Smashing.

The bottom of
my boots
sandwich pack,
decorated for Halloween
on the front with pumpkins,
when I picked up the last
piece revealed a word.
“Smashing!” it goofily
shouted up to me
rubbishly.
Now this is a reference, intended or not,
to the band The Smashing Pumpkins –
but what the fuck has nineties
indie-pop music to do with a sandwich?

Money-making companies
arrogantly take infinite license,
more so than any poet, and
for what?
The sandwich was
fairly bland and didn’t
feel that good for
me I thought as
the big black bin bag
swallowed up all this
bullshit, even he will
eventually rape our mother
though.

(Would you could if you should?) I wood.

A holy kaj swept suddenly down from heaven
and through my face, identifying
itself (to me?) through perfect
demonstrative description.
It said:
“there are shimmery aspects
of our experience that sometimes
make us want to turn away from our
very own lives – these feelings of the far-flung
fibrils fighting are when Brahman is
talking to you – if you can harness
such energies and try to sew them
up into a backbone column of pure
and purifying light (that, if you
remember properly, is not yours)
then this radiance will cast its glow
upon the events of your existence.
Only in this capacity can God be said
to exist – when it’s in the heart of us,
if you renounce him without due
care you are placing high and holy
aspects of your own nature outside
of your own conscious reach – so do
the opposite, learn and come to
know time!”

Are you yet to know the lily that
when it opens has everything in?
All of our problems are caused by
the people who go around thinking
this whole world is hard, when really
everything is the ether. Like when
you look up outside.
Sociable innocence is boring as hell
– why do you think I’m so bloody
parenthetical?!
քաջ

Illustration by someone called Adelaide Tyrol. (!). Sorry, couldn’t find a link, got this lovely drawing off a blog post about how the greater grey tree fox of midwestern America or something is in some sort of peril or other or something other along those ponderables at least and that’s all incidental so it’s all ever going to be anyone’s guess really ahspose

(Coloured?) Vinyl.

I love it when
music becomes a
deeper and more rich
hue of whatever shade that
it always was
– it happens after deep
and prolonged listening
on which you sink into
the sweet eye-of-the-needle
unfolding out of each
(and the whole one)
present moment of
an enjoyed sound.
As a slight to the side if you will,
Hermann and
Siddhartha are there to tell you
whether or not
your
intention
on such
rivers
is right,
but if you can, try not
to look at the little
dot on the line if you’re
on digital devices
because songs are always
more and more and more
than this –
if you’ve got a record on, on the other hand,
the circular movement
will give you a visual
better suited for sonic
unfolding.
(Pops one on)As the wave laced
plastic surges ’round and round and (around and)
past and right under and on the point of tin the
product blooms and is plumed and proved.
The I sits sunken upon
the gait of the music
through the gate witch is the moment (amongst other things)
and meanders with the
melody, curing blind
and blistered blackened alleys
and shifting shadey shades that may return
with shifted shapes.
(And) when you’re right
down there in the fibres
of whatever you and all
this are ..just smile and
breathe.
One session of loved
(and lazy?) <- maybe not?
learning like this is worth
thousands of
school trajectories, it
will integrate and assuage
the haughty ineptitudes
of the latter so that
each day you can be
more and more and more than
the quivering mess
that you are.
(Chillin'.
..haha no I can't just say that at the end of a poem..ohfuckbutit'sridiculous.)