Mingling

Yesterday was so wonderful, so full of innocence, so full of child like glee. No one was shot yesterday, no one was stabbed, all the music moved us, every artist provoked our hearts to smile. Tomorrow we will have all of yesterday’s beauty mixed with every lesson of today, for only today are we violent, only today are we in danger, only today does the music fail to lift us, today is cynical, today is not good enough, it is always today.

 

I find it hard to write of the death of a bird,
when her feathers are still in the air.

 

People enjoy violence, violence is built into our ancient animal bodies. Adrenaline flows as the blood does. We play at murder in all manner of games. We watch fights, the punches and kicks set off ugly reactions buried deep down within our shadows. We look into the twisted wrecks to see if we can spy the twisted bodies. We set off explosives for the shock of noise and light, our very own bomb attacks. Our brief search for peace seems so laughable.

 

I am wearing expression in an expressionless crowd, it takes some force of will. There are no rules to expression, no walls to compress, though expression is still not normal. I begin in an artistic expressive crowd, in the artist’s market, expression brings smiles. Despite the tethered elbows, I am comfortable. But the looking is looked and we leave the market. Expression is louder out here, I am shouting in a muttering town, a wave of expressionlessness overcomes me, I get the fear. I de-express and retreat, to build a reservoir of strength, to go forth and express again another day.

 

I have forgotten more than you know,
like my name for instance.

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And another thing.

I approach the towering barricade, impenetrable it looms over me, the gruesome gatekeeper asks me three questions, “Do you have your post slip . . . Do you have some identification . . . Would you like some stamps today . . . “. I decline stamps and hand her the parchments, reluctantly the gatekeeper hands me my package. The item is wieldy, I cradle it closely, protectively, as I would my own new born son and turn to continue my quest,. Out there, there in the merciless land, the frigid gale burns my flesh, I lean into it’s obstinate wall of spite, seemingly forever. Accusatory eyes pore over me, I must not meet any of them, or face the lashes of judgment. My shelter, my castle, my flat, could not come into sight soon enough. In what seems like days the welcoming beacon of my objective arrives, pure ambrosia in a pool of the devil’s muck. I push my key into the latch and turn, I hear the churn of engineering unfasten the keep. At last, safety. The package is tightly wrapped, it repels my groping fingers, rejects my prying nails. I reach into my weapon store and retrieve my blade, remove it from it’s scabbard and hold it aloft, it glints and shines with pure purpose, swiftly it slices betwixt the packing tape, liberating my book on bonsai gardening.

 

Mood is so fragile and transitory, mine and the worlds, I feel what resides in the ether. I argue over the mood of the world, tell of her anguish and her warnings, of what they cannot see and what has yet to be. As the earth retains the same settled superficial surface to numb souls, they see what they will always see, they see a future of a world of their opportunity.

 

My silence is not a sign of your winning the argument, it is merely dismay that you believe there to be another side in this view. Sometimes your view is so perverse and crooked, it is unarguable. There is so little sign of an anchor of rationality in your view, it is impossible to talk you back to sanity.

Dirt

I love dirt, the feel of it between the fingers, the smell of it freshly dug from below. I love dirt mostly for what it becomes. Dirt has the potential to be anything at all. From beautiful blooms of endless colours to ever reaching enduring trees. I would not keep it in jars, endless rows of stagnant jars. Nourishment kept from the ground, stifling potential, for the love of dirt alone. Dirt needs to be spread across the world, for everybody’s joy.

 

Loneliness could attend in your lovers arms,
irrelevant the company in the devils charm,
the demon desert dries your lake of soul,
takes more than love to fill your bowl,
every piece of your heart bereaved,
they still wonder why you leave.

 

War for peace,

what a plan,

drink till you’re sober.

 

How do you convince someone fire is hot
when they are convinced that it is not
those scars and scorches they truly exist!
folks always said that ignorance was bliss.

 

How are the sprites so swift, in and out they phase,
seen in the periphery, yet vanish under direct gaze.

 

Why believe in it? A corrupt and damaging hokum, a system for the gullible, just an imaginary totem, they kneel to it as if it were true, the poor suffer and die to feed, the economy a loaded fiction we do not need.

 

What if the whole world was connected, that every molecule of our bodies was in contact with every molecule of the air, that every molecule of the world carried feeling, to every other body, all animal, vegetable and mineral. The world would feel our feelings and we would feel hers. We would really be one, we would really care what happened in every corner of the world. If we chose to feel it.

 

Charades

They come seemingly from nowhere, another dimension perhaps, invading through the cracks in our world. They come in their millions, all at once in the fall, a seething buzzing mass of them. They make my skin crawl, my hair itch and my psyche display a haphazard discomfort. A horrid emerging swell of demonic cluster flies.

 

There is well over a million tons of aircraft in the air right now.

 

Three words, no, apparently two words, as a friend whispers a correction, a place. His eyes wander the corners in thought, he shows a finger, ‘first word’, the small audience recites in unison. He tugs his ear, ‘sounds like’ comes the chorus again. He flaps his hand to his face, puffs his cheeks. ‘Hot’ speaks a voice, ‘fan’ speaks another. He taps his nose and points to the second. Second word, he indicates, his friend tugs his sleeve, second syllable he corrects himself. Sounds like. He fans himself again, his friend shakes his head. Chorus says ‘fan’. Third word. A correction again.. third syllable. He leaves.

 

I must commend the United States on how well educated their homeless are.

 

The orangutang sits in the corner of his new enclosure, seemingly staring at the cheetah in the opposite pen, yet they do not see the other’s eyes, the grey of the walls, the pen, the cage. They see the expanse of the jungle, the plains stretching for as far as they can see. They hear the rushing stream and the bird calls. In each pen the animals sit, wearing their headsets, enjoying the freedom in their minds.

 

No there is nothing wrong, I just have to sit in the dark for a while, shut my eyes tightly and wait for a while, wear my sound canceling headphones and hug my knees for a while, there is nothing wrong.

The edge of the world.

I went to the edge of the world, an almost endless trek. I looked over, I wondered why I had never seen a picture of it, it is quite impressive. I got my camera out of my pocket, and would you believe it, I dropped it over the edge. Just take my word for it, the edge is very impressive.

 

There is nothing much wrong with the world,
when surrounded by sleeping cats.

 

In amber air the fan whirls an off centre rattle twirl, blowing hot air down to the tables. Buzzap goes the glowing blue fly killer again. The waiter leans against the bar, slicks back his hair and tears the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes, a ritual. The evening breeze blows the shutters against their catches. Soon the sun will dip, inviting the waifs and strays to tumble from the hill, to unwind the coils of work.

 

The ocean is lapping the beach so gently,
very forgiving I thought.

 

We time travel to the suns previous incarnation, we continue to thrive on mystery energy, we are staying and vibrant, despite the limited energy given. We have travelled for hours in the air, then we travelled for hours in the car, criss crossing the land to be shown where past adventure was had, to where ancestors nested, to where had changed and where had stayed the same. From Half Moon bay to Santa Clara, from Santa Clara to Palo Alto on back to Half Moon bay, then to San Francisco, from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, then back to Half Moon bay. The waves. Though all is thrown at her, all waste, all poisons and death slung into her, still she gives. I believe the Pacific ocean is giving us the vibrancy for continued uninterrupted joy. That, and Stan’s glazed doughnuts for breakfast.

 

The bush chatters, so I reply, I reassure it that I am good, that the weather is fine. The bush chatters more. I feel that is it’s way of thanks. We chat some more, then the birds fly away.

Jogging.

Jogging now illegal.

Indeed it was a shame we had to make jogging illegal, but it was an inevitable outcome for the common good. The helmet laws were somewhat successful, but there is only so much protection a helmet can provide for such an impact. You know how much it hurts just walking into a door, now imagine jogging into it. Now imagine a door was jogging towards you. But do not put too much thought into it, it would disturb your very fibres to see such an impact. So you see, there really was no choice at all. Jogging will soon be available in purpose built soft areas, the first SoftJog will be rolling out in the spring of 2021, and feel free to carry on walking, but please, walk slowly and be aware of your surroundings. Also remember to note, walking and talking is still a finable offence in city centres. Stay safe and enjoy your aware stroll in open areas.

 

Dear Penny,

As excited as Stephen was to attend your event, unfortunately he is unable to come as he was abducted by the Korean mafia. They came under cover of daylight, at around 10:30 on Tuesday, cloaked in the guise of PVC guttering salesmen. So far no demands have been made, but the abductors assure us Stephen is having a ‘lovely time’. Stephen has never expressed any desire to holiday in Korea, but the abductors seemed to have warm, friendly faces in the video they sent us. God willing Stephen will be back in the new year, around February perhaps.
Have a wonderful time with your celebrations, perhaps next time Stephen will not be diverted by some unforeseen malady,

Regards,

Stephen’s Mum.

___________

Well he was not on my list, but he was an irritant,
I was just on the way to my paid job, I had my tools,
a free favour, to the world, one less irritant,
you’re welcome.

Well, the first thing you need to know is, don’t have a way, don’t have a modus operandi, do you want all to know your work? Our work is not for fame, not for glory, it is just for love.

Learn your craft, learn it forwards and backwards, learn every tool, never occupy the centre, reside in the edges, always be prepared to flee.

________

Dear sir,

I have some issue with these appendages given to me in your grand wisdom. The spout is unruly and aimless and the other two items appear to be of no purpose at all, but to be a seating fragility. The spout also has some issue with my attire, what was once fitted becomes snug at the mere thought of a damsel’s ankle. Some sort of exchange would be prudent, to prevent this distraction progressing further.

Yours truly

Johan Amthryct

_____________

 

I take her for granted, what an insult meant as a compliment, like the sun in the sky and the earth beneath my feet, irreplaceable, solid and unbreakably there. I could celebrate every moment, yet merely cherish them. I will always be here to admire her and she knows that. The sun knows me, the earth knows me, not from my words and not from my actions. Something else at work, they know my weakness, know my strength, as she knows I will remain.

 

I move from subjective to objective,
or vice versa, as I move from sickness,
all my good intentions are melting away,
it all looks too good now, I would miss it too much.
From a place of wellness, the risk of sickness is worth it.

 

The worth of expression is reaction
the value of reaction is priceless.

 

 

Willett Wood

In Willett wood the immortal sprites are playful again. Whispering in passing ears, sending playful shivers to walker’s spines and wafting leaves to dance circles in the glades. Every dawn their Yew tree lets them out into the new light, to help the gnomes maintain the wood. They sprinkle the moss on the bark and lay the sparkle upon the webs, but play is never far away. Many years ago a sprite named Skiin would love to play, glee would erupt from every shiver he drew. But in time, his play grew more cruel, we would trip the children and giggle at their tears, blood would only make his cruel belly heave in laughter. He would push the pheasants into the paths of passing carts and crisp the branches of ancient trees, causing their painful collapse. His kin grew more and more concerned with Skiin, his Yew tree too. Enough thought his Yew. After a tiring day of more than mischief Skiin went to bed in his Yew. Yew closed tightly resolved to never let Skiin out again, or at least until a few centuries had passed, when he could learn his lessons. But Skiin was angry now, these bounds just made him seethe, he knitted his wood magic into a mighty lever and forced his way from his Yew, heaving her roots from the earth. In a fierce flame he flew through the woods, tinder to the ancient ones. The gnomes then took notice and took control. They bound the cruel Skiin, they built a magical brick tower to pin him down, away from world. There he remains, a stones throw from his poor mangled Yew, who grows now stronger than ever, in spite of the cruel sprite.

While sleeping

I search for shoes that match, in a drawer, in an alley. Behind me dogs drag men with chains, wild thick necked dogs with sopping jowls. The chains creak with tension as they drag their keepers towards me, sniffing and snarling at my shoes. I retreat up a stairway, where I meet a man observing the scene. He is a jovial sort, if somewhat imposing as he towers over me. He leans on the rail and casually fondles his pistol while telling me of the dogs. “These dogs are only to pull him down there, he is the one to watch out for”. I look down to where he points and see a huge puce thick set dog dozing. He is almost entirely jowl and has three legs. I take the pistol and fire towards the huge beast, I miss and the dog does not react at all, not a flinch, twitch or blink. I hand the gun back. “Were you sent for me?” I ask. “Oh no” he replies “But in your line of work, you never know”.   :An excerpt from last nights dreaming.

 

July seems so far away, my bones remember nothing of warmth in their winter chill. Circulation is not venturing far from my heart, my fingers and toes are numbing. Holding my soul dear with the warmth that remains. The bus is late.

 

Does there need to be point to a story? Can I perhaps just make something up, I think so, no hero and no villain. No consequences and no conclusion. Just me on my own, going to the supermarket. On approach it does look a story of it’s own, the people pour from all directions like to the mountain in close encounters of the third kind. I imagine the first two being pick your own and convenience stores.. The place is huge, it was not here last year, as soon as it was built it imagined up a whole city of folks who went evidently otherwise hungry. In three circuits I find that someone is leaving, after false alarms of fetched tickets being put into cars, oh the horror of the nearly space. Victory! I leave and get a ticket, to disappoint another poor soul searching for a space. No, I am just returning to put a parking ticket in the windscreen, embarrassing wave.. I don’t know what I need, I know I need crisps, we always need crisps, and biscuits. I should get onions and broccoli, but it is so cold in that forsaken aisle, it was fine for a cool down on a summers day, but this autumnal day is lending an uninviting air to the chill of the aisles, no wonder people tend to buy biscuits, cupa soup, crisps and booze, we stick to the warm aisles. But I guess I must venture down them, for meat and such. I can see my breath, I should not be able to see my breath indoors, I don’t think I could see my breath when I was in the car park. Grab and retreat to warmer aisles. Ah biscuits, you beautiful temptations, always another new, more layers, more chocolate, more sweet. I am reaching my crowd limit, the other people are feeling the same, elbows and eyes are sharp and wicked in their quest for room. I have enough, enough to see me through an evening of TV. I try to gauge how long it would take to get to the register, a longer queue, but less things, those seem to have many small things. Just pick a lane! Oh, a chatty register, this baskets handles are cutting my fingers, yes the weather is the same as this morning. Finally the conveyor, the stick of next invites me to lay out my wares for inspection, a short journey along the rumble strip, along the bleep and down the slide of bought. I feel for my change as the green numbers rise, that much, how awkward a number. I look through my change, but all maths is gone as I feel the weight of the queue behind me, so I hand a large note to the girl. She digs out the notes and change and I try in vain to keep all in my hand, blushing I fumble the coins, fold the notes into my wallet with shaking hands, the pressure of the queue remains. Finally the groceries bagged, my change in my pocket, I can escape to give a wandering soul my space.

 

Lunch box memories.
I see a tupperware lunchbox, the form and smell takes me back, a multitude of years. I can smell the food in the lunchbox, the school dining hall I sat in, I can hear the hustle and bustle of the hectic space, I can see the walls. I would never have the school dinners, not just because they smelt odd and wrong, but the lunchbox would be a vital break from an alien place, a vital link to home.

 

 

 

 

Our emptying bowl

Near the end of the bowl we can see the bottom, the aware slow to preserve what’s left, though there are those who will scrape at the porcelain mindlessly. Sip, look to where the bowl was filled, do you wish to merely remember the flavour? Or wish to sip some more? Perhaps share the next bowl. The cars still pound the road, still burn the fuel. We ignore the pattern below our feet, the swirls at the bottom of the bowl, the pattern that says ‘no more’. We continue to create more and more, slurping at the spoon. We race the cars in circles as if we had a bowl to spare. Planes rip the sky in banshee shrieks. Infinite steel tankers slop precious darkness to the depths, killing the beauty in the sea. A selfish momentum that they cannot or will not slow. That scraping and scraping, how does it not offend their ears?

 

This might be a simulation. Yet contextually, to the avatar, all is real.

 

There is nothing in my day today, no meetings, no work, no occupation at all. I will just watch this candle burn down to nothing, as if time was worthless. Yet if I knew truly how little time I had, I would be overcome with grief at opportunities passing, though what use is such sorrow, it would ruin the enjoyment of watching this candle burn down to nothing.

 

The universe is a toy on Brians desk. Where he sits on an atom considering the eternal loop of time and dimension.

 

Autumn has set light in orange and gold
perversely warm in the fall’s bitter cold
leaving the trees with withered bare branches
reducing the blooms of summer to ashes.

 

Normality is a ruse and a falsehood, pursued by the real perverts, who will maim rape and kill to keep their devilishly straight path shining like hate. In time normality will be uncovered as the fetish it is.

Rebirth

Death and rebirth beautifully choreographed, year after year, century after century. All washed and replenished from a never ceasing orb.
Even the most destructive and selfish demons burning and raping her, are nothing but a minuscule smear on infinite time.

 

The earth looks as blue looking down from above, as it does looking up from below.

 

The grass mugged the cow, the sky just took the clouds and threw them at the mountains, the mountains so shocked, they dropped their snow on the lounging trees, causing them to run to the lake to cool off, if only the lake was warned, he would not have drowned the trees. Now the lake is inconsolable, crying on his knees, drowning the bushes too, oh what days are these?!

 

Beyond the rain, beyond the cloud, beyond the blue. In the darkness, the stars are still there, shining for someone else.

 

Every generation ashamed of evil in it’s pot.
Hoping the following generation
becomes what they could not.

 

I am on edge as the bodies could come in at any time, in any room, the only sure thing is, they will come, in shredded pieces, wailing in pain. My heart is in constant preparation for grief.

 

“Just concentrate” he said to the orange.