Begone the ties that bound me
Retire the desire that found me
Release the bonds that keep me
And undo the promise that frees me
I am not what I think I am
Only what I do as am
Is, or can be, what I is as am
So shall never be who I is as am.
The awareness itself, of self, is, in its self
A self-fulfilling prophecy
Told as Christmas song.
Desire does not desire, except
When as a catalyst for obsession.
4432 is the number of seconds it takes for the brain
To stop working after your last breath.
It’s easier to forgive than forget.
It’s easier to live with regret.
I think that I feel, and I feel that I think.
I wish I were the worm at the end of the drink.
I float like a boat with a sinking feeling that I am not alone.
And so I validate it through a camera disguised as a phone.
I lost you so loud. You’re now just a face in the crowd.
The last circles of sand, a prophetic bird in the hand.
The keys to stars and the jail and the bars,
memory loss hides the fears and the scars.
The speeches are spoken to awaken the awoken
Anoint the rich to the lie they have broken.
Is the black bag bin liner hugging itself in fear or in sheer delight?
Is the window in pain, or is it a trick of the light?
To Each
Their Own
Their Coffin’
Their Throne
To live
Alone
A Dog
A Bone
The stairs
The Phone
The preacher
The Drone
Is the black bag bin liner hugging itself in fear or in sheer delight?
Is the window in pain, or is it a trick of the light?
I know even less about nothing than I do about everything…. which is nothing.
The Matador’s assistant stabs the bull to make it weak,
The President has a scriptwriter, so their words speak.
The Drug addict has a backstory no method actor could achieve,
The Priest has an addiction no one wants to believe.
Nothing is what it is
It is not as it appears.
Nothing is what it is
See the five broken spears?
The Banker and the Fortune Teller are opposite ends of the coin,
The Circus Clown and Circuit Judge are dad jokes about the groin.
The Policeman and the Robber are both partners in a crime,
The Doctor and the Clockmaker are solely watchers of the time.
Nothing is what it is
Everything is a lie.
Nothing is what it is
You see it all, but not the eye.
Care not the lines of experience,
Which crease the ancient face
And forget the lived experiments
Of aged stones in place.
For to behold the youthful stare of a renewed life in space
Is more than life has purpose in any god’s given grace.
Crossing the deserts of time in a glass hour
To find the mythically opioid flower
That brings forth visions of endless power
And the universal design of a Babel tower.
The search twinned with death as a legacy of suffering.
The streaming hell of continuous buffering;
The boredom of life with constant blabbering
with ejaculated meaning for those who need mothering.
Old Soul, New Goal
New Spirit, Old Habits
The Circle, the Cycle
The Bitch and the Biker
The cliche of activism
The dreaded nothing of sympathy
and the end of the line.
Game Over – Insert more money.
Saying ‘goodbye’, the ink leaves the paper.
Recursive transmutation of image to meaning;
the denotation, connotation super-highway of data transition.
Viewing, as in meaning, contains subjective conditioning,
an agreement of symbolism, abstract reductionism
encoded in black and white contrasts.
The appearance of a word
in the beginning draws a tree,
ink leaves shadow lead carbon roots,
watered by the smallest atomic geometry
abstract rationalization can muster,
nucleic acid-snakes swarm the coniferous
with a carnivorous appetite for souls.
A simplified explanation of the genesis of man,
is that from mud and rib the female-eating
rose-fruit losing knowledge-hiding monarchy
were castrated and blinded by the octopi fleeing ink.
Leaves of the good book turn the page of awareness through bribery;
the library of peoples burnt down. The symbols, scattered like seeds,
grow in the wilderness of time,
adapting, mutating, living.
full moon, new moon, blood moon, blue moon
star crazy gazers hailing comets coming too soon.
geometric telemetries,
electromagnetic mysteries,
sound-less recordings of falling trees,
parallel universe philosophies.
old year, new year, somewhere around here
thirteen eastward-facing sentiers.
solar acne and dragon winds,
dictator soup with shark fins,
the legend of the last kings,
Babylon vs the Shaolins.
the seven sisters in the hunters sight
sign post directives for the ones in light
architectural prophecy,
fractal making realty,
Psycho Bill’s cuppa tea,
fauna-graphic THC.
crack heads voted as heads of state
voted by crack heads in their euphoric state.
no news, good news.
whistling, dead clues,
scientific refuse,
father/son seal approve.
dollars, pounds, euros, yens
paper back fiction through an authorized lens.
Arthur C. Clarke, H.G. Wells,
Blake, Poe, and Huxley tales,
Ison waits, fake scales,
zodiac balance, heavens need hells.
I’m neither a predator nor a prey,
I live 24 hours in one day.
It’s a shame our existence is defined by incorporated trading hours.
Controlled by retail, resale and 50% off.
We no longer want or need
these systems of greed.
We just hope and pray
we’ll awake to see another day.
If you don’t sleep how is enlightenment meant to awaken you?
If you don’t creep how is frightement meant to shaken you?
If you don’t bleep the system how are your factory settings going to know your batteries need changing?
I am an ant.
I am anti-termite.
Some might say I’m anti-termetic.
I live as collective, a gang, a cell, a swarm, a nest.
I have no individuality except my own existence.
I look and act like every other ant… well, except Anthony,
he’s old and slightly antiquated;
an antithesis of antidisestablishmentarianism.
I ant therefore I am.
I, along with my fellow brethren, and of course… our Queen,
are the rulers of the Earth – we out number anything by billions,
except those fucking termites in their air-conditioned spacious towers!
I’d rather live underground than in a fancy mansion made of my own puke!
Future Headspace 