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Excerpt:
The drink tastes like earth – flashes of swamp tar and rotting bark. When it sits in his stomach Johnny feels his senses untangle:
___The clearing glows and grows silent… lotuses swell pure white with golden stems… sky drifts through myriad of colors, distant and
kaleidoscopic, and blacks out…
___The oyabun sings a song in Japanese tradition with rusted vocals… ground is soft soil is warm… “For to be free of everything but
your own thought process, leave body and brain dangling from an idle cord”… with numb, blank eyes, Johnny feels the oyabun press
another wooden cup to his lips… cold water ruses down the throat brings Johnny back to world with new pristine visage…
A dreamy air rushes over them like fog from a harbor… Johnny finds himself walking Chinatown streets with overcast eyes – paper-
thin windows lit spectral red, tendrils screaming down from the dusk (sky) to lick the ground –
___Streets dripping halogenous and running off the frame, revealing (space) at his feet, neon screens skeletal in the (sky),
architecture ignited and glowing hot blue like laboratory flames. Time runs jagged like cut-up film and the building glow burns out like
an overcharged light bulb. I am alone in this city as I am alone in my head –
___Johnny calls out to the void, his own voice coming back to him in a feedback loop with a reverberated edge that feels less than
human. Words grow exponentially in sound, blanketing (space) – materializing as flesh erected around him like a cage – tremors –
walls that move like lungs – holes in the (air) emitting static – time passes, irrelevant – static focuses like portraits decayed, his eyes
starting to fail – I have left only my feelings – and I realize that senses are and have always been as irrelevant as time –
___I exhale myself and tune to your frequency, (sky) – Johnny’s eyes shut and open in blinding clarity – lips grow and speak: “Every
perception is a lie. The world is computer code – you are a microprocessor. Walls all cloaked by illusion.”
___He ricochets through several frames of the film he believed, up until now, was his life, but which is apparently a construct, built by
divine (?) hands, a piece of artwork with characters, a mental ejaculation, a (fabrication) –
The drink tastes like earth – flashes of swamp tar and rotting bark. When it sits in his stomach Johnny feels his senses untangle:
___The clearing glows and grows silent… lotuses swell pure white with golden stems… sky drifts through myriad of colors, distant and
kaleidoscopic, and blacks out…
___The oyabun sings a song in Japanese tradition with rusted vocals… ground is soft soil is warm… “For to be free of everything but
your own thought process, leave body and brain dangling from an idle cord”… with numb, blank eyes, Johnny feels the oyabun press
another wooden cup to his lips… cold water ruses down the throat brings Johnny back to world with new pristine visage…
A dreamy air rushes over them like fog from a harbor… Johnny finds himself walking Chinatown streets with overcast eyes – paper-
thin windows lit spectral red, tendrils screaming down from the dusk (sky) to lick the ground –
___Streets dripping halogenous and running off the frame, revealing (space) at his feet, neon screens skeletal in the (sky),
architecture ignited and glowing hot blue like laboratory flames. Time runs jagged like cut-up film and the building glow burns out like
an overcharged light bulb. I am alone in this city as I am alone in my head –
___Johnny calls out to the void, his own voice coming back to him in a feedback loop with a reverberated edge that feels less than
human. Words grow exponentially in sound, blanketing (space) – materializing as flesh erected around him like a cage – tremors –
walls that move like lungs – holes in the (air) emitting static – time passes, irrelevant – static focuses like portraits decayed, his eyes
starting to fail – I have left only my feelings – and I realize that senses are and have always been as irrelevant as time –
___I exhale myself and tune to your frequency, (sky) – Johnny’s eyes shut and open in blinding clarity – lips grow and speak: “Every
perception is a lie. The world is computer code – you are a microprocessor. Walls all cloaked by illusion.”
___He ricochets through several frames of the film he believed, up until now, was his life, but which is apparently a construct, built by
divine (?) hands, a piece of artwork with characters, a mental ejaculation, a (fabrication) –
Description: Literary Fiction, Urban Surreal;
A picaresque movement in a nameless city. An America engaged in a propaganda-
war, determined to clog drug-flow from the Netherlands and the rubble of a broken
city on the opposite shore of the Atlantic. The youth who dream in the face of
nightmares, who explore themselves with chemicals with sad paint with jail cells with
institutions with a belief in something bigger than the flesh that holds them and
strong to the constant symphony of junky poetics, melancholy.
Review quotes:
Asphalt Flowerhead fits nicely into the mental-work category. It’s not like a book at all, but a
combination of sci-fi outer space films and the latest video-games realities that step off the screen
and pull you into their worlds.... When you start reading fasten your irreality-belt and get ready
for a never-before mind-space voyage!
~ Small Press Review
There aren't many writers, apart from Milton and Dante, who have such energy and invention,
and ease of execution. This novel is tremendous, virtuosic and beautiful. Forrest Armstrong has
vast talent.
~ Tom Bradley
Author comment:
“I like to think I have reached a state where I can observe the world from a detached location,
somewhere near the clouds. I write surrealism because I think in the abstract we are closest to
truth. Everything divine is surreal. I make enough money to get to whatever comes next but no
more. I am writing to give you all I have felt, and nothing else - I am a vehicle and I am trying to
bring my visions to the world, however I can.”
~ Forrest Armstrong
A picaresque movement in a nameless city. An America engaged in a propaganda-
war, determined to clog drug-flow from the Netherlands and the rubble of a broken
city on the opposite shore of the Atlantic. The youth who dream in the face of
nightmares, who explore themselves with chemicals with sad paint with jail cells with
institutions with a belief in something bigger than the flesh that holds them and
strong to the constant symphony of junky poetics, melancholy.
Review quotes:
Asphalt Flowerhead fits nicely into the mental-work category. It’s not like a book at all, but a
combination of sci-fi outer space films and the latest video-games realities that step off the screen
and pull you into their worlds.... When you start reading fasten your irreality-belt and get ready
for a never-before mind-space voyage!
~ Small Press Review
There aren't many writers, apart from Milton and Dante, who have such energy and invention,
and ease of execution. This novel is tremendous, virtuosic and beautiful. Forrest Armstrong has
vast talent.
~ Tom Bradley
Author comment:
“I like to think I have reached a state where I can observe the world from a detached location,
somewhere near the clouds. I write surrealism because I think in the abstract we are closest to
truth. Everything divine is surreal. I make enough money to get to whatever comes next but no
more. I am writing to give you all I have felt, and nothing else - I am a vehicle and I am trying to
bring my visions to the world, however I can.”
~ Forrest Armstrong
| $15.50 CDN 148 pp. ISBN 978-0-9810117-7-6 |
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| $12.40 |