Previously on Delfina: Pierrot and Delfina are stuck in Dapto, and to make matters slightly worse, Deija, the Martian Princess of Glass, has arrived with her battle fleet, armed with infrared energy weapons. They’re burning Dapto to the ground. Meanwhile, Delfina is chatting on the phone in a foreign language. The previous episode is here.
She turned to me.
“That was Deija. She’s apologised
and invited us to her Dapto castle-warming
Delfina and the newly-pseudo human known as Pierrot are on their way to Dapto in Delfina’s trans-reality transport, a junkyard Plymouth, which gets from A to B by successively crossing to timelines where the Plymouth is closer to B. The previous episode is here.
The park left us beside a dirt track,
gravel flowed like a river,
the vines covering the Plymouth wilted,
rolling hills rippled and roiled,
eroded into scrubland.
And when the scenery stopped,
we were in Dapto,
in someone’s backyard.
Previously on Delfina: to escape the apocalypse, the unnamed protagonist allowed himself to be buried in sephine, and became somewhat translucent. He went with Delfina to the Menai, where they found her trans-reality cruiser, a junkyard Plymouth Satellite. The previous episode is here.
Delfina was in the driver’s seat.
“Do you have a name?”
Apparently, Delfina didn’t know everything.
“My name is unimportant,”
I sighed, “It gives me no pleasure,
and I’ve found no consolation in living.
I serve no purpose in the world,
and I’ve noticed that the Plymouth
has no wheels, for steering
In an unsatisfactory narrative sequence, the forgettable protagonist, who is alone even in his dreams, realized he could hear the motor that turns the universe through timelines. A while later, an apocalypse came along, and the humanoid Delfina told him it would be best if she buried him alive in sephine.
We’d escaped the alien mechanisms,
their aleatoric annihilation of all life,
and reached a stretch of cratered
parkland at the Menai.
In a pendant past, still waiting to become, my dreams were ever wandering in a lifeless land: the high night of suburbia, where the homes were anthracite compressed from smoke, and the streets all ran with bitumen, flowing over aeons to Nocturnia.
Steve Simpson lives in Sydney, and he’s never been able to work out exactly what he does, although he would probably feed the cat if he had one. His poems and stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies, and he’s signed with Meerkat Press to produce a two-volume set in early 2022: poetry and short stories, both with artworks.
In the visual arts, works created with his image evolution software have been shown at several exhibitions, and he recently developed a unique system for generating art from mental states via EEG (brainwaves).
In the sciences, he’s published over 200 research papers, most recently in clinical neurology, and awards include the Peter Doherty Innovation Prize, for WeldPrint™, technology to make vehicles safer. A monograph, “Physics without Butterflies,” is hidden in the mists of the future, and he likes wood ducks, doesn’t everyone? In the ether underworld, he sometimes calls himself @inconstantlight.
The city has no interest in my breathing, it contaminates my lungs with anti-air, infuses them with vacuum.
Yet, should I leave this wretchedness, to find a place where burnt-out cars are overgrown with vines, where the breeze blows allergens and dust, and determined insects seek comfort in my flesh, my heart would be tormented.
More about Ablative Promenade II here. The Promenades are best viewed in VHD or UHD full screen, and they have soundtracks.
A while back, I thought that Ether was the luminiferous and invisible substance that filled all of the universe, and my idea of cryptic currency dealings was putting a coin in a machine, pressing buttons, and no cup of coffee appearing. Now I think that non-fungible tokens (NFTs) might be edible if you cook them with pasta.