Vacana of between xiv

I real ly want

jeg oensker meg over alt
et nytt
a new
norsk
keyboard
for mac

saa jeg kan si hoere
without it looking like I'm saying
whore

it's really irriterende
jaevlig health else
eller erre esse , else
it's some

vine-twine my textual
vocal cord is unplugged
now rusty - i call it rustic
men det er egentlig bare rusta
med tenner av flerra flak
som jeg lapper sammen
holder sammen, holding the sami
reindeer I saw in a movie
-Veiviseren - clear in my mind
hadde de reinsdyr? jeg
er ikke sikker men det maler et
nydelig bilde
ikke
true as the history we paint
as the world we create

but most of all
I just want a new norwegian keyboard
norsk

I HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)

naa er jeg drit lei av draaper som formerer seg og spytter seg over beina istendenfor aa prate i et simmer sammen, s lik at vi kan spre oss uten aa ro

naa er jeg drit lei av draaper som formerer seg
og spytter seg over beina istendenfor aa prate
i et simmer sammen, s lik at vi kan spre oss
uten aa rooere bakken




it only takes one drop
of spillage
before it splatters out
each droplet growing
what was that you said? was that growing or blowing? yes
I think it was blowing like felatio; his name was Felatio
and he was one one who could read the Rorschach grapevine
no? no! I’m just shoving in some feathers here, where I can
gonna get a chicken
I like fried aircastles
they’re golden run down shacks
in the blue sky blocked by coiling grey clouds
it’s a reverberating chattering
bubbling as each creates
internal liquids
multi-
coloured with little facetted eyes
sometimes grows fingers
sometimes whole limbs that
ply
out your onlooking glassballs
and take your legs out in an


explosion

you enjoyed that didn’t you?
I like explosions too sometimes
it’s in this space you find chaos
embracing globules that fat together
wiggling their tails , swimming with
a karmic purpose , not the eleventh purpose

eye of Horus in that calm cusp of a face
there’s an internal hysterical laughter
he is red in the sky blowing his own horn tower ; ashes give the richest soil
it’s a static distortion
dynamic that’s the Yaweh yaldabath oherum ahmen-ka-damehn
talking saying ymni omni oni on oh ho no ino inmo in my na
me
this is more like the purpose of 661 , where the 6 and 9 are inverted polars equally exclusive but dimensional to each other and 1 is the all and the none that is something ; being; 6 6
1 of horns. being of horns
2 karmic purpose of being with horns
3 purpose of horns
4 hooves matter is the horn to soil
5 never swim as they are the ocean

7 8 9
see hear speak
nothing

view absorb discuss
everything
notice listen investigate
all
evade zone-out yatter
NOT
be
1
99

because you’re here it’s because you’re here
that I
have this purpose; fuelled by a sort
of survival instinct
this bloated pidgin virus of a mob
makes your horns straighten
whitened and bleached
polished by societies heel
sharp; want to slip into your
soft foundation and rip into your
crossbeams and supporting structures
until you crumble ; and no I
don’t really care if you fall on me
even though it will really hurt
my stones are coated in hardened crystals
grown from the chemicals
that the anatomist node gave to the alchemist node
from the whiteknucled moments caused
by spillage and the frothing
of mouths see hear speak
evade zoneout yatter

who made this fuckin mess on the floor
here as I walk through the clear path
that the exploding chaos opens up
…because I’m left here to clean it up now
fine … I’ll clean it up
that’s what you get
for spilling a drop
fine; ashes give the richest soil
but these aren’t really ashes; you don’t burn do you
liquid bloating spilling frothing body
you just bubble and make a resin
once I flare you, you are a black ooze
but even the blackest dirtiest gunk
can be dissected , ..distilled I mean, ; purified really
into a golden liquid
I have my horns I have my pen dipped in golden liquid spillage

the anti of the matter

The anti of the matter

(you know that voice; that always wants to fuck everything up; that's there for you in the worst possible way to make you fall. This voice tried to kill me once. I got a trespassing order against it and had to throw it out of the house. I met it again recently at a party. Thought I had gotten rid of it. It seemed well; better, ; it apologized for the past; I knew it was the same. I forgave it. but I know it is the same. I forgive ; & i fear karma will be its bane. why fear ? It wants to reconnect the nodes, I want to keep them severed; they have other junctions now that weave into beds and bridges and fine fabric. )

feathers whisper
(in his voice)

'I fear eye not seeing me
Hiding from the eye; I see; I cry; toobe y seen by the eye .
He does not see me ? ! did I see him ? '



i refer to It
as a voice
It does not speak
make sounds or words
yet It filters its expressions through
- it is Lingua the lord ;
creation out of no
purpose - - - .. no -
purpose pyre of
stagnataion , smoke
puffing mountain-tops
to tell the villagers
- clusters of neurons –
to panic - ideas
are tearing at their
walls - pulling itself
apart dis- associatie
twin electron pairs
loosing rhythm

presence
reverberate in hyper-
linked images - dynamic
and moving
all recognizable , stored
smells , sometimes just
sensations


recency pulls a flat screen
over pooled memories
threaded onto bundles
of pathways
ways that lead no
where if you look
and everywhere
if you perceive
association dance in your aura
like history this
memory is a highly
edited meme-infused episode
… well a series of episodes
like the photo-shopped version
of a model or our previous prime minister

this is more like
the edited hard-drive
that holds all the versions
in the crop:
‘ the made-up younger versions
the drugged-up older version
the funny, the twisted, the nice the sad etc etc etc etc
hard to recall which ones
got saved
which ones deleted ?
what he .. ? .. / I named it
and which one I am
looking at right now

was it labelled wrong ?
Did I edit this ?
or is this real ..

this intangible

presence , a new label ?

it sutured itself
onto my visuo –
spatial
sketchpad
like migraine dots onto
my internal perception
it sutured itself onto
my neck

stitches bleeding a bit
cleansing in ionised
silver ( ag ) water ,
cloves, myrrh & eucalyptus
oil

gargling , swallowed a bit of the oil
accidentally
& vomit
chocolate and ice cream
onto the ground

& I pull off
this label , - tag

..won’t read it
throw it away
have to read it
can’t help but read it
burn its body

cant help to hear it
kick its ashes

you are still here
as I crack you out of my spine

vacana of between xiii

a friendly neighbourhood purebred Siamese tomcat invades my lap
he comes to visit now that
my garden is growing
in complexity with rare birds
visiting
he eyes them up to eat them
I encourage him, because they ate
my strawberries

we never feed him

he plays with his claws out
purring



HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus of Be tweihn(ai)

the do-

nhey donkey fucked you into a mule
(I love the Moldy Peaches and the Brian Jonestown Massacre)
((Yes I know – might make you think of arguments you would throw at Peter Doherty, and yes he did a cover of the Modly Peaches song; ' Who's got the crack' ; But that , should never take away from the rawness, beauty and talent of what they created. ) )



hurry hurry ; a tiny voice of the human race
dismable and fleeting
twirling , whirling
changing , streaming
dancing, beating
turnable and lasting

it told the wisdom of the current world
it told the truth in fiction hidden under rocks
((ghoough ramaloke anganghnaungh larf-chi graagh))
he spoke the vision of the way we should take
((gyrraattoo omhg derm swiggily schmoo))
to find the bridges to the age of the ocean
(

arrrgwarraaaaaawwwhaaaaaaaaaaaa!)
swallow fishes as they steam and scheme
((dimelybimelysimelyimmelydimdim))
a spectacle of kaviar and piranha orgies
((blaughaugheerrkerrrkuhuhuhhaaaug))
blood and guts of cows and sheep
((sshhrrrshhhsssssswwh))
pentapi – the five armed giant global squid sucks onto the whale(whail) ; sucks it dry , geyser cries
sonar screams, reverberates in the body as he sucks on leviathan
sweating money through cylindrical tubes coated in moneymill
phalanges

in the night the mare rode the tiny flake of the human race
to lead the hope; beauty is the runner of the beast ; realise yourself
turn; I need you ; I need you; steed goes round and round, grassing patterns
hang upside down, vote for the dawn, there's only two paths , I wanna run
in the forest, dodging trees, ; I need you ; I need you ; chasing

dismable and fleeting
chasing , racing
confusing, refusing
accepting, partaking
steaming, dreaming
turnable and lasting

can you hear his tiny voice ? I can't ahahaha so tiny
tune in your pop skull – can't you hear the rawness of his voice
not polished, not edited - not perfected for your sober ear
don't listen to the Moldy Peaches or The Briant Joenstown Massacre
who perfected that raw , unedited voice in a plethora of heroin visions
tune it out , tune him out; tune it out; tune him out , tune it out , tune
the donkey fucks you into a mule, takes his time, does it hard and long
until you lay down, starfish on the ground, and worm along the ground
to distract yourself from the constant pumping, throbbing, breathing,
signals, cameras, waves, texts, calls, spy ware and policing
lodged and nestled into our mental cavities, gyrates and whispers
lullabies from the seven tongues of doctored psych-babble

derive derrida, derrida derives deconstruct never into laws
always questions ; the search was never about the situational
answer; the sediment of a growing spiralling puddle
books are covered under layers of fish fertiliser
rotted into pulp, petrified to stone or frozen in sap
only the moving text knots like a seed, spreads like spores
roots into the crap-soil and weave around stone
oxygen plant of aquarius in an aquarium

Vacana of Between xii.

 

 

 

the ocean becomes a

myriad of sequin voice glimmer

when the micro stir the body

megas stretches white fingers at the sky-

crash into the Great

 

his inverted eye and tangled beard

covers the water

with raging neglect

 

can I see the ocean

without rejecting the micro-

saga

megas

voice

 

HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus  of Be tweihn(ai)

Vacana of Between xi

After listening to the 33 per fumes of pleasure by Alan Brunton, reading Pedagogy of Hope by paolo Freire and re-exploring the ideas of Candide by Voltaire; in reflection of goddess

 

 

her blood ink flows from her fingertips

it embraces his apex as she grips his head

 

what is your  name ?

 

there is an abysmal silence as her smile makes all questions

evaporate

 

there is no name; goddess appears in a million stars

planets circle nodes in tireless loops

 

he is walking along the shore, naked feet against stone

each stone tumbled to a polished smoothness

crystals colour the topography in lines

spreading into calligraphy  in the  sketchpad of thought

 

Goddess rushes through his body and kisses his spine

he is having coffee with Thoth and Horus in  a bar 

where his friends used to never eat

she gives him a moment while she explores art

with Sophia and Aphrodite

 

what is your name ?

she whispers , He shouts

who cares ! there is no name

 

Freedom has a high price;

the same as slavery

the difference is            seated on another pole

difference is                         you pay

with pleasure, love and smiles 

even when that smile  is  dimmed by tears

 

is it the free

                        or the enslaved

that pull the carriage of complexity

the black horse breathes steam and tosses his head

the white  horse grasses and grows fat

 

we want you to grow fat

with promise                         fat             with dreams

 

who has the trodden road

engraved into the sole of their feet

soul of their feat 

 

Free            -            dom                        slave             -            ry

such polarities connected

by the solar marrow

hands reject the other hands

persistently and forcefully through space

embers burst

into our solar tongues

like twin electrons  humming, oscaillates,  in tune

 

continuum impacts

freedom

cycle  connects the dots

of rise and fall

expansion of the chest

releasing air

changing minds

Freedom implodes

continuum into

slavery

 

this is the pain you feel in the illusion of Candide

“all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.”

where the tears fall inwardly

the core is moist in the pain of Candide

micromegas laughs in the curves of space 

too  large to see, to small to be

the dynamic man in the mountain of the silver scarf

of comets that move in spirals along her outline

he wakes, he screams at the pain of Candide

he never saw the redness of her lips in the shadows 

the fire burnt  is hands as he fumbled in the dark

eyes blinded by the light, ; the sun will burn you , the sun will blind you

the sun will tear you apart , don’t look , don’t  look

 

the first delirious step split the page in half

leather bindings flake from age, canvas bulges in faded paint

paint bubbles  on the surface of his wood

the sun still burns the retina, look into the blindspot

He arrived at her knees, her lips were too bright

his hair in her fingers she pulled his head up, the brilliance lit through lids

white noise let in the ellipse  widening, double ellipse; slits of vision

spasmodical dance at the brief touch of  her saliva

his words were in her lips as the pain let  go

he looked up at the light ; it embraced his flight

departing from the utopia of pain

like a hacksaw at his old bones

chack a chack a chack a chack a chack

 

he swore his life free, trapped in poverty

he swore his voice free, chained in cencorship

he swore his mind free, bound to code and convention

 

chack a chack a chack a chack a chack

 

He’s our gardening Angel;

Jesus scares and he made all the bulls

for us to ride into the cross

Cock & Bull

did you miss the subtle satire

of the sentimental traveller who spent five pages

on describing a single moment, a brief encounter

of a lady that caught attention

of experience not contained in facts

that stripped the face and pulled out the idea

of objective observation; a reality only alive

in historical books and the Nouvelle grown old

 

have you lived your life

between the mind and the trees

 

 

HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus  of Be tweihn(ai)

 

HUM i HeruUhaM (repeated)

ohm

 

 

 

he is not an empty file to the teacher to fill

 this is the pedagogy of oppression

he is not a complete file for the teacher to trigger

this is the pedagogy of the divine

we need teachers that learn and learners that teach

some would say this to be

a mere cul-de-sac of Marxist palaver

if reciprocity is a dead end

then altruism does not exist

if altruism does not exist

then his experience is full of lies

if you see lies then you never listened

to the open question in his voice

never listened

f                                laws

o                               f

 con

D

conditioned

ITI

conditioned

O

ed 

 

truth

 

o              f

 con

D

conditioned 

 

 

HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus  of Be tweihn(ai)

name-ism; on complexity and demands for explanations

name-ism ; on complexity and demands for explanations;

They carved a maze into the mountain

with locked fence posts blocking the right path

smeared with wax seals of gilded writing of codes

and conventions that drains the climbing text of its own persona

into a drone outdated by the time it reaches the peak

where the pied cow kicks him off the preaching ledge

to find that personae again, anima crippled, finds personae

scorn, smelted into the venerable

pied cow

 

 

eaves of the orchestrated                         o                         bligator

gourmet-rocked like  preying mantis

in the hollow glow                         does he still whisper

does he still flow                         where he stirs the stagnate

puzzled into                form            trodden path

tools and nimble fingers to keep you alive

my nose is cold and the frost is nipping at my chin

while the slug comes into my house, squeezes

through water cracks of cemented walls

dark, water comes muddy brown in slits

leaking wounds , dark water comes

through the tectonic plates of garden paths

where the stampede follows the red velvet psycho bunny

distracted by the black and white , in corset and garter belts, bunny

 

chorus of mountain nymphs;

I’m wasted      squeeze my creation

wasted             tension the sheep is wolf clothing

circus                         round and round we go

I’m wasted             think I’m gonna be sick

wasted                        I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m better than the test

circus                         spasm, spasm, go

 

 

these plants,  meadows, of  eyes

scream in brutal harmonies; waves of the seas that stains

the dream of what the I can be

that lifts beyond the tragedy, froths high exposing

corralled rock bottom , contagious

clarity between

the leaves of                                                  or                        chest-rated

clatter of the congealing ban-everything mob

my noose is warm and magnets are nipping at my chin

mind is hematite to the rigid moulds of metal society

metal monkey rides the wooden ox

chalk footprints of carbon headprints leaving

soulwrought ornate filigree symbols

to decorate our attended desires

 

chorus of desert valkyries;

I’m circus             plonking to mastication

circus                         of truth in media juices

wasted             eyes like ruins

I’m circus            think I’m gonna be bloated

circus                         inverted cripple shimmy

wasted             twitch, twitch, go

 

mind the cave                                     the  mountains hollow

here I can chip                        carve the stone  until

it exposes the neural roots that connects

the mountain to the ground

stalagmite fingers of petrified lightning

from the crooks beating of polar clouds

 here in the crystallized pockets of volcanic stones

I can see                                     circus

the eaves of the orchestrated                 ord                         ained

leaves of the book o the tree

the lemon tree where the masked child was crowned

stuck in the crown the hermit grounds the bark

snorts it and falls and parties by the roots

where he could see the geometry of the bridge

but fell in love with the river underneath

the same river that tumbles stones into orbs  ; balls

same river that fills up Mugabes wells and fuels

the Israeli war machine

river that creates the cusps where we can tie

our wooden rafts, hollowed logs and chromed body kits

together to watch the frothing rivers endless rage

 

chorus of toadstool fairies;

wasted circus                         transient is the spine

wasted                         magnetic she holds my joint

circus                                     voice like horizon

circus wasted                         think I’m gonna explode

circus                                      expand outside a  frame

wasted                         twitch, spasm, grow

 

their walls taught the birds-chest boy how to climb

with torn pads in his knees and a chronically aching shoulder

clouds of herbs buffering away the doctors pill serving tray 

their walls taught the boy how to climb

but never to build

 

                        build the spiral

                                   

                                    torsion; build the spiral

 

they never taught me how to build

every stone is a trial

                        build the trial

                                    stone; build the trial

those that look for the straight line                         will                         always get lost

there is no straight line                                                             normal is not normal

circus looks for the straight line                                                 looks at the surface 

attention is wasted                                                                         lost in the straight line 

want me to explain ?                                                                         lost in the surface

want to know the answer ?                                                             lost in the straight line

blind to complexity                                                                         lost in the surface

what you look for                                                                         should not exist

in art                                                                                                 and poetry 

Vacana of Between x

Vacana of  Between x

 

We;

average             animateassiduousbriskconbrio

entre-nous            conspiritoebullient                         energeticenterprising

 

Our

interjacent             euphoricexuberanceflamboyantforceful

intermediary             headyintoxicated                         pluckyspiritedspiritful

 

Will

intermediate            vigorousvivaciouszealouszest

intervenient            élanvital                                     breathdivinespark

 

Their

intervening             lifeforcepsychesoulvitalforcevitality

mean                        élananimation                                    bouncebriodash

 

To

medial                          espritlifelivelinesspertsparkle

medium            vervevigorvim                         vivaciousvivacity

 

Down

middle-of-the-road            zipanimationanimusapparitionardor

middling                        atmanattitude                         bansheebraverybreathbrio

 

Why

moderate            charactercheerfulnesscouragedashdedication?

parenthetical            demondeterminationdrive             dryadectoplasmelf

 

forcefully

separating             encourageenergyenterpriseenthusiasmesprit

amid                        espritdecorpsessence                        exhilarationfairyfireforce,

 

We;

amidst                        genieghostghoulgoblingremlingumptionguts

among                        haghearthobgoblinimp             incubusinspirationintent

 

Live

average            intoxicationinvigorationkelpielemureslifeloyalty

betwixt                        meaningmettlemood                        moralemotivationmoxie

 

Our

halfway            musenumenoomphoptimismoreadpassionpep

intermediate            periphantasmphantom             pluckpneumapoltergeist

 

We;

intervening psychepuckpurportresolutionsoulspecterspookspritespunkstrengthsubstancesuccubus

within sylphtempertenacityundinevigorvimvisitation vivacitywillpowerzeitgeist

 

 

 

betweonum

 

 

i HUM i HeruUhaM spirare plus tus  of Be tweihn(ai)

Vacana of Between ix

I’d             like                                    to run                        laugh

a             little                        reason                        to repair

what              have                         I done                         to deserve

vision         to see                           the riddle                        and her touch

where             the                         tenderness                        and torsion ride

and             life                         turns me                         always haunts

me              on                         where                         dynamic

walls             might                         shift                        fall

reach            ing                        out             the fake

O             why                         can’t                 you see that

the             costumes                        we wear                        are the symbols

we             carry                         history                         in the groove of

masks             O                        transient                        can you see

bind             my             chaos        in                       

thin      webs    o hm

I     would      like             to

st     ay              

         la      ugh

 

 

Observations of paint # 7

Observations of paint # 7

Mariú Súarez, “Truth”, 72"x60", oil and egg-tempera on canvas, from the series The Beginning of a New Era

Veristic surrealism (vs the automatists )

Paranoiac Critical Method to

Oniric-Critical Method (Dali) to

the path of individuation (Jung)

The inside, the universe, the mind 

twin sun vision spread 

ripples in the great ocean 

universe o mental hyper links to space 

between the time of matter and chains 

icons watch from above the rooftops 

leaning on our brick wall 

the mob stands in line 

headless faded brown, into grey into bricks 

icons; fathers of knowledge, the objects of historys beacons 

are not watching the people

the flock to the slaughter house, already decapitated 

still walking automatons ; drone of clogs 

they are   watching the solar plexus; geometry , temples 

castles; architecture  of a city – scape ; landscape 

of potential creation

the nodes, television heads in suits and dresses 

with corporate cuts 

watch the roads, backs to the people,   backs to the solar

plexus 

blind to the child bridge

crawling towards the rose   on a patch 

of life 

in a crack of grey stone roads 

only extended attention bi 

lateral intention 

through the core of vision 

focus on the child 

ripples in the great oh  see an 

omen obscured 

to grow into a movement 

ripples  in  stale structure 

Observations of paint # 6

Observations of paint # 6 

Max Ernst, L' Ange du Foyeur, 1937, oil on canvas

Vacana of Between 

viii

my bird pecks at the hand 

muse pecks at the seeds 

she pecks  to shape rough 

edges ledges

where the iron monkey used to lean

dangle freely as a rough stone

yet to tumble in the froth of the wild 

river

reaching the delta to build banks of sand

scooped up from broken hour-glasses

my bloody hands build a fire 

 steady hands build with a smile 

hands build  to shape change

weaving  meaning 

the cicada guides the flight of the cock

with dragon tears dancing like loplop

thank you for the blood

O spirit of between 

so much better 

with a muse in the hand 

than a dousin birds on my roof 

lining power poles and shitting 

at your peering eye as you walk 

past 

thank you for the blood and hope

Observations in paint # 5

Observations in paint # 5 

(Yacek Yerka , giclee, the walking lesson)

http://www.yerkaland.com/

by the edge 

of the tree line 

where the cuckoo  Head

has spring-spine wired  to a hollowed nest 

the beast guards  worn 

hound bound and wound  to a regular hum 

the time  of  clocks

time  of  mechanics 

of  cogs 

cumulus clouds boil in shapes of dreams complexity  

landscape stretches out in sublime warmth of colours  endless horizon 

trying to distract the Be(a)st guardian to move again 

eyes covered in chrome  bells 

only needles  syringe to the sky 

taste is lost in the face  of  digits

numbers of an extended 

circle now end on 13 

guarding the incomplete 

dom of little 12's  built to be incomplete

never complete

automata hollow guards the wheels of machines

legs barely holding  his weight

stagnation at the edge of change

his face  a ticking code to change

Vacana of Between

vii


on the floor, in loading docks
our work space is filled
with minds
Attending
Dreams
Holding
Dyspnea at bay

Bottled up by pharmaceutical remedies

Poking your finger in the hole in a dam
Builds the pressure Nausea
The headache , dry mouth
Ramped up heart rate
Crushing expenses


flag poles the will
on standby on a stretcher

stretches the mind
universal focus scatter

white froth, white noise
obscure the embers
of Between

Vacana  of Between 

vi.

 

there is a constant rumble of waves

outside my window

from the ocean of roads

weaving between neon flecked islands

 calming

constant rumbling chaos of ocean

 

I find it calming

o spirit of between

 

Vacana of Between

v.

from start to chain to end

i chased his tail and he chased mine

in the dojo of uncle code

who stained the owl cheery red

cherry marinated in cock

tails drunk that hollows out symbols

in the breeze by the pool in a penthouse

while gourmet chortling at

the live footage of bare fists

breaking a bulls horn,

killing it

only fists

looking at their fading hands

ornate vines

like venetian filigree

caught a running man

like a knot of twine spun

lifted from the ground in embrace

untangled in a heap a moment

of finding footing in new direction

a hesitation

dirty souls

shoes heavy

dirty lungs

mind heavy

he stares into the horizon

she points at the crooked tail

are they parallel?

horison sinks and deforms

parallel ? twin steps head for the edge

of perception

with a Question

of between

Vacana  of Between 

iv.

 

The circle draws

circles seeing him-

self as a line in-

side the orb

He arrow kisses the throat

of the goat on the altar

in the de-

votion

of circles

 

words litter the ground

in red and yellow leaves 

thrown at the sky

they become dust before

a single sentence

reaches the wall

of an orb

 

is the circle moving

pushed by hands of being ?

 

Between ?

 

maybe she’s born with it

maybe it’s make-believe

 

Oprah’s built a new school in africa

where the students get one visitor a month

forbidden contact with their family

 and friends outside the school

breeding african-americans in Africa

 

donate your money now

or we let the children die

 

Cock and bull

all

an 18^th century gentleman

represents in a modern movie script

is the mock-reality-tv-behind-the-scenes-handy-cam thing

that has been popularised through shows like

arrested development, the office, the extras

and the sad ‘comeback’ with phoebe, what was her real name again ?

and of course mockumentaries by the brilliant group of people that made

… …., waiting for guffman, best in show, a mighty wind and …new… ,

the finest of our modern mock-reality or mock-novel satire

or is it possibly mock-media now

at least they mentioned the black page

 

but left out the plotlines and the literary treasures

like the blank fill in yourself page describing a lovely lady

or the squiggle representing a characters whip trajectory

 

cock and bull

watch out for the sentimental traveller behind it

Swift was a romantic weaver

holding on to the dream

of his indian princess

who is promised to another

oh dear Eliza

his ink would always love you

cock and bull

he spun post-modern satire

before there was a modern to be post

about

 

maybe she’s born with it

maybe he’s just a bit mentally

sick                         diseased

            disordered

 

Dr. Phil seems to have a growing following

of little bald psycho-tv-preachers

guiding americans to fit into the mould

of average society

along with Tony Robbins

these people represent our preachers

in the stead of the church and priests

of A/CCC state

that is  an

atheist/christian capitalist conservative state

 

so with the DSM-IV under their arms

like a psychologists bible

and jars of pills in their suitcase

they herd you blindly on

like an ant in a white line 

Å

Å

Tower of Yabberwocky

 

She muted, man

she Muted the Babel;

climbed the tower

 

Ivory only reached

to the clouds

it was pitch

voideous

black, man;

 

beyond the blanket of fog

found

perfection in absorbing colour

 

perfect

is never perfect

enough

 

Building

sky scrapers

to reach

phallic heights

needing a Band

of Hope

travelling to peaks

like a heart beats spike

huddled into sterile

elevators

guided into studios

heaving, strumming and beating out pop, bubble bursting cheese;

a view in panorama

of our modern architecture

like fast food inspired art

between sponge-like monuments

launch

at the sky

so fast

the skin tear off the bones

falling off the tower

or beaten down by the
monstrously

robotic

taxidermi

King of the Forrest/Tower/Hill

falling de-volutional design burns into white canvas

cross of heretic christ burns into a holy mountain full of caves and volcanic pride

 

 wondering

if goddess is

androgynous

third-eye

of vision

of depth in sight

or a

branding of a perfect circle

with an upside-down

cross

at its base

wondering as the Yabberwock

eats

the knots of global babel

that could have riddled

in to

a new horizon