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)
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