Allen Bramhall / Aliens, Straining At Sense / page5
14) Almost Resistant
these aliens are disturbed by the little brook’s program thru town. they land in the parking lot of the coffee shop. this is getting old. the weird squeal of the flying saucer no longer makes news. the aliens go beep and strike a bargain with what the hell. the brook offers a strange crisis. what is continuity, in this realm of time fed illusions? the aliens have strained their sense with popular theories and a good raygun. they think they’ve adapted but. look, we say to zZigno, time’s a-wastin’. will you be wanting the universal solvent in your diet? zZigno is, as we understand, a leader of inbound protocol. that means zZigno is in charge. we squandered riches on zZigno: some carrots, a bit of grass. this charged approximation with intent, made surprise a pertinent question. the aliens become enamoured of time, all of them do. this is a first. doubt is an extraction, of course, and they can’t resist. some of the aliens want hamburgers, and some want to meet television stars. like most horses, Mr Ed couldn’t really talk, we explain fruitlessly. information is a new concept, apparently. the whole perturbed abundance that the aliens offered looks now to be a shade of colour only a movie star could like. and we are not getting our questions answered (where is the end of industry?). how is this helpful? the brook by the coffee shop has taken away their moxie. the aliens just beep, sip mocha lattes and watch the brook. and their saucer is always in the way. we cannot go on like this. presumably, neither can they. real truth needs to weigh more than a bagel, no matter how wonderful that bagel might be. real truth needs to be about more than the collapse of some farcical sun at the back of the universe. real truth needs to redeem all variants with a flash of light and a cruelly apt blunder. the aliens covetously eye our biggest SUVs: we can’t have THAT! will they make remarks about the weather soon? the brook proves fundamental, even with that curious shopping cart there that kids (engines of some masquerade) shoved into it. yes, we say, that brook will dissolve rock, the very earth itself. the aliens indicate that they think we don’t care. we indicate that we most certainly don’t. zZigno’s raygun melts into thin air. the air is charged. the aliens clearly need amusement but time lacks the empathy to fulfill. if the aliens returned to deepest space, would any mark remain behind? they just don’t know us well enough. the brook, as we like to say, simply babbles.
15) That Old Pop Lyric, Time
another time in which aliens came by. their conversation with trees took time, but was a willing framework for later destinations. our human interpretation hovered around useless license, engaged in moon phase. they wanted some picture, and fame showed up. the news people caught the idea, of course. they were royally pleasant, bested perhaps but designating newer scale as a matter for further discussion. the aliens soon abandoned the conversant trees, centuries mean nothing. a timeless popstar was postponed (briefly). this was such and such for the aliens. and thrilling. sumptuous ideas of change were scattered on the floor near an alien contingent. these were ignored because the future is always ignorant. people moved closer and started to dance. the aliens were aroused by then. they looked for dust bunnies, simple evidence. it would be hardly natural not to. what is so trim about this ship? the aliens managed to convey, pointing at their excuse for travel. seasons start early, end late. distance is a background sound, ticking away. That's about all we know.
Allen Bramhall lives in Massachusetts. his book Simply Theory was published by Potes & Poets Press in 2002. when he's not writing biographical notes he's a lot more interesting. he was born in the Year of the Dragon and his blog is really quite wonderful.
An earlier version of Aliens, Straining At Sense appeared in the muse apprentice guild.
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14) Almost Resistant
these aliens are disturbed by the little brook’s program thru town. they land in the parking lot of the coffee shop. this is getting old. the weird squeal of the flying saucer no longer makes news. the aliens go beep and strike a bargain with what the hell. the brook offers a strange crisis. what is continuity, in this realm of time fed illusions? the aliens have strained their sense with popular theories and a good raygun. they think they’ve adapted but. look, we say to zZigno, time’s a-wastin’. will you be wanting the universal solvent in your diet? zZigno is, as we understand, a leader of inbound protocol. that means zZigno is in charge. we squandered riches on zZigno: some carrots, a bit of grass. this charged approximation with intent, made surprise a pertinent question. the aliens become enamoured of time, all of them do. this is a first. doubt is an extraction, of course, and they can’t resist. some of the aliens want hamburgers, and some want to meet television stars. like most horses, Mr Ed couldn’t really talk, we explain fruitlessly. information is a new concept, apparently. the whole perturbed abundance that the aliens offered looks now to be a shade of colour only a movie star could like. and we are not getting our questions answered (where is the end of industry?). how is this helpful? the brook by the coffee shop has taken away their moxie. the aliens just beep, sip mocha lattes and watch the brook. and their saucer is always in the way. we cannot go on like this. presumably, neither can they. real truth needs to weigh more than a bagel, no matter how wonderful that bagel might be. real truth needs to be about more than the collapse of some farcical sun at the back of the universe. real truth needs to redeem all variants with a flash of light and a cruelly apt blunder. the aliens covetously eye our biggest SUVs: we can’t have THAT! will they make remarks about the weather soon? the brook proves fundamental, even with that curious shopping cart there that kids (engines of some masquerade) shoved into it. yes, we say, that brook will dissolve rock, the very earth itself. the aliens indicate that they think we don’t care. we indicate that we most certainly don’t. zZigno’s raygun melts into thin air. the air is charged. the aliens clearly need amusement but time lacks the empathy to fulfill. if the aliens returned to deepest space, would any mark remain behind? they just don’t know us well enough. the brook, as we like to say, simply babbles.
15) That Old Pop Lyric, Time
another time in which aliens came by. their conversation with trees took time, but was a willing framework for later destinations. our human interpretation hovered around useless license, engaged in moon phase. they wanted some picture, and fame showed up. the news people caught the idea, of course. they were royally pleasant, bested perhaps but designating newer scale as a matter for further discussion. the aliens soon abandoned the conversant trees, centuries mean nothing. a timeless popstar was postponed (briefly). this was such and such for the aliens. and thrilling. sumptuous ideas of change were scattered on the floor near an alien contingent. these were ignored because the future is always ignorant. people moved closer and started to dance. the aliens were aroused by then. they looked for dust bunnies, simple evidence. it would be hardly natural not to. what is so trim about this ship? the aliens managed to convey, pointing at their excuse for travel. seasons start early, end late. distance is a background sound, ticking away. That's about all we know.
Allen Bramhall lives in Massachusetts. his book Simply Theory was published by Potes & Poets Press in 2002. when he's not writing biographical notes he's a lot more interesting. he was born in the Year of the Dragon and his blog is really quite wonderful.
An earlier version of Aliens, Straining At Sense appeared in the muse apprentice guild.
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