The Dour Psephologist

The dour psephologist opened her eyes and instinctively reached for the phone. She tore off the charge cord, opened the notes app, and immediately started her thumbs pistoning. She enviviosned the dream as a perfectly composed script from the unconscious — thee paranoiac-critical paradigm! She was dead-set on making it into a short film—nonlinear, of course, and with a disjuncted asynchronous soundtrack. But she set it down in the linearity which it unspooled during her last REM cycle, otherwise how could she explain it to others — others needed clarity. So on she went:

Fade In. 

Above the blinding flats of white screen reveries: 

I’m flying over anonymous calamities with a courageous lack of temerity—then falling again. I plunge with celerity. A godwit plummet after 25,000 miles.

Think of the honeycombs of catacombs beneath us as we plant our feet on land again. There are rows—or rose and chaplets—along the banks of empire. So many tin-roofed huts we barely see the banks of barley spreading out to the horizon.

I rarely move once on land. But now we walk hundreds of miles—semibreves aloft in a hemidemisemiquaver aleatoric vortex—but it’s really just across the street, yet the zoetropic images flicking about in my vision are testament to the rustication of my senses. I give you abruptly-shaped children in sharp relief from the rheumy discharges of my cerebrum.

If dogma concerns you, I’d look elsewhere. I’d look for monologue arpeggiators . . . 

Meanwhile, someone in this world right now is thinking a righteous thought—others are concerned with pimples in the foregrounded glass, while the memeflow streams splenetic in the background!

While the rest of us feed the catastrophe—
Mandolins exhort electric car homilies—
With righteous vespers at half-past the hour.

Cut To Black.

Silence.

What I’m Listening To:

Can’t you hear the rooster crowing in the dead of the night?
Don’t you wanna trash ’em, jackboots step out of line
It’s a concrete jungle, stones and tears
Fast becoming what everybody fears
It ain’t just color the message keeps cutting clear
There’s a fire in the western world
Fire in the western world

— Dead Moon / “Fire in the Western World”