Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
In the infinite darkness of space,
I drift,
My ship is set to auto pilot,
Silently moving forward,
Zero navigation to find my way home,
Blind in the dark,
There is no sound other than my breathing,
A numbness fills me,
Not quite alive, but unable to die,
I am in stasis.
"I'm not sure if this works, but it felt like I was telling two tales at the same time, each line flows together, and yet, each second line tells separate tale, both combining at the end."
The rack under naked skin is cold and metallic,
Not quite medical, and not purely a utility bench,
A workbench in a filthy room built for suffering,
The stolen human awaits, like a dirty unfinished project,
Unable to die, a captive, an object, a component,
Living clay, soon to be remoulded, resculpted with other artifacts,
Becoming part mechanical, and part biological,
Dead fingers press, cut, and prod, pulling ropes tight,
All pliable flesh is needlessly lashed into place,
The use of rope is part of the show, it is an aggressive pantomime,
Used to install fear, fear is the source, the essence required,
The dark hoses that crudely sustain life, also fill the body with toxins,
All a mind can do here, is dream nightmares of endless torment,
While the busy engineers tools transmogrify the body,
A single tear falls from the captives eye,
In this place the helpless are stripped down, broken and rebuilt,
All to suit a mysterious unknown purpose.
After moments of madness, and the chaos of violence, I access the secured area,
It’s 2am, I connect a cable to a port behind my left ear and the terminal, then begin,
The transfer rate is intense, 100 terabytes of corporate data, stolen in moments,
The sudden influx of information makes me momentarily lightheaded, I disconnect,
Placing both hands on the desktop, I stabilise myself as my system balances,
I have three hours to reach my client, complete the transfer, and avoid brain damage,
I reset my internal counter, a red display counts down in a corner of my vision,
As I leave the secure area, I step across the bodies of a security team, a failed ambush,
Neutralised, laying exactly where I dropped them, this hasn’t gone according to plan,
This was a setup, the entire level of this building should have been empty,
Someone’s sold me out, I exit the building into cold rain and darkness,
I can’t trust anyone.
*My small tribute to celebrate 44 years of William Gibson's Johnny Mnemonic (1981)
Just beyond the two fat friendly hounds bathing in the sun,
Within a green wall of trees at the edge of the garden,
A small wooden doorway stands, but access is a privilege,
It is only for those who use their imagination, a place for dreamers,
Beyond the door is another world, one colourful and beautiful,
Where violet waterfalls tumble into serene lily covered ponds,
Above, a peppermint-coloured sky plays host to brilliant sunshine,
Under which colourful flowers, trees, and shrubs bask and thrive,
Large red and white butterflies work, gently bobbing and fluttering,
Busy blue cranes seek brightly coloured fish from river shallows,
In the warm forest shadows nearby, giant orange mushrooms bloom,
And pink songbirds sing full throated, into the sweet floral breeze,
Distant blue mountains with snow-capped peaks rise and fall,
And beyond, are the crystal-clear calm waters of the dream sea,
All the magic and splendour of imagination awaits you,
So take my hand little one, and walk with me awhile.
In the embrace of the full moon, she is radiant,
Raven haired, beautiful and untouchable,
Her pale skin shimmers in the midnight bloom,
Stars dance like fireflies within her dark eyes,
Her lips are supple and beguiling in the moonlight,
Her sweet floral perfume, is a powerful intoxicant,
Even if the earth was ablaze with fire and chaos,
It would take but a momentary stolen glance,
And the slight hint of a smile at the edge of her mouth,
To become ensnared in a trap that no man willingly escapes,
Just watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest,
Generates a passionate warmth kindled deep within,
Without saying a word, without even the slightest touch,
La Dame Du Clair De Lune bewitches and enraptures,
Her mere presence is pure opium for the senses,
And within a death-like silence, she will leave you wanting,
Wanting for the love of a heart that you will never have.
The streets are dark and desolate at this time of morning,
The cold wind whips up dust and discarded plastic,
A street pumper hovers into place, and dirty yellow hoses are ejected,
Ground bolts secure the pumper as it empties its tank,
The dirty, pale, unshaven operator puffs vape smoke,
A dim white light from inside a visor, illuminates his bearded face,
The operator stares emotionless at a passer-by,
The blue glow of the walker’s umbrella cane is distracting,
Blue light reflects in the puddles and on wet window glass,
Clad in a long unassuming black coat, the pedestrian walks on,
Passing beneath the super structure of a building, and into a lane,
Posters of desperation and entertainment combine, covering the walls,
Phosphorescent kanji graffiti adds a glowing additional layer to the path,
A narrow slit of white light, and construction waste lines the pavement,
Rain puddles, provide shimmering beauty amongst the chaos,
Sudden colourful bursts of neon advertising buzz and alternate,
Reflecting in the dark glasses and on the expressionless face,
Stepping out of the lane onto the main street, the walker waits,
As two teen punks on illuminated hover scooters zip past silently,
Crossing the street and back into the shadows, the journey soon ends,
At a large black metal door, unlike the walls, it is graffiti free,
Wind momentarily shifts the pedestrian’s coat, revealing weaponry,
Dark glasses are lifted, a red retinal scanner beam confirms entry,
A display reads, é»’ Kuro Syndicate member 32549 entry granted.
The door unlocks, opens, and a new workday begins.
*Excerpt from 'Infinite Black: A Grey New World'.
In this metropolis the sky is made of constant rain-soaked night,
Reflecting neon, shines in puddles and on pale weary faces,
The city streets are crowded, as people escape cell-like apartments,
Some shelter under awnings, or huddle, begging in doorways,
Many face the rain beneath illuminated umbrellas, or dark hoods,
People are the landscape, they pack pedestrian bridges and fill arcades,
They shout from balconies above, fighting to be heard,
Shady deals are made in the sprawling city’s dark corners,
Under skyscrapers covered in illuminated signage that pierce the clouds,
The narrow street markets burst at the seams offering their wares,
What you can’t afford to buy, you must trade to obtain, or steal,
Becoming overwhelmed is easy, commercials float in the sky,
Digital advertising, posters, speakers, announcements, music, sirens,
A million plus sounds all echoing at once,
The darkness delivers exceptional sensory bombardment,
City stench is pungent, street cooking combines with vehicle fumes,
Litter lines the streets, stirred by slow ineffective street sweeping vehicles,
Busy crossings speak and beep, police with LED batons direct traffic,
There’s nothing you can’t get here on the black market, crime is rife,
Life here is sickening, unemployment is high, and desperation fills the air,
There are red-light districts, body modification districts, and worse,
Everybody here is hustling just to stay alive, this city eats people up,
Homeless die silently in alleyways, addicts overdose on pavements,
It’s one of the last remaining fully intact cities following the machine war,
This is Grove Zero (G0), Central City, the murderous heart of the new colony.
*Excerpt from 'Infinite Black: A Grey New World'.
I rarely leave my station, or interact at human level,
Early each morning I connect to my terminal,
After the blue screen lights up my dim cubicle,
I am provided with my daily processes and tasks,
I sit, I respond, and I am responsive,
My vocation is simple enough,
I monitor Syndicate payments from farm holders,
I report on activity, stock levels, and record data infringements,
I monitor and ensure that owed credits are transmitted,
I issue alerts when they are not,
If payment is ignored, I send a recovery team to assess,
They either recover the credits, or I issue a Fire Notice,
If the notice is ignored, I process an account deletion,
A ‘tact’ team will then respond, cleaning the property of all persons,
The Syndicate then installs a replacement farm holder,
In the evenings, when I disconnect from my terminal,
Lay on my bed, I close my eyes,
And am thankful to not exist out in that world.
*
*Excerpt from 'Infinite Black: A Grey New World'.
Dusk falls on a tired dusty rural landscape,
The long shadows of the late afternoon have faded to grey,
In the distance, bright city lights flicker to life, lighting up the sky,
The distant volume of Central City’s chaos rises to a murmur,
There is a comfort to be being isolated, distant from humanity,
Away from the energy, constant sound, and movement of the city,
Tech still fills this rural space, but it is subtle, used where needed,
Out here it is functionality over convenience, tech for survival only,
No unnecessary body mods, or implants, some city escapees do have them,
But out here they are few and far between, chop-shops are a city thing,
Grove 18, or G18, is some distance from the hot spot of Central City (G0),
Since the war, most people are cautious of machines, however,
Salvaged tech has been repurposed, constructive rather than destructive,
Varieties of hover vehicles have replaced the wheels and tires of old,
Important, considering the surviving roads are overgrown and damaged,
Raider crews on hov bikes can be a threat to farming communities,
But the Syndicates keep them in check, for a price, a cut of your proceeds,
But, don’t pay your Syndicate, your property burns,
Or worse, you and your family are deleted,
Aside the turmoil, nature still exists, savage and beautifully untameable,
Forests reclaim dead townships, creating new habitats and secrets,
The grey new world is brutal and unfair, but that is the way of all things now.
Beyond my machine world the Infinite Black, exists 'A Grey New World', a dystopian future set following the war with the machine hellworld as outlined in my art series, and book I co-created with Jeff Oliver.
I have been (very) slowly fleshing out all aspects of this new post apocalyptic world for a while now, and I will continue to release parts of it here. The final product will consist of poetry, art and short stories.
Today I sat on the bank of a cool forest stream,
And under lush green tree ferns, I began to dream,
That I lived in this forest wild and free,
And my home was the trunk of an ancient tree,
I spent the day searching the forest far and wide,
Returning home that night to comfortably hide,
And admire the jewelled treasures I’d discovered,
Then, the next morning when fully recovered,
I followed the stream right up to the mountain,
Where from its rocky edge a waterfall fountained,
After drinking its waters and healing my soul,
I read magical words from an old paper scroll,
I thanked the mountain for its bountiful gift,
Before sitting quietly to let my mind drift,
To get home I imagined that I’d shrunk down so small,
That I could float on a leaf, powered by the waterfall,
I was delivered home safe, gentle and true,
With a leaf for a boat and mountain stream as my crew,
When I opened my eyes to the real world once more,
I smiled seeing tiny footprints, and a leaf on the shore.
Forests have a special magic, and as this daydreamer knows best,
They’re a good place to put imagination to the test,
So, lock up my daydream in your mind like a jewel,
And may your trees grow tall, and your waters run cool.
Dan Verkys 