that letter next to x

Didn't even copy and paste it or erase it just typed it into the box
on the chalk board with dry fingers immaterial immemorial
after the chunk of dry air meat-rolled me

Didn't walk over out there. Hid on in there instead.
Behind anything that moves.
Strokes over cardigans
- fuzzy little ache
ache like a nondescript word
astronaut cosmonaut athletonaut grownasaur

jagged, , experiemental <---- cursor, repetition, self-awareness, embarrassment
the amount of times, the amount of times its already happened. To anyone to all.

Like a boulder, a sea of metaphors, sentences that just
. and again. because it gets nothing, more than nonsense and less than sense

a moment of deadness. a tick. the furthest thing from a river you can imagine.

actors playing with themselves, their characters' inside each other, dpusvitire and that.

c

No Thyself

'Borges represented the humanist view of media that stressed the social aspect of art driven by emotion'

What does this mean?
Do I agree with it?

why not write in ink?

... just some unedited thoughts scribbled on a flattened out sandwich box from a couple years back ...

Why not write in ink if the computer's always in the way? So many sensations to experience outside in physical world from spicy food to scented candles. Here even I used forms I've learned from media. The journalistic alliteration of 'from spicy to scented. Getting dizzy, getting cold, getting nervous, scared, excited. All better than fake light pushing into my eyes. Cold blue light which illuminates my page from white Microsoft Office. It guides my pen. Pen pen pen pen15. Immeasurable. We consume electronic entertainment because we are lazy. It seeps down our throats and we croon at the sweet humour honey. We don't listen, smell or breathe. Just cheat by jumping our minds with cables. Jump start the day with a YouTube million hitter and your set. Like the cock who interviewed me for that job at DARE. 'So which blogs do you follow?' 'Uh ... BBC News ... day in pictures' 'Ahhh, I have all my links feeding my blogosphere wank hall'. So all transient, ephemeral, trivial, uninspiring information comes straight to my desk and I spend the first 15 minutes ... ah, what a life. Who can live it? I mean properly LIVE IT? What do they run on? Lattes and megabytes. Football stats and Esquire. 'What all men must own' articles. It's scary. I know we're not supposed to judge. Not that. I'm making a personal rule not to judge. But sometimes, fuck. How? All I can think is ... poor souls. Where are there souls? Who keeps them? Which demon? An then there's straight up uncomplicated HEALTH. It's so simple. Don't smoke, don't drink, just drink smoothies and have sex. Cycles, drink water, eat fruit, drink soup, sleep a lot. Listen to music, live. Keep warm, keep laughing. Write or paint if you want to. Several is just a posh way of saying seven. Sing and dance as much as possible. Hug people properly. Be open and unafraid. Don't worry. Ever. Who can turn a 31 sided puzzle into a square? ALWAYS LEAVE SOME ROOM TO THINK.

shine

I suppose its just an anxiety to live within the world of thought.

It is of course possible to earn a living through one means and use your spare time to learn and engage intellectually with the world. Whether it is more, less, or equally fulfilling to do this I cannot say.

Noam Chomsky says real thinkers engage in 'the constant struggle to create a better world'

I don't accept the notion that we cannot create a better world. Relativism? Each-to-their-ownism? .... nah ...

I don't care if its for selfish reasons that one wants to be part of an intellectual circle or to understand the world better. I think its important. I think its important for those who can think to think properly. To question and grind up against the norm. There are many philosophical loops that will swing you out of the firing line of responsibility.

It is not that you have to actively convince others of another way but that you are aware that there is another way and that you think about it, learn about it, and respond to it in an intellectual and illuminating way. Even if that way only illuminates yourself.

Shine on brother.

Shine on.

it's because

it's because we have a thousand souls
that's what Hesse wrote.
now we have a thousand channels
they're all useful - i suppose
but if you have nothing to do then nothing is useful
if you have one passion then you can forget about everything else
only robots have one passion
and even they try to multi-task
the shapes and colours of letters are ignored as much as the uncrystalised and unmonetised thought
everyone can read words that don't exist

goal forest cellular upside through lost be stone yelling
or
naturality

comprehension supersedes language
forget about it

of course

Just lots and lots of music, forever.
And colours and wind.
Temperatureless wind.
Soaking all my evaporations.
Balancing every tone.
Pulling teeth from my zen like rotten Maltesers.
Upset so your bones show - rabid.
Silence over silence, piercing, flatlining,
Frantic.

There is no writing for here so we change it when our bodies change.
of course.

White

and a cloud of granite flows over my heart,
creeping ice fissures till i see them plastered on the cliffs before me.

because these ocean moods have no ruler moon,
only desires to demand - arbitrarily,

but swim like that forever if you want to,
that magnetic haunting, whirlpooling them in.

and i'll be impressed one day, perhaps,
by your utter fearlessness - that unfettered grasping

judged from afar of course - on an iceberg,
drifting about with some other demons

pretty, helpful demons, tickling me with support,
slapping my face to keep me awake

while you accumulate trust, and outshine madness
till a super love disables you and you concentrate for once

19-50196/UK5

Skeleton wearing cloak sitting in the audience.
We can only see one bony arm.

The Pure River of Clean

And into this pure river of clean
Go the masses.
Angelic from the words of others,
Eyes glazed with the final documentary,
Hearts pulsing from their family hug.

It was so funny when they left, and we laughed a little,
Then snapped at each other through envy, us individuals.
Thoughts are better than holidays to Greece,
Being itchy side by side

Who prefers the pounding stab of loss,
Than the levelling smack of gain?
Less achieves more.
Expulsion lightens the load and brings on soaring heights.

What did accumulation give us but litres of lead?
A coffee and a fag, we feel full when we’re empty dead.

It changes when you care,
When you care you’re blind to the panic of accumulation.

Deaf to the freedom screams of your old exploration,
Colour-blind to the rainbow of opportunity sparkling in the abyss.
But who denies the null of calmness when truly given?
No one fights that, that thing that’s stronger than an epileptic giant.

Love is a shiny object. How much does it cost?
No matter, we all seek it like the dog it’s bone.
They didn’t walk through any walls, you know,
They just chatted to the gatekeeper and asked about interior design.

So where were the people?
Where were the guards?
When the elephant tusks came a-rushing.

Tumbling down a padded alley, wailing for blankets of gold
That shield us from questioning sunlight, no I won’t be told!

There was a signpost here once, I remember, it led me,
It pointed to where I was going and where I’d been.

For this is this now, where for others now was yesterday
We move divided, the waves of change are just that,
Waves.
Where the seamless joy of the perfect stitch
Is our cradle-rocking, goodnight kiss.


Who do we kid with question marks of progress?
A kaleidoscope chess game of yawning pawns.
I can’t wait till I buy my first friendship
Spending feels better when you’re in love.

But so does hunger.

The women threw their newborns in the river
Such was the rush for salvation.
The drug that lasts forever they said,
Can I have some honey with my concrete?

The choking infant was silent
When they burnt the last wardrobe.
A remainder from the games of hide and seek
That he had been fed for breakfast, lunch and tea.

And when the splashing froth fell from our knees,
The river was empty, and our feet were icky with
Puss of our children’s limbs.

Compartmentalise, please.
Speadsheet your life.
The problem is in G7
Eliminate the cell.

But the virus was in the
Software
And the hardware
And the logic riddle of a
Three-sided square.

Don’t run through corridors with electric hope,
Don’t sell your nose-hair to the river toad
Don’t listen to nonsense from the arrogant man
And wipe clean that tear for a thousand Peter Pans.

There was a moment back there when they stopped to listen,
But silence costs paper, and the sun rose too fast.
Still, who complains when they get a free sun tan?
Who wants a bite of my honeycomb crime?

Accept life, accept suffering,
Don’t accept acceptance.
Keep demanding colour until a
Fresh circle of dancing animals is painted
On the whirlwind of your mind.

I want to take you out and smile in the sunlight,
It doesn’t matter who you are, as long as you love me,
And no-one can tell that I hide from love like I hide from Tesco,
Scared of accumulation, scared that it adds up to zero.


* * *


It’s when you see yellow and blue in an overcast sky,
When you feel sunlight at midnight
And smell fresh moorland air
In a landfill morning.

There’s a strong rhythm of joy which
Expands into frothing rapids
And turns skin into mirrored armour.

And the scales have new accuracy
Simply because there’s nothing left to distract them.

While fat chickens cluck for seed,
And swarming fingers grasp for greed,
Those contented march to the beat of their home-cooked drum
And question nothing but the price of petrol for the school run.

So interminably happy,
In their straight-jackets of trust,
Soaring on their fixed-gear tandems with no handlebars.

For when those apples burst,
Their seeds will root in all soil, sea and rock.
And because the children of this fruit
Have the invaluable strength of balanced support,
They will inherit the earth.

And those of us left behind in our
Cloaks of idealism,
Will ensnare ourselves
And starve to death

The river is no illusion, it flows invisible.
An ever-running current of hope,
Drowning the fear of a masochistic world.

And in this pod of ying and yang
Grows a humble fever, the body is replete.
Accumulation is assimilated,
Neither without, nor within.

Which wispy dragons flew into the night?
Did the children cry or giggle?
Who protected the storm from the weather man?
And what channel was it on?

I’d never seen so many flowers fall into the valley,
As when the moon stopped spinning and the tide-banks burst.
Those with some-one’s hand to hold only took a handful,
And those with empty arms reaped all they could bear.

So later, like the carcasses of farm-slaughtered cattle,
The dead flowers littered the window,
Each a red mark for the angel of death.

But the lovers weren’t as ruthless as the angel,
So the flower hoarders lived,
Lived in their new humble understanding,
Waiting for a hand to hold.

But this form’s not unbending,
A richer chorus here unfolds.
Where the shepherds and the sheep feed each other
Like it was in the days of old.

When the village walls were a spreadsheet,
A guide to your neighbours’ desires,
So when a box was ticked,
The wall got stronger.

But here in our spherical world
These walls stand drifting;
Our neighbours three-sixty degrees.

And as the currents of the seas
Dilute our care into meals-for-one,
And life-insurance panic,
The cry comes clear from the bleeding screen,
Who asked the heavens for a faster drum?

Yuck

Did you see the fire brigade?
And the lights of tired hope,
Gut-swimming in the cave.

Rilke

'We discover that we do not know our part; we look for a mirror; we should like to remove our make-up and whatever is false and be real. But somewhere a forgotten piece of our disguise still adheres to us; some trace of exaggeration remains in our eyebrows; we do not realise that the corners of our mouths are twisted. And thus we go about, a laughing-stock and a demi-being, with neither a real existence nor a part to play-act.' Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, Rainer Maria Rilke

everything has to be new every time,

bone shattering renewal.

whatever happened to fixing broken things?

i knew a girl once who loved me, but i didn't want a broken love

so i gave it away for my mental health.

But my mental health lasts less long than my waiting heart

who gets older and softer and wishes for old things,

things that were imperfect but ... were we really that different?

things are grainy and thoughts disappear.

we all think we want adventure until we run out of bread,

then we want home, and glowing lights and bedships.

so we go back to the river, but its not as bright

and the water shudders not shimmers and there's

no coastline or hillscape to paint.

instead, we go to sleep again and spark a new dream

which flickers and excites us until we wake up

and realise we're back in our cradle with no one to hold.

Teaspoons don't exist

There are no angels,
There are no people who can tell you how to feel.
For all thoughts are human,
Filtered through a conscious mind
Where only feelings burst through
From the subconscious.

But people try and try to help each other;
Swimming into the wind.
Is the joy hidden in there?
It smells ripe, but there’s
A rope in the valley that
Drags the sky into the craters below.

They covered the spaceship in fur
To make it look more real.
But leopards need oxygen
And don’t pretend to be what they’re not.

In hot granules of searing truth
We gulp our medicine,
But the dosage isn’t stated,
And teaspoons don’t exist.

With the numbing realisation
Of the impotence of speech,
Comes a vacant peace;
A net of balanced equations.

Whereas before, when the sun
Broke a hope-token through our sky,
We sat indoors with our own light,
Creaming at our reflection and wasting our seed.

Berlin Notes.

COME DOWN VON BASTIE

Spin flaccid plastic,
Twist these melted spines.
Glug your fat gluey oil down
Your pants and lie there in your
Whore gunk

But later, in the grey,
Dry birds dump liquid shit
Into your weeping eyes, and there's
No sun left to dry them

Older Boys

With a cock like a short, swelled giant's thumb
We dry hump the world until our acrid semen
Splatters on our contraceptive jeans

Built to protect, forced to rape by the older boys
They laughed away from the suicide attempt
Into the arms of fat celebrities

Wan, pallid, ashen, fair
Dark, rich, thick, solid
But all the gold in the world won't buy a ticket home