Allen Bramhall / Aliens, Straining At Sense / page3
7) Aliens On Business From Porlock
this is personal but I must speak. I was writing lyric, which is a shaft of light in intention, a ripple on water. I am not saying I wrote good lyric, only that music was there, words and forth. accommodation, explosive sky (broad daylight, mind you), and the flying saucer arrived. quite beautiful, as you might expect. I was transfixed. easy for me, I am of an ecstatic nature. mystic dream presence added to, that sort of thing. so the flying saucer positions itself above the ground nearby, and a portal opens. a fetching several aliens disembark. they are lit with interest. I want words within me, pure as hope or the next mile. the aliens, I am sure, sensed this conspicuous retention. I speak not of internal genius, just the motivating energy. the aliens gathered round me, almost physical. I felt a sensation of trying, with a music both rational and the lightest ton of the heavenly earth. I must’ve burst into tears tho who is to say that light broke for me and let me swim? lyrical empathy is a sweetness that can churn thru space and time. love is arresting. the aliens dispatched a pathway, closing symbols around the merest perplexities and treating me to song. my motions were small and possibly aggravating: I wrote with little sense of where words need and why. a costing effect sent me riverward, to instill the latent pioneer and desperate courage. I was small as clarity, round as ocean, blue as skittering space objects in the time it takes. what was I willing but the very love that animates? and beyond that, a sensation in a word or writing, going into glowing terms that were places that are sound and colour. the aliens left me with a motion, just a temper, and a need for spelling. there is a place marked somewhere, where this happened. this is my note of attestation.
8) Sarcastic News
the newest execution of detail: that’s when the aliens ate soup. we were so delighted. the aliens indicated that they loved the experience, we could just tell. they showed us their rayguns, and examined our possibility. the soup was soon, the soup was condition. we all opened soup cans and poured out our hearts. this is the future, at last, a happy person was heard to say. the aliens finally saw the light. can you claim to have a briefcase or suitable carry-all? an alien was asked. a gizmo translated this into alien understanding. doctors are trees, was the alien’s reply. the soup, you like it a lot, and want to take it with you? someone persisted. situational syntax is an ethical matter, was how this alien answered. things grew dark, as if presumed thunderstorms were inherited. holes in the sky grew into a certainty of fear. dictionaries exploded, and so did our dreams. night suddenly lost all picture, just a rare clue without music. the aliens may be angry, people began to decide. a can of soup could be a whole walk thru life. a shattering of futurity may mean something. someone wanted to fill the void: squalour remains, no doubt, and what’s with all this disease and fighting? hate groups in West Virginia. this person was reading from the paper. that’s my paper, an alien suddenly said. this is my year, another announced. these are my freshmen, came another alien’s piping. is the effort worthy of the time it takes to clean up an environmental mess? we all wondered, closeted with reference points that seem merely broken from a mass. the flying saucers look brooding and difficult. people forget to make coffee in the morning. fear and threat are everyday things, like a loose framework beginning with a consonant or attributed to knowledge. essential fuss might be spirit, even lust. menagerie begets association, and someone must explain. the aliens stand still for days at a time, then leave. they give OK sign but absquatulate with haste. oh, they’re around here somewhere, we all know. dictionaries cannot always be wrong.
9) Trusty Pattern Seems So
the aliens seem so reliable, present. this dustball that they found comprises an interest, which they regale, feeling sweet. the gushing nightfall thru which they pierce conspires to assuage some symptom to which aliens are prone. blizzard days are just more trifle for the aliens who have come. they look thru our books to see if language has the beat. aliens are stark but they have music in their minds. they let loose with a yelp or two, the essential makeup of craft. landing here is a dynamic response to constitutional concerns. the animal here throbs with a life that contains mere feeling, and the smell of forests. this is a rough time to slide thru, not even considering storm patterns and the flopping nature of our climate. the aliens will improve what they can, with delicacy and interest. their language is a shape of colour that we cannot really know, but inference will suffice.
it’s like this, the aliens say, without benefit of a verbal language (they speak by implant). these beams of sunlight in which you swim conspire for a lasting glory to overwhelm your pleasantries. you, pale image, are smaller than telling. you will be fooled by rational reference to the thing at hand. the ‘thing’ is a strip mine. you know about strip mines. your heaven is a chase and a date. someday, you say to yourself. there is little to add. we come to show you that arrival is tamely rendered in logical colours. each day begins with this tracing.
well of course we are bug eyed to hear such a report. earnest deviation is a thing of the past, we’ve must quibble for success. the aliens discharge some energy, and we build replicas of rocketships. our replicas are engaged reminiscences, ten feet tall and covered with aluminum foil. we show our replicas proudly, almost to thwart the preposterous certitude in which the common flock live. the aliens just want to move a star or two, whereas our whole planet wants the oil rights of this distinguished plot of land. the sense of balance seems to fill some undeniable balloon, and the balloon heads for heaven. heaven is a good laugh and will be here in time, ready to implement the needed changes. how pale our intentions are, when we wake late at night to the sound of rockets landing. when we step outside to the waiting aliens, they will hop with surprise. as chosen ones, we are sadly interrupted.
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7) Aliens On Business From Porlock
this is personal but I must speak. I was writing lyric, which is a shaft of light in intention, a ripple on water. I am not saying I wrote good lyric, only that music was there, words and forth. accommodation, explosive sky (broad daylight, mind you), and the flying saucer arrived. quite beautiful, as you might expect. I was transfixed. easy for me, I am of an ecstatic nature. mystic dream presence added to, that sort of thing. so the flying saucer positions itself above the ground nearby, and a portal opens. a fetching several aliens disembark. they are lit with interest. I want words within me, pure as hope or the next mile. the aliens, I am sure, sensed this conspicuous retention. I speak not of internal genius, just the motivating energy. the aliens gathered round me, almost physical. I felt a sensation of trying, with a music both rational and the lightest ton of the heavenly earth. I must’ve burst into tears tho who is to say that light broke for me and let me swim? lyrical empathy is a sweetness that can churn thru space and time. love is arresting. the aliens dispatched a pathway, closing symbols around the merest perplexities and treating me to song. my motions were small and possibly aggravating: I wrote with little sense of where words need and why. a costing effect sent me riverward, to instill the latent pioneer and desperate courage. I was small as clarity, round as ocean, blue as skittering space objects in the time it takes. what was I willing but the very love that animates? and beyond that, a sensation in a word or writing, going into glowing terms that were places that are sound and colour. the aliens left me with a motion, just a temper, and a need for spelling. there is a place marked somewhere, where this happened. this is my note of attestation.
8) Sarcastic News
the newest execution of detail: that’s when the aliens ate soup. we were so delighted. the aliens indicated that they loved the experience, we could just tell. they showed us their rayguns, and examined our possibility. the soup was soon, the soup was condition. we all opened soup cans and poured out our hearts. this is the future, at last, a happy person was heard to say. the aliens finally saw the light. can you claim to have a briefcase or suitable carry-all? an alien was asked. a gizmo translated this into alien understanding. doctors are trees, was the alien’s reply. the soup, you like it a lot, and want to take it with you? someone persisted. situational syntax is an ethical matter, was how this alien answered. things grew dark, as if presumed thunderstorms were inherited. holes in the sky grew into a certainty of fear. dictionaries exploded, and so did our dreams. night suddenly lost all picture, just a rare clue without music. the aliens may be angry, people began to decide. a can of soup could be a whole walk thru life. a shattering of futurity may mean something. someone wanted to fill the void: squalour remains, no doubt, and what’s with all this disease and fighting? hate groups in West Virginia. this person was reading from the paper. that’s my paper, an alien suddenly said. this is my year, another announced. these are my freshmen, came another alien’s piping. is the effort worthy of the time it takes to clean up an environmental mess? we all wondered, closeted with reference points that seem merely broken from a mass. the flying saucers look brooding and difficult. people forget to make coffee in the morning. fear and threat are everyday things, like a loose framework beginning with a consonant or attributed to knowledge. essential fuss might be spirit, even lust. menagerie begets association, and someone must explain. the aliens stand still for days at a time, then leave. they give OK sign but absquatulate with haste. oh, they’re around here somewhere, we all know. dictionaries cannot always be wrong.
9) Trusty Pattern Seems So
the aliens seem so reliable, present. this dustball that they found comprises an interest, which they regale, feeling sweet. the gushing nightfall thru which they pierce conspires to assuage some symptom to which aliens are prone. blizzard days are just more trifle for the aliens who have come. they look thru our books to see if language has the beat. aliens are stark but they have music in their minds. they let loose with a yelp or two, the essential makeup of craft. landing here is a dynamic response to constitutional concerns. the animal here throbs with a life that contains mere feeling, and the smell of forests. this is a rough time to slide thru, not even considering storm patterns and the flopping nature of our climate. the aliens will improve what they can, with delicacy and interest. their language is a shape of colour that we cannot really know, but inference will suffice.
it’s like this, the aliens say, without benefit of a verbal language (they speak by implant). these beams of sunlight in which you swim conspire for a lasting glory to overwhelm your pleasantries. you, pale image, are smaller than telling. you will be fooled by rational reference to the thing at hand. the ‘thing’ is a strip mine. you know about strip mines. your heaven is a chase and a date. someday, you say to yourself. there is little to add. we come to show you that arrival is tamely rendered in logical colours. each day begins with this tracing.
well of course we are bug eyed to hear such a report. earnest deviation is a thing of the past, we’ve must quibble for success. the aliens discharge some energy, and we build replicas of rocketships. our replicas are engaged reminiscences, ten feet tall and covered with aluminum foil. we show our replicas proudly, almost to thwart the preposterous certitude in which the common flock live. the aliens just want to move a star or two, whereas our whole planet wants the oil rights of this distinguished plot of land. the sense of balance seems to fill some undeniable balloon, and the balloon heads for heaven. heaven is a good laugh and will be here in time, ready to implement the needed changes. how pale our intentions are, when we wake late at night to the sound of rockets landing. when we step outside to the waiting aliens, they will hop with surprise. as chosen ones, we are sadly interrupted.
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