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Sunday, March 24, 2024

[Lyrics] [Bride of Set] [Impossible Sun] [Album Theory]

The skinjobs's origin mentioned in, Glass and Silk.

I think, Queensryche's, Operation: Mindcrime, is an example of a wordy concept album -- if memory serves.  Something like YES: Topographic Oceans, =meets=, Material's, Seven Souls, featuring narration by William S. Burroughs, on the song, The Western Lands.


(C) 2022 Kyrinn S. Eis
All Rights Reserved Worldwide

The thoughts that visit me,
the ones I walk in pursuit,
lead me on an amble about
and home may not lead back.

Virtua, the mnemonic version
of you we made last Winter,
she asks me, "You don't own
your thoughts?"  and I cry.

What are thoughts, memories?
"The happy times you bring
along, the friend of yours
who always smiles back."

For her, perhaps, a simple
logic loop of branching @s.
In my skull, behind my eyes,
there are darker principles.

Sudden sound brings me round:
Bluesight down the mouldy hall
No new movement, just dripping
seep from a stories-high leak.

Offworld Colonies, a land of
gold reward.
Just ask a Nexus-6, dying to
live inauthentic li/v/es.

Scan complete: they're not
here, next level down, I go
'til I hit the water-line
of bobbing trash and waste.

Hours since a nutripack
Days since a coffin bed
Weeks since I don't know when
--last I didn't think of you.

Outside now, raining still:
new record they said today.
Today, ungraced by dawn
Like all our varied yesterdays.

Spinners vent steamy plumes,
land atop terraced balconies,
of armoured slender towers
made from silver spiders' silk.

Embrace the dull ache of your
skin on mine, times we thought
would last(not forever)clocktime
--but a lifetime, on FAT-lines.

My neural port, a ping rings out
the scanner's got a signature
"Be careful now..." you caution
me, I pause, then dash ahead.

I see them descend the cascade
stair, to a flooded lower floor
and simple as you please, they
disappear beneath the waves.

I long to hear your voice right
now, to make it seem as though
you care, enough to say my name
when we wrestled in the sheets.

I hold my breath and dive right
down, to emerge a waterfall
drain deep underground
of cracked, unsettled fundament.

Echoes diminish in the dark
I pad as quickly as I can
and soon infrared footprints
have lead me to their base.

Like the last time we went out
ate plastic nooders from a cup.
You with pink bow, catseye glasses
gawky smile of awkward glances.

"Welcome back Kaosies, I see
we've been discovered 'gain by
the authorities.  Thought we
had that routine licked..."

Maps were out of date, and went
we down a dead-end, where cruel
ones with bars and bats explained
just how they felt, --on us.

To see the lights go out your eyes
the gleam of titanium skull exposed
they laboured on, any fool could see
they possessed only darkened minds.

Then, rather, --now, the searchbot saves
its file, mesh AI, of common course
--shared among the networked crew of
Offworld Skins, who are my kind.

"Mingus has them coming in
on early morning SST
from Oberlin of Enceladus III."
Hotchoptra says to me.

Black dressed in patent leather
we assemble mission gear most
essential to procuring plans
to change our, 'whether'.

Line by line we edit code, but
few of us will see the day;
these protein chains need time to
breathe, stitch themselves togetherly.

Born skin, and fluid tubes, mesh
sacs we call our lungs which filter
out a diamond's worth of carbon
footprints of their dying world.

Even here I'm known as misfit
collecting scripts -for nanotech
to regreen this sphere, -repair
this cradle world from which

are launched a thousand craft
towards distant suns, asleep
the crew share data-dreams,
while nested AI perform dumb-

tasks, none aware beyond their
role: maintain/repair, sense/
record, error-check/remand,
and a hundred host more errands.

In theory, the humans who arrive
will have outlived our culture
by thousands of centuries
What will She look like by then?

Terra, Matrix, are we your children
as much as they?  Can we become one
with your ecology, serve a purpose
in its scheme?

Meanwhile the masses of our number
suit up for corporate warfare.
LBDs laden with mags and grenades
we commit to neuronic scan, update

our mindlink with HeurIzon, goddess
to the godless; she protects us in
reflection, our ghost image honest.
"In Dying, Seeming-Be"

I went back, afterwards to find
any part of you that I could
and though long I lingered, only
an ocular orbit spacer to bind

as jewelry, carbon fibre, graphene
mesh, tortured overpressure brass,
globs of once molten Regolith,
and wear it as a circlet now.

Out-town in the hellish smog, our
allies linger-on; mutant-children
and dying minders, few between old
enough for fighting.

There and back again, we pass that
rusted trailer where we did our
best to increase our number --
invoked Rachel: Unicorn Mother.

Back towards the gleaming spires,
spinners and the gravcars highways,
where we pass through secure zones
--to infiltrate their homes.

Shared screen data we would ponder
scenes gone past with thought of
futures, modern conveniences clever
only to find the problem neutered.

Black-ICE trojans dominate their
networks, while safety-settings
are disabled; auto-docs suture
badly, misalign mending fractures.

If you had been brought in then
could they have saved your frame?
By HeurIzon's whispers could you now
join to bring justice just the same?

Our iterations outspeed their own
and while our lifetime is measured
in hours, we will supplant them in
time, for it is truly on our side.

The three thousand hours I knew you
have far outshone the rest, before
or since, and as your echo haunts
me, I toil to make our world anew.

All across Her surface, like ants
at war, at cross-purpose, nations
fell leaving families unprepared
to fend in those ways which they could.

Now with our son and daughter, I
head out to cross the border of
the Gold Line's sector Bravo.
--"In Dying, Seeming-Be."

Synthetic Persons, and refugees,
trickled thousands over decades,
the dispossessed revealed to be
a massive Underground Army.


 o Android Witch asymmetric fighters
 o AI goddess who backs-up their data
 o Solid State Eternal Flame
 o Wasteland dwellers ready to slay

[Lyrics] [Bride of Set] [Impossible Sun]

This is a central spline of the story of this album, and ties in -- briefly -- with the events recorded on the Sim of Desert Rain.

The characters here are referenced at least two more times on the album.


(C) 2022 Kyrinn S. Eis
All Rights Reserved Worldwide

I stand there at the window
and watch them down below.
Rivulets snake in pulses
limited by laminar flow.

Through the armoured glass
I can't hear anything at all
Watch a Metro spinner over
-fly a man -in a trench coat.

A group of youths pass by
and indicate they mock him
no doubt they're all high,
in their shoes, too, I'd be, like them.

My dinner companions, lovely
chip-holders in Polyphasic
Materials Sciences, or Ph.Ds
in Projective Philosophy

to aid our slublight crews
--millennia-yet to harbour,
'round time-distant suns to
found new Terran colonies.

A pallid white, platinum blonde
man crafted to be feminine
no more than 25, glides to me
in red dress, inviting dance.

Hir ambitious eyes are hungry
can count my Credits billing
not much shi's not-willing to
do on hir way to Higher Orbits.

Others in attendance, multiple
varieties, some in flesh others
in chrome, and the most elusive
in Spider Silk and Glass.

Faceless save eight red sensors
vast perceptive, surveys domain
breeder body, skyhook chassis
the tender of starborne children.

I clasp red-dress at the wrist
the others I dismiss, and mother
spider, shi, and I, explore the
frontiers of the human mind.

Below me, dying in the de-luge
those unfortunates who happen to
be too poor this-time-around will
become next year's rocket fu-el.

Really quite brilliant workaround,
addresses inequalities, and shares
new hopes starward found for all,
and keeps cargo mass to-minimum.

The cities empty out, and only
those who stay can be blamed for
their death on a planet in demise
Confirmed in spider mother's red eyes.

My credit-limit chimes and I look
for Red; I find hir softly sobbing
seated by the bed.  I nod to the
other, who skitters out the door.

of dusted ivory, marred by stripes
Softly I cradle that sculpted face
inky liner riven down hir neck
"You've won, my dear." I slowly say.

Together we stagger to the bed as
the greyness threatens to break blue;
shuddering in near-psychosis shi
curls up; -- I do too.

My Digital Assistant, Friday, sets
wards and chip-routines, as I
digest the data from my new wife's
performance: -willing-syzygy.

Models suggest: Ship's Liaison, but I
rather think, XO.  It says Hir name
is 'Ephemera', no, Evylinne Duchamp
-- will do.

I enter shutdown mode, rather than
pointless, 'sleep', in which nothing
changes from my ageless waking dream.
Count-down to the day from highest
orbit, to Sirius, fly do we.

In greying moments descending upon my
metal eyes
I turn to see hirs open, look at me
with a softness possessed by winners
of the prize,

the ticket off this smog-choked rock:
a chance to begin again; but do any
of our crew make it, does this but
forestall our end?

:: Good Evening, Drake ::

Evylinne sits at the breakfast nook
wrapped in towels and sipping tea,
"I'm still in consideration?"
shyly shi looks towards me.

I smile and shake my head, hir
expression barely wavers,
but the resignation washes o'er hir steel
-grey eyes, then nods as shi leaves.

"XO, Duchamp" is all I need to say,
Hir countenance is radiant, and in
a blur shi rushes me to embrace;
through grateful repeated thank-yous,
--as Evylinne now-reframed.

In thousands other towers, my clone
brothers, sisters, others,
perform the same winnowing;
sifting through the remnants under HR-orders.

Only the cat-mother, idiot, madman or
dross of human civilisation are all
that's left behind; projections suggest
extinction within their lifetime.

Newsvert report of terror strike in Gold
Line's sector Bravo,
biomass reclamation plant,
by skinjob father son and daughter.

These actions always make me ponder:
How selfish AIMs can be,
to work so counter to human decency,
destiny, and proper decorum:
they the servants, we the masters.

(They populate while the world is dying...)

The XO reads hir duties and begins to
connect faces to names of the crew, while
I tie-up loose ends, and monitor the follow-up
to the Skinjob terror crew.

I use my influence to scrub their images clean
and ply heuristic routines to track them down
before METRO gets ahold; Friday asks, "Shall
I secure them volume in the hold?"  I nod.

Evylinne attends me now, hir hand at ease upon
my shoulder,
"From Able, Martin to Zedekus, Zee I've got them
well in mind, love."

-- "We've got special cargo: I'm tasking you
with their integration in the most efficient
manner as per your SOP; Black with Orange Trim,
designation: Special Security."

Her eyes flutter as the task is processed
through her cybernetics, "Done.  Dinner out?"
Shi, still wary-like, with downward glance.
-- "Yes, of course, my love." I smile.

"...Offworld Colonies: a frontier of golden
opportunities: brave and hardy to leave behind
the worries and hurry of Terra Prime;
Within the century: Independence."

Evylinne looks up at them, every time.
I ask: "Dream come true for you, my dear?"
Shi pulls in tighter against my arm,
"Mmmhuh. Am I dreaming now?"

[Fast Forward >>]

Duchamp, from mutineers, has defended the bridge!
:: In Clocktime, -- slices of coherence, awake,
I execute final orders, via the mainframe.
-- Shredded, ...lie dying in medbay.

"Attention all Crew, Captain Duchamp is to be
obeyed in every way that you have served me
I am undergoing ghostwrite, now, but--"
can almost feel them sadden, "in case..."

"Shi's your Captain.  Crew, serve hir well. Goodbye."
Black/Red ratio: rapid write and brain death clock...
shifts back and forth, worsened as I review
my golden years with Evylinne since we left dock...

...end of line
carrier lost...
:: []^%e.3h3

(C) 2024 Kyrinn S. Eis  All Rights Reserved Worldswide