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)