Scumdadio

Scumdadio Ectoplasm sat in the neoprene terminal, his eyes fixed on the dark-reflecting windows. On the nearby benches other travellers sat with the same vacancy papering their features: a non-look. Under the fluoro-glare the Caucasian skin films to parchment and the Affro fades to deeper black. Over by the coffee-stat a woman, face Goth-white, black hair framing it, rubbed talon-seal on her nails and blew them dry. This was also a gesture of self-satisfaction. Scumdadio mused his wicked musement: “She likes the little of herself she knows, at least.”

In the deep, parallel rain, the bug-jets roared, lifted into the strato-smog and were gone. Naked lights in the distance reflected themselves in prismy drops rolling down the tri-glaze. “Time enough,” thought Scumdadio and fell asleep.

In the deep, parallel rain, Scumdadio dreamed that the bug-jets roared, lifted into the strato-smog. There was no difference between the reality he dreamed and the cold tarmac lake outside. Yet the heartless beat of the rain caused his imagining to rise to another height, He saw the sky open in an offering of plenty. Sun and indigo blue broke the rag of clouds and drenched the ground.

Scumdadio woke. His dream had come true and, like all dreams, its coming was commonplace. The sun shone as if it had never been obscured. The deep blue heaven ached for the stars of night. It was all under control. Even the bug-jet fumbling its way to planet-fall was utterly and cataclysmically normal.

© BH 1992

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Just thought you needed to know a bit about Scumdadio. He came to this place in 1992, some say from the future. Maybe he came to 1992 from now. We have no way of knowing.

Cream of Stonciousness

In this empty room, I am virtually alone. In the cybernetic gloom, I digitally atone. In the vestigial universe of wires and relays. Here I slip into nothing much at all. I have nothing to say, a pencil for my thoughts, and a sharp tongue for more immediate words.

This is cream of stonciousness writing, some might say automatic. Long live Uncle Marcel, dear old Georgio and Max, the Birdman. How I miss their antics. It was like this: Max and his friend Rene were in New York. For a dare, I dare say. The cloud ceiling was low and the sky clung to the scrapers. Dusk was coming in. Planes went slipping wild across the sky that remained, king-konging off the Empire State and the Chrysler Buildings. Debris seemed to percolate down, in a kind of slow motion, toward street level. Credibility Street. And the truth is it never reached there. Who can say what the answer was to that? A ancient biplane, careening into an office (it could happen). The giant monkey, tight-fisted with his Fay Wray, her, screaming like the devil. A beautiful pair of lungs for a lady. (That's no lady that was my co-star). And the twisting wreckage of fuselage? This, striking the glass barrier? No barrier at all. The real carnage: the plane in the administrative concourse. (It did happen) Here and there the flying corps fly past, curious. And Kong, the displaced beast to end all displaced beasts, clung to the flagpole at the top of the Empire State and took his medicine. They say it was lead poisoning that got him in the end. After falling all those tall storeys, it was the ground broke his fall. His neck? Brass, it was not. Broken, most likely, like his heart. Tough at the top. Even tougher at the bottom. It could only happen in Hollywood. 

In the empty room

Virtually alone in cybernetic gloom,

In a vestigial universe of wires and relays,

I slip into nothing at all.

I had nothing to say:

A pencil for my thoughts,

A rough instrument for recording

The lighter moments;

A sharp tongue to twist around the words

Those blunt and dull and spoken words.

Alone the walls take time,

Written under yellow light,

And waste it for the approaching night.

© BH 2001

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I wrote this in 2001. I think words settle a bit over time and become more readable. Luckily the letters stay in the same order.