The following post comes from a thought diary dated 21st July 2006.
It was written when I was 20.
I felt like copying it out.
Can anyone find their home?
Depends how much they think about it. Sure people feel at home in certain places, but without too much consideration they succumb to the most inevitable of human feelings: ambition.
Built as we are, we are never content - psychological fact. We know this because we are a species of strict natural selection. Why settle for less. Happiness is not concrete. So it seems people only find their home if they numb their mind to the distractions that pester their satisfaction. Unless you define home differently. If home is said to be a place where you feel most comfortable - then - certain havens could be called home. People need shelter or they become delirious and insane. Insane - or more sane, or conformity?
(There's more to life than spinach) - when I discover the meaning (fully) of this epigram I will tell the world. Without subterfuge. For now it excites my mind that I continue to recall it. It must fall somewhere between my purpose and past. I have release, but is that all? Confidence is ephemeral - as soon as it is noticed it disappears. It has to be wholly innate for it to function optimally, or is it but a farce? Yet such confidence cannot be confined and degrades to arrogance - by nature - so it must be kept at bay in the name of morality. Morality? Whose? Which cult's? Don't think I could be driven to Raskilinkoff action as I possess less anxiety and more relief. Tautologies stop it regress.
Happiest moments of my life were when new things were occurring - in familiar situations and places I was free. Maybe I do need more time in education - at my own disposal. World is full of obnoxiousness and marionettes. Floating the air thing breath.
Humour is sacred and should be embraced with utmost gratitude. There is no shame in it. Yet others often do the right thing - people are good - but - why - there is built in warmth - And I now see it - as it has been all along - Never cease the flow KI, unto you as onto others --------->
Monday, 9 July 2012
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Seaside Carillon
The heart beats in the formless sea,
circles and triangles swim with songs,
And the soft current
sways the boy like a hyggelig-anesthetised kelp.
The boy is home.
Bells ring out for the waves.
Alarms, all-too-false alarms
but the boy is called.
The moon is turning.
A wave rolling against a steel door,
a dead thud of control versus uncontrol,
Till the metal splits –
Bursts onto our ears
In thrusts and heaves of
Sound.
Thrusts and heaves of sound,
As noiseless as this sentence.
A whale corpse
Shunted over rocks,
Bursting a confetti of bells.
The ripped middle,
Launched up like a royal swan
Shaking on the hook of a Hutu drummer.
Feathers thrashing, breasts alive,
Waves swarming with fevers of
Hypnotic dance.
Spirals and siphons of joy,
Fuelled only by the
Rhythm of the waves.
This is that battle that battle there,
With rain and storm - whatever you imagine
The order protection, the category blip
the etching and egging it’s a nothing but oh -
What is this beat, this wombing
sea-beat!
This sea-beat
that shoves us so?
The quarry produces,
the boy tugs stone.
The captive's new house
a defibrillator,
A scaffold of metronomes.
Twenty-three bells heard
From the sea,
Dry and
Stable.
Pillared in rock,
Clocked and measured,
Dusty and snug,
Like a grandma at tea.
Thick waves drum thunder no more.
The tower frowns like an ogre,
Flat bells on dry sand.
AA battery morning of
Toneless hope.
The great composer has finished his air.
Men jiggle,
Excited in their wicker seats.
,
Thrashing bushes with his
Rush-wood blade - the boy runs fast through the forest
'The great composer has finished his air!'
But gasp, his throat won’t move,
Shhhwwssshhwwwsssshhwwww
- the Waterfall!
The flow is thick,
Water chugs like a
Mudslide.
The relief of the post-coital gulp.
The rushing, the booming, the
Rolling of rhythm.
Rocking as a younger him in the
Arms of the shore.
He almost drowns.
Out rush ready
To the great performance!
His feet are full of drums,
Bell ring tinkle at the forest rim,
Witch-shapes carving the human hymn.
Then sat in this stillness of aching still.
Prescient chimes make love like a hand drill.
The boy beats his palm on his thigh.
Bound to the mountains,
Sheepskin and sticks,
Beating his feet to the foreign water.
Swooning his head into loops of rhyme,
Jolts of numeric flooding his spine,
Sweeping and floating like a paintbrush in brine,
Like a juicy-goat of music lust.
And the rocks of the tower ached to swell but
Stones don't creak.
And the steel of the dam yearned to sing but
Metal can't speak.
And the music kept rising
heap upon heap,
An unfettered genie
a Xylophone keep.
As the runes of the water that were only
A beat, came thumping and springing and
Rearing to leap.
And the boy broke twisting his
Under-swell deep.
A drop in the ocean;
Man at his peak.
'Sounds like a guy going for a piss in a club' J. Barrington-Hines
circles and triangles swim with songs,
And the soft current
sways the boy like a hyggelig-anesthetised kelp.
The boy is home.
Bells ring out for the waves.
Alarms, all-too-false alarms
but the boy is called.
The moon is turning.
A wave rolling against a steel door,
a dead thud of control versus uncontrol,
Till the metal splits –
Bursts onto our ears
In thrusts and heaves of
Sound.
Thrusts and heaves of sound,
As noiseless as this sentence.
A whale corpse
Shunted over rocks,
Bursting a confetti of bells.
The ripped middle,
Launched up like a royal swan
Shaking on the hook of a Hutu drummer.
Feathers thrashing, breasts alive,
Waves swarming with fevers of
Hypnotic dance.
Spirals and siphons of joy,
Fuelled only by the
Rhythm of the waves.
This is that battle that battle there,
With rain and storm - whatever you imagine
The order protection, the category blip
the etching and egging it’s a nothing but oh -
What is this beat, this wombing
sea-beat!
This sea-beat
that shoves us so?
The quarry produces,
the boy tugs stone.
The captive's new house
a defibrillator,
A scaffold of metronomes.
Twenty-three bells heard
From the sea,
Dry and
Stable.
Pillared in rock,
Clocked and measured,
Dusty and snug,
Like a grandma at tea.
Thick waves drum thunder no more.
The tower frowns like an ogre,
Flat bells on dry sand.
AA battery morning of
Toneless hope.
The great composer has finished his air.
Men jiggle,
Excited in their wicker seats.
,
Thrashing bushes with his
Rush-wood blade - the boy runs fast through the forest
'The great composer has finished his air!'
But gasp, his throat won’t move,
Shhhwwssshhwwwsssshhwwww
- the Waterfall!
The flow is thick,
Water chugs like a
Mudslide.
The relief of the post-coital gulp.
The rushing, the booming, the
Rolling of rhythm.
Rocking as a younger him in the
Arms of the shore.
He almost drowns.
Out rush ready
To the great performance!
His feet are full of drums,
Bell ring tinkle at the forest rim,
Witch-shapes carving the human hymn.
Then sat in this stillness of aching still.
Prescient chimes make love like a hand drill.
The boy beats his palm on his thigh.
Bound to the mountains,
Sheepskin and sticks,
Beating his feet to the foreign water.
Swooning his head into loops of rhyme,
Jolts of numeric flooding his spine,
Sweeping and floating like a paintbrush in brine,
Like a juicy-goat of music lust.
And the rocks of the tower ached to swell but
Stones don't creak.
And the steel of the dam yearned to sing but
Metal can't speak.
And the music kept rising
heap upon heap,
An unfettered genie
a Xylophone keep.
As the runes of the water that were only
A beat, came thumping and springing and
Rearing to leap.
And the boy broke twisting his
Under-swell deep.
A drop in the ocean;
Man at his peak.
'Sounds like a guy going for a piss in a club' J. Barrington-Hines
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