Arthur Graham’s Reviews > A Greater Monster > Status Update
Arthur Graham
is on page 295 of 369
I catch an ozone buzz, my septum serrated and slapped with fishy stink, my wounds laved in vegetation and shrooms, an essence I can’t place ... dry and crusty, permeated with an odor of albumin yoked to peat— the heady richness of loam and worms, noisome methane rollicks in fetid sinkholes and thick carrion smells ring around me like ribbons of weeping willow, hushed cedar tickles my tongue muted by moss and cypress.
— Aug 20, 2012 08:06PM
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Arthur Graham
is on page 365 of 369
Shall I spend a page on one second of time and still not capture it? Shall I tell you about the dust motes that waft like pinpoint will-o-wisps? To what end? Setting the scene? To convince you that what I saw was real? Even I do not know if it is real (or what real means) and what difference verisimilitude when memory has been lifted by the thief of dignity~I skip ahead:
— Sep 03, 2012 09:03PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 363 of 369
Every time someone tries to define what is, they are playing with symbols, defined by other symbols. An ouroboros of meaning. There is no essence, only understanding. But you’ve seen it. Language has been hacked. The rules of the game have begun falling apart. You’ve pushed past the symbols of power.
— Aug 25, 2012 04:42PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 347 of 369
The audience is rustling when a human shape poured into a suit shuffles out from behind a curtain. Its body bulges in awkward, inappropriate places while the face is flat and mushy. Asymmetrical. Bumpy and splotched in shades of mustard. Instead of a thin, straight nose, it’s wide and off-center, fatter at the top and narrower at the bottom. The scooped-out, toothless mouth is mumbling, “Whubba? Whu? Pyuh-r. Pyou-err
— Aug 24, 2012 06:37PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 327 of 369
...while the exclusionary force of love functions over subtle distances enclosing limited bodies. How do you do, good, sir? Accordion, to pluck the strings in the fourth through tenth and possibly eleventieth dimensions would alter the rules of emotiodynamics. So we play this upper-dimensional string and alter the force of emotion. Do you have any idea how to do that?
— Aug 22, 2012 07:22PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 327 of 369
There are three emotional fields. The gravity of desire. The strong force of love. The electromagnetique force of fear. Desire is autonomatically attractive, requires the bringing of another into one’s orbit. Fear is both attractive and repulsive, driving objects apart or together. Currently (and I use that term ectomagnetically), the global forces of fear and desire are macrotically powerful...
— Aug 22, 2012 07:22PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 204 of 369
a whirling dervish ascends in a mad dash like a rainbow nudibranch swimming into the air, a corkscrew ribbon of mollusk-fat wings; sand-colored sidewinders writhe in battle, S-curve snapping S-curve; rabbits ejaculate meatshrooms; smiling, fat babies float in barrel-shaped aquaria of brackish solution exuding acrid formaldehyde and roses—evil buddhas waving hello.
— Aug 15, 2012 09:53PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 185 of 369
He goes through a door to the right. I hand the baby to the woman with tits on her back and no face who slings it over her back by its leg, and it begins suckling. The room smells vaguely of incense. Frankincense? Black Stalk returns with a knife, a bowl, and a plate, which he sets down on the stool. He proceeds to carve a kernel out of his chest and dish it into the plate, another into the bowl.
— Aug 14, 2012 09:42PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 162 of 369
Is she liking this thing? She couldna. Never likes anything. This ugly thing. Queen at head of the table. Head tilts forward, looking at our guest. Long lashes. Leans forward on her hands. Gigantic udders almost touching the water. Boring as relatives who never leave. Lizzy opposite me. Hypnotized by her udders. Dumb beast if I ever seen. He looks at the water. Fish duel like rapiers hither and thon.
— Aug 12, 2012 09:30PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 122 of 369
Head has a spike through it. Sit up. Ah, not so fast, slow down. My head, my head, uggh—oh, bumped hand against helmet, forgot the helmet. Unscrew it. My reflection. Eyes look blue and riven with tributaries of silver. Where am I? Keratin. Feh. Texture of artichoke. Except the distended red pustule. Glowing. Moving. Light, dark, light, dark.
— Aug 10, 2012 09:52PM
Arthur Graham
is on page 85 of 369
She moves to sit on one of the two chairs. He comes over opposite her, looks into the pot. Soup the color of twilight. They sit quietly around the pot for awhile. She leans forward and stirs it with a longbone.
— Aug 09, 2012 08:10PM
