Allen Bramhall / Aliens, Straining At Sense / page2
4) Sorting Process
mystery begins easily. the little guy gestures. something trenchant becomes a fixed position. the sun is a dollop, words mere shadows. a dynamic appropriation leaves me dry, as I think of the next moment. there is no next moment, and the alien wouldn’t want one. I guess I wobble in the midst. definition is temporary. the alien thinks of language as an energy, I can tell this. It seems obvious, but I realize the mistake in such thinking. this should be the first message, but of course it is late. the alien lifts a rock from the ground and suddenly it is the earth itself. I probably could have done the same trick. an alien is a strange creature but so is a squirrel. bumblebees gather pollen into autumn, till they cannot anymore, and that is theirs. the sky was upset at a time, vicious with colour and impending document. those who saw the document felt a thrill and fear. the aliens landed, of course. science fiction squandered more hope and books came unglued. pages flew. the aliens started stuttering, and no reliable version emerged. statement unchained and beer grew heavy in the brain. ages melted, forming nuclei that eventually detached from the brain stem and adapted their acids to the idea of a new sun. this sun glowered for three seconds (counted so accurately, the invention of dance) then we took its cue. we lined up, each person, and listened for a bell. the bell rang as expected, brokering a time when. we never learned when, just that a time existed. something was in the future, but that same something also lodged in the past. fits of steam engines and nuclear exception combined. the world grew roseate, or how does dawn look to the unattended heart? saturation unleashed a level of expectation, winds from the west. the west itself looked small, but we continued. the aliens landed, drew us close and expended their document. this was our day too.
5) Future Events Such As These Will Be With Us In The Future
a president for earth was called for. unity amongst all to mellow earth’s needs. this is a stressful time, wayward bargaining and a hope for a future. aliens circle our planet, looming with a display of power. we must unite Earth under a president, one voice, the people as one cry out. what is this one, that wraps their word together? surely their word enters the darkest reaches of space, to prove that diction is no mean enclosure. the president of earth becomes believable, like there is an idea, one, and abetment is natural. astonished enumerations try to insulate further tributes, but time is terrible and rushed. the aliens insist, the clock ticks. the people rise as one, decrying earth’s presidential lack. threats urge earth, and time lets fly. this is an age of change, cry the people, their words full of fictional science. the people are hungry, they are hunger. they will no longer take it. it will be removed from the lexicon, along with reference to earlier passages. there must be unity, to speak to the alien instigation. we come in peace, the aliens announce from their bored spaceship enclaves. what is peace, really? the people ask, suspicious of tropes. a haze covers the planet. an earth president would solve the entreaty. an earth president would centralize the discussion. the people are prepared to call out. spacecrafts litter the skies and the drummer for Led Zeppelin dies, seriously dies. didn’t the drummer for the Who die too, in the sportive compliance of time? the people muse, with fear in their voices. the aliens have taken horse by rein, resisting an inclination to remove theory from the farm. our gestures are for naught, the people declaim in rhythm. future days are around here somewhere.
6) Uttermost Upbringing
today is just a sleepy time. the aliens have been trooping thru the woods at night, all nights, alerting each radiant idea to gather. this is a strange, disturbing trend to fill our town. noises abound, and a slipping vocabulary. the townsfolk all are supercharged, awakened to this need. practice captivates our onslaught, our sense of preparation. the aliens are blue, composed of sensual debate. we are vague in colour, poorly defined. when we meet the aliens, we feel sadness and longing. the aliens rarely make a sound. the woods are vibrant and almost welcoming. light seems to be a new age, and not as bright as expected. this radiation has put position in our words. is this too a trend? we discuss this with our neighbours, and no one has a clue. will we always speak in rattled expectation? when the sun falls behind the hills again, will loss be the only refrain we can remember? there is an intensity in this junction, a constricting confrontation with the obvious. the aliens look as sweet as a clear spring morning, blue as a gust from an unexpected source. the sky is a vault under which our poses look complete. the aliens strive in night skies, launching gracious spaceships to fill imaginative response. our terror is a freight train, just carrying on. the aliens have no word to say, but they don’t seem bereft. we have words a-plenty, and stutter with each. this must be the turnpike of which we dreamed. we could grow in kindness, love. we could leave panic behind. the woods have colour everyday, owing nothing to the aliens. we are stroked because we are small. somehow our concerns blend. in the morning when we rise, a trifle headachy but filled with an idea. that idea will be named, and in naming find a deed. the rest of this is just the average, and how each step procures. someday, it seems, the aliens may even laugh
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4) Sorting Process
mystery begins easily. the little guy gestures. something trenchant becomes a fixed position. the sun is a dollop, words mere shadows. a dynamic appropriation leaves me dry, as I think of the next moment. there is no next moment, and the alien wouldn’t want one. I guess I wobble in the midst. definition is temporary. the alien thinks of language as an energy, I can tell this. It seems obvious, but I realize the mistake in such thinking. this should be the first message, but of course it is late. the alien lifts a rock from the ground and suddenly it is the earth itself. I probably could have done the same trick. an alien is a strange creature but so is a squirrel. bumblebees gather pollen into autumn, till they cannot anymore, and that is theirs. the sky was upset at a time, vicious with colour and impending document. those who saw the document felt a thrill and fear. the aliens landed, of course. science fiction squandered more hope and books came unglued. pages flew. the aliens started stuttering, and no reliable version emerged. statement unchained and beer grew heavy in the brain. ages melted, forming nuclei that eventually detached from the brain stem and adapted their acids to the idea of a new sun. this sun glowered for three seconds (counted so accurately, the invention of dance) then we took its cue. we lined up, each person, and listened for a bell. the bell rang as expected, brokering a time when. we never learned when, just that a time existed. something was in the future, but that same something also lodged in the past. fits of steam engines and nuclear exception combined. the world grew roseate, or how does dawn look to the unattended heart? saturation unleashed a level of expectation, winds from the west. the west itself looked small, but we continued. the aliens landed, drew us close and expended their document. this was our day too.
5) Future Events Such As These Will Be With Us In The Future
a president for earth was called for. unity amongst all to mellow earth’s needs. this is a stressful time, wayward bargaining and a hope for a future. aliens circle our planet, looming with a display of power. we must unite Earth under a president, one voice, the people as one cry out. what is this one, that wraps their word together? surely their word enters the darkest reaches of space, to prove that diction is no mean enclosure. the president of earth becomes believable, like there is an idea, one, and abetment is natural. astonished enumerations try to insulate further tributes, but time is terrible and rushed. the aliens insist, the clock ticks. the people rise as one, decrying earth’s presidential lack. threats urge earth, and time lets fly. this is an age of change, cry the people, their words full of fictional science. the people are hungry, they are hunger. they will no longer take it. it will be removed from the lexicon, along with reference to earlier passages. there must be unity, to speak to the alien instigation. we come in peace, the aliens announce from their bored spaceship enclaves. what is peace, really? the people ask, suspicious of tropes. a haze covers the planet. an earth president would solve the entreaty. an earth president would centralize the discussion. the people are prepared to call out. spacecrafts litter the skies and the drummer for Led Zeppelin dies, seriously dies. didn’t the drummer for the Who die too, in the sportive compliance of time? the people muse, with fear in their voices. the aliens have taken horse by rein, resisting an inclination to remove theory from the farm. our gestures are for naught, the people declaim in rhythm. future days are around here somewhere.
6) Uttermost Upbringing
today is just a sleepy time. the aliens have been trooping thru the woods at night, all nights, alerting each radiant idea to gather. this is a strange, disturbing trend to fill our town. noises abound, and a slipping vocabulary. the townsfolk all are supercharged, awakened to this need. practice captivates our onslaught, our sense of preparation. the aliens are blue, composed of sensual debate. we are vague in colour, poorly defined. when we meet the aliens, we feel sadness and longing. the aliens rarely make a sound. the woods are vibrant and almost welcoming. light seems to be a new age, and not as bright as expected. this radiation has put position in our words. is this too a trend? we discuss this with our neighbours, and no one has a clue. will we always speak in rattled expectation? when the sun falls behind the hills again, will loss be the only refrain we can remember? there is an intensity in this junction, a constricting confrontation with the obvious. the aliens look as sweet as a clear spring morning, blue as a gust from an unexpected source. the sky is a vault under which our poses look complete. the aliens strive in night skies, launching gracious spaceships to fill imaginative response. our terror is a freight train, just carrying on. the aliens have no word to say, but they don’t seem bereft. we have words a-plenty, and stutter with each. this must be the turnpike of which we dreamed. we could grow in kindness, love. we could leave panic behind. the woods have colour everyday, owing nothing to the aliens. we are stroked because we are small. somehow our concerns blend. in the morning when we rise, a trifle headachy but filled with an idea. that idea will be named, and in naming find a deed. the rest of this is just the average, and how each step procures. someday, it seems, the aliens may even laugh
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