A shape in the head that’s
angles don’t align with
shared normals. gives an
awkward gaze – sunlight given
out but slow though the
intake is similar – it won’t
feel familiar- I observe you
from outside much like I imagine you
observe me & knife fights
floating and bumping sniffling noses (and now fingers) dodge
a fin, the underwater sun’s
Not one of us cats could see!
(nous portions des S.G. à la nuit tombée?)
the non-deep &dark light
blue of the firmament
firmly meant that god is
love amongst other
(love and other Drags)
Give me an idol’s death
& woman’s purpose
Let no one fully see my surplus
Except for Him & all his worthless
creatures under stone can’t hurt us
How many more malignant murmurs?
I paused the Simpsons Treehouse of Horror (VII) episode right at the start whilst I got up to make a drink.
When I came back I realised that it was at the perfect frame of the cartoon in that it’s Homer accidentally lighting his hand/arm on fire whilst trying to light a jack o’lantern – his face was frozen on his own hand on fire, eyes transfixed, but with pursed and perusing lips that were wholly unassuming and unaware of the blunder as of yet. The split-second manifesting moment of the man captured and natural hilarity deftly distilled (by MG).
People laugh when they catch a friend in a similar (if a little less serious; but maybe not!) mishap caused by self-tension ruffling reality – that edged moment of transformative realisation on their face is priceless! (this blog not being to butcher and blur)
The Simpsons, however, is only real nature in the most fleeting of forms – it’s a cartoon, an expression emanating out the end of old Groening’s pen with which he tricks and tears fabrics – he knows time and timing and its most effeminate effect on the human body-soul complex. And I didn’t even like The Simpsons as a kid – it’s brilliant!
Now, regarding my rambling writings and pretentious poems, each word should, by the reader, be swung-on to get to the next and never hung-on too tightly – callousness can be a quite consciencious crowbar in the consciousness toolbox, so catch it.
Watch words, they are ever devices and are therefore never what they are.
If you want to learn to write, just clarify and wait until your mind is doing things (e.g. making certain comparisons) that you once thought were completely (and eternally?) impossible and then hold that fold of fading impossibility so that it still hangs into your perspective and force yourself to refer things to paper through the pen from this floating and pure-white platform of controlled insanity. (also be systematically seeking to see the
Drugs are not necessarily necessary – read Rimbaud repeatedly!!!
This is nothing but a code for the pure alchemy of the manifestation of real magic and so serves as an expoundment as to why people like Elton John (not even to mention MG) are massive!
They are high-priest wizard shamen sent to make sure we have a good time and fucking relax!
I got a god complex
about seven miles wide
Careful, you’ll fall straight through
if you look me in the eyes
My sins are like salt left
where the tide was dried
But somewhere along the way
I don’t know what I’ve imbibed
Somewhere along the way
God knows that I’ve died
Yet I look down here and
I’m twitching alive
All you atheist fuckers that think you’re alive
Bringing down debates you don’t
know with pride
You do believe in Heaven
– you shot it up into the sky
You still believe in Heaven
You hope you’re going when you die
You can’t see that you did
So you went and told your kids
But you shot it to the sky
You think you’re going
when you die
But it’s pie in the sky
Apple pie? mmm my favourite
But that’s by the by
I lost track of where I’m going but
that’s by the by,
it’s made it a laugh – I think
Your attention is a draught that I drink
probably could do better but
this will do – I’m knackered, it’s
late, I’m writing this from the motherland, Africa and
its fucking late and the
Sun has caned down on my
shoulders all day and Africa’s
a mad place, got chatting to some natives today, covered with sand) and they
told me the mad fucking
big butterfly that landed on my
leg was an auspicious sign
and I buzzed off that as it
buzzed off me
what? butterflies don’t buzz, that’s
bees…. fuck it I’m going to
bed… I’m already in bed…
Christ I’m tired and this
pen makes me weirdly wired
– those guys also loved rap
but only as of recent – they
buzzed off “Fuck Tha Police”
which I told them was old but
they have only had four years
since their revolution in this particular
country, before which you couldn’t
say “fuck tha police”
or you’d be taken away, astray
for no more bright hot days
and cokes and ashtrays – they
loved me because I could say what
I could say and live to see the next day
(the midnight oil’s really coming out now..)
– also the main one was
called “Mr. Paradise” which
I though was sick after
old jack and all that.
A pleasant evening to you.
I’m starting to doubt the spelling of
words that are deffo spelt
right so good night,
a pleasant evening to you.
If you think that you love Person A more than Person B, you are wrong. There can be no increase or decrease in love, it is our basal existence (the base of everything in the universe that could be said to exist!) You have merely created reasons (subconscious or not) for your love of Person B to have become convoluted and distorted.
This is even the case with people we say that we hate, that’s why it doesn’t feel at all nice or wholesome to hate someone – no matter what – they are a reflection of the exact quality of love that you project outwardly in the world. Like in Bill Hicks’ (typically subversive yet hilariously astute) comedic impression about the unlikelihood of ever seeing a ‘positive’ drug story on televised news;
“Today a young man on acid realised that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, that there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here’s Tom with the weather!”
– so it could be said that when you say that you hate someone, you’re declaring contempt for something that is, at the root of everything, you. Every single little thing that you can possibly experience is a mere reaction in your own nervous system – or a ‘sense’, it is never a separate entity existing outside the bits of your experience that you normally choose to identify with. When you have realised this, you have realised truth and your life’s fuel is then the orgasmic effervescence of sun-fire.
The ice blue cool sway
of breath from my bones on the brightest day,
as backwards sycamore, spinning
Back, back up to the branch and Beyond,
a hem of syncopation fluffs and frays in a flourish
and betrays the un-synergetic singularity of craft and cause,
Creator and creation meet and are one and always have been.