Stillness

A stationary pilgrim co-presumptuous to the point of intimacy:
Sensory agnosticism is his best mechanism, coping with unwanted visitors,
at times there is no harbour and when there is harbour there is also a slithering residue and marching legionary sandals in time, hear them? This is what scabs are made of, ruderal growths and dust blood emesis, he is a field and there is growth. Growth not meaning false stoicism or healing but an admission and embracing of decay, anything but denial. Healing a trite concept perhaps not admitting the cyclicality of it all. Here he is.

A body run amok. Obsessive drawing of the lines; which one is his which ones are made from distraction. A need to find true colour true definition; are the weeds so bad?

Well, they aren’t mine! They aren’t bred from my heart or from my blood or from my lung. My body has been used as a joy ride a slam of procreation come orgy running interweaving my blood cells, between ear lobes boomeranging sound in waves boxing my brain.

Go on; try and cure me through fixing my neurotransmitions by meat eating purine boosts. Don’t you get it? My neurotransmition is overloaded as it is. And the mitohormesis theory has crossed the line. Noxious weeds are what they are to me.
It’s all very well to have sowed this field of mine but these are imposters these memes are a coercion from the grim reaper that can’t wait its time. Look! Look at this field if you must- These squabbly roots are choking my nativism scene. This landscape that is my front and sides and back no longer breaths but breeds. Watch me as I disintegrate. Party over my damaged roots. Shake head sadly and whisper lisp; overfertilization. This is not the fecundation that they talked about in sex harmony and love class.

psilocybin

Shaman once crawled through the worm like burrow that spiralled into the subterranean earth. Guided by the sounds of voices steeped in whispers and magic and the fungi that transformed thoughts into elastic sounds abound except when there was stillness: the epiphany exploding in minute silence over the rock and painted walls.






Epiphanies are just illuminations showing what your mind already knew unconsciously. That dissonance of familiarity and novelty is what gives the epiphany the flavor of profundity. Illumination like in the cave hidden inches from your face. The Shamans Cave was the original trip. We can relive the original trip that exists in all of our ancient shared heritage rediscovering it for the first time, experiencing the dissonance of familiarity and novelty is what gives the epiphany the flavor of profundity. You may not have ever been physically in the cave in your lifetime but by poisoning your mind just enough it is possible to go underground entering the subterranean collective unconsciousness. Epiphanies are experienced as a solitary illumination but they are just a temporal attunement to the greater self, the heritage of human experience, you are not the pinnacle of human achievement just because you are the newest model, just a part of a cycle. Remember, everything is cyclical, everything. Some cycles are on a massive scale some are small and noticeable, some are perfect circles, some are Möbius strips and even more complicated non-euclidean cycles but cycles none the less. sometimes you have to go underground to see the light.

rage v. age

Don't take my rage away from me. Mere disappointment doesn't seem adequate.

rage -> disappointment -> apathy -> death

"I'm not mad, just disappointed" sounds like a cop-out.
We don't have a concensous on this, we are at different places in our lives perhapse but to me giving up rage seems a step closer to death. I plan on keeping my rage for now.
-Ryan Quail


Disappointment is never adequate. Disappointment leaves an unsavoury taste of loss. However, disappointment is a fine emotional meeting ground with intellectualisation and action.

youth + hurt = rage
a good place for the necessary boldness of crossing borders.

age + circularly recovery = nuanced shades of colour from nothing to everything to nothing again.
I have more love today then when I was young and angry. I remain uncompromised. If I default, please kill me kindly.

-suberite

Intellectual Mutineer

I dissent therefore I exist. What is this substance called certainty? My hesitation is stitched from embroidered corollary. Delusions are dreamy. Colours are for romantic visionaries. Drama queens can kiss my ass. I am a hermetic and harmonic of quiet exuberance. I effervesce on the inside. I come for the experience. Sometimes it’s in the shape of a storm. I am two faced, my names are Dysnomia to those I trust and Eunomia to the uninitiated. Discover my seeming duplicity for the green pastures it tends with the changing seasons. Now repeat the words "I don't exist" over and over until the words lose all meaning becoming guttural utterances unintelligible to all ears. There are more than two. Momentarily forget your languages, deny your own names. Close your eyes and regain the gift of language and remember the word death.Death is a compliment.

Becoming

Out in the world, so proud of myself, out in the world. That was long years ago and I still haven't run down an eland. I was myself the father and the son, countless generations in the aurochs cave, sacred unto extinction I follow it in that direction each day more estranged from myself.






Out in the world, I was so sure but those were unfullfilling days, a let down. Lost are the liminal rites, all but one, the final passage, I am becoming sacred unto extinction.

Faster down this cultural vortex.



passage to



a desicated world

ensconced

This is not the past, but am an unusual specimen just the same. Fidgety, doesn't like to sit pretty; doesn't live in the jar. Listening is waiting for a turn to speak and speak is due speak is done no repetition no biting of the ass, sucking at the nipple. Not a collector maybe a hoarder of unfinished projects never abandoned. You an apt and radiant neophyte the lines can all be broken and what is found are dots and dots are the beginning the seed the hub the thing that grows and burgeons you are not alone you are ensconced.

artichoke

* artichoke *
I simmer you slowly in shallow water with dried salt from France. Cool you to the temperature of the room. Pour balsamic and olive oil in a glass blown dipping cup. With one smooth move I use my teeth to pull off the meat from your skin. Your choking hairs do not perturb me; with a delicate push of my index finger, I follow your hairline removing armour from heart. (The hairs I keep balled in my right hand, the holding tank.) Handling is subtle yet well defined; I take my time. Your stem and core are tender and sweet they are the last that my tongue meets. I gather your chewed leaves with the hair in my palm and throw them out the door onto the natural compost floor. In time your pieces will disintegrate and give pleasure to the worms and the cool dark earth.







* * *

Shared Meal

born from unsuspecting electronic interaction
is this impenetrable carapace of attraction

armoured, amore, adored, in protective shell
pessimists surprised that it goes so well

cooking up this balsamic bathed aubergine
a concoction from savory sensed Ryancine

preserved, smoke cured, it has endured
the clandestine equine meat procured

vaccume packed in plastic and cellophane
from northern frozen land of the cold rain
she sends me forbidden meat


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spiral

We are spiraling
we are turning insideout from shedding snakeskin by biting our own tail
exfoliating facades revealing truths droping cloaks and lifting the veil
efflorescent gyrations - flowering concentric circles drawn closer
false faced insecurities paled, relatedness, closeness bolstered




A black hole this is definatly not.
benign vortex in which we are caught
Do we constrict, or yet expand?
towards oblivion we go hand in hand

the promise

You want to use me? Have me to expand inside you and diminish the emptiness that you are so afraid of by filling your tank with the substance of others? Excuse me but I am a single entity made from an agglomeration of parasites. I stand alone within my colony. I lay alone, I die alone and some of my many minions die with me. The others find new homes; abodes abound.

I adore to your movements with mine as symbiotic touch and engagement: you come I go sometimes we cross through the corridor or a few minutes after, we get a wafting of a familiar smell. It's good enough; the standing, the walking, the thinking, the smelling, the touching in imaginary space.

This is not vice.

I love the future.

* * *

Free will reinacted online

I think that I wear my weaknesses on my shirt sleeve. Exploit me just a little.

Getting out of bed every morning:

Tightrope walking may be symbolically the quintessential statement of courage and challenge but there is the daily defiance that though insignificant in grandeur and demoralizing in nature, is by far, the most virtuous in the most subdued and sublime of manner:

succomb to a ragdoll gravity
I lie on the floor

summoning the strength inside me
I still need more





pully-up pully-up
another day, another minute
another hour.

eat-up eat up
meal after empty meal
desires devour

morsel of protein and bone
I shlupp my organ meats
and ask for reheats
why so tasty why so good
because I know myself best
because I know myself a beast
I recognize this flesh
self-indulgent self loathing feast



I am brave every time I open my eyes.
And braver still when I don't shut them back closed.



I lash out at shadows in Platos cave.
It is all real no reason to question that,
assumptions are strong, This is my world as I perceive it

I am bravest when not believing.
I am bravest when I am exhaling.
I am bravest when I am chicken shit,
but look at myself and admit it.
I am no captain ranger, or an indian chief
I'm not much of a dancer or a guru yogi
I never finished school the way my fantasies told me I would.
I look rather ordinary and plain, but my "internal to me-free"-will can't complain
Burdoned with split divided will
what is free
divided will, free will only to a point

The prevalent stumbles are always
the letting go of the future and releasing wrongful acts
of the past.


I am brave every time I open my eyes.
bravest when letting go...






Are we, Are we just fooling ourselves?
with a weath of imagination
without drawing from realities wells
to rescue us isolation
painful lonelyness it quells?

Oh dear, what have we done?

.

A proustian revelation!

A proustian revelation!

This thought I am thinking smells sweet.
Like lovey dovey honey?
Um, more like wind and fire and burnt meat
more like skin and eyes and refusal of lies
more like a caress of truth layed gently upon you
more like fuck's all I know
the world and the world and the world turneth
and I smell an earthly moist piece
of revelation it's bigger than my body and
bigger than my brain bigger than an aura
maybe of uncertainty but revelation just the same.

A proustian revelation! An epiphany of touch or maybe sound?




Senses collide in a sweet synaesthesia of memories of the future!


This thought I am thinking smells sweet.




romanticly, electronicaly instead of with meat?
the charge is there I swear.


Living in an electronic world we create in our minds all the senses of the real world to augment what is realy just zeros and ones.

The only way to feel another through this electronic universe is through synaesthesthetic imagination. Go ahead, close your eyes, that is the only way to see me!
And what do you see? Isn't the imagination a beautiful thing?
I have become a mixture of truth and fantasy and I fit you like a glove.



Revelation I tell you I can smell it
and it's sweet
gone is the trepidation sometimes clad in bitter
liberation in fragmentation missing pieces always the most exciting
with trails of crumbs guiding for exciting
trips across the world and back
you can fit me in a backpack
heavy self burdon like an emotional knapsack?
carry the weight together my own flaws deriding?
insecurities shed as snakeskin secret lies wither
under the sunlight on honest expression
insecure statements blurted out with ernest intention
repeat to yourself that these vigilant confessions
are confessions to a mirror of internet compromised expressions
confessions to a mirror is computed calculated revelations
mirror images are exact in their sameness except for direction

Trite, trite, trite are the revelations reinacted online
Is the object of desire merely a projection of myself?
Or a succubus conquering my psyche by stealth?





There are of course
other ways of finding morsels
to bite just look up in the local of real world
and smell that sweet smell
of revelation for one
revelation from handmade handfelt handwritten handbitten
bite



I see the future and there lies the present in all unholy raw and undigested
desire in real world and desire on line stem from the same pod
one perhaps more elusive but I believe the authenticity of words
whether they be written or staccatoed from a hot whirling machine.
There may be black holes consisting of magic
simple tricks that the brain does when not static
the imagination does doth go wild but it is especially delightful
when the brains of two in overdrive hit the dirt
in cacophonic harmonics.

Manipulative fungi relationships

.

This video is about fungal infections that change the hosts behavior to benefit the parasitic fungus. If you are anything like me you will appreciate the elegance of the relationship.


Fungi can also produce plant hormones to control a hosts growth. Talk about manipulative...


Today is Halloween. Imagine that fungi are in our brains manipulating you to do whatever you are doing. What if your personality is partly the manipulations of a pathogenic fungi? Excuses, excuses.

.

.


This link is a great collection of illustrations.

This one caught my eye, it reminds me of the vampire moth I posted on a couple days ago.

Fooling myself?

.


Drop by drop the infatuation is diluted until one day it becomes apparent that there never was anything there at all. Solipsistic introjection to the rescue! This is all just a game for me... no, wait, I can do better than that: None of this is real.

Are the lies we tell ourselves the most destructive and also the most necessary?
Is there a feeling more lonely than the realisation that you are a stranger unto yourself?



Are you a stranger unto yourself?

Am I qualified to critisize others? Yes, because I am not blind to my own faults. How do you react to information diametric to your own reality tunnel? Do you reject the information outright, rationalize it, or embrace it with all its ugly uncomfortable implications?


Have you experienced the liminal realization of self fallibility? It is naïve to think that your Destination of Self is in the past and not the future. The liminal is not always a moment, instant or suddon epiphany but can be stretched out weeks or even years-a hallway not a threshold. Brother, where have we been? Where are we going sister?






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Gifts

This is so romantic. A gift of human blood to his moth mate.

So is this. A gift of dead flies between lovers:
"This dramatic drawing of the spider Pisaura mirabilis (sometimes known as the nursery web spider) is the largest watercolour produced by Arthur Smith. Full of action, it depicts the moment in courtship when the male gives the female a present of a fly wrapped in threads."





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Sensory Dissonance and Home Surgery

I cut off the pad of my left index finger while attempting to divide a Parmesan chunk with an overly sharp knife. There was plenty of blood.

Two weeks later it is all healed--sort of. I succeeded in reattaching the severed bit of skin and muscle but the graft is uneven. The reattached bit itself has no feeling whatsoever but the area surrounding it seems to have become hypersensitive. Is it realigned nerves or a mental mirage like a microscopic version of phantom limb syndrome?

I run the finger across my stubble. The sensory dissonance between the numb and the hyper-sensitive areas is too intense and I am forced to stop. People have a difficult time holding diametric thoughts in their mind at the same time, it causes mental friction. To experience two diametric versions of a surface that I run the finger across is also a uncomfortable sensation. You should feel this.

I wish I could loan you my finger so you could experience the unsettling weirdness.


.

Acetobacter

I travel into your mouth
and change your world
make you mine
Absorb and exude your
bits in red radiant river.

Traveling together south
our disease unfurled
acetobacter wine
from ventricle pour
winters bite vine wither



mature and partly depleted parts
parts disolving upon parts
our untwining knot unfurls
uncurling unraveling loose
air the touch unshines and curls
inward drinking your foreign juice
ready to make babies all over your body


I forgive you for
your miscarried labors
let me write it off
and begin

I Thank you for
the reptilian party favors
let me wipe them off
of my skin





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Making Poison

Here is a Wiki Link.

My Dead Parasitic Twin

what was I just thinking?
What was that daydream erased compleatly from my conciousness?
Denial happens. We can push it all to the back of our minds.
A mental oubliette.


Sometimes the conciousness looses its hold for a brief moment and:
There is a feeling of incompleatness. It is not romantic lonelyness, something...

This scar of mine... They said diaphramatic hernia at birth. I know they are right but sometimes I forget to forget. This scar... They didn't tell me that I had a parasitic twin removed but I can feel it. Or to be more accurate I can't feel it, in fact...

Cain and Abel
I am the surviving one.
I am cain...



I fed you. I breathed for you and pumped your veins with my blood. I gave you touch and feel. I think for you. You tire me. You wear me down but if ever you were to leave I would still carry you; the cavernous cleft.



And now I miss you.
Push the thought down.
Push it down
Push it down
Push it down
Push it down
Push it down...













What was I just thinking about? I was thinking about something, but what?

It happened on Voltaire Street

Some places are vortexes that suck in weirdness.I sat at a bus stop in front of a headshop on Voltaire Street in Ocean Beach, San Diego. I didn't know I was being watched.She had recognised me as one of her halucinations I would learn later. That was why she approached me.It occured to me that she was the rarest of human charactors: the female serial killer. Naturaly I accepted the offer of a ride.When I explained that I lived 60 miles or so away she just said "ok, do you know anything about medicine?".

You see, she had come to Ocean Beach to yell at a Veterinarian who she was convinced was poisoning her dog. I advised her to keep giving her dog its medicine and that the dogs symptoms were from its illnes not the medication the 'evil' vet prescibed.This seemed to reassure her and once relieved that her dog wasn't being poisoned she bagan to open up to me.
She had been up for some time, on meth. She had that posture. There were people chanting outside her window all night she said. Was I one of them she asked, she recognised me at the bus stop. I tried to convince her that we had just met.She asks my advice on how to get off drugs. I had been clean for about three weeks which we both agreed was a very very long time.Then she proceded to tell me her life story over and over. And over...

She had been mindfucked, compleatly and devitatingly mindfucked. Her only way to cope was denial. Denial.I heard her tell me the same story over and over but at the crucial plot point she would stop and start the story over.I can hardly blame her. The topic tabooish and she would be stigmatized. Nine hours of a broken record.I had no choice. I couldn't just get out and walk at that point in our odyssey.

Nine long hours later she droped me off the place I was living at the time. When she got out to say goodbye (forever) we both noticed her pants.There was a large wet spot on the crotch of her jeans. It was awkward. As batshit as she was she knew to be embarased.
I won't lie. I googled her very distinctive scandanavian name. I wonder what became of her. She probably doesn't even remember me.