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)
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;
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
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)
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
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)
