All posts by justvictorman

I'm not really a fan of these about me boxes, they're kinda lame

A walk along the sky (unfinished?)

A walk along the sky

There were Venn diagrams in the puddles.

A bird lies on the grass.

Where did you go, little worm?

Where were you going?

Where are you now?

 

Strewn across the tarmac,

Strewn across the sky.

 

A bird lay in the grass.

Curled like wallpaper,

peeling at the edges.

Fading like wallpaper:

The end of a song.

 

Won’t you sing again?

 

A bird laid with the grass.

 

The soil is soaked,

sunk

sunken

 

A bird sinks into the grass

A bird sank into the grass

The bird sunk into the grass.

Where did you go?

Where were you going?

 

Won’t you sing again?

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The Little Blue Marching Band

There’s a tiny marching band in my head.

They wear little blue hats and play little blue drums that go a-boom boom boom and a-clap clap clap. And on the little blue hats are little blue rats that snap to the beat, they a-snap snap snap; rat-a-tat-tat. And the little blue men, they stomp stomp stomp, they clomp clomp clomp; and the little blue rats, they a-chomp chomp chomp. “Ouch ouch ouch!” shout the little blue men, as they clomp and they stomp and they stamp and they clap. “Please stop chomping, that chomping, that awful chomp chomp chomp, or we’ll snatch you up and a-stomp stomp stomp, all over you tiny little rut rut ruts, until the ground is a-soaked with your gut gut guts. But the ruts, they don’t listen to those ouch ouches, those shout shout-es, they just bite bite bite, full of spite spite spite, as the men a-cry-a and a-sigh-a at their plight plight plight. And so the men snatch up the little rut-a-tat-tuts, they snatch them, yes they snatch them all uppity up. And the ruts, they a-wriggle, they a-jiggle, they struggle and scut, but that doesn’t help them; they’re snatched uppity up. Now they a-cry-a, they a-sigh-a, they shout ouch ouch ouch: “Oh please don’t stomp us, please don’t clomp us, please don’t gobble us up! We won’t chomp, we won’t bite, we won’t snap or clap or rat-a-tat-tat! We’ll even stay off your little blue hats!” But the men, they don’t listen to those ouch ouches, those shout shout-es, at the ruts’ plight plight plight. They won’t sigh or a-cry, they’re full of spite spite spite. And so they snatch snatch snatch the little rut-a-tut-tums, and throw throw throw them onto their little blue drums.

And the rats go snap: snap snap snap.

And the marching band wears their little blue hats, and play their little blue drums, that go a-boom boom boom, and a-clap clap clap.

A descriptive piece I wrote during my trip to China

Occasionally we would pass a plane, stationary in the air; frozen, snagged in the thick smog; as if a single giant invisible thread was affixed to the centre, suspended; an oafish father dangles a toy in front of his child’s face. The road was never still; cars constantly change lanes like finicky toddlers unsatisfied with their positions. Below, a man stands under a door frame, perfectly still, staring at the ground. Lines and lines of trees with half painted trunks pass by: white from halfway down; a collection of embarrassingly tanned tourists. In the distance grey shapes circle each other. A glimmering sea assaults the eyes; only after the light fades can you see that it’s a million cars parked across the dirt and sand. Jagged teeth on cranes and towers smile at us. How beautiful does that pale white smoke billow and expand and grow and dissipate into clouds that fade into wisps, then nothing. Twins and triplets and quadruplets of buildings blend into one. Misshapen roads crafted apart from one another form an ugly apparition in the distance: a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces are forced together stretched from one side of the horizon to the other, suspended above their brothers by blocks upon blocks of concrete and cement. From afar, those cranes perched atop skyscrapers are enormous compass needles. Herds of mechanical leviathans, industrial beasts, huge great stinking creatures meander, tilt, topple, stumble, stomp: cast-iron titans bellow, fuming with smoke as their rivets throb. The alphas have pointed horns with great spires protruding out; a sharp and angry finger pointed towards the heavens: an accusing member at the ones who have forgotten them. A sign wobbles below a train station ceiling, its sides rusted and font outdated. Shadows form triangles from squares.

The fortunate man

Lily wakes up every morning to the sound of a small fighter jet taking off in his modest 1 bedroom apartment. The neighbours above him are renovating, and despite the workers assuring him that they’d be done within the week, the jackhammer thumps persisted for the remainder of the month. Unable to take it anymore, Lily throws himself out of the nearby window. Unfortunately, a fall from the second story does not guarantee a swift death, and so our ill-fated protagonist survives, paralysed from the waist down. “You’re lucky to be alive”, the doctors tell him.

The Globule of Pus That Wells Out of A Half-Squeezed Pimple

Coachella awoke with a ringing in his ears, a sort of eeeeeee that floated in the back of his head, reverberating across the rear surface of his skull. Google told him it was tinnitus, and after further research he found that there was no cure. All the websites only addressed preventing it, and there wasn’t much on properly treating it. After a few minutes of mindlessly attempting the scattered home remedies, Coach admitted defeat and rose from his bed. Weaving through the clothes and various paraphernalia that littered his carpeted floor, a cartoon criminal tiptoeing over red beams of light, he made it to the bathroom. Coachella had gotten into the habit of brushing his teeth and urinating in the shower, a practice that he justified for the time it saved, but he actually did it for the wonderful sense of authority it gave him. Something about it just made him feel like the goddamn king of the world. But today, the paste and piss had floated above the shower floor, meshing and mixing around his feet. He halfsubmerged his foot into the waterpiss paste and attempted to push the concoction into the drain. The drain was one of those fancy square shaped ones, the type you see in 5 star hotels, the type where the water first flows in little creases in the ground before reaching the pipes underneath. An aesthetic purpose, most likely, it would be very un-5-star-like to allow patrons to see the innards openings of the water system. After all, the water system is only one step before the sewers, and hotel owners surely don’t want their well paying customers contemplating excrement in their morning routine. There was no such luxury in Coach’s bathroom, however, as his mind, still pervaded by that awful ringing, leapt to all sorts of unsanitary thoughts as he stood in a puddle of his own urine. The swishing and swashing and sliding did nothing to diminish the rising water level, and Coach imagined himself looking rather foolish, performing his little dance number. And so, he continued his shower, trying his best to ignore the mixture slowly approaching his ankles. When squeezing his facial moisturizer tube, its cuckolded contents burst out violently, splattering across his hand and into the water below. Coachella cursed. The lady at the counter told him to use only a tiny dab. The moisturizer wasn’t cheap, and the wasted product was unsalvageable, already combined with the rising concoction at his knees, the droplets sinking and dispersing through the mixture, splitting and separating with a certain weight just a bit too heavy, like diagrams of mitosis depicted on ancient projectors in first year chemistry classes. The water was now at his waist, and Coach thought it was about time to get out. As he grasped the door handle, however, he was suddenly reminded of the new bathroom rug set he had just purchased. He bought it at Beds, Baths and Beyond a month or two ago, but only recently remembered to place them in their appropriate positions. It prevents slippage, apparently. Opening the door would surely compromise his pristine fabrics, soaking them in this godawful liquid that was now rapidly reaching chest height. He tried to turn the water source off, but found the faucet handle to be jammed. He came across the same problem yesterday, and the day before, actually, a situation that he was only able to rectify after several gruelling minutes of knob jiggling. Today was the day he was going out to get it fixed, or call a plumber, or perhaps have a closer look at the issue, but by now, the water was already at his mouth, and Coach struggled to keep the foul mixture out of his own innards opening. A muddled collection of words bubbled up to the surface, and Coachella drowned in the shower. The cubicle sides convexed outwards from the pressure and water spilled out from the seams, onto the fine rug below.

What The Hell is Hypertext Fiction or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Jump On The Bandwagon

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You think this is Ulysses? Pale Fire? You think this is hot shit? Well newsflash buddy. It isn’t. It won’t be, it won’t ever be. You’re sitting around, shirt off, arms extended in a slight curvature that is both subtle as it is unsettling. You ever sit and wonder how weird arms are? These weird, zig zaggy things that protrude out of the central meat piece? Central meat piece. Master of prose, weaver of narratives, conjurer of, I don’t know, synonyms? as you are, you sure do produce some real impressive stuff. Goddamn. What the hell is hypertext fiction? It sure as hell isn’t fiction using digital media, so what is it? That’s a rhetorical question William Lim, don’t answer that, I figured it out eventually, I think. I’m not sure if that’s a rhetorical question. Hypertext fiction, judging from the thing William Lim wrote, is something that starts as something and turns into something else, while being something else else at the same time. Master of prose. Fuck you spellcheck I meant that repeated word. Ha ha. This is far from brilliant. This is nowhere near as good as what William Lim wrote. I’m making William Lim captain next year, sorry guys who aren’t William Lim. I’ve written William Lim six times now. All those who want captaincy next year but aren’t William Lim, you can come to the newly formed William Lim fanclub I’m making and I’ll give you vice captaincy or something. it’s a consolation prize.

Suddenly, the weight of a thousand white whales descended upon the blabbering idiot on the pirated edition Microsoft Word, and he found himself drowning, drowning in his own sorrows and also water too, because I’m symbolic like that. He was a drowning pirate, who spells out his jokes immediately after he tells them in case people didn’t get it. I’m sure everyone got it. This unfunny guy thinks he’s pretty funny, but in fact he just hangs around people who laugh at everything. oh hey you see that tree ha ha ha. but I’m sure you get it. It’s surreal hanging around people who laugh at everything you say. Even when you’re serious, they’re still laughing. Eventually, you stop being serious at all. You stop telling the joke. You become the joke. Everyone around you is laughing. Stop laughing, you say, but that just makes them laugh louder. Those sons of bitches. You tell yourself: no I’m being serious, they don’t understand: but do you understand?: is what you understand what you understand?: do they understand that you understand, and is that why they’re laughing?: or have you stopped understanding altogether- maybe you never understood at all. Maybe they’re the only ones who understand. You’re standing under the bridge, and a group of homeless people are gathered around you. You’re a warm person, you emanate friendliness, and they huddle around you. You show them your palms, peacekeeper outwards. Stop. Don’t get too close to me, you say, it’s just a facade, You’ll get hurt. They imitate you, they understand. You smile and those protruding ligaments start snapping at the joints in dead spider angles weaving ghost webs and they snap so loud/you crackle and spark and shift and those toothless bums who aren’t your friends but laugh at your jokes rub their hands like hungry impatient fathers saying grace at the dinner table. You’re just there to keep them warm, that’s all.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————

^would you look at those lines. Hey mom look at me I’m using lines to divide the words I mean to write and the words I write about the words I wrote. Weaving of narratives as we speak.

This is a goddamn mess. A pile of steaming excrement that’s steaming not only because it’s fresh, but also because it’s out in the sun. It has literally no literary merit, and not much anything else merit either. I really shouldn’t put this up. Here’s an excuse, I wrote this in half an hour the morning I got back from speech night. It’s 0:38. Zero o’clock. My favourite time of the day. Patrick O’clachlan works down at the wristwatch factory. He takes the midnight shift, and as soon as the clocklan chimes Patrick, Zero punches out and heads down to the old bar to take a load off his back. I swear to God I’m not intoxicated. I promise. Scout’s honour. This is nowhere near as coherent and good as William Lim’s thing, but I told him I’d do a thing for this thing and now I am. Whoopee. I listened to Danny Brown rapping about how many prostitutes he has engaged in sexual intercourse with when I wrote this.

I started this and I didn’t stop until I was finished. Super pretentious, super gross, super fun to write. Editing is for losers. Peace.

Gone

Written by a friend:

12/10/2014
It’s the middle of the night and I’m so gone. I can hear the creaking of my bones; they scream of agony and burden and oh, feel so damn heavy. The crevices of my mind are laced with whispers and thoughts that spiral into waves that wash over me again and again and it’s pulling me down, pulling me out, and I’m so lost. It’s past two and I can’t keep those fucking tears away, even though they wash away the dust gathered around my eyes (all hollowed and tired), the clock nearly strikes three. I can’t do it anymore.

It’s that feeling again; it’s seeping through the cracks of my walls, my heart and trickling down my veins and throats and cheeks until all of a sudden I can’t breathe. It’s pressing against my teeth; my tongue aches with words spelt on the roof of my mouth longing to spill out into incoherent pleas and my lungs are filled with such sadness that I want to forget how to breathe. I wonder if I keep trying, maybe eventually I’ll choke on this feeling and perhaps then it will go away.