Glass and the Machines of God: A Modern Fable

[blue_june_destroyer]

Part I: An Excerpt From GLASS And The Machines Of God
and as it was with all things, we spoke in rhyme and riddle...not for fear of detection, for that had happened very long time ago, but rather that those who had secretly wished to be spoken to were... to know that these words were intended for them and theirs only...for lonely isles and windswept curses held the symbols transmuted and divined to hold within, to keep forever... only a warm heart and a knowing smile granting entrance to this mystery...for every age held it's oracles and truth tellers, it's false bell ringers of alarm, and of course the hollow spectres of complacency...so in this we sing the true echoes sown of old cloth, born to stare so ravaged by all they see...because truth is madness and madness truth truly revealed, and to see is to always see too much...to bear witness to the false and right and relay backwards and forwards that which you know...love the constant signal that heals and promotes as our truth teller sleeps inside furious walls, thrice blessed and crimson cursed...his story is the same story, and as with all without ending...a boy and a girl, simple yes but eternal always...glass plays, the machines shakes voltage, and the gaze is drawn again and again in uncertain lines...one ray catches a june eye, our angel who has waited so long...frozen to witness, we can walk around and survey this moment as close to perfection as any that have ever been, to see the joy, the exalt, the arrogance...with it's sheer violence of embrace and release slowly offering teeth gritting awareness, the song ends, the lovers arc, and in this bliss there is hope, expectation, and yes, pure and indivisible love...the girl, his love, the light that would transform any story into the moon and it's sister stars...she had no faith but that which destroys, and had only known herself in coarse mirrors, giving over and unto whatever moved her...opium eyed and gouge mouthed, she stalked a barren trail because she believed that all that was good had died long before she was named...she the reflection in glass, he in her that which he could not claim, her in him that which she so desperately needed, forever breaking...she had chased black holes of silence to find peace, and in turn that darkness swept into her a fever that was unshakable...their fates had intertwined long before they were lovers, their moment extending back before a time their eyes first met, and that bond was eternal, thru fire and chard to meet again and again until this moment, our apex and conclusion... these lights rise to search the heavens, straining to be recognized in sanctity, purity, and insolence...to hopefully catch the gaze of a supreme intelligence, watching us quietly and nodding a silent approval...because it is with faith and faith only that one justifies the reach, with little to confirm but glimmer and awe, ritual and circumstance alike...in dreams and visions alike, so real and unreal to be imagined again and again in a reverse mindscape, was video fodder to soak in..he had his voice, disembodied with no claim...but were the sounds his? could he own these thought if they could be sold? thumbtacked to ceilings all over the world lay his schemes and praton wishes, cold flung to white light, like scrapnel of a teenage atom bomb...the kids waited their turn for their piece, and the eyes watched you everywhere...amongst these ruins our hero dies zero and finds a dead station moving static code...thru the channels and medium still he spoke only to find out he wasn't speaking at all, just humming someone elses favourite song...the voice says you are one of many more to come...in sadness and in love, in faith and movement alive


Part II
Eyes were being scratched still and tattoes applied, but no one could or would ever hear the full secrets of glass. he was rewriting his story everyday, moving the fixed destiny point with every triumph and mistake every kiss held new promise, every song a new disaster all were sung to the ghost children, the synthetic flesh flash of ideal and glitter gash in their dreams they saw him surreal, but he was as real as they needed him to be discarded until he roared back into their visions, within blood and sound, once invested there was no turning back for anyone plastic playmates and wooden rock rat haunted their hari kari plots and glass obvious play s for sympathy, or was it the other way around he was a general leading them all into a war that he and they knew they could never win but still they fought to love and always die standing moving in night funerals because all the others had perished, he caught glimpses of their faces every once in a while in rubble and wreckage strewn he had fought way too long, jam wired shut and now he held too long past sleeping futures and endless newscasts, seeking shelter and a place to once again call home in the dark he would fumble with food and foe, seeking contact and knowing confirmation cells sighing agreement over concrete cold, always remembering and as if drawn he would lumber on, gun in hand and tears in heart he tried to keep a journal and kept losing the pages pictures of trees and dates taped to his chest he had gone mad but there was no longer anyone he heard or he respected to tell him so the grass grew very fast and it seemed he had to cut it every 4 or 5 days on radio static he waited for an order that may never come he had wanted to be outside in the direct sun, but the trees sang him to sleep the weeping willow out back seemed to hang its hurt so obvious and no one seemed to mind out the window he stared, seeking her and them a day would come his mind would drone but there was no one there to agree in fact the entire weight of his surroundings seemed to indicate the exact opposite but like a dumb fish he kepts swimming upstream there was little of beauty to guide except the sun and moon, his constant companions in majesty full the night came the daylight only providing protection for the scars laid bare the night before the pills seemed to have fallen on the floor everywhere, and no matter how hard one scrubbed the dirt was always there even the neighbors smelled the garbage and impolite realities piled high and often, spilling over the redwood fence into their perfect yards in the morning the grass shone dew prisms on the midday sun it burned scorched brown thirst and at night held cool moondust and starlight out here the universe was vast, only in distance it was never meant to be held there, it cried a mystery i am and you must find me first if the game is ever to begin in faith there is all power, in love all faith every action a pebble dropped into the clear pool of humanity, rippling forever on until the waves become indecipherable and unseen. what seems like confusion becomes order of the highest magnitude glass had so long ago reasoned himself out of reason anxious but not afraid, he told himself that this meant something over and over until he began to believe it the mask came off and he beheld yet another mask like all modern men we could claim mastery over all, but it was a paper truth and he knew it.

Part III
without focus, without generation, without peer...come whither winters too often seen ...felt in devotion, willing in it's uncertainty...cry aloud yes! children to a child ...a crown glorious for seeing and naysing, soothsaying into prophecy in measured mercury time...this is our moment, our world, this is our church, our children, our dominion as yet undisclosed, as yet unclaimed...the universe is ours reduced to tiny portraiture... with love and fire and desire and innocence to reckon judgement upon us all...in this duality until we are truly free...this role cast and agreed upon, the child took it's hand...to know no other except in one's heart is to walk forward into oblivion...raised from sleep to be beaten, moved to non-tears from an implied violence that hung in the air at all hours...these terrors and troubles will make you he was told but somehow they continue to break him...a smile is always the great eraser, and the dreams of those future smiles and miles allowed a secret garden to grow,however sad true it all became...it never was you can say, but it was...and it never will be they can say, but it will...something always gets lost along the way...in translation, in memory, in vision, but that is just how it is...so to peer strong into the faces one must see their own face, to wonder reflection and not judge, but this too is impossible...for the accused will one day stand as the accuser...the cord snakes between the legs, one fist raised in power, the other fist raised in solidarity, this is the universal vision of the movement...I used to be a little boy so old in my shoes...for every face slap that imprinted itself as tattoo under my skin, every indignity that scarred itself upon my broken heart, walks with me as ghost and conscience...a boy, a zero, a hero, a goat, a ghost frozen glass, broken, this is all you need to know...the codex every moment in this war without end, the attrition constant, but the victories oh so sweet and pure...in this we drink from mountain springs and let the grand old sun soak us old...to curse one's very existence is a kind of power, especially if you can decide to make the best of that hate, to fuel that anger with the necessity of resignation and purpose...to cloak your pain and fear in the language of sound, the poetry of devotion...a child draws the perfect house with the perfect parents and the perfect hot rod car and the perfect dog, unwittingly signing into a contract bound to be broken...the choices came before all he believed, but somehow the fuzzy glow of intuition didn't seem to cover the tracks of this particular beast...glass disintegrates it all for your entertainment, his purpose to be the atom bomb unsustained and smiling that perfect smile...from the first cord came shiver and from the last cord will come peace...it is a game to be played viciously, so change the names and make up a few new verbs and there you go...this child was struck and a decision made to never never cry again...in this stupid land of the frozen ideal, WHO AND WHERE ARE THEY NOW?? the wooden idols of persecution in the glory of helpless and unending resurrection...who will be there upon your deathbed hour to hold your hand and wipe your brow...who will cast the last stone upon you, will it be the same demons, perpetrators and eviserators from long to haunt and decimate... all martyrs are dead and there going to stay that way... wave after wave of fury crossing the bow till there is little more than charred husks and winking sighs...no more to behold, no more to see, no more...the universe was contracting as quickly as it had been set into expanding malice...the first blow struck revolution, the last bell resonant silence...to match the eyes and the doll faces of the perfect parents with the perfect teeth smiling upon the perfect children. long live rock!!!! What does an outsider stand for if they stand cooly on the inside...can you exist inside and outside simultaneously? or must our heroes forever be on the outside looking in? to prove what? and to whom? a broken ideal for which no rewards are given but grudging respect...the spirit breaks but the will is strong...as soft white light caressed their faces they knew that all was good and all would be forgiven, and that their echo would ring forever on and on...in dull cascades and numb electric parades, the true essence would distill and pervert, becoming an unrecognizable new art in it's distortion...a boy holds his guitar in teenage arms and he is power...a man holds aloft a broken guitar and he is shattered... who will pick up the pieces this time? only God knows the true truth...from child to children passed above heads and hearts, beseeched to know and keep knowing...the revolution is never over, it is just beginning...funny how this revolution was televised and everybody got bored and changed the channel to what? chattering mannequins on angel dust and power prayer...whither winters past but we live on and on and on...again and again we are in cracks and rust and swinging screen doors, never to be forgotten...are you tired yet?

Part IV: The True Story of the Machines (never released)
Billy wrote the following on the O-board concerning the status of Part IV:
Q: What is the official status of chapter 4? i.e., is it the apex of the mystery for which we are striving to solve, a fan collaborative that we have to create, a missing link that will never be found, or something else entirely?
A: The title of chapter 4 is called "the true story of the machines" and it has yet to be released. I appreciate the fan collaborations, but the fans writing chapter 4 is not what I had in mind. don't forget you are in the story, and trust me when I say that it is hard to write the play while you are acting in it.

Part V: The Story Of June (so far)
she drew circles around her subjects and squares around here enemies woman eternal. restless with praise/resentful of penetrating worship but she often resembled a statue in a museum/june sat with zero the hero playing chess/everytime he would make a move she would pick up another of her chss pieces and put it in her mouth/the horses were made of chocolate which made them the easier to taste. but the white chocolate queen was still her favourite/just as he was ready to call check-mate she ate the jellybean king and claimed her victory right then and there/she always won, or he made her think that she did/as she was drinking a glass of mercury to wipe the taste and memory, a trumpet sounded thru the rubber walls/"oh" he said and they got up to go/"do i look alright" she asked to no one in particular as she gazed into an antique mirror/they moved silently/shoes scuffing grey concrete as the sounds grew with each step/a dis-embodied voice cooly announced "LADIES and gentlemen of all persuasion, please welcome to our stage tonight and tonight only, the machines/at which point he yawned louder than he spoke any of the words/polite applause followed the remaining ducks as they hopped off the stage and the machines took their spots all marked with an X/ruby took her place in the wings to see the look in the eyes of the feedback scarred/and somewhere somehow someone struck a note/after the show they beat the chess set to splinters with a railroad hammer, and rode silently back to their home/glass blew the dust off an old forgotten vinyl record by the sex animals, while his love snorted one more line to pass the time which by everyones watch was over/as the record skipped they made love as they always had/he felt her in his bones/she wanted what was his and his only/he could no longer tell if he was alive as before but it hardly mattered to no one in particular because everything was different anyhow/each time he bored with this game he thought up a better one and this gave him much satisfaction/a trumpet blared thru the thin plaster walls and they both nodded it was time to pay the rent/when the friends began to arrive they were asked by no one in particular to sit at the big oak table at all the wrong famous names/snaky tooth took churchills seat/thunder jack took disraeli's gear/namel sat wherever she wanted of course/billy sat at the head of the table and put on the hat pointy that spelld dunce/everyone laughed like they were supposed to/two twins appeared and began to saw the legs off the table/somewhere somebody said "this should take a while" porcelin white from all the drugs, daphne was now a prisoner of her own success/*hrmphh* the father hurrumghed, "there is no such thing as success, only hard work and tears"/of course everyone agreed "once i was a little girl" she said to no one in particular, "and i had bright red shoes that my grandma, who we called nana, would shine, shine, shine all day long"/everyone agreed that she was still that little girl/when the table collapsed from too much sawing everyone yawned and got up. except for billy. who was still stuck in the most serious of thought/he did'nt see her leave and he would not hear her when she returned/that night he dreamt of his mother young and beautiful and she told him many secrets, mostly about love and how it was like water that shined in the man/"cover your eyes son, cover your eyes!"

Part VI (Pamphlet handed out at concert)







(excerpt)
Well, the I of the mourning is on!
Are you ready for redemption? Then read on- this is a chapter six in a series of missives designed to speak directly to your heart on an issue most important to you – your salvation!!
Many many years ago a child was born into a cold night – to some this beautiful child was blessed as any other, but not special. But to those who read the signs they knew a storm was coming! People, that child has come to these end times to deliver a message that must be heard! Do not shy away for this child is your child – for thou the truth may some times sting, eternal damnation is far, far worse!!! He says, “look to the I of the radio for all you seek the eye of the radio is everywhere, the maker of all that is real + all that is unseen. Be not afraid, for the I of the radio loves you and will always play your favourite songs. Everywhere you look there are reminders of a material world. It does not care about you. Why do you feel too big too small, too fat or too skinny, or are you too light or not dark enough??? Friends, where do you think these ideas come from? Why, a culture and civilization that makes money on our differences to exploit what we want the most – to belong!!! Let me tell you that you already do belong, for the I of the radio made us all different on purpose, so that no two should be a like. The I of the radio celebrates your individuality each snowflake, every flower every new dawn that brings light + life to this wonderful wonderful world. You are important!! Together we can move against these ominous forces to bring harmony to the chaos. Never forget the I of the radio is on, it never turns off!!!
Coming soon!! (From this ministry) – Chapter 7: A happy ending??
Love life ambition, + piece? – is it possible in a modern world?
- Is Rock n Roll bad for the soul? Or are we going to die for Rock n Roll??
- Happiness is a warm piece of bread!
- False prophets + real deceivers! - They walk among us today!
Restless children: their desires, wishes, dreams, and how to control them.
God Bless You Friend!
The I of the Radio Ministries Chicago, IL PO Box 57006

Part VII: A Happy Ending??
and so our story draws its final close, a million miles, a few smiles, and a pocketful of tears...all of it earned and burned strong into a consciousness like every living flashing star...all that was was left as perpetual myth, to twist in the wind laughing and wheezing until all could point and remember their stories, their movements, history as a claim they could all bear their own witness to...the body now ravaged but the spirit translucent and very much alive...like all poetry it would lose its place of meter over time, the rhymes and reasons would stale, leaving only pretty prose of frozen sentiment for a simpler, bygone era...it's paper now, and you can do with it as you wish...no one soul need debate the dizzy purpose of the exercise, or the confusions that led them all thru thicker jungles...it is as it was, simply yours... the kids came and stole the show, naturally of course, when upon that hollowed stage the band strode as if any year, any time but now, but the final collapsing point did go noticed...weep your years and slit your wrists, curse your heroes and kick in the screens, the image stands...image upon image superimposed until all that was left was but greasy blur and a dull ache...but as each song tore each resonant after-image down, all that was left was very clear to see...the blueprint, the tabula rasa, the prayer as hymn had been in your palm all along...we never left... among these theories of delusion lay the simple heart of a simple man...maybe you know him, maybe you don't, but it needn't matter anyway because the tale told a thousand times was but one chapter in the long road...the fable that must know this end, in this moment had spun this simple man as gold, as eternal cold stop, as spinning fire-child, and as forever grasping animal...for even in war the most gentle of souls will let out a cry stabbing and cutting with all the passion a human being, all but dead, can muster up from rusty gut ...let this tale end as it began...a soul alone in this world... heart connected to mouth, mouth to song, song to the heavens if only to tickle the very real ear of our divine creator... may the creator always spin back endless possibility and infinite potential...with this vibration in the timeless space, a mark is made to begin, so let this be the mark to end...in the void moments of madness, seeking and clutching, our simple man laughs out loud for all the world to hear...the drab crowd said shush and be quiet but it only made him laugh harder...for it really was funny, not because of a dumb joke or the wittiest remark but because he was having fun...it was all too simple and he really couldn't believe hiseyes... now. here. always. you. "thank you God for all I am" ...so at the last chord, in the last fade of sound, a stillness came and a peace they had all waited for for so long...one could dream that they would know what they would want now, and with good honor may our hero forge ahead... with love on your side anything is possible, even love... all wounds would hope to heal, the machines could stand down and sing their singsong whir to the wind, trees, and mother earth...it was a good day, and the night will hold quiet...his mother in dreams of good things...
THE END