Saturday, November 22, 2008

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
swallow fishes as they steam and scheme
a spectacle of kaviar and piranha orgies
blood and guts of cows and sheep
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

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

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