Monday, January 24, 2011

Insane divinity Pt. II

alcoholic dreams...
whatever it takes to be free, away from philosophy, theology, egomaniacle cocaine that haunts all the themes. The themes of living, eying all my waking dreams.
The eye of the Beholder, the one that I never question(ed).
All that lysergic liturgy amped up through my veins, riddled disease infesting my brain
cured maniacally by the mystics peyote disillusionment...

the Om of my soul, the Om of man, the Om of you and me and him and her. A virtue of the ferryman, the resolution of a penrose... the depth and simplicity of mandala.
the thousand peering windowed eyes of truth, mirroring my mind and reality in a fun house-esque perception. Turning tricks and back, to the
morphine seduced alcoholic dreams.

While in the highest of days, being perpetually groped and fucked in the ass by the man, whomever he maybe. Suspicions high within the paranoid drug fiends minds, flying one to the next. Forever celebrating the holy icons....

the Holy Kerouac
Holy Allen
Holy Dylan
Holy Dean
Holy Arlo
Holy Charles
Holy Ben
Holy Andi
Holy Kimmel....
all those holy's that suit our needs.

Passive but never frank activists inserting dirty needles loaded of social justices, and rusty crucifixes. Pumping the theological iron, constantly eying the mirror of society. Intellectually lusting for spiritual masturbations amongst the beauties during shore leave from the phallic bubble. Faithfully pleading to be lead, lead to insanity into the madness only scriptures of old speak of, with nothing to offer besides confusion and nightmares.

Now with Charcoaled cocaine set brain, sculptures portrayed in vein- pumping diligently, raging onward. Through blackened lungs, strained alcoholic livers, the frayed and beaten minds... grooving and moving to their own tunes. Beats of dreams not yet dream-pt, skin not yet set.

Shambling after the mad ones, the dancers in the street seen loco. The unaccustomed tunes in bliss, interested in all things forever burning, and raging and screaming with yells of oo-ing and aww-ing with the twilights of bursting fireworks across the nights sky amongst all the "beautiful and lofty." still near the pursuit of all, the wander lust unshaken...
the caffeine
morphine, alcoholic serene.......................

the click-clack serene beat that flows in me, an honest purity never seen. The you I've hoped for, the failure in my hope and the you I truly adored. The me seen free, nothing besides simple happenings. What a peace brought near, what a piece to bring anew, when truth seems to resist simplicities.

A hocked up holy lougey of disenchantedment, the bearer of all the "Beautiful and lofty." pulling the blinders in time to see the laden indistinguishable fears chasing mad ravenous dogs, sick infested disease of Chernobyl. Evolving unknown DNA strand that inhabits such existence, an existence of laughing nothing. laughing at me, with me, for me, or just me laughing at nothing. This unidentified nothing, the void, the chasm, the crevasse, the forever infinite abyss.

The fiending sick Pavlovian drooling dogs, the dawn in my day nipping since midnight from those nights. Those maddening nights. Scuttling under the floorboards, listening in the conversationalists above. Pushing through the darkened streets, keeping the introspective howling dogs at bay,
with the serene click-clack caffeine,
morphine seduced comatose dreams.

Analyzing the hidden heroes of the time, the beautiful crumbling butterfly, chasing and chasing until it no longer flies. The naive innocence of chaos and trouble with more experience to come. The Dean of our time, the apathetic emotional pile nothingness we all hold dear. The user of narcotics, the user of men, and women. The seducers of all the disturbing and angsty. Pilgrims of our day, the slacking lazy-bones of our time. And above all else, the inevitable shift of paradigms in which comforts are despised.

Friday, January 21, 2011

ramblings, what a clever title!

Yup, here I am yet again after questioning the void. The void many have questioned before, the simple truths and yet the truth resists simplicity. Yet I am not mature enough or wise enough to understand, if it's my truth or the worldly truth that persists to resist so intensely. In the end it could simply be my own vapid intellectual ideals that annihilate all... what am I saying, my want, my wanting does all the destruction for me. That unceasing thirst for everything and anything. The thirsts and the wanting that has always drawn me into such a crevasse, such a void, where my thoughts are towering in ivory. As if I'm always looking down upon others form a different and better perspective. As if my reason is better or reason, good or bad truly exists.

I wish there was a pretty girl effect for everything. Einsteins always quoted phrase of, kissing a pretty girl while driving, you aren't giving the girl or the kiss, the attention she deserves. This over analytical self taking away from the pretty girl in the room and pondering the mouse upon the elephant. Wow that was a shitty statement... I sort of hate myself for that one. I'll come back to this later, when I have a statement that is well/better stated.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Reworking of: I've died to many things and many things have died in me.

I've died to many things and many things have died in me. The dying tune of a canary placed in the coal mine. Not finding what was first pursued, just stumbling gracefully into the penrose... holy ascending/descending... wholly ascending/descending... ascending and descending... a perpetual cyclonic machine, the inseparable naivety to the inseparable ego. Perhaps lost or found in wonderful dis-illusionment or utter bliss.

The naive pursuit of better teachings, stronger learning, factual truths, and a wide-spread seduction. A seduction to others, a seduction to instill others in a love for another place. A new jerusalem, a higher knowledge, the end to cycles. The reincarnations, rebirths, new deaths, "stinketh" no more. To find the eternal upward moving staircase. Every time, just finding, it dies within me.

Not sure if my ferryman days will come, the life of saint Christopher reached. Nothing gained from teh flwoing power of the raging river. The perpetual oneness of everything reached, never holding despair and joy. Dissecting it all into two sects, sinners and non... I cannot gain wisdom as knowledge so easily.

The canary doesn't sing to me anymore, he sits silent, let loose or dead. Maybe even my ego speaks over its beautiful song... even the song could have never even existed, just a figment, an illusion of my own (and the world I have en-wrapped myself in's) creation. Created from my confusion during nights, the nights that create confusion on their own. Speak into your subconscious, playing games with the penrose of the insane ones mind. Cheap tricks and petty games, alluring to the senses, the want, the wanting and learning. As if such is gained and I've gained anything at all.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

I've died to many things and many things have died in me.

I've died to many things and many things have died in me. Far from Weltschmerz. My romantic passion of pushing forward and falling, falling and falling until a crash. Still giving faith to a comfortable end. Pursuing a better teaching, more learning, and a wide-spread seduction. A seduction to others, a seduction to instill others in a love for another place. A new Jerusalem, a higher knowledge, the end to cycles. A cycle of reincarnations, rebirths, new deaths, "stinketh" no more. Away from cyclical forms and finally determined reach of the spiral staircase.

Every time, once again, to find it dies within me. Stumbling gracefully into the Penrose. Wholly ascending and descending... holy ascending/descending... graciously ascending-descending... A perpetual cyclonic machine, the canary in the coal mine. Awaiting the tune to drop. Inseparable naivety to the inseparable ego. Perhaps lost or found in wonderful disillusionment or utter bliss.

I killed IT. My dear brothers as I was, quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry at times. Others I was also, hardly listening, johnny on the spot to speak and the same was I in anger. My anger did not produce righteousness that was desired. The moral filth and evil that was prevalent to me wasn't accepting any words planted in me and never saved me. At the moment, neither did the words I accept save me for they caused more confrontation. They are me'rely words with many definitions we argued and debated. Even though I use them now.

I do still wish to listen, speak well and rarely be angry. To just be and love, to just be and love... as was originally intended.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Weltschmerz. Pt. I

A forward:
Putting on my glasses to read amongst the people my inner thoughts placed in prose of sorts. Things come into focus with Chuck sitting to my left side. I open the pretentious red book almost a plague at my side constantly. It's propelling thoughts shooting and telling me to write of what happens before my eyes. It's all important and must be spoken of, absolutely. I look over at Ben and with a simple nod begin to read, the nodding and staring continues. .. nodding, nodding, nodding... reading, reading, reading... staring, staring, staring... the groove hits me like a warm shot, no fear and no distractions, just me looking for agreeance of some finer point of emotion expelling from my tiny little red book. the smell of hookah and wine lingers as I finish, removing my glasses, thinking of how Kerouac and Ginsberg may have felt after reading or hearing each other read and reach a peace in the beat of their poems. Perhaps the proper stepping of the placements on the dance mat, our dance mats and nobody else's. The more it's pondered the more silence and passion settles to just enjoy the moment. So silence takes control of me as Charlie prepares himself to dance........

this is what I read:

To all,
rambling, stammering... drunkenly bouncing from wall to wall of the hall. taking our seat at life's grand display, just upon the river bank. Steal under our asses and smoke in our lungs. Disbarred from the whole. Some 200 miles apart, mumbling discredit, sighing, whispering self-deprecations.

Naked once were we, just here. Now with only leaves, no longer free. Dipping in the streams, naked lovely beautiful freedom! Translucent nostalgia, just beyond the shoreline. Where now just bare feet dangle. Twisting and moving, articulate in flight, dancing from here to there. Some newly discovered self-infatuation, my companion and I.

From the fruit of humanities lost souls to the apple of baffled minds in the barnyard we see it's all crazy.
bite: be saved!
bite: be gone!
bite: ubuntu!
bite: come clean!
bite: it's good!
toss: we leave it all behind amongst the whores and filth the wolves in shepherds clothes...

I'm sorry.

On all those progressive steps forward, I was close to follow.
I was there with you in despair,
I was there with you in mind,
I was there with you in spirit.
The aesthetics of my soul drew blood of ink spewed upon the agony of typewriters and old mac-books but never was it here in physicalities, I was merely distracted by all the fluctuations, scared by the lustful touches of emotion.

Watch me write in prose and be in awe, while I show this coffee shoppe what true writing is. From the scholastics in universities, the quotes of shit-headed allegories memorized to prove a setting in history. A liturgy of sorts that flows through fingers. To never pray in secret, to always allow the right hand to see what the left is printing. Screaming and moaning to the curves and moves of another well placed thorn is pricked to the modernist agenda. So once again the underground man can be in victory, the deification reached.

Ordering the one hundred and sixty degree soy latte', claiming small business from a Starbucks line. Remembering the impressive vegan diet for bragging rights and peta meetings. Angel headed hipsters turned iconic peace tea and Che t-shirted capitalists avoiding coca-cola cocaine in remembrance of the Colombians of trips past and later sneaking shimmering red cans from browned sugared cocaine from the fridge, when boyfriend and onlookers thought not lookn'.

Meat and potatoes:
It's like a sauna in here, a heaping desert savanna land. Dry as a debaucherous soul towering cynical eyes cyclical skyscrapers peering into our spirits. Beyond the orthodox ropes, through the saintly cloaks, beyond the bastard beads, into the deeply hidden visions of our dreams. Those things not mentioned in polite company, detached form memory in any spiritually lead exhibition of duality.

Minds in broken fragments, detached fucking retinas and casted aside all tendencies of senses for the bleak and dark causality darker than the soul, more holy than any angel and any devil. Smokey and hazy as any good smokers lounge.
Moaning and widdeling stanza to stanza,
morning to evening,
sunrise to sunset,
sanity to insanity.
For all the day brings clarity and all the night brings confusion. Dysfunctional unreadable junk that seemed ever so genius by the sunlight in the park. Unrealistic by the shinning alcoholic diamond shimmering paths of lower town of dirty D. Where everything is "classy" all the people golden and holy, the smell of eroding factories and brilliance of working for a dollar in way of the capital A:american dream we argue and fight.
The place of our madness, the place of our peace and solitude, hand in hand with our insanity. Place away form set virtues.

And oh those god damned virtues!, the subtle supple handed obscurities away from the obscenities. Fuck the virtuous yellow brick road to whatever may be golden beauties by streetlights! Passing by red light windows, suspicious as hell. In unison fashions stating stoned facts missing every turn for the end destination

To Arlo,
I am sorry I wasn't there for you in spirit, I wasn't there...
I wasn't there in despair,
I wasn't amongst the gatherers in the barn and in the streets rambling in tounges, preaching and healing as you went.
I wasn't at the door of the cathedral in the heavens when you were tired and hungry, weeping for your friends.

Your friends who deserted you as they felt they had lost you. I apologize for the state of things and how all that, I was never there during the travels and traversing, that I was on a train angry as you walked in the winter cold. Juxtaposed to the train travels you took without ever looking back.

Despising what I became and you became and we became...

Turning people to our will in some glorious happenstance. We returned, with beaten hearts and destroyed minds... unwillful to meet but just as easily met with black coffee and broken spirits, we lept. I was never there and now I am here. You are here. We are here. I'm with you in our confusion and our misunderstanding. I'm with you in the cathedrals, I'm with you in the journey and here when I'm not... I'm never too far from the state of things whatever they may be. I'm sorry for those times and for the times that reason kills me. Sincerely and always yours.