Grassy Nelly
First line of defence, cut forwards into space and meet the thing head on: the Terminus selected from all manner of speech sounds cutting back and forth in hallway silence of Academy pupae (soft machine library – word gallery Salzburg, New York City, Chicago – select sound/image track and cut in to available vessel on command) – chrysalis growing in heavy clinging skin of slow up and down breathing apparatus – launch the craft liquid through dark space in Academy silence – select welcome agents to do the dirty work, hanging lifeless in dead dark space for days and weeks looking for word dust ovens and first line of defence in face of Control invasion. Heavy metallic gas fills the breathing tube with soupy influenza, green eyes light up at the sound of it – control display sparks to life in series of crystal dials and lights at the merest touch – dead space from here on out. My partner, Newman, and I unstrapped in featherlight touch of zero gravity – shit in the bag on command, breathe liquid gas when the machine tells us to… float around the compartment taking measurements and readings (dead dark space) and report findings back to EarthSphere. Days and weeks in dead dark silence – not a single insect click from decentralised Academy colonies – left to our own devices, shitting in the bag and breathing heavy miasmic green (eyes light up at the sound of it).
A rat is a rat is a stool pigeon, grass, informer, wrong way turn – one word: collaborator – in the good old days we’d have them taken out back and shot. Grassy Nelly told the fishboys where to sniff about – dead dark space and sleep in skin of tired old politicos spitting in the green dawn – Director Massimo sends down the order while Collaborator sits tight dunking coffee in downtown automat – greasy sandwich and stale rubber munching – crab people come down the telephone wire (always come in on word/image lines… got it nice and juicy, nearly taste the human ooze, soft and pungent). Where does such a thing come from? Pertinent intel on the radio frequency leads you down to the big house for reprocessing (slow report in office down the hall) – whole thing comes crashing down to EarthSphere in dry dust boys fondling one another and make the most of dying days. Always smell a rat… Collaborator feeding crablike nebula through secret blink of insect eye, slow drop of wrist (Tommaso the Fag walking streets of 1814: slow drop of the wrist and blink of insect eye). Who’s the rat-fink bastard grows like fungus in dank must of pressurised aqualung? Hear him on the hailing frequency lighting up and singing the blues to space. Newman and I have our orders – weed out Grassy Nelly and put a stop to all compromised information lines: first line of defence – keep Control out of Academy business. Collaborator makes the most of dying days, dunking coffee in downtown automat of 1814 munching stale rubber greasy sandwich.
Old catholic spitting in the green dawn… tired old politicos splitting skin and melding into single amorphous being – the Collaborator writes advertisement billboard and watches dry dust boys, blinking stupid and fishlike, grow gills and leap into nearby pond. A rat is a rat is a rat… Grassy Nelly sings the blues – in the good old days we’d have them taken out back and shot. Crab people growing dark fungus from communal vat in tired old politicos – burn all plant matter and boil the lakes – secret insect wavelength of Collaborator singing the blues (blink of insect eyes, slow drop of the wrist, Tommaso the Fag walking streets in 1814). Who is the rat-fink bastard and in what dank and musty whole does his chrysalis grow? Tired old catholic spitting in the green dawn… Newman and I out in soft machine looking for the loose screw in all directions (dead dark space) – search blue light under every rock (control display pinpoints position – leads on down to the big house) and make with terminal glide of EarthSphere inspector – make the big snoop into all manner of personal affairs (likes to wear ladies’ underthings… got a growth you know…)
A rat is a rat is a rat… stool pigeon sings the blues, dunking coffee in downtown automat, make the most of dying days. Insect chrysalis grows long webbed fingers into Control apparatus – dry dust boys, blinking stupid and fishlike, grow gills in translucent skin, leap into nearby pond. Collaborator in on thick scent of tired old politicos spitting in the green dawn – sends the order up the food chain to crab people waiting on the telephone wire – leads you down to the big house – all manner of speech sounds cutting back and forth: insect click and heavy metallic pincer hand in hand down the doorway of dry dust boys growing gills in bathing outhouse. Newman and I make our investigations – the Terminus glides liquid through black space – Grassy Nelly on the liminal wavelength makes wrong way turn and sells out short, singing the blues to space – EarthSphere set for total destruction (burn all plant matter and boil the lakes – heavy metallic eyes light up at the sound of it, translucent green), and this rat-fink bastard just sits there dunking coffee and setting up the dominoes. Stool pigeon sings the blues – a rat is a rat is a rat…
Where is insect Integripalpia in the Holy Lands? What is absolute devotion? Investigation stink in heavy chrysalis of the Terminus gliding liquid through dark space – weed out the rat under my own nose and make with frantic report back to EarthSphere. The Collaborator – Newman – exposes himself and shuts down in heavy metallic gas – gills flapping in evening breeze of word dust falling back to EarthSphere – the Academy eats itself – crab people grow out of tired old politicos on advertisement billboard, spitting in the green dawn… Split the skin in moist webbed fingers, grow gills and leap into communal vat of deep, dark amorphous thought (“do this” “do that”). Newman – the Collaborator – exposes himself, switches on the ovens and burns all available literature – dry dust fishboys flapping purple gills in evening breeze and jibbering like extinct baboons – the Collaborator – Newman – filthy rat spitting in the green dawn, cuts to torture film at 25 frames per second, dances the collaborator jig and melts down into oozing liquid perforating pores and moving up like fungus in dry husk of planet. Reforms himself in tired old politicos selling out short – DE, Traveller Philly, the Architecture Kid – the whole gang is here – ready to glide out through liquid space on wings of soft machine crab craft (dials and lights sparking up at the merest touch) – out on invasion lines: host party for another planet – Total Control and the rat-fink bastard laps up success dunking coffee in downtown automat (greasy rubber sandwich).
Watch out! A rat is a rat is a rat – armed with camera gun and burns liquid eyes into all the fishboys growing gills against their will and leaping into nearby pond (slow up and down of pressurised aqualung – breathing heavy metallic gas). Watch out! A rat is a rat is a rat on EarthSphere, on crab planet, on Moon Base Alpha – the Academy eats itself. Newman fires up the ovens and boils the lakes – Newman, the Collaborator, incinerates back brain literature and destroys soft machine library of word gallery Salzburg, Chicago, New York City. A rat is a rat and there’s no two ways about it – don’t let the rodent sniff out your business or the whole operation goes swirling down the drain with the shit and piss and human detritus. Keep on the liminal wavelength – silence is the golden rule – keep your human roots about you. The Academy eats itself in dry dust bathing outhouse of tepid fishboys prowling wet orifice on erectile distension – burn all plant matter and boil the lakes – keep your human roots about you and weed out the Collaborator before he starts up old street con shell game back and forth “everybody wins a prize…” Old catholic spitting in the green dawn… a rat is a rat is a rat is a rat…
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Selected passages from Wrong Way Turn (part of Terra Firma) – early draft, subject to change
Read in original format on blog here
© 2021 Lachlan J McDougall