Saturday, September 27, 2014


MK 5


I don’t build in order to have clients. I have clients in order to build.

The Fountainhead


Suffering Lady Passenger:


Saturday, June 31, 1936, Avondale Sun

Say I won't- why y'all scared to be different?
Say I won't- why y'all scared to be different?
Say I won't- we them outsiders, that's just how we live it
Say I won't say I won’t and I bet I will

JUNE 24, 2014: 9:29 AM
They circle the six chairs, the sacrificial anodes of copper-two preserved, velvet, thousand and fifty and fifty million.
Enslaved to ritual, bondage will cease.
Only an architect would kill himself in his work to preserve his work forever.

airtight- extremely desirable.
Anodyne- inoffensive; painkilling.
Aviators- glasses.
Galiouse- Turkish and Syrian cigar.
Iron Horse- popular movie in the Twenties.
Park Ward- coachbuilder for Rolls Royce.
With a blue flame- drunk.

relational, interdependent to an excessive degree
pagans worshipping trees
but they been cut down, see
but they’re blind to their worthless as-of-eternity

they think the answer’s an undefended three
in such similar to you and me
but it’s as-of-imaginary
to me they’re imaginary

as vanadium’s to them
that’s almost forty-one and ten
the manual tells them to begin procedure self-deception

the gun’s still smoking
they’ll never ascend
to where they did, in fact, begin

JUNE 29, 1923: 2: 44 PM
Wooden die thump a wooden board. A man sees through the darkness. And laughs He reaches into a bowl and red liquid coats his body.

Mr. Gail Wynand, a luxury hotel mogul, and Mr. Thomas Scient, the leader of a Tiberian cult which practices human sacrifice through the removal of one organ per day, starting with the gradual removal of the entire brain, over approximately seven months.

NEW YORK, NEW YORK: JUNE 29, 1923, 6:43 PM
The brass radio fills the room with “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers”. He been on and off the desk with his feet doing nothing really when the phone rings.
The door swishes open and he secrets the Aviators with a tiny swish.
“Mr. Scient, please sit…” A proper businessman’s shake.
“Thank you, Mr. Wynand. It’s an honor.”
“Say”, Wynand says, “Have a Galouise?” The ashtray’s platinum. The sun tickles the blinds, the desk. Nineteen-twenties modern architecture and the desk weighed a fucking ton.
He did. Wynand’s green eyes held no light no soul no emotion.
“The construction of my hotel requires the relocation of the altar.”
“Yes, Mr. Wynand- I recommend a slight translation. It’s airtight.  Just fifty-one feet east… My men have further details. This will both preserve the shrine and support Sunlight- many pilgrims from considerable distances. I could persuade them to stay at Sunlight.”
The businessman leans. He twists his fingers and squishes the cigar near its used edge while his breath whites the air.
“Mr. Scient, is that all?” A line showed Wynand’s age: fifty?
Scient gives him four hundred grand. “To cover redrafting costs.” Another five hundred- “For you. My men will send you their blueprint and the full brief. It will accommodate to the last doorknob. Another five hundred g when it’s done, plus loans, if needed-“
“This hotel is to be for clients of the upper class. I don’t need any fuckers skipping about with wands and bunnies. Where’d you get blueprints?” Wynand said.
The room smells perfection and the room smells of booze, their suits creased by smoke. Scient’s tie is a thick scarlet.
Scient grins and fingers his chin. “When do you believe you will leave here?”
“Nine.” Wynand’s eyes twist green and blue. He grins.
“Mr. Wynand, you oppose the supernatural forever.” Wynand’s tie appears unworn.
He stares at him and feels the skinny sight of a pistol. worn by rain and
He tosses the money. Lights them and throws the gold-dipped match. Ashes fill the air. Within, Sunlight’s middle elevator moves… A dash of white, another, for the departed. Tea in the corner.
“Mr. Wynand, you will not step from this building.” Scient marched toward the elevator and waved to the secretary.

MAY 29, 1934
A Rolls Royce betrays moonlight. Grass near the road sleeps and wobbles.
“The ruin of the human heart is self-interest, which the American merchant calls self-service….” The radio droned. In a white room a man with a pointed hood from head to toe and in burning white and with white gloves stacked cubes of blood four rows ten high and one row eleven high and waited about a minute and ate them all but when he looked the man had no eyes or mouth or skin.

Published by and for the people of Keating City
From Park Place St to Boardwalk St, a massive fire and many explosions occurred. The catastrophe lasted from 6: 27 to 3:51. The APD has declared an estimate of approximately 3,000 deaths and over 4,000 injuries. Over 500 perrsons have been declared missing.
Numerous celebrities died in the disaster. Gail Wynand, the man renowned for supporting visionary progressive-luxury    architects, died yesterday, June 29. Doctors proclaimed Wynand dead on the scene, at 6:44 PM. Three consecutive lightning strikes struck the Wynand Building (at the intersection of Allison Rd and Ogel Rd). Witnesses say the entire block combusted and exploded approximately 50 minutes following the lightning strikes.
“Never seen such lightning. Never seen so much on fire, so much exploding, so much blood, people everywhere dead. Then the fire crews came in, and the cops,” says Deb Amanda, a bartender working at the Sen’s Bar nearby the Wynand building. Other eyewitnesses mentioned intense darkness just before the lightning began. Telephones no longer worked, one witness who preferred to remain anonymous mentioned.  No physical damage to phone lines in the vicinity has been confirmed.
Numerous Good Samaritans helped save lives during   the explosions and lightning, and also in its aftermath. “Standing there. Standing, the lightning and the fire started in the Wynand building”, says Jose Alonso, a taxi driver. “They [injured or dead persons] were just lying there in the road”, says Alonso, saved the lives of over 15 individuals.
The NYPD announced plans to award Alonso and other local heroes, including Rex Aresh, who will star in tomorrow’s paper.                                                                                             
The NYPD is investigating   the strange occurrence. Chief Officer Rex Shera declined to comment, aside from mentioning a scheduled conference on an undecided date.
Only one man in the Wynand building, Thomas Scient, known as the leader of a cult originating in Tibet in the 1300s, survived the disaster. Witnesses say he entered the building at approximately 5:30.
The Iron Star’s staff extends their heart to anyone who has lost family or loved ones in the tragedy. If you have any information, please call (317)-587-917.


They read the paper around fires and ratty dentist’s offices and they find the typo and laugh at the dead. One man’s dog needs a bath.
a.       For stepping within a mile of a man who loved his job.
They read the paper and they laugh because they don’t see
They don’t BREATHE

6:34, MAY 29, 1934
The clock stood. Had they allowed themselves to fucking reason. He flicked the pen and rotated it in his palm. He kept his office pure white, which took three full-time jobs to clean. The pens were also white. He had one other man who drafted.

Why should this seem so startling? There is only one kind of men who have never been on strike in human history…except the men who have carried the world on their shoulders, have kept it alive, have endured torture as sole payment…This is the strike of the men of the mind…This is the mind on strike.
Atlas Shrugged
AUGUST 21, 1920
He sat near the window sometimes to catch the right sort of light. His right hand formed a thick line perpendicular the foundation which would stretch fifty stories.
He imagined rain cascading over the spires and neon and argon lights, and the garages, and the gardener’s shed.
His head snapped, blood tossed the walls.

1:51 AM, SUNDAY, JUNE 29, 1924
Park Ward Rolls from the UK, spare on the right side.
Rain found no window leaks. It suffocated, thick, cool as the Baltic. Its motion would jarred her. The vehicle slowed under hands gloved, over fresh cement and asphalt. The Spirit of Ecstasy pure platinum.
 “Yes, John, it’s Sandra, for once.” She hadn’t had him in three months. He’d find some cause of avoidance. After the Iron Horse!
John opened her door, coach. It was new. The veneer to the umbrella she felt. Having used a… She gathered the dress of black chiffon attached to her body. The corners of her mouth numb- and the shoes clicked. An umbrella guided her toward the palace to man, the Sunlight Hotel. She noted the red and yellow and purple flowers and their green roots.  The walls ascended as steady glamour. They ascended through the stars.
A man in scarlet, his skin flaking and pale, his eyes a strong blue. “Could we provide you something, Mrs. Lakes?”
She strode in public, but there was no flash of cameras. The doors may have been two stories. More social lions weaved through the lobby, no touch of Hollywood, for they would not have stood for it. Gold bound every edge. Windows mounted walls. The couch a blue flame. She saw through smoke and the puff of every cigarette and every cigar. The plaques informed. A letter from Benjamin Franklin rendering electricity man’s greatest potential; an Elizabethan inkwell; a stylus from Washington. Mantes carpet on the floor, the fountainheads present, ego manifest. Lord Babbage’s third clacking computational machine, from the Industrial Revolution. She bumped a man carting handkerchiefs and cigars. She noticed then the others in the lobby.
A stuffed owl flew when lightning flashed. Her heart beat and the palace ignored them.  A great building will; a shack will bow when empty.
Storms here were rare, and this was the worst of it, they said, and they apologized.  Moving about, a man offered Blood and Sand from out East.

The room shrunk!
“The weather is horrid, Mrs. Lakes- for the last three months it has rained every day. The day the hotel opened…”
“What’s more?” The half-circle’s carved platinum hand showed the floor number.
“The day Mr. Wynand died, this storm began.” Hmm. She noticed her reflection in the shoes George just bought her for their second.  No one offered to wipe them of water!
Shake of thunder. She gripped a thin gold banister. “I presume you would not prefer the stairs? The maintenance should be fine, if you wouldn’t mind it.”
“Of course. Fifty-one floors is too much to walk”- A bolt shatters the mirrors. She screams. Theelectricitywelledwithinher

THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1934
It was the five hundred and tenth alteration to the draft that day; in the bathroom in the lobby and the presidential suite’s bedsheets and.
He imagined how air would blow the just under the comforter bedsheet into the air if a throned spirit threw it upward and a hooded figure in white emerged and strangled THE NAKED MAN of twenty and his mind became the white of the sheet and also because that white. A hand and a half. <SKULL>
He thought of how the droplets walked down the frosted glass pane when he flicked water against them, in the shower.
He craved saffron. His name was <<< MR. GEORGE R. T. A. SAFFREY>>> and he was the architect of the Sunlight Hotel until he shot a bullet through his temple and spent the next five or so years in an asylum by which the hotel had been redesigned to include an additional balcony from the presidential suite which already had three of them and it also ruined the entire fucking exterior. He considered this marching in the dark.
The hooded figure convulses in the sheets, and becomes the sheets, and moves no longer.
He opens the door.

SUNDAY, 2: 43 AM, JUNE 29, 2014
Once enslaved to substance, bondage will end.
the motions of liquid pierce you.
the mustang stumbles at thirty. engine whines.the lightning jolts mary.
you skid. You see the trees near and try roll off the road.
em screams wet dots on your shoulder em screams
the lights purple, you do a line two hands long
nothing works. the wind throws the car against a tree which falls and your skull burns. you dip into the hole and you see your face shattered glass down bush’s throat. he spit blood. his head dents the roof.
they’re gates; he could see hardly through the rain, his thoughts. gun weighted his right side. kick down gates. It started all an hour ago, sir!
he saw it. he only saw moonlight walk there. the tower emerged under miles of vine and ivy. the car’s totaled. if he had the car- he pulled the maglite from his backpack. lightning. rain sucked oxygen. the car destroyed. he his neck bled and his arm bent. lightning throws his pulse. he was deaf? the storm choked him against a wall of water. he sist under the tree.          he awoke wetter shaking. water reached his knees. he left his pants shoes and socks.
he pushed through the vines and reached a swimming pool. at least five years. Sunlight waited; the main stood on the other side. He didn’t need a grand entrance he needed in!
Red light flooded the boiler room. Heaves and tugs of behemoth machine.
Does the telephone still work, Sam?  white flash from a solitary blade. grass covers the road, and vegetation covers every building.
his clothes weighed a hundred pounds, and he was a lightning rod. walk run you look wet
seen through his mind’s fog, vines crushed the gardener’s shed. he would sleep in the penthouse. water sloshed against his calves.
lightning.  pull off your shirt and breathe through it. he took it off and wrung it out and put it back on. machinery snaps and bangs, red glowing.
It’s crashed, you see, it’s hit the bottom, and they were inside, sir,
His eyes began to adjust. He threw the broken flashlight. This room beat the hotel’s heart. Sorted pots, pipes, gauges, catwalks secured the room. He noticed the smell of warm metal and burned flesh. The lightning had reached the lobby. He just needed to wait out for six, get Jse up here, run throu gh the rest of it. Nobody even know he’d here. Ford out.
The Goliath pillars ignored theoretical limits. They touched the fifty-first floor.  The remnants of a great hotel abandoned but incorrupt? A patch of wind stroked his hair.
He could breathe. Maybe his clothes would dry. Valuables filled the palace. An index of the stock index on June 29, 1924 lay on the front desk. Forty right there, once the market clears.
He’d never been in an old elevator, and besides, he could take the penthouse, two grand then, free now. Twenty-seven a night future. The lift     rejoiced. His lungs relaxed. The chairs around the tables, the couches thick and smoky, and the generator humming still.
Since Wynand, they said it hadn’t stopped storming. His ears leaked rain. The chairs clean, the couches clean and tear-free, the carpet spotless, with no sign of a vacuum.
He brushed against the elevator door. pick the middle one of the five. the middle one’s never down for repair.
The doors open and you step inside. Notice the tasdf to top dial with fifty floors. An arrow hand appears drops down the floors.
You look out before the doors shut. A thinned presence holds the smoking room, with brown hair.
an electric crevasse sharps and splits. still got the eagle.
what nigga got them fingers in and out? of a plane? 
you hit the floor, dip with a mokga haven’t dipped in days that snuff. you stand at the top of the shaft and fall
floors and impaled by a cow catcher.  you cling against the banisters- they collapse. see the face of a fresh draft, see an architect’s eyes, see the blood toss the walls. gravity flips twice and blood everywhere aths dots dot’s. where are you? the elevator boils. you’re in the milky way. a time bomb detonates. you’re seeing planes on the dash. you’re seeing planes and they crash into
 towers.i know there are no no nk takes new york the beautiful and burns. “get in” it falls upright. Nigga you you in rev qerjhio erse. your knowledge melts. Triple hell. a feminine hand extends to you.
you take it. a black hole destroys you; your eyes roll to darkness. you raise the gun to your head and fire. you laugh because it’s useless. sit down and scream in the lobby fetal position. none of t qwjerkl; all notice, because you’ve never left. the elevator’s always been on floor fifty-one.

somebody with a red tie willed another to pieces they saw him saw him a prayer and lightning surged. windows shattered he fell. through and rose to the fifty second.
The shudder of chill and the warmed breath of invention that smelled like green.

THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1934
The pull of mediocrity anodyne but to him, vapor sweats the edges, and he sees the white sheet punched by air rise into a hooded figure in the presidential suite.
his shoes meet thick carpet. his breath slows. opens a door and walks into the maintenance room. he switches a lever and walks through the door frame. he closes it. he walks across the carpet saddened by the neglect. they had robbed him of everything. He feels the middle elevator and pushes the button. The doors open. He pushes number fifty-one.
Only an architect would kill himself in his work to preserve his work forever.

An architect lusting recognition achieved it on June 29, 1924. He devoted his life to his masterwork- in the afterlife.
An addict achieved satisfaction- on June 29, 2014. He devoted his afterlife to preserving another’s perfection.
Progress and faith merge.

Smile of farewell. Once, they had been a promise, and from the midst of the stagnant sloth around they were vanishing quietly into a veil of fog, with the faint breath of a glow behind them, with a few lights like a her she had looked to them for proof that another kind of men existed. Now she knew that they were tombstones, slender obelisks soaring in memory of the men who had been destroyed for having them, they were the frozen shape of the silent cry that the reward of achievement was martyrdom.
The Fountainhead (p. 821, edited)

X greater than or equal to 51

The air conditioning off, he collapsed.
A line stretched, another, they blurred. He slept and woke. The blueprints, schematics rose. He slept and woke.
They’ll never care about you. Just your mind, your work
He would maintain it forever.
Heflipped thedesk- the chair and glass clapped. He palmed his scalp and knelt then collapsed ringing in his ears ringing in his ears glass. Shards of glass. SPLICE 24.99
“Mr. Leofold?” he closed his eyes no one there
The message unified, his guilt doubled yet freed and his walk freed- His crucificiton defined salvation. The music beat and the light beats,
The music stopped. Wasn’t that, can you-
The faces denied him to the effect of inherited hatred and inexistence, every person or group an island.
Her, her  face fell into his mind
he stroked the hair the strands of  slit velvet and her eyes red and shattered.

Kickstarts(Bar 9 Remix)- Example. Speculative connotations.
6 Foot 7 Foot- Lil Wayne.