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The Oracle - Psyence Fiction Vignettes

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The Oracle Vignettes

Demon terrorists, drug warriors, robot butterflies, virtual reality brainwashing, alien television and memetic drugs. All debris of an unfinished novel; The Oracle' is a collection of short science fiction poems written and designed by Tim Parish.

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Last night I heard consciousness whisper crude jukebox sonnets to an already subdued and lovesick dream, while in between the body slept with ancient purpose. Absurd in absent motion. Groping sculpted bedsheets with the thirst for intimacy. Primal as the moment of touch. Homesick for reality, warm and sweaty nights of tantric communism. Dreamlike but true. Never forever but long enough to seem, another dimension away.

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Tantra of the Elements

'Oceania' oil painting by Tim Parish

i understand the passage of the winds passing passion
and the cyclone's explosion below the equator's belt of earth,
i have felt the hurricane that bursts forth from the ocean above.
i know the whirlwinds lost in the cities deep valleys, intimately.
i have watched them dancing only with the leaves..
i have listened to them in my reflection.
i have been there too, lost within indecision,
pulled by the strings of desire,
torn by gravities which roar through this streetscape,
spirit funnelled through this corridoor of walls.

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The Only Revolution Left

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The Only Revolution Leftpicture for the article 'The City, I' poem by Miles Allinson
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Momentspoem from the article 'The City, I' by Miles Allinson
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"The City, I" by Miles Allinson

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The City, I title picture Car parks have always struck me as the saddest of places. Returning from cinemas, with our eyes attuned to the process of perceiving a two dimensional image, we are struck by the presence of the third dimension, by the real. Everything is heightened.

Listen> by Cassie Tongue

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listen point-click type here, press the ʻenterʼ key so loudly i can barely hear the voices screaming into mobile phones (no one cares that dinnerʼs at seven sharp and that heʼs late again, that cad) and i just want to scream rip the phone from your ear and throw it into an espresso machine.

Cloudburst> by Tim Parish

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t sipping


history lessons. red is for
passion. so love the body
though it may be costly

on the oxygen reserves.
nitrogen can be tricky
with finger-trap treaties.

reach back to days gone long
ago getting along in a fellowship
keep track record sing-songs.

fingertips and fragile lips
undeniable squares and hips
let things loose and slip.

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Travel song

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It reminds you

of those adolescent hobo

ways of seeing

to make meaning.


That traveling

breaks white ceilings

This year,

when the sanctuary box locks

out feeling.

That road ,

thumb stretched

out on seering trails,

of jungle crossed

with rocky modes.


I scream out of the bedroom

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