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Wolves of the Circle

I woulden't recommend the salad . . .

 
  There was a man, born to the land,

who tilled the earth, with a heavy hand,

till thought he, “I long to be free.”

and so that man, he crossed the sea.

 

There he swore, on that foreign shore,

to serve his lords, and ladies no more.

As he stood, Green eyes in the wood –

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

Our hero then, he took an ax,

and filled the air with heavy cracks.

All around, up came the town.

As word got round’ –

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

He sang a challenge to the wild.

Twas the noble savage,

In every child.

 

“I am king, king of this rock.

Deer and Bison, my livestock!

Red man with, the feathered head,

fear my god, or I’ll make you dead!”

 

He found a wife and soon got wed,

to a fine, young lass, who made his bed.

Fields of grain, grew by the mile,

and all the while –

　

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

He went out one night, to slay a ram,

but someone stole, his feast of lamb.

Growling softly from the wood –

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

He vowed to tame, both beast and tree,

for in his mind, only one, should be free.

As time on wore,

he began to see,

the scratch marks on his door.

 

In God’s own name, he vowed on Sunday,

“I’ll purge these woods, of their wolves by Monday!”

 

but the years, went racing by,

and in despair, he began to cry.

Wild eyes,

so fierce and wise,

 

They watched him.

They watched him.

 

Then the scratch marks, on his face.

his tired heart, began to race,

and limping he, began to hide,

behind the strong sons of his bride.

 

They sent for a doctor, who did place,

him in a locked room, wet cloth on his face.

　

“Your father he, will never survive,

a day out of doors, so keep him inside.

So there we have our hero now,

at the feet of every hen and cow,

that stocked his table in the past.

The hammer is ready he will be the last.

 

but wait,

weeks roll by, and it seems of late,

the land lord, will escape his fate,

for in the woods, his foe’s stand freezin’,

hunting has been poor this season.

Yet still, with fading hopes, they scratch,

at the windows weathered thatch,

with haggard, cold, and hungry eyes –

 

They watch him

They watch him.

 

His daughters keep the shutters tight,

to beat back the cold winds, that blow in the night,

but without the clean air, smoke fills the cabin,

dead air from the fire, blankets his lungs.

He dreams of the wild, the wild he hated,

a force he abated,

but secretly loved.

 

Quickly a gale, rattles the gutters,

rips through the shutters,

as in peers a family, fierce as his own.

On this day having cornered their prey,

we find them weak, and unable to leap,

through one Low window.

　

They cry in despair,

their cubs have collapsed

they must leave them there.

 

With one last breath they turn –

To watch him.

To watch him.

 

Then a whisper, by his ear,

“In trying to escape your fear,

you’ve found a truth far worse,

lie forever in bed, or escape the curse.

 

Strength I give you, one last chance,

a single breath, for a single dance.

leave the sterile treeless hell.”

 

In this hour of fate, all fences fell.

He saw the buzzards souring high,

heard the crys of their chicks,

for something to die,

saw flies born of the recent dead,

stocking a fresh filled spider web.

 

Thus the circle did he see,

an endless feast,

for all.

 

Without a thought,

outside he walked,

and sang up to the sky.

“If I must live on sterile sheets

then with you my friend I’ll die!”

 

Upon him they fell,

and he gave a yell,

as everything he’d done,

was purged from his mind

in equal kind,

as man and beast were one.

 

As his flesh was torn free,

fat pups he did see,

as strange beings carried him off.

　

We are sorry to say,

in that world he wont stay,

to this day he roams in the wood.

Off goes an owl,

at the sound of his howl,

when all the pack is at hand,

‘round a solid,

granite grey wolf,

a wolf with eyes of a man.

 

They watch him.

They watch him.

　

　

by

Have a very Bohemian Christmas.

        No, you haven’t had too much eggnog. That tree really is upside down. Are Satanists anticipating the coming of the antichrist by celebrating their own Anti Christmas? Or is this another attempt to confuse Santa – possibly causing him to mistakenly leave behind real presents when only coal is deserved?

Ho ho ho it’s Christmas, but I see it’s also opposite day. That means naughty is nice and nice is naughty!

      Hopefully, that shiny new game system can be safely pried off the ceiling come Christmas morning, granted the glue holds. Don’t blame Old Saint Nick he’s not used to this, hell, he already had to climb a latter to reach his cookies, what more do you want?

      This insidious travesty started out as an innocent idea for economizing space in department stores. Certain people, who shall remain nameless saw the evergreen stalactites and thought, “As a devout fundamentalist Christian, I can not, in good conscience allow a heathenized artifact into my home, but this shall enable me and my family to enjoy all the merits of a pagan tradition while still allowing us to express our disapproval of it.” Other people who shall also remain nameless had similar ideas.

    Feelings range from “Christmas is lame – I mean, can anything be more mainstream? – NOW THAT IS A TREE!” to “Uh . . . I just wanted to do something different this year .” to “Hey everybody look at me!” The trees certainly are not for everyone but recommended if you;

– are a bat.

– think your funny.

– have to stand out in the crowd.

– like doing things the hard way.

– like being slapped in the face by overhanging angels or stars.

– are trying to make some kind of “statement”.

– are a rebel.

– are a surrealist.

– are a Zen Buddhist.

 – are trying to one up the Joneses.

– are Avant-garde and Artsy Fartsy.

– like going against the grain.

– or just plain being an ass.

Once you’ve decided to turn Christmas upside down, the old question arises. Natural, or artificial?

     Seeing as what your doing is already pretty unnatural, why not go all out and use a plastic tree? Artificial, inverted tannenbaums are made with one purpose in mind. That is, laughing in the face of all that is holy.

   Their stands and support systems are often installed at the small end, so that crowning angel will have to take on the role of Atlas as she struggels to steady this top heavy anomaly, and should you favor a star, all I’m saying is it better be a red giant.

   Yet for some, there is no forsaking the fresh sent of a slain plant’s bodily fluids. Going all natural means you’ll have to actually suspend your kill from the ceiling as fur trees lack the physical ability to do hand stands. A complex apparatus is needed that may draw awkward questions the rest of year, so perhaps it’s best to go artificial and use a convenient spray to apply that holiday funk.

   Hopefully, this trend will remain a cult phenomenon, least it spread to other holiday traditions, making them even less practical then before. I hate to think what the world would be like if anti-Semitic (and leaky) menorahs graced Jewish celebrations along with awkward, difficult to spin, dreidels. This could happen but not before incontinent Easter baskets and stockings that can not hold their loot plague more secular traditions in the U.S and elsewhere, turning everything we hold dear, literally, upside down.

     But yet another thought occurs. Perhaps it is we, who are upside down. After all, this is a round planet and such things are relative to one’s location. An American stuck in China for the holidays may see fit to erect a tree that would be right side up in his homeland, and vice versa. Perhaps, this truly is an appropriate rite for the jet setting modern man.

by

Fictions and Depictions: The Burlap Cat.

The Burlap Cat.

　    A bolt of lightning split a tree in the field behind Shelly’s house. Joanne had just finished her ghost story and could never have expected such epic timing. Male and female voices were raised in high pitched squeals as the deafening crash shook the earth and rattled the windows of the living room. “Bwha ha!” cheered Joanne over the pounding rain, knowing that the ears of her three friends were still ringing, and that her cheesy, triumphant laughter would go unnoticed.

“Holy – ” Shelly remembered her parent’s were home and quickly changed the word to “Fudge.” It would be another minute before the others were up to speaking.

“Dude!” Eric let go of his head and opened his eyes. “That was awesome!”

“You know what else is awesome?” said David, reaching for his computer.

“No! Don’t!” Screamed Shelly. “It’s a thunder storm, lightening is attracted to electronic devices!”

David switched on the monitor and pointed it at Shelly “Pew! Pew!” Everyone laughed, except Shelly.

“Alright.” said David. They all gathered around the screen. “I found this website that sells ghosts!” “Those aren’t ghosts!” Laughed Joanne. “It’s just a bunch of random junk.” “Junk that’s haunted.” He whispered. A gleam in his eye. “Dude, you are the very definition of lame!” Crooned Eric, tossing back the long bangs of his mullet. “I know.” said David. “but you have to see this, it’s hilarious.” “Give it here.” said Eric. David was forced to let go, least his expensive Mac Book be damaged.

“Listen to this Idiot.” said Eric, always yearning to be the center of attention. “He calls himself ‘The Lord of Lancashire.’ and he is a selling a – ‘Very magic, rare warrior sword’ that is – ‘powerful spirit of Scottish Kilt King.’ I wonder if that’s Baron von Man dress? Dude, he can‘t even spell.” “I’m sure he meant Celt King.” said Shelly. “and Barons are German.” Joanne had warned Eric that Shelly was no fun, but Eric had a nasty habit of never saying no to blonds.

 Shelly took the computer with intent to return it to David, shaking her head at the screen. “Voodoo doll, possessed painting, candle stick supposedly used to murder ancient Egyptian duchess, cursed ring that slowly kills its wearer – this is stupid.” Joanne intercepted Shelly and laid claim to the device. “Your doing it wrong.” Joanne cleared her throat. “Ahem – ‘Ancient, Pirate, Murder, Chest!’” She searched for another dubious pitch. “ ‘Medieval torture brush.’ How do you torture someone with a brush?” Joanne smiled at Eric, knowing he always had a come back ready. “First you’d have to make sure their hair was really badly tangled.” he said. “You speak as if from experience.” Observed David. “Is that extra long douche – do biting the hand that combs it?” Eric laughed hysterically, far too fond of jokes at his own expense. This drew the attention away from Joanne and she used the opportunity to try and top that last one.

Ugh, nothing else seemed to be worth mentioning. She scrolled down past the usual china dolls and clowns. Things that were understandably scary ghosts or no, and came upon an entry that was blank. Joanne was fairly sure that it was impossible to place an item for sale on this or any other site without at least some identifying code. She clicked on the empty space. Only a picture came up, a photograph of something propped in a dark corner covered in cobwebs.

 A stuffed bear, made of, burlap? No, it was a cat. It’s one remaining ear was pointed. It appeared to have been hand made from an old sack, and repaired clumsily over many, many years. The smile had unraveled on one side. Two black threads hung like limp whiskers. One eye had gone missing, the other was a button, crudely glued to the side of it’s head. Surplus glue had leaked down it’s face.

All in all it looked like the thing would crumble if anyone so much as breathed on it. Let alone tried to ship it. It was all so perfect, this Madam Mumbo Jumbo, certainly knew what she was doing. She checked for the seller’s screen name. There was no name either, no price, and no way of contacting said seller. This was not the kind of funny Joanne had wanted to find.

 “Let’s see what you’ve found.” Eric reclaimed the computer and snorted at what he saw. “Error message – ooooohh, scary. Hey Dave, looks like they might have sold you a lemon.” Joanne snatched it back, reset the page, and searched again for the Burlap Cat. The blank space she’d first clicked on no longer existed. She decided to just forget about it.

   It was still raining three days later, when Joanne went home to the barn her father had converted into a two-story house. He was off on another construction project. There was a note on the refrigerator saying he’d be back by the weekend. Joanne’s mother occasionally weighted tables in the restaurant that was her pride and joy. Now that Christmas was on it’s way she’d be in her elf suit greeting the afternoon crowd. There was no school, no homework, and Joanne would have the place to herself.

  She pulled out her box set of Unsolved Mysteries. She slipped a disk into the player and made herself a mug of hot chocolate. On her way back to the couch she turned on the tree. It was a jungle of angels and fairies, knights and fair maidens, topped by a gleaming golden griffin she had made herself. The wind howled outside, rattling the wreath attached to the door.

   She carefully set down her mug, and the tray of snacks she figured wouldn’t contain too many calories, and threw herself across the couch. She stuffed a cookie into her mouth and raised the remote.

Something struck the door – hard.

  Slowly, cautiously, she made her way to the window, peering out at the front porch. Her parents did a lot of shopping online, so she wasn’t surprised to see a damp cardboard box laying next to the mat.

She unlocked the door.

 The box was open, laying on it’s side at an odd angle, as if someone had thrown it. No effort had been made to tape it closed. No markings indicated what company had sent it. She turned it over with her foot. Nothing was on the side facing the ground save a few water stains. It fell upright, so that the contents were exposed. Smiling up at her, was the burlap cat.

by

Fictions and Depictions: What Really Killed Dr. Lake?

Beaker, courtasy of Wikipedia.

　

What Really Killed Dr. Lake?

Keith ran quickly and quietly down the halls, peering discreetly into empty labs and dark offices.

Good.

He was alone.

       Keith had no fear of security cameras, from the back he looked like Bert, and he had been extra careful not face them. He punched the stolen combination into the pad beside Bert’s door. Bert was the only one who got an electronic lock. What was so darn special about Bert? All the man ever did was sip coffee and shoot the breeze with the bigwigs. Perhaps that’s why he’d gotten that extra funding. Keith doubted any of Bert’s crazy ideas were worth a sinch otherwise.

      With a beep, the door opened. Bert’s computer monitor shined like a beacon of hope. Keith knew exactly what went on between Bert and that hot young supervisor. Their relationship had certainly played a huge part in Bert’s project getting raised to priority six, a position Keith had been stalking for the past five years. It was, of course, against company policy to promote your lover. If only Nora’s dirty little secret was common knowledge –

     Keith’s fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out the sequence he painstakingly recorded one digit at a time with the camera on his phone. Bert loved to show off his office. Even to his enemies. It had taken multiple occasions of sucking up to the man for Keith to sneak enough pictures of his finger work so as to learn the entire password.

Yes, he was in . . .

Minutes ticked by . . . adding up to an hour. Keith felt stupid.

Why would Bert and Nora need to send lurid E-mails to each other when they could just hook up after work? Most likely he was wasting his time.

Then he heard footsteps.

Keith logged out instantly, hid in a dark corner, and waited, glad he’d had the foresight to close the door.

    Bert stormed in, gathered some papers, and left. Bert was burning the midnight oil it seemed. A sudden thought occurred to Keith. He grabbed a hefty triple hole punch and crept after him. “Don’t think.” He said to himself. “Just act.” Keith needed that grant. Keith really, really, needed that grant.

   Bert was due for an extended vacation. Nora wouldn’t go with him, as it would give their affair away. It would be some time before Bert was missed. No one would suspect mild-mannered Keith Waterson of anything. No one even knew he harbored a strong dislike for the man.

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of his prey, Keith peered through the small glass window in the specimen room door. What he saw made him forget all about Bert’s Murder, and rush inside. Seemed someone had beaten him to it.

   Keith had once mentioned Burt’s crazy experiments to a janitor. They had laughed about Bert’s obsession with mind control and dissecting monkey brains. The janitor soon revealed herself as an undercover animal advocate. Sarah said that Keith’s own gene mapping project was of no concern to her organization, and that helping to expose Bert as an abuser would force a company renowned for it’s ethical practices to either sack him or lose face. Keith’s boring but far less controversial work would rule the day, and all would be right with the world, and it would have been – had it not been for Keith’s cold feet. Now however, there would be no turning back.

       On the damp tile floor sat Sarah, the dying Bert in her arms. “It was an accident.” hissed Sarah. “No it wasn’t.” hissed Keith. “No one has to know about this.” They said. Almost in unison. Keith smiled and they kissed.

       Their interlude was interrupted by one of the companies elite security guards. Grail Industries employed some very expensive and dangerous substances, as well as some equally expensive and dangerous people. The Guard raised her gun, and without even blinking, put three shots in Burt’s chest, finalizing his ordeal. The couple didn’t even have time to wonder if they were under arrest, before the guard spoke. “Thank you” she said. “for helping me catch a terrorist.”

    “What?!” They responded, both shocked and relieved. “Mr. Bertram Lake” She went on, “was filmed talking to some suspicious persons outside his car last night. As you probably know the technology he was working on is of special interest to the government. It could be a valuable tool in our nation’s defense. In the wrong hands, however, it could be deadliest thing since the invention of the atomic bomb.” So that’s why Bert was getting all the special treatment. Thought Keith. “Ma’am, may I ask what -” “Sorry Sir, but that is all I’m allowed to tell you. There will be a de-briefing, so any further questions can be addressed then.”

They waited in silence. Till a second guard barged in.

“Report to Central.” Said their captor. “I will.” said the new guard. “just as soon as I take care of business.” He raised his gun. “Stand back.” Yet another bullet struck Bert. Keith was starting to pity the man. “What was that about!” Shouted the female guard. “This man was refusing to cooperate with quarantine!” “He’s a terrorist!” “He’s also been infected with Q2 Pariah!”

Gasps filled the room.

    “Don’t panic.” said the male guard. “Q2 runs its course in a week. We will however, need to remain under observation for at least a year.” “There must be a cure.” demanded Sarah. “This a level three facility!” “There is a cure.” said the guard, but I don’t see why they’d bother. The cure causes a severe allergic reaction in twenty percent of recipients, and Q2 has never killed anyone.” He regarded the body on the floor. “At least not directly.” Keith stood up. “Then why even bother -” The new guard was big man fresh out of black ops, he had probably gotten fired for being too trigger happy. He shouted in Keith‘s face like an angry drill sergeant “Because it just a dangerous disease!”

         The people in the room started to fidget. “What he means to say.” said the woman. “Is that while Q2 Isn’t harmful in and of itself, it can be easily manipulated by a terrorist to create something far worse.” Keith relaxed, even though he knew he was being fed bull. It was becoming clear the Bio-agent in question was a closely guarded trade secret rather then a killer scourge. He did his best to reassure Sarah, yet Keith still couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something was terribly awry.

       The sudden appearance of Burt’s fling would confirm those feelings. Nora’s voice rang loud and clear over the tense tableau. “This whole section is blocked and no one will let me use the phones!” She pushed past the two guards and was confronted by Bert’s battered body. The look on her face brought on a pain like nothing Keith had ever known. He sincerely regretted what had had to happen. Burt’s death had been necessary – or had it been?

     He saw Nora’s face go from twisted to spiteful. “Good riddance.” She said, and began to kick the corpse repeatedly. A guard put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy ma’am, we know how it is to be betrayed by a friend.” “Friend!” She screamed. “That two-timing bastard had lots of friends!” Keith couldn’t remain silent a moment longer. “Does it bother anyone that we all suddenly hate Bert?” They looked at him like he’d just said something crazy.

    The containment team arrived before Keith could finish. All were led to sealed plastic cells to await screening. “You may not even be infected.” Keith was told by his long time friend and associate Howard Means. However, if you are infected, this bullet-proof prison may be more for your own protection then anyone else’s.” “What do you mean?” said Keith, pressing his hand on the glass between them. “I’m not supposed to tell you this but – Q2 has only one symptom – those who die of it – “They said it wasn’t Fatal!” “It is not directly fatal, but let me finish. Those who die of it, are murdered.”

by

Fictions and Depictions: The Red House

THE RED HOUSE

Old Slumpy – courtasy of Wikipedia.

The old house was boarded up tighter then a bank vault. Rumors abounded of water in the cellar and bodies under the floor.

A large beehive droned in the attic, driving all would be interlopers even further back.

No one, stood farther away then Dale Winter, latest executor of the town blight.

      The Red House had stood in Bismuth since before Bismuth was even a town. As there were no records of architects or owners, it had fallen under the jurisdiction of city hall. The condemned box of mildew was occasionally offered to various historical patrons, or bounced around Bismuth’s various families as way of writing “I never really liked you.” in a will.

      Two bulldozers rolled past him into the yard, crushing a jungle of ancient weeds. Two Bee-keepers pumped smoke into the attic, making the roof appear to be on fire. As soon as those bees were boxed up, Dale would use a friend’s tractor service to discreetly get this over with. That permit was taking forever, and he was tired of waiting. Volatile chemicals and asbestos be dammed – he doubted that anyone had set foot inside the friggin’ thing since the stone age.

   “Can I have a key Sir?” Dale looked up to see his bee enthusiast neighbor staring him down through a ridiculous mask. Dale laughed. “A key? In all the records we have on this place there has never even been mention of a key. If you need to get in we’ll have to remove the door, that’s all there is to it.”

* * *

    In the dim living room she sat waiting, as the demolition crews gathered outside. Today was the day her prison would be broken. Today was the day she’d be loosed upon the world.

    Leaves floated in her cracked cup, the only surviving member of a tea service smashed years ago at a party permanently interrupted. Something dripped in to it as she raised it to her lips – honey – oozing like blood through a crack in the ceiling. It tasted sweet. Sweet Like revenge.

by

Playing With Dragons.

 Hill King’s Mantra.

Spread your wings and feel your fire

burning brightly in your chest.

Know your spirit.

See your power.

Grip the stone on which you rest.

Clear your throat and let your voice call.

Great green mountains,

there your kingdom

rises up to meet your presence

in the early morning light.

Stand and strut fourth proudly

as your arms embrace the thermals.

Run headlong into the sunrise

over hills so high and green.

Great, green mountains

now below you

fine, white mist upon their crowns

Flowing slowly over forests

there to lie upon the downs.

May the greenwood stand immortal

over all that lives and dies,

May the white hot rush of sunlight

Meet the fury in your eyes.

Raise your head and raise your talons

To the bright and hazy sun.

Clear your throat and let your voice call

With my kingdom

I am one.

 

Adversity.

I’ve seen it on the edge of town,

creeping,

green,

 across the ground.

Oozing up

through sidewalk cracks,

gnawing holes

in wicker sacks,

souring high

on warm winds rising,

racing fast

 in tunnels deep

it’s stirring in the air we breath

and watching

– waiting –

when we sleep.

Secrets

no man wants to hear,

wonders

many others fear,

winds that raze the widest wall,

a rushing tide that conquers all,

fires fiercer

then my soul,

waters deeper,

roar and roll,

and it lies

beneath these skies.

Outside these doors,

a dragon roars.

Its voice is louder then a siren,

warning of felony

or fate

and those who’ve stood

beneath it’s shadow

Can not help but stare agape.

For no man’s plan

it walks.

For no mans pride

it talks.

It lives for no mans table,

and is Neither fact or fable.

Yet we long for but a glance.

Forsaking peace and quiet

to say we’ve stood beside it,

and at our destiny arrived,

say we’ve seen it,

and survived.

If only for an instant.

 

(Note; every time one of these poems is read aloud, a dragon will get its wings.)

. . . and before any of you say it, yes –

I am full of crap.

and proud of it. 

by

Bohemians At Large; Menacing, Musical, Monoliths, Masters of Wind and Water.

Many of us have learned to accept the burdens of a free society. One of which is having to let people dump their rubbish on public land. Illegal you say? Well what if they called it art?

With all due respect, Robert Rauschenberg must have thrown some really great parties.

I suppose one can get used to anything, but there comes a time when a monstrosity of modernism is no longer content to let itself be seen and not heard.

The Black Pool High Tide Organ – AKA Neptune’s Kazoo

 

 http://www.mayomo.com/27429-blackpool-high-tide-organ-blackpool-uk

On Black Pool England’s famous promenade is what is known as “The Great Promenade Show” a series of sculptures that includes this thing.

“I don’t get it.” you mutter to yourself. “Could it be Godzilla’s back scratchier, or perhaps a memorial to the local Viking whose inspired aerial assault ended in tragedy.”

The piece was designed by Liam Curtin and John Gooding and is described as “a musical manifestation of the sea” The meaning of this statement becomes clear when tide water strikes the lower pipes, creating a sound not unlike a train engine bearing down on you.

The Black Pool High Tide Organ is a fifty foot vuvuzela meant to be played by a force of nature rather then the trained professionals we all know and love. So if your ever in Black Pool, watch what you say about these rough and ferocious tones, least an easily-offended sea-god is lurking somewhere offshore.

Wind Harp Musical Monument, South San Francisco. AKA Aeolus’ Didgeridoo

 

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PB-Jz0HIsgo

On a hill in South San Francisco overlooking the bay is what appears to be an alien oil rig. What precious resources can it be sucking out of our hapless mother earth? The good news? It doesn’t want our oil, the bad news? It seems to think it can sing.

Originally built in 1967 it was designed by Aristides Demetrios and Lucia Eames. It was to be the center piece of an industrial park, but fell into disrepair in the years since. It was purchased by the city in 1993, refurbished and rededicated, so that it may continue to entertain those determined enough to walk several blocks and climb a steep hill.

Though on a windy day the ominous hum can carry for miles, a summons most likely, for its loyal servants. At a whopping 92 feet it is the tallest musical monolith on this list, and one of the largest of it’s kind in the world. So if your wondering exactly what kind of sounds it can produce – my guess would be, anything it wants.

San Francisco Wave Organ. AKA The Bagpipes of Cthulhu.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJAozHdsHM8

Occurring suspiciously close to the wind harp is a rocky jetty that seems to be a remnant of Atlantis, or perhaps R’lyeh. Fallen walls and toppled pillars interspersed with tangled pluming gasp and gurgle with the voices of a thousand drowned souls, or perhaps a massive monster, snoring in the tunnels beneath.

The truth behind this mysterious ruin may disappoint you, for it is merely a noisy art piece.

A noisy art piece made in 1986 from the salvaged stones of a demolished cemetery. This feat was made possible by Frank Oppenheimer, a man who never lived to see its completion.

The wave Organ is the work of Peter Richards and George Gonzales, and was inspired by the recordings of Sound artist Bill Fontana – who one day thought to poke a microphone into a hollow pipe he found sticking out of a pier.

Where would we be without idiots?

Despite its ominous past the whispering ruin is seen as a peaceful hideaway, calling young and old to sit and read, play or fish, an insidious tourist trap lurking just off the beaten path.

Sea Organ Croatia. AKA Huracan’s Harmonica.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRgQzIdVi8M&feature=related

Zadar Croatia has seen it’s share of both war and tourism, the latter having damaged it’s seawall, the former having turned it into a keyboard.

After the second world war the wall was slowly replaced with a straight and spartan stretch of concrete, that totally clashed with it’s world renown sunsets. It was not until 2005 that an Architect named Nikola Basic completed the Organ, which has received the “European Prize For Urban Public Space.”

So now your thinking. “Ok, where is it, all I see are some steps. But what is that beautiful noise? It’s as if an angelic whale has fallen out of heaven and landed on a Peruvian flute band.” The Sea Organ of Zadar Croatia is so dedicated to it’s music that it prefers to be heard and not seen, a series of marble steps descend in a simple yet elegant pattern into the waves . . . The water slides across them like fingers, playing as if in accompaniment to the bells of the ancient city’s many churches, and the whispers of its many ghosts.

The Singing, Ringing Tree. AKA The Panpipes of Pazuzu.

 http://www.interactivearchitecture.org/panopticons-singing-ringing-tree.html

At only about three meters tall, this odd pile of scrap is the smallest monument listed here, but produces what I believe to be the most fascinating sound. It also cuts a wicked silhouette against the stark countryside of East Lancashire, England. One of four “Panopticons” (Structures providing a comprehensive view)

Or (Wonderous bastions of Randomness)

The tree and it’s brethren were completed in 2006, to commemorate a local “renaissance” (The Aliens have landed methinks.) Mike Tonkin and Anna Liu designed the sculpture, many of whose metal pipes are “just for show” many functional pipes arranged among these actually produce the sound, which, seems to be the auditory incarnation of pure, unadulterated eerie.

So which one is your favorite?

I’ve included links to places where one might listen to the sounds of these sonic wonders or one can simply search their names for many amazing images and videos, as well. Happy hunting!

 

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Where The Really Cool Ghosts Hang Out.

 

Grave yards are dead! They are a dime a dozen and everyone already knows they are haunted, by sheep! Unless you want the other spirits to think you are mainstream, heed these examples of some truly un-real estate!

Chippewa Lake Park

Out of Order.
Nothing makes us jump for joy like a day at the amusement park or scream bloody murder like a night on Chippewa Lake.

Chippewa Lake Park In Ohio began in 1878. It failed to keep up with the changing times and closed in 1978. It was left as it was for thirty years, the antique wooden coasters marinating in Ivy and weeds till it achieved the status of a premium haunting destination.

A spate of mysterious fires and the loss of a historic ballroom, apparently to arson, mean there are still some truly epic parties going on behind locked gates.

An attempt to capture the shenanigans on film, failed miserably. The Film, “Closed For The Season” is largely blamed for misconceptions about the park’s inherent lameness. These misconceptions have caused many upstanding ghouls to promptly vacate the premises, leading to a second abandonment and consequent re-infestation of humans.

Recent plans to reinvent the site, have caused much of the older structures to be cleared away but the fun need not stop with the loss of old Chippewa.  A new entertainment complex “Chippewa Landing” is on the way and there is much to be done if it is ever to be as prestigious as its forbearer. Newer more hospitable environs mean more fleshies to fool with, but unlike the thrill seekers that once hopped the fence in the glory days, these will not scare themselves.

The Maunsell Forts

Exhibit B – is in the merry British Isles. I know your thinking, “Another day, another castle.” but let us put convention out to sea. One shall find that where the Thames and Mercy open out, there are vacant bastions fit to put the kings of old to shame.

Now the more social among you may scoff at the remote location, with its access to skittish yokels and shivering campers limited, but time, these days, is money and if you don’t value it no one else will. Maybe it is time you made the parapsychologists work for your attention!

Because you are worth it!

Built on platforms sunk deep into sand bars, they stood as lines of defense during the second world war. In the fifties they went up for grabs, and soon became infested with Bohemians, including some important pioneers of pirate radio. One fort in particular has been declared its own country.

 

Anyone interested in haunting “The Principality of Sealand” will have to apply for citizenship.

Hearing that some of these long-legged sentinels are still inhabited, may disappoint, as in this age of paranormal investigators one’s privacy is paramount. Yet ask yourself, what good is a bleeding wall without a human to enjoy it? And this far from land – who can hear them scream?

Sanzhi Pods

 

Take me to your Contractor!

 

Calm down, get ready. In the Sanzhi district, New Taipei City, Taiwan, there stood a rotting, retro resort run by a dragon.

The beast was a statue used to decorate the entryway but the passage needed to be wider so the hollow stone monster was cut to pieces. One wonders what was inside . . .

Hell hath no fury!

Construction started in 1978, and suddenly stopped in 1980. Urban legends whisper of fatal car accidents, deaths during construction, suicides, and ancient burial grounds. Party poopers have blamed failed partnerships, faulty workmanship and investment losses, but there was no denying the eerie charm of these otherworldly apartments, left half-finished on a wind-swept beach.

An over-grown water park filled the vast courtyard with many deep and muddy swimming pools perfect for lurking in, high rockeries from which to leap upon your victims and bits of rubble to throw around should one be of the poltergeist persuasion. Photo shoots for fashion magazines were held frequently so there was no shortage of busty starlets to menace on misty mornings. Ominous graffiti helped set the mood . . .

A pox on your grandchildren!

Sadly, these wonders have been demolished, for it seems the humans intend to give it another go. A new resort is scheduled to replace it some time in the future, yet as before, the fun need not stop. I’ve heard the dragon is already taking reservations.

Interested humans may check out this site for some of the rarest and most thorough documentation of the Sanzhi UFO houses I’ve so far encountered. 

http://blog.yam.com/perladipace/article/18515699

Other pictures courtesy of Wikipedia. (Articles on – Maunsell forts – Principality of Sealand – Chippewa Lake Park.)

　

　

　

　

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A Bohemians at Large Special Report!

 

Art Animals Invade!

This one has a freeze ray.

Large and often dangerous beasts have been pouring into our cities from lord knows what planet, flaunting their outrageous mutations and daring us to stop them.

    Some say it’s a virus created in Switzerland ( a normally neutral country ) where it was injected Into cattle and exported worldwide. For a time the affliction remained bovine, then spread to pigs and horses.

Piggy back rides, in Bath!

A local strain has caused Alligators in my home town to walk upright. Pelicans elsewhere in the state have grown to unusual size and fish in the port city of New Orleans have started to walk about on land.

Tis’ the End of Days!

A recent incursion of Moose monsters out of Canada has roused new suspicions on the origins of this creeping surge which scientists have dubbed “Fabulosis”.

There are those that claim the creatures are but visions, manifestations of our deepest desires, marching out of the dreams of school children, the ambitions merchants and the minds of psychopaths. Appeals from animal rights organizations have spared these abominations, most of which seem innocent enough, though rumor has it some less G – rated specimens have been taken into custody.

 

This is the David Lynch cow. It has a right to remain disturbing.

It is also clear that many of the things have sold out, opting to sport corporate symbols rather then the honest work of the common man.

 

It wasn’t until 2004 that the Militant Graffiti Artists of Stockholm decided to stand their ground, saying that,

“We, the members of The Militant Graffiti Artists of Stockholm feel morally obligated to protect our city against the cows that have invaded our streets.”

And protect it they did, hostages were taken, fiberglass heads rolled – and a message was sent to ad-wizards everywhere that the right to besmirch Stockholm’s streets with garish schlock was a right that belonged to its people!

In light of the recent violence in Sweden, a race of bear mutants has banded together – throwing their paws In the air as if to say “Why can’t we all just get along.” They have traveled to various nations, standing in a circle and preaching their message of peace – but one wonders if there isn’t an ulterior motive. After all, one doesn’t see any other animals among them . . .

All we are saaaaaaaaaaying . . .

Buddy bears today, Tomorrow, The World.

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Welcome to the Outer Reaches of La La Land

Greetings Everyone,

I am a writer of – preferably fiction – and hope to entertain people with my strange and exotic creations. So let me know if the entertainment is malfunctioning – I will do what I can to fix it.

If you feel the need to offer a suggestion, try to be specific. Comments like “I found it confusing . . .” don’t help nearly as much as comments like – “You should have said . . . ” Examples give me a much better idea of what others like and what would make them feel more comfortable reading my stories.

I am also an artist, a sample of my orignal work is posted above, as well as on the meet my art post. I’ve been told I should write comics, but so far have been wary of pouring too much effort into projects that might not yeld results.

My interest in non-fiction usually involves animal facts, as it’s hard to find human interest stories that are nearly as bizarre, but they are out there. (SSShh -I am currently hunting Bohemians.) I don’t much care for inspirational pieces – as they all seem to do the exact opposite. I tried to remedy this by writing my own, but a friend advised that I should market them to horror fans instead.

I am an armchair explorer and not ashamed of it. I’ve traveled a little but prefer to do research, as I am unable to pay for trips long enough to satisfy my curiosity.

Other authors may kill characters off. I prefer very often to kill them on. I like art that shocks me. I like creatively monstrous creatures. I like things that used to scare me as a child. I like ruins. I like mystery. I like adventure. I like cheering for the underdogs. I jump the gun. I eat the garnish. Life is too short to waste it on the straight and narrow. I wanted to walk all the paths  but they wouldn’t let me so I go nowhere, and like it.

I long to be the one who looks

when others look away.

I long to be the one who stands

outside at the close of day.

I long to be the wolf in sheep’s clothing

the lion beside the lamb.

I long to be the iron roots

tearing up through the roads of man.

I long to be a force primeval,

the sea from which one is saved.

I long to be winds out of the west,

mother nature unpaved.