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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