The Impossible Machine
MACHINA POETIKA: Terrapin's "Free Verse"
3 SHORT STORIES 1 2 3 based upon
III WHAT INDIVIDUATES MUST VOMIT, or DIS
We are walking through a house. It is a small,
sturdy house, as though everything is bolted
down. But the ceiling is low in places where the
roof slants through. Where there are windows
they are small. The walls are thick and covered in
white plaster. It reminds me of the Hamilton’s
abode in Deep River, and also a particular out-
patient clinic I frequented some years ago. Gently,
it has the residual grief of a sanitarium. I feel
cautious—and just then—as we round a corner, I
find myself in a different place.
We arrive at a gatehouse, where we pass into a
pasture. It seems we are on a field-trip for the
talented and gifted. We have left the main road
which winds around the mass of a gray building
that resembles a stone keep. It appears that we
are awaiting an audience with some personage.
We resemble young groupies who have found a
temporary guru.
One of our number, a short, balding older man
with a wiry mystical look to him, informs us that we
will have our audience. We all head up a short dirt
road that somehow seems to exist inside the
castle, as though it had a ceiling, or the outdoors
aspect were only an illusion. We veer off to the
left as we are lead into a courtyard with slate tile
flooring. The castle is of the same color, and very
near. Then we seat ourselves at round shoddy
tables resembling very much those found in a
middle-school cafeteria. Our host appears, or
more accurately, he calls attention to himself—for
he is the same man of our number who lead us up
the hill. I feel disappointed—I came here for
something new.
The short man, whose hair I notice is floating
somewhat, calls attention to one of our members.
The young man is sitting at a table by himself. He
seems somewhat angry internally, but is
projecting an aura of calm. I can feel that he is
channeling energy for some purpose. Without a
word the young man begins to float in his chair,
rising higher and higher until he overshadows
the tables. He begins to spin in mid-air, but there
is only a hint of a smile on his face. Then he
returns to the ground precisely where he took off.
Our guru has merited our attention now. “But,” he
says “there is an even more amazing genius than
this!” Emphatically, he turns on the television.
This “amazing genius” has the face of a warthog.
The television shows that he has a large hole in
the back of his head, and he is missing a brain.
Furthermore, he appears leprous, and is covered
in large white maggot grubs that are eating his
flesh and suckling the inside of his skull. His
genius appears to be that he is still alive, for
verily we can hear through the television a
savage growling, as though a three-headed dog
is clearing its throat. The warthog is preparing to
speak. But he has no brain, and maggots are
feeding on him. This is when I woke up.
Presumably the miracle that follows is not for
mortal eyes. –July 11, 2005
III WHAT INDIVIDUATES MUST VOMIT, or DIS
We are walking through a house. It is a small,
sturdy house, as though everything is bolted
down. But the ceiling is low in places where the
roof slants through. Where there are windows
they are small. The walls are thick and covered in
white plaster. It reminds me of the Hamilton’s
abode in Deep River, and also a particular out-
patient clinic I frequented some years ago. Gently,
it has the residual grief of a sanitarium. I feel
cautious—and just then—as we round a corner, I
find myself in a different place.
We arrive at a gatehouse, where we pass into a
pasture. It seems we are on a field-trip for the
talented and gifted. We have left the main road
which winds around the mass of a gray building
that resembles a stone keep. It appears that we
are awaiting an audience with some personage.
We resemble young groupies who have found a
temporary guru.
One of our number, a short, balding older man
with a wiry mystical look to him, informs us that we
will have our audience. We all head up a short dirt
road that somehow seems to exist inside the
castle, as though it had a ceiling, or the outdoors
aspect were only an illusion. We veer off to the
left as we are lead into a courtyard with slate tile
flooring. The castle is of the same color, and very
near. Then we seat ourselves at round shoddy
tables resembling very much those found in a
middle-school cafeteria. Our host appears, or
more accurately, he calls attention to himself—for
he is the same man of our number who lead us up
the hill. I feel disappointed—I came here for
something new.
The short man, whose hair I notice is floating
somewhat, calls attention to one of our members.
The young man is sitting at a table by himself. He
seems somewhat angry internally, but is
projecting an aura of calm. I can feel that he is
channeling energy for some purpose. Without a
word the young man begins to float in his chair,
rising higher and higher until he overshadows
the tables. He begins to spin in mid-air, but there
is only a hint of a smile on his face. Then he
returns to the ground precisely where he took off.
Our guru has merited our attention now. “But,” he
says “there is an even more amazing genius than
this!” Emphatically, he turns on the television.
This “amazing genius” has the face of a warthog.
The television shows that he has a large hole in
the back of his head, and he is missing a brain.
Furthermore, he appears leprous, and is covered
in large white maggot grubs that are eating his
flesh and suckling the inside of his skull. His
genius appears to be that he is still alive, for
verily we can hear through the television a
savage growling, as though a three-headed dog
is clearing its throat. The warthog is preparing to
speak. But he has no brain, and maggots are
feeding on him. This is when I woke up.
Presumably the miracle that follows is not for
mortal eyes. –July 11, 2005
POEMS:
Upon Returning to a Garden
Do not follow in the footsteps
That House
Swing
Poets
Freedom from Happiness
Rainy Impressions
Figments of Elysium
A Cubic Wood
Tree of Seasons
To eat is not always to devour
A Rigorously Failed Poem
There have been instances
Onlook
Le Contrarienne
Tousselle
Le Turetta
Such variance formed as
makes discretion claer
The set idea of determined
marriage
Covette
Leaves in Light
Upon Returning to a Garden
Do not follow in the footsteps
That House
Swing
Poets
Freedom from Happiness
Rainy Impressions
Figments of Elysium
A Cubic Wood
Tree of Seasons
To eat is not always to devour
A Rigorously Failed Poem
There have been instances
Onlook
Le Contrarienne
Tousselle
Le Turetta
Such variance formed as
makes discretion claer
The set idea of determined
marriage
Covette
Leaves in Light
