21 December 2011

Ash Wednesday

Someone must’ve spiked me with methedrine because I’m way too high. That shit gives me crank bugs and the heebies. Another nightshift scheduled – my body aches and my mouth is dry.

I saw him, we danced real close, he has black eyes and the blackest smile. The drinks were on him, black wine from Corsica. I’m halfway to Ash Wednesday and my penultimate oblivion. I hooked an angel with my kite and cut him loose with the Devil’s scissors. I wrapped him up in a parcel and mailed him to the Church – they said it was a miracle he ever arrived considering the state of the Italian postal system.

You must send the boy away. If he goes to his father the old man will think him evil and wild like his mother. His father has religion now and has become a terrible bore. He sits all day issuing sober soul orders; “Repent! Everyone is responsible for everything they do. The Lord God demands his supper!” His inquisition isn’t welcome around here; we’ll have to stone him one day.  We’ll mail him to Church as pate for the Holy Father. All organisations are built on lies, but he has all the best ones.

Exile the boy and nurture the man - with regular beatings. Spare the rod and spoil the child. It’s in our nature to nurture, so beat him relentlessly. Cut him with the devil’s scissors, make an end to his childish ways. Take him to Church and bury him - every church is a tombstone for the spirit of man.

My mind is my church; no altar, no preacher, no ceremony – just thought. The Church is theatre and religion is politics. The God venerated in the church is completely at odds with the natural universe. Iconoclast is the answer; smash the idols, burn the churches, free the mind.


7 December 2011

The Sickness Of The World


The golden monkey perches on my shoulder at a jaunty angle and whispers sweet somethings into my shell; acerbic poison drips from his maggot tongue. He has a hard on full of malicious spunk for my ear. He knows the words that I dread and the words I long to hear – I’m a receptacle to the villainous bile he spurts across the frozen waste of my heart. He’s a long term vice, as addictive as smack, and harder to ditch; he’s part of my fabric – my DNA.

I have always been the victim of my own machinations. I always gave in to the blunt and vicious side of my nature. I feed that hump monkey with my bitter delusions and confectionery lies. I’m not a victim, I’m a volunteer. The sickness of this world is fear; fear of disclosure, fear of truth. Creeping fear is my enemy, but my fear will set me free. Fear is the prime motivator, the scent of excitement, the stench of dread apprehension; take a little whiff and he’ll make your wildest dreams seem true.

My cloak of invincibility, my masquerade of masculinity, are driven by the shameful quirt of fear. The whole public edifice hangs on one tarnished nail – the threat of exposure, the disgrace of discovery. Fear is the touch of death, my most secret paramour. Fear has driven me to the contortions and exploits that map the surfaces of my life, but the hidden depths are his alone – he is Emperor of the interior. My internal story is one of revolution, of my struggle against his tyranny. I’ve learned throughout the years that even tyrants fall, but the odds are stacked against it.


4 December 2011

The Sea of Souls


Fuck 'em - they are already dead in their minds and living out an argument long settled by history. Their future is in the past – how much more dead can you get? The dream died, but it died of natural causes. I don’t know when because they gave it no stone.

What’s the point in discussing it? These people can never change their perspectives. No, rhetoric is their game and they already know the answers to all their questions; logos, pathos, and ethos. These guys are sophists - their minds are not open. They seek to persuade – not to learn. It’s all about identity and reinforcement because you are what you believe you are. They are motivated not by the things they love, but by the things that they hate. Broken, everything is broken and the others broke it. The only solution is to break everything that’s left and start over again. They have problems, they have solutions, but they have no soul.

I might die if one of them said something original; it would be like a spear through my head. I don't think communication can be wasted time because everything is useful. I just find it so very predictable sometimes. Did I say it died? Did I say it never was? Did I fart in church? Well stick that in your collider scope and puff. 

I’m not a believer, I don’t believe in gods, I don’t believe in ideologies, but I believe in love. I believe in love; not in the abstract, but in living, breathing, fleshy, heartfelt, human, love. I believe in actions, not words. Love is natures call to action - love is the voice of our souls.

I wasn’t born with a soul, I carved one from experience. Our non-corporeal essence is a figment of fairy tales, the product of wishful thinking. We shall not survive ourselves, we are not immortal. The soul is a construct – an abstraction of our experience. It can’t be measured, it can’t be weighed. It is not real in any physical sense. The concept of an insubstantial substance is an oxymoron. The soul is an act of imagination. You need imagination and feeling to grow a soul in the garden of your mind. Without imagination and feeling you’ll never have soul.

Not everyone has a soul. Some were too cheap, too scared, or just too lazy to get themselves one and simply went for an off the peg identity. They pass their second hand clothes off as their own. Some had a soul and lost it. They did not tend their gardens and their souls were strangled by weeds, or they poisoned their flowers with bitter thoughts and their soul gardens shrivelled and withered until they were deserts populated by ghosts.

Some people confuse their feelings with soul. Their emotions feel so tangible that they imagine they are real, but your psyche is an abstraction, a construct of your thoughts. Your soul is a metonym for consciousness. Let’s face facts - you are an organism, an animal, but you are nonetheless miraculous.

It’s time to set sail on the Sea of Souls, time to find those roots in the cosmic tree. It’s time to discover those constantly repeating and changing patterns in the yesternow. Flush your head clean of all thought and feel your way out of the sewer into the sunlight. Steer away from hysteria, dissociation, split personalities; away from mental illness, soul sickness. Harvest the energy that flows from music and leaks from books. Tap those axons and neurons that connect us to the stars - stop trying to be holy and learn to be whole.