergreen
She never thinks of her husband’s name when she thinks of her husband
He is an athlete, a compliment, a dust jacket
When they were universally mocked, “Hooves,” my mother said
Her mind has become Decembered
It all sounds very friendzone-ish, but hell, if you’re determined talk to her
Women are paying attention to your underwear
in their stone shade
Because yes, she’s looking. And yes, she cares
She feels surprised and unready
She thinks of small, last-minute advice and instructions she wants to give
They think she is a plate of meat, or the battlefield of the body
She thinks she is a photo while they look at her

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Generation Loss (after Alvin Lucier)

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Pascalle Burton

‘Generation Loss (after Alvin Lucier)’ is a response to Alvin Lucier’s 1969 work I am sitting in a room, in which the artist’s speech is recorded, played back and recorded again until the iterations become unrecognisable and incorporate the frequencies of the physical space. ‘Generation Loss’ contemplates duplication and decay; the ‘generations’ here respond to concepts of text degeneration in a digital environment and acknowledge the integrity of Lucier’s conceptual approach to experimental music.


second generation: text compression


third generation: Alvin standing outside (stick to your guns)


Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

not before and not after

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Elena Gomez

a bone white linen jumpsuit hangs in the corner of my lush pad it spits up crude reproductions of ink  samples but you remember its    scent you know you must ward off  its digi vomit stains which transfer  to other materials like your skin cells and your soft spotted knickers  or else i might have to expel you for taking my crouching figures and hurling them  towards my mouth hole while the bone white linen sends signals in through our earholes and we flee, we flee

into  the

recesses of my lush pad it seems  the bone white linen jumpsuit is trying to acquire genitals  but it has not quite figured out  what genitals are since they were eradicated in the last great witch wars  of the previous century before the linen jumpsuit ever was dreamt into existence    we return  to our history  to the fold of  carpet in the  corner of my  lush pad you reach  into your pants  the owl arrives  at the window  and is accompanied  by organ chords we try  to uncover the source  of the organ chords  you rip my shirt open.     there is a vibration from beneath the carpet and we are immediately  suspicious of the bone white linen  jumpsuit & you forget that i liked to repeat phrases from my secret  lover the affective labourer bot like  ‘i produce a sexist sonnet to make you

feel relieved’

you don’t even know  how to write a sonnet  you scream directly into  my mouth hole i sob  i admit it again but can you  admit something to a person if you both already  know it, is it actually called  admission   i reach behind  the jumpsuit it  electrocutes me  you try to kiss  my ear hole you are  botanically inclined towards certain sexual  positions but i am forgetting the last time  we were in this lush pad  there were fifteen of us  and four owls and  alette was descending and we stroked the window pane,  cried out ‘what is a surface’  how do we tension relate  to each other’s experience  of hostile school ground memories  i couldn’t see the linen jumpsuit it was no longer in the lush pad  i hurled my stomach contents  onto the vibrating carpet it reaches  up to my face as if to say

‘it will be okay’

the jumpsuit is spitting up crude  ink face spots into your pants  it is emanating a soft violet glow it brings out the violet in your eyes  which are now welling with tears you glance  down to your hand and your pants,,,,    a squid is breaking  through the carpet now  and i remember the first time you encountered doreen massey  & i wonder whether witches  can expand rooms  or feel the inside of a squid without breaking it open i close my eyes  i hum  i squeeze  your fists into your quads  i squat down in the toddler squat  my trainer taught i picture  the gummy insides of the squid’s body  i forget for a moment the bone white linen jumpsuit has been forged  from the bones of my body    i plead

to the squid

and to the witch that was not me but in fact another being in this room i had ignored until now    i fake orgasms to distract the linen jumpsuit so the squid can escape i read loudly from the inside of my skin you remove your hand from your pants only to discover you have removed your hand entirely from your body and it sits now on your pants.     we gaze around our walls of this lush pad really my lush pad i remember fondly the moment before we were cursed with the bone white linen jumpsuit it is now fondling the witch’s shoulders it shoots its ink like sex juice into the squid’s mouth we realise we were thinking too much about sex this entire time and wonder if it’s a side effect of the fish oil tablets we’ve been

wolfing down or

maybe because of certain deaths that have left us numb &    then our boyfriends start raining outside only they are not whole people but body parts and they looks suspiciously like everyday household objects. objects that have a  point of view are they capital? or did the spell just backfire        baroque eroticism is the name for our eulogy slash memoir.    the linen jumpsuit is no longer quite bone white but remains bone, it hopes for memories outside itself it wishes the universe a

long half life

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Light Thief

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Ian Gibbins
CodeBlockID:
LightThief;
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/act=?;
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DeviceLog:
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PhotoScabard/stat=on
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SpectraTrap/stat=on
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QuLock/stat=on
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<<Every photon is precious>>
/src=SciMag@2016-03-11,l=8;
_BaseQuote01:
<<Light only goes where time is least>>
/src=QED@FeynmanRP-1985,p=45;
CrossCheck:
waste=true /cess
{/@re /@ex};
ServeVox01:
/see /plain_night;
ServeVox02:
/use /step_rate<inv_freq;
{//@erse //@ency};
/halt /sist
{/@in /@re /@ex};
{//@ance //@ence};
ExCondPort:
/write shim_prob=max;
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/else write all=min;
DataStream_SoundList:
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<<theirshadowsgivethegameaway>>
/src=x;
ServeVox01:
/view /space=low_orbit;
ServeVox02:
lure=mir
{/@ad //@e};
{//@acle //@age};
/firm=far*wide
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DataStream_SoundList:
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<<youcannotdisguise>>
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DataStream_SoundList:
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DataStream_SoundList:
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<<wehavenochoice>>
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ExCondPort:
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<<stolen>>
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SetVar:
HyperViolet=350
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DataStream_SoundList:
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DataCatch_StackList:
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DeviceLog:
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src=SciMag@2016-03-11: Peacock AC, Steel MJ (2016) The time is right for multiphoton entangled states. Science 351: 1152-1153.

src=QED@FeynmanRP-1985: Feynman RP (1985) QED: The Strange Theory of Light and Matter. Princeton University Press.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Running with the Pack

Posted on August 1, 2016 by John Hawke

These lost boys translucent in the radiance
of a torn shop window with its eternal alarm

are ripping the side mirrors from a stationary Audi,
their vandalising hands strong with slowed time:

lizard eaters with tongues of rough leaves
and guts toughened by ingestion of dark meat,

the tintinnabulation of their armour issues glamour
like leakage of mercury from a watch-face.

The gesture clatters to the roadway, a Lenten
abnegation, honoured then unlearned. The child

ensorcelled by bougainvillea suffers pangs
of separation from primal heat. We had barely

discussed his slender maternal memories
when the police took him to Darlinghurst

lockup and beat him badly. He told me:
“They were showing the video of Ice Cream for Crow

when a black arm from Eveleigh Street
reached through the lounge room window

to repossess our television.” A mattress
dense with fleas exposed to early morning

Chippendale traffic, the sunroom strewn with ruby
fragments of smashed flagons suffused

in an ambulance glow. He borrowed money
from everyone he knew in the Trade Union Club

then disappeared forever: someone named
a cat after him. He was discovered later

swinging from the latticed balcony, to be revived
in the greenish pallor of hydroponic lamps.

Their supreme love expressed in meaty fistfights
down the staircase, hammer-threatened walls,

until one night a car skidded on its roof
against the pole outside our front door –

the topless waitress from the pub across the street
brought hot sweet tea in her netted singlet

to the white-haired suspended passengers.
Singed by the traffic slipstream we passed

secure in an insulating cloak of diesel, running
with the pack over six lanes of Parramatta Road.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

Sheep Poems

Posted on August 1, 2016 by Eddie Paterson

The Review

scott rated it colleen rated it shannon rated it catriona rated it lyn rated it brittany rated it lynda rated it andy rated it don rated it apatt rated it dirk rated it szplug rated it sarah rated it henry rated it justin rated it ron rated it stuart rated it morgan rated it ian rated it lit bug rated it dead letter office rated it not getting enough rated it werner rated it jay ant rated it jason rated it aloha rated it chris rated it phrynne rated it #science-fiction #fiction-adult #sci-fi #apocalyptic-or-post-apocalyptic-psychological-thriller #owned-it #this-is-the-book-upon-which-the-film blade runner was-created #fantasy-sci-fi #author-uk #5 stars #kindle-books-i-own #classics #dystopia #science-fiction-read-2016 #set-sail-for-disappointment #this-novel-is-a-cult-classic #sci-fi-fans #i’ve-been-saying-for-years-this-book-is-boring #those-interesting-in-bringing-down-the-quality-of-modern-lit #genre-sci-fi-that-i-own #discuss-this-book #technological-masterwork #humans-mankind #cyberpunk #androids-are-so-sophisticated #born-&-lived-most-of-his-life #i-have-a-confession-to-make #what-is-an-empathy-box #it-takes-five-full-pages-for-the-character-to-buy-a-goat #a-professed-episcopalian #the-latter-two-are-artificial-or-human #subsequent-dystopian-cinematic-fare #fallout #an-android-walks-into-a-bar #don’t-get-me-wrong-maybe-2.5-stars-far-more-bleak-i-won’t-go-into-details #is-it-really-possible #threatened-their-existence #ask-other-readers #this-question-contains-spoiler (view-spoiler) #by-2021-millions-killed #entire-species-into-extinction #those-who-remain #horses-birds-cats-sheep #radioactive-dust #most-live-creatures-become-extinct #artificially-created-mass-produced-identical-individuals #not-purely-electric #review-your-friends #may-be-it’s-a-contradiction-in-terms #dust #living-creatures #this-story-is-about-machines #this-book-was-so-amazing-in-the-beginning #then-everything-plummeted-downhill-it’s-been-a-long-time-since-i-watched-the-movie # rate-it


Standard Operation Procedure

manual handling is any activity involving the use of force. use lifts, trolleys, paths, stacks, breaks & avoid twisting, stretching & bending. take a two minute break. have feet level & well-planted on either side. assess the load & mechanism. clear the area. keep the back straight. don’t overbalance. be especially careful of fingers & hands. wrists & elbows should be stretched, moved & relaxed during downtime. any situation arising & leading to a development shall be reported to your manager for investigation & rectification. if you do not have language, engage the specialist. do not rush the task. relocate. turn your feet in the direction. keep the object close to your body. the machine will have a humanising influence. clear children. clear families. whale-crops should be monitored for bleaching. high consequence salinification incidents should be reported immediately. near misses should be reported. incidents include the following. immediate treatment shall be forthcoming. high-risk margins are conditional. incidents include. management of freedoms remain. curfews shall be enforced. work gradually. whenever possible, use the transport for dangerous or unwieldy loads. follow the guidelines. bend the knees, feet apart in the position. assess & plan the handling. be particularly careful of the device. tight doorways open to the area. signal & rotate staff. keep the back straight with the head looking forwards. utilise multiples. ensure you have a clear area in which to work. the program will demonstrate force.

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged