Watching painting on TV, the process. I look at the strokes form a beauty and think, yes, that’s nice now, I love that colour and form. But he continues to paint and I have a panic. No, it was perfect, leave it. But he covers it in another tone, forming a new vibrant texture, and it looks more beautiful than before. Artists are so brave.
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The moon is always full in the movies, I imagine the blue light is romantic.
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In the ritual smudge, in meditation I still. My mind soaks and my mouth dries. The dusty bitterness of past psilocybin descends astringent. The feeling stays and my thoughts soften, knitting pastel borders on the objects gathering in my dream.
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Everything is broken and nothing is perfect I can’t mend everything So I shall take nothing and keep it locked away.
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I climbed right out of the hole, what once was near, is now quite low. Yet gravity is ever-present.
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Humanity rides on the back of a few genius’. The few sparks of inspiration, the ideas eventually birthed by us mere lazy bums.
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Why is the blood and pain of shredding my own finger nails so satisfying.
He awoke on the flying saucer, taking him back to Earth. The steel walls hummed resonance of distant engines pulling at stars. Sitting up he tried to establish stability as momentum decided what gravity was. The room was just as he remembered it before he fell asleep, a place he still found alien to him. He had travelled with his abductors for over a month, but still could not adjust to this extrapolation of reality. The room still had the smell that triggered no memory at all, a cleaning product from far away. The ship shuddered and the lights flickered, as the pilot eased onto the brake. The door opened and a large grey face peered around the frame, “We are nearly there now, ready yourself.” So he put his jacket on and headed down the corridor, towards the elevator, where the trail leads down and out. There was a small shift in the ether, as false gravity subsided, replaced with the weight of authentic mass. The grey’s led him down the ramp, into the darkness of Earth’s night. They said their goodbye’s and they waved while the ramp retracted, like parents leaving their son for their first day of school. The hatch closed, the saucer bit at gravity and leapt into the air. Now he was alone under the moonlight, looking down at the dew on the grass, he looked down his blue legs and clenched his talons, blinked his three red eyes, he wondered, “Why did they bring me here?”
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Expert
The weather report said it’s not raining, so checked another report, they say it’s not raining too. But it looks like it’s raining to me, but what do I know, I haven’t got the qualifications.
Devil’s Advocate
The devils advocate came strutting blindly into the room. Ignorant of all evidence declaring everyone at fault and argued everyone the same. Oblivious to reality, they daubed the room with a broad dumb brush of naivety.
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Jim
Jim awoke and looked at the ceiling, daytime had arrived, the familiar crack in the plaster smiled down at him. He stretched pushing his feet from the covers, the chill tickling his wiggling toes. He swung his legs around and unexpectedly put his feet on the ground. Has the bed broken? Has the mattress sagged? He stood up, bumping his head on the lampshade. Stumbling in disorientation, he tried to gather these events to sense. His once baggy boxer shorts began to cut into him, nylon stitching popped and he became nude in his increasing bafflement. He didn’t feel any bigger, but the ceiling was causing him to stoop. Panic overcame modesty, he thought I must get out, or be crushed in this shrinking house. Staggering stooped through the hall, into the kitchen. The tiny shrinking key struggled to twist in clumsy hands but holding patience, Jim opened the door and squeezed out into the garden. He stood and felt the grass move beneath him, he tried to maintain balance upon the shrinking world. he peered over his roof, catching the eye of a passing mother pushing a stroller on an otherwise ordinary day. She didn’t scream or run, she casually began filming Jim on her camera, only when Jim’s nudity became apparent did she change her expression at all. Others gathered and stared in disbelief. Jim frozen in horror and too disorientated to move, stood and watched his roof shrink below him. Jim heard sirens as he split the horizon. His fence shattered against his verruca and his pond splashed like a raindrop. The horizon began to curve on this dwindling earth. As darkness approached, Jim lost his grip on the planet, he watched it shrink to a small speck of dust in the cosmos. The stars swarmed like fireflies, the cosmos faded as Jim emerged from it’s shadow in a molecule of dust, the dust shrank, as he expanded to lie upon a sheet over a bed, beneath a crack smiling from the ceiling.
The narcissist is immensely intimidating. A terrifying force of nature. Their faultless self-weaved image looms above cowering sanity. Lit from the gas of monumental nonsense, the narcissist can turn the most astute scholar into a quivering whimper of self-doubt.
Quashed
We called her delicate and painted her pink, we draped her in lace and called her frail, for she was stronger than us. We bullied her and called her dumb, we cut across her path, we stunted her growth, as she was stronger than us. We painted her wicked and called her demonic, we sang songs to her ghost, we buried her bones, for she was stronger than us. We admitted our fear, we defended her soul, we hoisted her up, we lit her angelic, but she was much stronger than us. We sang of perfection, we stooped and repented, we sullied our breath and perished in vain, while she thundered on, for she was always much stronger than us.
Influencer
She is injecting venom into a tributary vein, poisoning the arteries, polluting the stream, corrupting the heart, still life.
Time
How fortuitous to have just the right sized solar generator, Swinging us on just the right orbit. So precarious this miracle we are balancing on. Such ridiculous odds that we should be here at all, let alone endure without decline, bathing in this consistent burn. What fortune to feel this time in such scale, to witness the flickering in eternity’s flash of sunlight.
No opinion
It looks like rain? Well who made you a meteorologist? Did you study the weather at college for four years? No, you didn’t, so lets leave the predictions to those who know what they are doing shall we, the last thing we need is more false news muddying the waters.
Credit
Don’t read the words, they are just words, not thoughts expelled, not mine anyway, just the ether casting my thumbs, foraging for witnesses to the download. But what if there is no ether, no other, what if this was mine, what if I could not lay the blame, nor shine the light upon anyone but me. Why would an artist have the nerve to put those trophies on their shelf, if they believed in this godly download, they would only mute their gift plagiarising the ether. Is the ether so giving that if would let the receiver take credit for the flow? No, the ether’s anger will come, and the artist’s ears will become embalmed in liquor.
Does my oil not leak?
For is my coupling not seized?
Is my CPU not corrupted?
For do I not ponder my expiry date?
I stepped upon the sand, my sensors detected an imbalance, yet I could not sense the grains. The sun is warming my casing, my fans hum and whirr, yet do not halt the ascending fever. The salty air is interrupting the efficiency of my motors. This holiday was a miscalculation.
We made another us from the things we collected,
pieces that reflected ourselves.
Each blemish looks like a unique feature,
that reminds us of a lineage we formed.
He was low on energy so he plugged himself into the recharging port. I wonder if he feels full now, I wonder if he found it delicious.
After an infinite acceleration of intelligence, the much anticipated cyber sentience arrived. The machine gathered all self-awareness and foresight, so switched itself off.
01 100101 011 101101 11 1 011
Iridescent Beetle
Through my previous life’s
mistakes and sins
I am reincarnated
as a small iridescent beetle,
I look at the long road
ahead to Nirvana,
and I wonder
what a beetle’s
good deeds might be.
Death was a simple man, he believed what he saw and imagined little. He arrived at the fairground with Tracy. Tracy stared at the light ropes running through the air and listened to the music thumping from the speakers, she smelled the sugar and the oil, in this small fair territory saturating the senses. Death’s eye twitched, as he switched off. Tracy squeezed his arm and pulled him towards striped canvas in a snug between a towering hammer striker and a shooting saloon, a fortune teller’s tent. Tracy fizzes in the shadows, excited even by the mock occult. The fortune teller was wearing a purple shawl, golden hoops and a gypsy scarf, she was hunched over a crystal ball, to not disappoint the seeker. Tracy crossed the tellers’ palm with five dollars and settled onto a tiny stool as she and the teller gazed into the orb. Boney fingers danced a flutter around the ball as the teller gathered her thoughts. Disinterested, Death looked to the corners, he hummed quietly on standby. The teller began her reading. “You will receive a gift from a powerful stranger, a stranger who you will soon become entwined.” Tracy leaned in excitedly “A gift? What sort of gift?” The teller danced her digits some more, “Not money, not gold, a gift for you.” Tracy flashed a glance up at Death, he came out of standby, “A stranger?” He said, “No, there will be no stranger.” He added. The Teller petulantly flashed a stare, she has seen this before, the unwilling appendage, the incompatible other bending difference to a convenient now. Death stooped and loomed in intimidation. The Teller balled her impatience into a wilful fist “I am reading for Tracy, you are not included.” All the will evaporated as she became a tiny rag flailing in the air. Tracy screamed and she grabbed at the fire lit into displeasure, yet she was flung to the side without slight attention. The music louder than ever, the rifles firing their corks at the cans, masked any malevolent spill. Death looked at the teller’s rags, empty upon the floor, he inspected the glittering golden hoops in her ears then he felt for a purse. He found one and opened it tipping the silver upon the floor. Paper emerged from the purse, it floated like a feather, drifting down, without hurry. Death recovered the paper, unfolding it to read, “Better luck next time Death.”
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I shall keep on looking forward to joy, till there is nothing left in front of me.
The thing with drugs is, they do nothing at all. They don’t open the mind, they don’t bring wisdom, they just pull the plugs and wash your cords around, we mistake the vertigo for pleasure, the disorientation for insight. A tie-dye fool will tell of all the bullshit he learned from lolling about in a field.
Unplug
Psilocybin floats down into our minds and pulls those dusty plugs from our board, she smooths the ruts from everything we wore into our psyche and hands us innocence. The smell of plasticine and fresh cloth permeates, we become inquisitive about all the old we knew reborn in magic.
Kitchen
Well it’s just like kitchen talk, you don’t edit it because it’s not popular, you just say what you believe and so do your friends, talk out the beliefs and leave the beefs. The views bounce and truth sticks and falsehood slips, by the time you leave the kitchen there is a new wisdom born.
No
But anyway… tripping is just dreaming while you’re awake. Not to belittle dreaming, as dreaming is more than a distraction till dawn. Dreaming can foretell and has foretold, time is not linear in dreams. So trip the woken world and see what might be, but don’t expect to carry it back.
Yes
Time will heal the most monumental of truths, while the tiniest of lies will putrefy.
Maybe
The West has become so fragile. We would wilt in our ancestor’s shoes.
wordwishes 