Eclectic Sheep

Dreaming of infinite monkeys aping androids.

Slow and steady, the british way.

Guess this does answer why the c i a got so angry and had m l k snuffed.

carp

dont be coy with me.

that is what happens when you mix washers and pan-head lagg bolts up with last nights curry flavoured rice dish.

so near as things could be it seemed like something akin to a flounder but different than a halibut and friendlier than a catfish and more hardy than a tilapia would make the ideal dinner table companion for asparagus and salad.

then when your deck-chair suddenly falls apart ruining a postcard afternoon capped by a home-cooked feast of culinary presumptuousness that carp will be laughing it up from little carp heaven.

that for the life of me is the circle of life.

Nightengale

Flashlights do not sing.
Flashlights beam, and only for a brief moment.
Flashlights are small and too risky, merely point-to-point.

Stars sing.
Sometimes in all bands.
There in those waves is the message.
Omnidirectional and across vast swaths of time.
Those are the messages, bound for the others to find.

Without a reference frame for space time noticing nova exploding in grouped patterns of three and one and four would be dispersed and stretched across the distances of time. Unless the cluster is small and close. Its wave would travel and pass-by too quickly to be efficient and patient enough for those that may watch over the long eons.

For billions of years those without ears are hammered with the pulsars beat.

Until they hear the constants Here.

black

swan

MPEG

something about pixels and stuff.

Ribbon

The present has them. They are holding the box shut. Inside cats, poisons and Pandora trade Cheshire moments ment for times before. They are needless, waiting, smiling for the future. With the cutting of scissors goes the ribbon. Opening the box results in a yellow, marzipan scented toaster-strudel. Yet a lack of toaster results in a cold sub-par breakfast requiring mouthwash and coffee afterwards to cover the bitter taste of dead cat. Oh that damn woman and her faint smile. Speaking of which who let her in?
Who cal

Lintel

The ringing could be bells, or it may be bone. The resonance of sympathetic little bones deeper in the head. Tuning as little forks. Rebroadcasting and amplifying all the noise. Maybe it is a lack of milk and calcium and phosphorus. Maybe it is more of leaching and withering of age. Maybe something else. But the music stops.

Damaged Kilo

Lightning foments a way and a path is chosen. Spun like the glowing fire in the eyes of a million-thousand rabid hamsters encircling the golden arches. Jagged lurches of indecisive least cost paths flowing from the feathers of a white pigeon nesting just above the promotional poster of fingered chicken. That is fast food.

Diorama of sundered krishnas fleeing a cracked hammer of thor through the darkened skies. Eaten as the feasted ghost of the valhalla. That is glamdring.

Dragon-ships ply the skies conveying bits and pieces of bit pie. Wandering the coppers of insulated world of uncertain collapsing certainties. That is intertubes.

Short of this last miracle mile, this is the damanged kilo.

Big red Button