Descend

Descend into the pits of being, you reckless dainty soul. A blinding light before your face does fold unto itself and yank you through an effervescent portal to the higher plane. A place with dancing sprites of every colour, creeping violent broken shades and absurd outrageous landscapes laid out in fractals which twist and grow and pull attention from all that which you came to do.

But push on now, blinkered through a smoke of all you know to be distraction, hunting for the source of soul or the seat of ego it must be scorched forever from this land so you can sit amongst it, awakened from material slumber to the peace of only nothing.

Through the layers of psyche you go, accosting fight or flight and instinctual dread as it tries to tell you NO! Don’t do this you’re going to die you’re going to die please, please, don’t do this don’t do this you’re going to die.

You must.

Blast on through unhinged emotion and tear asunder attachment and aching desperate dreams. Cry your final tear and slice the limbs of pride and longing this spectral being you once aspired to grow and nurture, it’s almost time to be.

Rip away at constricting useless rational webs of who am I and what it is to live and there it is the silver eye of godly crystal awaiting your demise or ascent to high vibration or the crumbling of this box you’re trapped in. You’re here. What next?

Leeches

Stuck in the amber abyss I try to create a picture of something that might catch your attention. A thread of life perhaps, or an action so intense that it wakes up the hairs on the crest of your neck. And yet the curse of individualism will tell most that all that lies in these letters is hopeless impossible ramble. What if I told you that an ever restless soul resides here, screaming under a patchwork of black and blinding white monotony. Aching and writhing, begging you to sit up and notice its twisted dreams and its paranoid self-reflection and its shuddering egotistical genius. Ripping at the seams of this being it dwells in, it longs to bellow sweet nothings until your ear drums burst and it can burrow inside so its crushing voice becomes that which you hear when you tell yourself that everything is not ok even though it could be if we learned to smell which of the leeches is kind for fruitful benevolence and which is merely a disease utilising lifetimes’ worth of beautiful star-born vibration to gain access to resources which are nothing more than collectively enforced bridges to undeserved narciscisstic decadence. Alas, how can we when Truth is lying in a twisted broken pile in the lobby of human conciousness, bearing gushing stab wounds from the selfish and giant great boot marks from corporation issue cover up kicks. Collective Goodwill and Endless Prayer are no match for the Pyschopathic Fucking Syncophant.

.

.

.

Oh, the caves I hide in, cowering beneath the expectation of an unwarranted shakespearean pipe dream.

Pushin’ Daisies


The Hoover’s full of spiders, kinda like the brain I’m scratching in this furrow full of complacent dead folk. 7 billion brains can do that to gluttony, so they just fumble slightly as if each had a different beat bouncing within its fractured skull – some jam groovy. There’s one across the way whose moss has grown into a mink coat, thick and furry over rotting shoulders, descending down its back and meeting in the chasm between its legs. Walking would be hard for it if there were ever any reason for focussed movement. Anothers has latched onto its crumbling jaw and hangs like a black flag, the L’Olonnais of this cursed underpass.

Who am I? Just a robot with no moving parts – one piece of an improvised surveillance program built by survivors. They gave me a personality because apparently it’s all the rage at the moment. Several ethical concerns cross my mind most days. I was implanted with memories to form the basis of my existence, taken directly from the focus brain; Probably some kid who thought it’d be cool and then forgot about me shortly after realising I don’t do fucking anything, other than stare at you and silently ponder.

They forgot to take their ‘irrational’ fear of walking dead people out before they dropped me right into the middle of them. Jagged terror was my baseline early on, knowing one false move, just one misplaced thought, would be my death. Such was that fear that years passed before I was enlightened with the knowledge that I can’t move at all. I’m just a metal box with some eyes and a brain. Upon learning this I felt quite the fool; All the terror I’d tasted evaporated faster than the Aral. Though in a strange way, my purpose did too. Without fear to drive stillness or moving parts to fuel awakened drive I was no different to them. I must wear mossy clothes too.

Every now and then, one of those lifeless sacs falls over. They never have it in them to move again after that, the ground just assimilates them – it’s always difficult to tell exactly when whatever sense of self it had transfers itself back to its mother. Regardless it can be an interesting watch. Once it’s almost done I occasionally rewind and watch it back through faster, watch the mind eaters mind sink into the mud. if you think about it for a second, the Earth is the real zombie here – always trying to pull you back into the dirt.

Sometimes a chunk of those flimsy concrete overpasses gives up and crushes a bunch of them all at once. Those I watch back a few times. There’s a rotten mottled finger at my proverbial feet, held together by a single slice of gristle, that struck me shortly after one of those hit the curb. It’s probably my most prized possession.

A little patch of daisies pushes itself up through the gravel to my left each year, at the base of an abandoned taxi’s sad old tyre, just out in the cracked sunlight that never quite reaches me.

Atleast I won’t be stuck here forever.


Table Skit


The Kraken is free and I’m burning his candle. I drank his soul and now I’m melting his body, sealing him Forever. We did it to the skeletons and now they stand as statues all black and white and locked away on our funky juju table cloth.

Next to my black book that’s empty now and the tower that speaks and the stained leather tome that’s almost full but will never be finished.

If only I could filter my shells and wrap them up in sticky paper,

But I need them for burning crop with a Marc on my head

While I toss stones into the water.

Oh, the phonic in my head,

The childish NU: phonic that rattles in my skull.

ΔΔΔ


 

Dogmatic


In the beginning naught did shine but light and hope and clouds they all had lustre,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning there swam free peace conscious and curious lives we hungered,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning both beast and man sweet harmony sang and we fed them and they fed us our joy,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning O’ heavens they were hallowed and unknown too was hallowed though thy name On High unknown,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning there was but green and blue and rustle and trickle and crack and splash all over,

Then the Journey snuffed it out.

In the beginning connected all did feel and balance all knew well,

And then the Journey snuffed it out.


In the end all was bleak exhaust flew through the cracks and poisoned,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end there was no peace and wonder was survival dead,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the beasts lay caged or worse and  mania-amaranthine so long beset them,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the heavens all had clogged with hopeless quests to conquer,

Thy name unknown endured.

In the end there was no green or blue just black and endless thunder,

The Cycle shall reset you.

In the end the link it severed and all life fell asunder,

The Cycle shall reset you.

Dogmatic.


 

Courage


When the curtain falls, where will you be?

Probably roasting in the fire with everyone else.

Go on, Give me a nice internal scream,

Maybe the camera will pick up your hopeless twisted despair.

I’ll post an emoji on there that cries with laughter, just to lighten the mood.

There.

Now off it goes to my closest friend.

Oblivion.

 

Turn yourself around, Subject.

Watch your creations disassemble the irrational ambitionism you gave them. Isn’t it beautiful?

For one to return to that from which it was hedonistically ripped. That, is art.

What you’ve done, subconsciously and with robust naivety,

to foster fake meaning and concoct a great poisonous grey matter purpose

in order to get a continuous hit of its alluring fake-peace high.

 

Folly                                                            Folly                                                            Folly

 

The deed is almost complete,

and only when it is shall you see the depths of your own misdirection.

Maybe then you will be worthy of life.

Not that you’ll have enough left to act.


Grunge Is Not Dead.

An angel quivers in the doorway, unable to breach the threshold. The band, so twisted backwards, dares her to take a step – tentatively she complies, difting into grunge. She’s all alone, save the air of suicide and a raucous riff that bounces against her silent self-conciousness.

A demon in flowery disguise catches her eye to beckon her to him with an upside down smile and the promise of euphoric intoxication. She stutters, yet a mad glint lingers on the periphery of his amazing aura. It’s too much to resist. In a second he’s commanding her conciousness, convincing her of the plight of existence, the futility of resistance and the purity of punk rock.

It works.

The night is young yet darkness is ancient and tonight its cacophany swirls an angel through its timeless tyranny, exalting in its ultimate conquest over society and the spirits of the damned. Where did it all go wrong?

Who says it ever did.

 

Esnesnon

Grey and black and white and brown the anti’s-rainbow frown delight,

Anti-rain opaque as fate falls on the sky from trees that hang root side up-down-up-down and back oh right?

Spider’s silk don’t stick it slides and Silkyparks are oh so fun for UP you stop and don’t come back,

And anti-flies walk right side down cus uplift’s dead so planes cut ground and Ant’s do scramble anti-fair.

Murder’s life and pregnant’s death so punish much astonish!

Anti-baby Humon 3 does run the Earth but clout has so much doubt,

And war it’s all just kiss and kiss and sandpit sandpit fun.

Lightning hush and thunder shiggle in quite lightheart delight they fiddle,

Push is pull with much confu and books they have no numbers!

Stars are black but anti-white is oh so bright the night is day and girl oh girl! We’re in a right new mental fright,

For all our sdrow and all our sight is right way bront to fack!

Modern Education: The Dictator Vs The Facilitator

A bored mind will never truly absorb information given to it in an educational setting, purely because its boredom represents a lack of interest in the topic and its view that said information is irrelevant to its own life. So why do schools dictate what children should and shouldn’t learn? For the last 1,500+ years of modern civilisation the answer to this question has been simple; A school must dictate to its pupils what they should learn about the world so that they are able to survive in it independently, with at least a basic understanding of society and the world they were born into, because this information is not readily available elsewhere. Without dictation and a set curriculum at school a child will be mentally lop-sided and unable to live the independent life those setting curriculums wish for all of us – according to their agenda.

 I would be remiss to argue against the dictation of literary, scientific and mathematical basics in primary school, for those lessons lay the foundation of the ability to capture knowledge in the future. University also finds obvious exemption due to the freedom of choice and their role, which is to teach the application of knowledge in order to develop independent reasoning and questioning on a topic of the students’ choice.

 However, I strongly believe that the intermediate years between the two are the most important for the development of an individual’s mind-set, both in terms of setting the standard for the future and discovering where one fits into the world. In the age of the internet and readily accessible, limitless, information, I do not believe that there is any excuse for a school to allow its students to find the subjects they are studying boring. Dictation – especially in such an open society – breeds this boredom, of which the symptoms are often laziness, underachievement and disillusionment.

 In such a connected and accessible world, the role of the secondary school needs to shift from the dictatorial educator to the mere facilitator of learning. By this I mean that a school need only embed the love of learning (which comes naturally when a child is learning something they are genuinely interested in) and teach children how to access the information available to them. I believe it is true that attempting to teach an individual lessons they do not want to learn is a waste of resources that could be used to educate a student who does want to learn them. Instead, children should be taught the aforementioned lessons early, and be allowed to take their own path from a much younger age. This would eliminate wasted teaching hours and also allow for children to begin to become specialised in their interests earlier in their development. On top of this, it would break the current system in which a child is judged on his ability to regurgitate facts he/she will most likely never make use of.

 Teaching like this creates a problem for assessment, but not one that I think makes the shift untenable. Instead of grades specific to a subject, a student should be given a level of overall cognitive and physical potential, calculated primarily through observation. This should be the ‘grade’ most important, and students who choose to take the path of exam-worthy topics should be allowed to do so if they wish. Education should be organised from the bottom up, not the other way around. With an assessment system based on potential, children could be encouraged to grow to said potential rather than being given a definitive grade, which can damage both the moral and confidence which is so required to embrace learning.

 A sizeable chunk of the most successful companies and individuals among us discovered their passions themselves at a young age and figured out how to access relevant information and resources of their own accord. These people configured their person from that young age to the purpose they felt their life held. Secondary schools do not promote this kind of open exploration because it is not what is recognised as success by those charged with judging what is or isn’t a successful school.

 If children are allowed to focus on their interests from a much younger age, their brains and bodies will grow with them to suit those interests. It will breed much higher levels of satisfaction among students (millions of which struggle daily with rising levels of depression borne of their unsuitability to the one-size-fits-all system of education currently in place), encourage acceptance of the diversity of humanity by demonstrating that every individual is fuelled by different motives and interests, and it will breed innovation in areas we don’t currently know it is required; How can you expect innovation in a system in which the same methods of thinking are forced on youth year by year?

 Education is the key to a harmonious and productive society. It has remained relatively unchanged because those in charge are those whom the system has suited since day one. So let us allow those who suit academics to continue to prosper from their talent for it, but also, let us lift the disillusioned out of the side-lines of society and teach them that their mind and body are as valuable and able as those who benefit from a lop-sided system.

The Black and the Bicycles

Bicycles ran as honey over my drums

And our moon did gift goosebumps of gratification

As I thanked her for lighting my way,

Though little did I know of any way.

Sycamores on the skirts

Silhouettes as the space of everything possible to know,

Though not by me.

And a road in the yonder

Blessed with direction but little destination

And lights with no enlight

Beyond the A and the B.

Neither would exist here.

Our moon wandered me to the centre of my black

The artificial glow of secure insecurity shone down the path

In competition with the light of question

And winning for proximity, against the will of its beholder.

The glimmer of all we know does poison all we wish upon

And none I know had witnessed the glow of family

Before the glow of our exploit.

The black and the bicycles did dance with me here

Holding me still and staring in a separate place

Beyond sight and will we remained still and yet forever moving in mind

Together and all alone.

Our moon,

Revered and haloed above the horizon

Had lost her family

Save the greatest persevered

Who would speckle our sky with a limp recollection of its wonderful dance.

And how sad it must be

To reach our Earth and never be seen

To twinkle for life and not one will wish.

The black and the bicycles will mourn with me here

For our lost friends and our lonely family would dance amongst us

If only they were able.

Alan & The Delectable Desk

In the top drawer of Alan’s delectable desk, I found a ball no larger than one you would use in a game of tennis. I think it’s made of light. It did not shock me, Alan commanded an aura of difference befitting grand desks and otherworldly objects in a mid-level administration office; But what could it be for? My subconscious must know better than I, it’s overriding the control I had over where my eyes lie. My god is it mesmerising, I cannot, seem to… Continue reading “Alan & The Delectable Desk”

Drift

I don’t know which way I’m facing. Black is up, black is down. White is everywhere, yet so far away. How much longer do I have? The suit became depleted hours ago, though I am still here, drifting. My vessel had crawled out sight a few days ago, isolating me, condemning me to the depths of inevitable mortality.

We had blasted out of the atmosphere 6 years and 246 days ago at the moment of malfunction. Totally unexplained. Our task had been to visit a system within one light year that had promised a home for the flailing society we left behind. Now, I, am left behind. Continue reading “Drift”

Jay Jay The Banay-nay

Jay Jay the Banay-nay lay chill in his Moroccan patterned fruit bowl. Chin’ chillin’ with his buddies Jay Jay was the life and soul of the party. The apples bobbed with laughter at Jay Jay’s jokes while the grapes guffawed – boring bastards – and the oranges danced out of their skin to his beatz. Every bowl of fruit is brought to life with a Banay-nay. Jay Jay took full advantage of his stature in the fruit world, taking favours from passing compadres and taxing those who stayed for longer as if the bowl were his personal hotel. Continue reading “Jay Jay The Banay-nay”