Issue 22




from SHADOW TIMES a work in progress


Paul A. Green





MODULES 1 - 10



I was dwelling in a rented moment. The concept of free association came to me on an asphalt playground in 1950. Golden manikins marched out of the radio. They banged their sticks in the grey street, which filled up with holes. Community care plans will only become available on demand. The sea mists offer protective covering. I tap out a wobbly fandango for those dreams of a fine bangaroo. 



You were boxed in. I couldn’t rewind the ropes. It’s hot in the head, man. I was in and out of denial that entire year. The swelling of modules was recurrent in your middle years. Now I am represented by a piece of chewed cardboard, to help out Babe Jesus, whose name embarrassed  me. The spider webs were waist-high in that wood. The toothy man wore a grey suit and told me about his thrill. I have a triple key encryption service for this.



We were a-he-ing and a-she-ing to the rumble of thunder balls. They tried lust but it was no good. I raised an animal on pure liquid gold. I can’t connect yet to the time-belt. I bought a death but it wouldn’t fit my circumstances. She is still pushed through the aqueous membrane that separates lost worlds. It wasn’t yet an official joke policy. She smashed up a bottle of hoodoo wine. It was all over, over the top of a bottom, as they say. They were consummated daily in the name of goods and services.



The trench warriors have been miniaturised many times over the decades. The Father warned us about dinosaur stories. They got down in the ferns, and found a sleeper. Foul smells. She danced across that bridge in a cloud of steam. Achtung, fraulein! Someone had chalked about their desire for ‘Sabrina’ (sic). I flew through the rain over the twinkling suburbs. You retro-engineered your childhood for this? Hands wandered like spiders in a moonscape.



They saw no commercial application for his appliance. His TV licenced slaughter through laughter. People in the next room were reciting parts of The Daily Mail. Woodsmoke refreshes the secret parts. In the hiss of night, foxes yelped at each other. Anybody got a new angle on the patriarchy? Our neurons fought like cosmic worms.  Half a pint and you’re anybody’s but nobody wants you. The bird overshadowed him, demanded its space and fatter food. Nanotechs won’t rebuild anyone anytime now.



He repeated that sex was fairy gold. Inwardly I was hiding from the inevitable ripeness of death. Outside the circle, the creatures rumbled on iron wheels. I lay back in the leather chair, overwhelmed by a huge wad of foul-smelling damp fabric. As the gondola picked up speed I began to bray. He’d traded all his tricks for a cloud of dust. I like my vintage sex-machinery. I am contacting the ninth sphere.



Sunlight spills over the keyboard. A world full of oil - and fools. The future wouldn't stop twisting the night  away. We all come out of the woodwork sooner or later. Munchkins of death surround you. The glass won’t stop trembling. Feel the blood pressure, feel good. Welcome to my bungalow. It’s the last night of the bums.



Over their heads, they heard a thick gurgle in the pipework.  That night a creeping laziness prevented me from organising my parts of speech. Astral leakage? I recognise it by the odour.  A silvery bullet was lodged in his corpus calleosum.  She could hardly get out of the chair without a faint cry. It was a person of gender. When he looked again, the phlogiston had all disappeared.  Just wobble along like a good chap.



The woods are alive with insects. The sight of the removal van terrified him. Finally Katie was paraded through the atrium to venomous applause. That man smells of old money.  So many friends reduced to ash.  Yet I stand before you,  penetrated by cosmic radiation. State-Specific Sciences will salve your soul. The ministers are seeking my job again. No time for the bubbling of fools.



Thanks for accepting me. Let’s go back to the Moon. So I am so wired up and down. He fuck around all day, so they tell me.  The storyline was drawn out of him with cries of agony. Five cards were spread across the burning deck. His face was a mass of molecules. We are going to pay the full price of our good intentions. The operative tells us we’re all through here.










Works by Paul A. Green include The Gestaltbunker - Selected Poems (Shearsman Books, 2012), two novels The Qliphoth (Libros Libertad, 2007)  and Beneath the Pleasure Zones (Mandrake, 2014) and Babalon and Other Plays (Scarlet Imprint, 2015).