Bill Drennan
Scandal in the Water
Bill Drennan was born Glasgow, Scotland 1962. Began writing song lyrics in teens & soon realised that some ideas were too absurd for song. So writing on & off (mostly off) until he began to study literature at Liverpool University, where he became involved with other poets & read & published some poems & wrote a couple of unpublishable novels. Gradually, after finishing doc thesis on Blake & gnosticism & taking cover in reality, he continued to write, tho until recently was doing so fairly solo. Began blogging & reconnecting last year. Author of flightpath resistor, Spring 2007. Currently working on conspiracy machine which will include Scandal in the Water & Hack Encounter. There are more examples posted on his blog. He's still in Liverpool.
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Scandal in the Water
Voting or so-called democracy is born of biological accident: you think you’re farting, but suddenly you’re wet … like hurricane Katrina … a little bit of wind to drown out & delay the rescue of an unwanted portion of the civilization, if civil it is. Maybe someone’s been cutting up the weather charts. Perhaps it a jihadist plot to fuck up England’s dreaming with rain & water theft, discriminatory water bugs … The question is: did they succeed in achieving seasonal targets? Tick here. Then again, it could all be down to atomic subjectivity: the weather report looks at the situation, the atoms take shape, they are there … like advertising hysteria as the solution to drowning, or the drowning sorrows of drunken astronauts high on alcohol-fuelled emotion. Who can escape the drag factor, after all? Scandal in Space-Time as represented democratically by one big drunken Warp. The clouds are getting bigger. Maybe there is an intelligence unknown to us aliens & it is reproducing itself in chemtrail aerosol fibre clouds. Each raindrop is a UFO, composed of positive metallic ions. They drop their shit & we vote for it.
Hack Encounter
So I hacked into an e.s.p. (extra-sensory protocol) machine on a satellite orbiting earth. It sends & receives Ionospheric datagram packets between dimensions. I had a peek at some alien porn before I was arrested. The officer took me to a cell & forced me to screw him, growling harshly, “Do you copy me?!” with one of his eggs stuffed in my gob. He was a twitchy Masonic reptile who used his sash as a dickwipe & had a nervous bird look – like he was guilty of being caught in the act of spilling large reptile eggs rather than seeds, which indeed he did, being a genotype that was badly wired. He was bow-legged like he still used horsemeat for transport, & was forever fidgeting with a personality plug-in for illuminati dictatorship on his PDA as he hobbled & staggered, huffing & hawing as his head made jerking motions as if to clear the hair from his eyes. I later discovered that he was a kind of pariah who could not see beyond his need for alcohol & that his liver had hardened with thirst. Indeed, such was his craving that he hardly ever raised a smile – even when pissed; though he did produce many a disgruntled sneer & paralytic dribble. He also had a status obsession. You could tell by the way his rotten, contactless, dead eyes clocked the gadget he was carrying; for at times he stroked it with loving, gnarled fingers. When he had a hangover he needed snortable slime to comfort his patchy dry skin, which rubbed with hiss & mercantile longing. I nearly found a crack of pity in his pained grimace, though not in his sterile, repetitious grunt – which seemed to evoke some kind of bloodletting ritual. Maybe it was that he had hard consonant cancer, or a bout of nephilism brought back through the stargate after the first wave of abortion-creation. His mucousy whingeing certainly indicated a beast in bother. I got drunk with him on superlager & agreed to repair his traveling machine so that we could get off the planet & get on course for Nibiru.
Marcellina’s Sulk
Her face locked in the sulk position for a number of years since the jealousy kicked in, Marcellina has learned how to play the bitch, silent as a depth of ocean, a syllable of sea stretched until it is soundless. Her apparently calm exterior is unable to hold, and a sound will one day emerge. Sea monsters will applaud Marcellina’s efforts to speak for herself as an adult. In the vastness of the seas those sleeping, lazy monsters can afford to be solitary, selfish as hell. The beastie is silent until it emerges, and when it breaks the surface it does so without warning. Because the air crushes Marcellina’s lungs, she must learn to write as the waves do, to drown her words forever in their own sound. She must learn to split her seas into peaceful islands.
Hack Encounter
So I hacked into an e.s.p. (extra-sensory protocol) machine on a satellite orbiting earth. It sends & receives Ionospheric datagram packets between dimensions. I had a peek at some alien porn before I was arrested. The officer took me to a cell & forced me to screw him, growling harshly, “Do you copy me?!” with one of his eggs stuffed in my gob. He was a twitchy Masonic reptile who used his sash as a dickwipe & had a nervous bird look – like he was guilty of being caught in the act of spilling large reptile eggs rather than seeds, which indeed he did, being a genotype that was badly wired. He was bow-legged like he still used horsemeat for transport, & was forever fidgeting with a personality plug-in for illuminati dictatorship on his PDA as he hobbled & staggered, huffing & hawing as his head made jerking motions as if to clear the hair from his eyes. I later discovered that he was a kind of pariah who could not see beyond his need for alcohol & that his liver had hardened with thirst. Indeed, such was his craving that he hardly ever raised a smile – even when pissed; though he did produce many a disgruntled sneer & paralytic dribble. He also had a status obsession. You could tell by the way his rotten, contactless, dead eyes clocked the gadget he was carrying; for at times he stroked it with loving, gnarled fingers. When he had a hangover he needed snortable slime to comfort his patchy dry skin, which rubbed with hiss & mercantile longing. I nearly found a crack of pity in his pained grimace, though not in his sterile, repetitious grunt – which seemed to evoke some kind of bloodletting ritual. Maybe it was that he had hard consonant cancer, or a bout of nephilism brought back through the stargate after the first wave of abortion-creation. His mucousy whingeing certainly indicated a beast in bother. I got drunk with him on superlager & agreed to repair his traveling machine so that we could get off the planet & get on course for Nibiru.
Marcellina’s Sulk
Her face locked in the sulk position for a number of years since the jealousy kicked in, Marcellina has learned how to play the bitch, silent as a depth of ocean, a syllable of sea stretched until it is soundless. Her apparently calm exterior is unable to hold, and a sound will one day emerge. Sea monsters will applaud Marcellina’s efforts to speak for herself as an adult. In the vastness of the seas those sleeping, lazy monsters can afford to be solitary, selfish as hell. The beastie is silent until it emerges, and when it breaks the surface it does so without warning. Because the air crushes Marcellina’s lungs, she must learn to write as the waves do, to drown her words forever in their own sound. She must learn to split her seas into peaceful islands.
Bill Drennan was born Glasgow, Scotland 1962. Began writing song lyrics in teens & soon realised that some ideas were too absurd for song. So writing on & off (mostly off) until he began to study literature at Liverpool University, where he became involved with other poets & read & published some poems & wrote a couple of unpublishable novels. Gradually, after finishing doc thesis on Blake & gnosticism & taking cover in reality, he continued to write, tho until recently was doing so fairly solo. Began blogging & reconnecting last year. Author of flightpath resistor, Spring 2007. Currently working on conspiracy machine which will include Scandal in the Water & Hack Encounter. There are more examples posted on his blog. He's still in Liverpool.
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