guzzlebrite

    The clouds danced gaily in the summertime sunshine as Mordrimek Sputterbark flounced through scenic byways. To his right grouped bunches of lumbering stately elms, to his left a scrabble of wildflowers overwhich hung a cloud of nymphs gathering nectar. With a subtle kick of the toes and a twirl he bounded over a bridge passing a clear glittering stream. He was currently on his way to the gleaming city of Vernasthur to peddle his assortment of quasi-magical artifacts at the county fair.
    Lost in dreams of the heaps of silver groddings which would soon be filling his pockets he didn't notice the gnome Guzzlebrite sleeping in the middle of the road, and stepped squarely on his outstretched nose.
    With the rallying cry of "kiss a whore in the arse!" Guzzlebrite came bounding after, swinging about an intricately carved yew cudgel.

 "Hark, ye scoundrel! You've disfigured my beautiful and bulbous sneezer!" said Guzzlebrite, trying and failing to grab the hem of Modrimek's skyblue cloak. Modrimek tweaked the bouncing flower in his cap and redoubled his march without a word.

In a rage the gnome pounded the ground with his cudgel. The air erupted with the crashing of a titanic brass gong. Shocked out of his wits and struck nearly deaf Mordrimek bounced fully five feet into the air and collapsed in a ditch, scattering the mildly sorcerous contents of his mouse skin satchel about the avenue. With a chuckle Guzzlebrite transfigured himself into a hare, zipped to each of the trinkets and gathered them all into a sack.

"This smattering second-rate charms will have to suffice for recompense! Perhaps I can haggle the leechman to repair my schnozzer in return for this--" Guzzlebrite paused to squint at the squat pewter cup in his hand "'Hornflower's Best portable privy.'"

With a shrug the hare that was Guzzlebrite prepared a spell of 'To Faraway Removal', but Mordrimek regathered his senses and within a blink sent a hex of his own flying. Just as Guzzlebrite's temporal reality twisted and folded itself into elsewhere his fur turned a nauseating shade of magenta.

"May that gnome's mother fester puss sacks from her infected saddlebags," swore Mordrimek as he lay in the dust by the side of the road. Letting his head sink down he put his mind to the task of developing a plan of repossessing his lost wares and punishing the gnome. The task was overwhelming and soon he fell asleep.

Several hours later when the sun was descending and all was bathed in gold-orange light he awoke to the rattle of wagon wheels. Climbing to his feet he detected the crack of a whip and the light of a swinging lantern not far off. With hand raised he sought to parlay the driver but the car trundled by nearly crushing his toes. He ran after the cart.

"Ahoy! Salutations fine carriage operator! I require your assistance! It is I, Mordimek Sputterbark, third heir of the house of Lourdedarte and magician of no small renown! I have been waylayed of my shipment of ancient and rare artifacts by a band of gnome brigands and left to die in these foul woods!"

Mordimek gained on the cart and discovered it to be an exquisitely designed conveyance of lacquered tar pit ebony, pulled by a pair of prancing ruby mulecats and decked in worked silver fittings. The windows were obscured with a thickly piled mustard curtains. The driver was an automaton, guiding the cart mindlessly to its destination with fabulous emerald sight-lenses. Catching the chuck braces on the back of the carriage he quietly hoisted himself up and secured himself for the ride.

The orange light of the lower moon danced through scrabbling branches and scattered across brackish murk. A warm and humid night swathed the carriage as it descended many steep hills into swampland. A chorus of stinging insects likewise descended and harried Mordimek,who wrapped himself in his cape, though it was short enough to leave his ankles exposed. He cried, moaned, and wheezed for many bleak hours as the carriage jostled over roots and stones, and the coy growls of jagwompuses stalked from just beyond sight.

Near the dead hour, as the timpani toads ceased their sonorous canticles, there came a crash and the cart careened to a halt nearly horizontal in the mire. Mordimek was dislodged from his perch and hurled into a deep bank where he frantically scrabbled for purchase upon a sunken stone idol. He watched in amazement as the luxurious auto-cart extended an arm and emitted floodlight to illuminate the loathsome woods. A prodigious beast of indeterminable size passed across the road and disappeared into the trees, totally unaware of the mayhem it left in its wake.

From the top of the cart a hatch opened and out popped a thin man wearing a sapphire encrusted leotard and yellow wing-tipped boots. He scratched his bald head, placed his hands on his hips, then spun immediately around to glare at Mordimek hanging helpless in the muck. In place of eyes he had a pair of telescoping appendages which adjusted themselves in an irate manner.

"You! Repulsive vagabond! What is the meaning of this intrusion!" said the man. Mordimek threw himself off the stone idol and plunged into the depths of the murkey water while the wizard hurled knives into the water after him.

the reviles of porglitag the saber, part 1

Here's something I wrote. It's entitled "the Reviles of Porglitag the Saber, part 1"

Counting the masses of silver coins on his desk was Porglitag the pigman highbringer, chief taxer to Derblesplish the lordcutter, a local minor lord. His office was a strewn mess of broken pottery and statuettes of jasper maidens exposing their orifaces. With a gleeful chortle he jangled his piles.

"Yee hee! Income is up 6% from last quarter! Before long I'll be able to purchase my own minor duchy from king Skirplupigan!"

There was a pounding at the door and a small putrid man wearing rusty chainmail entered, sweating profusely.

"Lord Porglitag! An army of bandits approach the castle!"

"Wonderful," said Porglitag "I'll be there in a moment!"

He chose his favorite plush pineapple hat and a crystal wand from a door before sauntering down the hall. It was a beautiful fall day and a crisp wind filtered in through the ports which faced the court. As he passed by one he caught a glimps of a sea of golden grass stretching out for miles to the far plump mountains. The sky was gray.

He crawled up a flight of spiral stairs before arriving on top of the rampart. Below was about a hundred and fifty men in black carrying spears and small wooden shields, arranged in two haphazard factions. Heading the group were three men riding small mottled brown horses. They came to a halt fifty yards from the outer wall.

The larger of the three men raised his arm in salute. His hair flowed in a firey coif around his neck and shoulders. He wore a bright red cape and purple steel cuirass which once had been in the latest fashions. Even from this distance Porglitag could see dents and spots of rust the bearer had failed to burnish out. The son of a knight on the descent into peasanthood.

"Highbringer Porglitag!" called the man "I am Shertrabe son of Guxlitux, son of Shertribux, heir to the hall of Lyllgyllyhylla. I come to to demand the release of"

Porglitag raised the crystal wand in his hand, Shertrabe son of Guxlitux burst into flames and fell screaming from his horse. Without a sound archers from up and down the ramparts presented themselves and released a volley upon the unsuspecting bandits, who turned and began to run. A full third of the men fell and were crushed underfoot by their retreating brothers.

The two remaining horsemen gathered their reigns and circled back around, swords drawn, corralling the deserting spearfolk and forcing them back towards the fort. The archers prepared to launch another volley. The spearfolk gathered back into their formations and bristled into a phalanx, shields raised.

The guardcaptain gave his order and the archers launched again. The bandit's were peppered, downing only the few who failed to raise their shields high enough. They marched forth, the riders on each side of the formation, swords drawn, shouting commands and encouragement.

Porglitug made a sign to the guardcaptain and a porticullus at the front of the fort was raised. Seven yellow chargers wielding heavy lances streamed forth. In a calamitous moment there was a crash of horse and spear against bone and the chargers cut through the phalanx like a bolt of lightning. They cast down their ruined lances as they passed through and drew long boar-headed maces. The archers readied to launch again.

Within twenty minutes the bandits were all dead, except for one. One of the riders who came with Shertrabe had been captured by the chargers and carried back. The other was smashed to death by three of the charger's maces in an instant, and his ruined body was carried into the woods by his horse. The prisoners was strawhaired boy, perhaps sixteen, barely of age to carry a sword at all, much less take part in a rebellion. Porglitag had him beaten and chained in the dungeon.

Moments later the butler arrived, announcing the gathering for supperfeast.

In a blur of lime green chiffonade Giffleblig of Butter, a visiting nobleman from the south, appeared at Porglitag's side as they made their way to the banquethall.

"Quite a wonderful display, Porgy! It is always a pleasure to visit you in fort Stamadingdong, what colorful wildlife inhabit the areas about. I should like to partake in a hunt during my stay!"

"Indeed," croaked Porglitag, as he pulled at the hairs on his chinny-chin-chin.

sub-revovulation

sub-revovulation

erased the face replaced becoming with knowingthe magical showing of ears and spine
fingers dancing with twine and time to produce
essence of everlasting verb
like weavers or bakers
the makers of cakers of conducive expulsion.
i feel repulsion to mass produced word
and excitement & frightment to
sentences smashed to senseless feeling.
what else is there in the mind of a human?
a sufficiently advanced AI could reproduce
like the tick of a metronome
could this help us assimilate the space between
mind and flesh the union of being and circuit
transhuman reducer replaced in confucius program
computers follows rules which are malleable and reproducible
the human element escapes stricture though scripture
belittles the brightest to bereavement, the seasons
the merging of dark
the eyeless branches waving lords of toil
demand sacrifice so that the soil may
sprout the fruits of dominion, the cacophony
of violence the childless giants the viscera
of silence
i don't think they can hold on long enough
the power that collects it cracks with each step
the loss of its fuel is the cancer in its bones
with glee our knives cut and fangs rip as we pull apart
and spread its guts and share with joys the surprises in the mud,
what can we do with the tech of dead gods? take it
and weave it into trees, power it with sun or feed it with leaves
take it and shape it to make love to our dreams, give birth
to an infinite world without seams? spread the dust of love to the stars, ignite the limitless direction without laws?
the way of control is one way only,
the tools of the masters can be broken and reshaped
inward and outward both lead to the same
ignoring the boundaries you find its a game

lingering lonely life

lingering lonely life

where does it come?

the break in between the movement and the madness

is the fear of breath, of life and death

there is no unmoving only steps

of chaos tumbling

makeshift shelters guard from winds

ripping at baseboards

they can't stand forever, kludged together

with old screws and bent nails

in the light of camp fires

heat off of friction grinding gears

the notmoving is where the stories breed

jumping through lip and mouth

carrying messages brainward synth

shared meaning twisted feeling

gathering the rim of rippled steel eye

unquiet might, dignified

or dijected firm

wyrm laughter

wolf candor

night whisperer

tongue twisted

glow stoking mind evoking

mother lore that leads to knowing

the new teachers preach being beyond walls

where cracks are our tunnels out of tombs

cement alchemized from gravel produced

by twisting rusty drills and endless mattock work

chiseling to freedom from the bound strucktures of power

language nymphoid developing fetus growing within us

and through oriphace to gather and spred seed

the myth is the language of old ways and new becomings

without heart ember fire goes out

but easy to find, we create with every breath,

every thought evolves the wink

all rhyme no reason

the puzzle fixes open if you sit with them