Sunday, August 3, 2008

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



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


cycle  connects the dots

of rise and fall

expansion of the chest

releasing air

changing minds

Freedom implodes

continuum into



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)





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











o              f






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

No comments: