Circuit

And she sways to the beat, the one she knew had again assumed control, like mangrove trees in the heat, like Toth laughing at cancer, like thunder clapping its noisy paws at the moon, like rain drops against the window, slowly, slowly but to dissipate, like a purple mark on a fragile arm, like a bitter word flying through the mouth of a careless man.

Spiritual Armageddon

Hark, now, the beast is marching on to Israel
and there's a star in the east burning my eyes,
wormwood falling, falling for this rotten mercy
like a downward spiral playing a mourning orchestra for something without ears.
And Jesus Christ is on his knees
and the beast laughs because no one believes in anything anymore but their own apathy.

I drank to escape it's morbid disarray,
to find the best tasting wine,
but half of it was too diluted, losing its reassuring answer,
and the other half would make me so drunk on answers I'd be lost in ignorant bliss.

But I don't want it... No... I just want to listen to my phantom orchestra.

Ether Lost

Air pierces fire pierces my will to escape your holding cell of sagging dirt; I'll consume you, I'll crack the plates and open hell on earth, will bathe in poetry, and scrape the ocean with the sky and merge the stars with no alibi but loneliness piercing all the while my winding path, elements will leave no trace but one, will turn her face, because I have no nature left to give.

Hold the Fire

She keeps putting her hand over the candle,
waiting for her blackened skin to remind her where she left the moon waiting.

She keeps pouring out sentences between star light and waste,
not knowing where the line should be.
Blurry was never a word to describe her fictional little world.

If she was dying surely there would be plenty of signs,
more than midnight and empty dreams;
more than the hurt of the sun in the morning.

Surely there'd be violent shivers and screams.
But to her surprise, it had none.
Just a mild crackling of a dimming flame.

An oxygen starved beginning is all anyone ever had.
A hand encased. An ocher fantasy playing itself out in shadows on the wall
like children grasping at something other than emptiness.

Goobara Returns

Derricke 3:16
For Goobara so loved the world that he gave his only hippie son, Fred. That so whoever believeth in him shall receive eternal beer, pizza and weed in heaven! But whoever does not, shall perish at the centre of the sun where it is not lukewarm, but blazing hot! So is Goobara's eternal and unconditional love! HAIL!


PAsalms 4: Death to Heathens

In the depths of darkness seering
all the white trash rap fans peering
like a snake in pit with god
we'll slice the arm, impale the dice
till nod, with equal sword and equal haste
give all those fucking heathens taste.
.....

Of what it is like at the centre of the sun!!
HAIL GOOBARA!

Save It

(Something old and unedited)

crimson: weirdo

wait...the Annunaki are coming!
theres a crop circle forming in the dust of the midnight sun
in twilight expectancy it waits for remembering
the silence of the coming shade of aurura blue

we all knew it was coming kelly
we all knew it
but it didnt matter
because violence is a genetic set up synapses
so dont bitch to me when its all over

but under the bed
There is a loud speaker who spoke up and said
'SLEEP IS ANOTHER FORM OF PRO ACTIVE PERCEPTION'
and I didnt know what that meant...

until I fell asleep and the laws of physics started bending
in a wormhole seeing mending
all the little colours being sucked into one

and do you know the colour it was kelly?
it was....the colour of chaos
shifting through street lights to find order

crimson: seem to be typing pretty fast

do you know what spirals are?
On the way to nirvana one night
I saw a spiral
etching into the grass like a thousand different shards of yellow
in every economic living class and the LOUD SPEAKER SPOKE UP AND SAID

crimson: aaahhhhhaahahahahha

'ALL THE FILTHY WORKING CLASS PEOPLE ARE JUST FLIES BLEEDING INTO SUNDAY'
and I didnt know what that meant kelly..
until I saw the spiral
glowing above the steeple of the church
and jesus said 'come inside my son'
and then ZOOM to a million different cities all looking for another way to glow

and then my mind it keeps on racing looking for another trace of just
another light bulb to find a statement in the mess of the late night show
and finally as I sat down in the aisle ten million babies crying
looking for a mother that just didnt want to show

and then it hit, I was too crying in the silence of the morning
when the loud speaker just spoke up and said...
'ALL MATTER IT IS DYING'
And I felt like sleeping instead...

crimson: well, write it down, save it.

Musings of Unity

Once the first piece of prose had been etched into a stone somewhere, humanity as it was born into that imagination, was faced immediately with the inevitable impossibility of knowing itself. What is this consiousness? How detestable it does seem! What cosmic purpose could is possibly have!? And a bird does crow above one's head, and useless rejuvenating rain does pour from the sky, and we are but atoms to this planet; tiny and insignificant. Then what of the ball this imagination has sprung up on? Is it not an electron zooming around the nucleus star? Is not the star a mere molecule burning into time like the countless other stars in this galaxy, and the galaxy merely an atom to the countless other galaxies?

We are composed of infinity, how could we ever know ourselves? I am trapped somewhere on a plane, and all I perceive is composed of my perceptions. With my eyes, I see the composition of this atom Earth. But my eyes are made of atoms, and electrons do zoom around their nucleus, and they are indeed composed of quarks. Well what is a quark made up of?

All the universe is but a quark or worst of all something far smaller; and I a mere connection of some entity we call energy bursting towards some reaction. When I imagine an atom, I see it as something without breath and thought, lifeless and un-imagining; something without poetry and music. And musing over calculus, and how an endless equation could represent an endless wavelength, and how an endless wavelength might just contain the notes of some infinite song: From quark to quark. From snowy medieval village to alien landscape. From the rise to the fall of waves on a star lit beach. From Mozart to Nietzsche. From cave drawing to Rembrandt. And it, under microscope, consisting deep down of all of these things and infinitely more, whispering a message of identity we are unable, in our equally giant and minuscule minds, to identify with.

I've broken my cerebral cortex

A street light shines on a bench, and a cloaked boy is wondering why a reflection in his eye makes him feel as though he should find the centre of something. A clouded puddle. A star explodes and blurrs its motion outwards, recollecting something from oblivion.

A convicted killer in her cell is slicing her wrists and writhing on the cold floor to the rhythm she'd rocked her daughter in after giving birth. Did Hawking predict that? The moon is rising somewhere, a beach darkens. An atom must be another universe, so small, so small.

She has become grey matter.
She's become useless awareness.
She's the essense of something and she doesn't know what.

The silver lining of her hair haunts me like a ghost as I crumble into catatonia, across these barren brain cells whispering strange things to me, as if she wants me to quiver from remembering the electricity of her touch.

To The Beat Poet

You fool.
For thinking you could weave yourself
into a poem that actually had any merit of meaning.

There is no beauty in colour, its just light hitting your eye.
There is no meaning in metaphor, just mere association,
like a dumb bird recognizes its food.

There is no reason to write,
surely someone somewhere has written it better than you,
saw it more clearly than you.

There is no word you can use to describe your pitiful emotions,
surely someone somewhere has felt them more strongly than you,
has suffered far more than you can scratch on a piece of paper.

There is no expansion of understanding,
no matter how much the cosmos explode,
you're still just a dumb animal thinking you're something you're not

just because you've travelled fast and talked fast over meager distances
and saw men walk on the surface of the moon,
doesn't mean you can be a poet.

But then again, who can be, if no one thinks anything is beautiful?

Drown in something worth drowning in

His smile spoke volumes of the Northern Lights. And just glad to be alive, to feel your ears crisp with the cold November air. And you realize you can't be a child anymore and cry, because what you see is so beautiful.

Syntax. Imagine a wave so large and so great that its covering the world,
cleansing all suffering.

Electric curve. An ivory dance.

Photonic dreams. Sway to a beat that no one knows.

Shiver. A rising tidal wave.

I open my arms to you. A meager dot of molecules.

Fill them with water.

God is Dead Lenses

So smash the glass and climb through.
Some of us can see clearly,
but few of us can think clearly.
There are just too many shades.

Don't Look Now

America, land of the free.
America, blending art with money,
mix and stir until there is no differencebetween creativity and unoriginality anymore;
whatever the people want is art, even if it isn't.

Miss Thompson teaches her grade ten geography class,
unknowingly also the same political process the generation is witnessing:
Abrasion. The rocks on a beach collide with each other
so many times that they eventually all look the same,
round, smooth and the sunlight bounces off.
Homogeneous reality. Talk the same, speak the same,
rounded pebbles, podium antics, invisible indestructable entities.
'we must win this war on terror.'

Mr. Janua teaches his grade ten chemistry class,
unknowingly also the same subject arises between extended metaphor:
Corrosion. The oxidation of metals as they change colours
breaking down over long periods of time,
no matter how great they were, and forced reformation.
Avocado deteriation of copper; unnecessary bureaucracy,
one party poses as two, atoms ionize and oxygen is lost.
"A republic and a culture so great can never fall to mediocrity."

But nothing could change the forces of nature.

Abort/Aspire

(pay attention to the title.)
Abort/Aspire

We both wanted to be artists.
We wanted to throw our souls into something and CREATE,
a magnificent example of human emotion to remember for eternity.
She always told me she was a little out of phase.
I guess our art was a little out of phase for art school too.
It just wasn't the time to get married.

Paints her house plants red and says they were trapped in their green skin
and wanted out.
Dropped by on saturday,
she's on the kitchen floor with her legs folded
and her arms stretched wide, with the light rays of the blinded windows cutting into her,
tears rolling down the shaded side of her face,
a sea of dead flowers all around: Painted red, I thought.
Opens her eyes and gasps with her hands flung to the floor,
"I can hear him cry", she says, a screaming sob.
"Who?", I ask.
"The baby...He wants to be an artist..."
Cold shivers, blurred vision,smug exterior, you idiot child, both of us,
but I know I'd die if I didn't walk over there,
hold her tight and try to listen to a voice that was a haunting phantom to us all.

Expand Your Mind

Gripped by nihilism,
he looks towards the night sky and begins to cry.
"Stop!" he commanded.
"Stop!" expecting the very dynamics of the universe to beckon to his will.

I walked up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder.
"If we were to stop expanding now, h
ow would we know what they're heading towards?"

"They're heading towards nothingness and meaninglessness"

"Ahhh, but life is what gives the meaningless a meaning.
That we can witness our existence,
be consciously aware of it on at least some level
and still be a part of this great expansion."

"Life witnesses nothing but itself."

I became flustered and waved my hand across the black blanket of the sky,
millions of holes shimmering and glistening.
"Then perhaps they(the stars) are witnessing themselves as well!"

My words were of little consolation,
as he now kept his eyes toward the worm filled soil,
just waiting to decay...
There was little I could do to cure his motion sickness.

For Those Few Who Overcome The Impossible

She looked directly into my eyes:
"I'm going to jump the grand canyon"

You circles of resolution;
I wonder what they look like on those who really do.

A neuronic construct

"Life is merely a random side effect of molecular interactions on a macroscopic level. It is without meaning or purpose. All that lives, dies, such is the nature of entropy. The fallacious idea that our lives, our conciousnesses continue after the cease of biological function, or that we have any importance or bearing on the functions of thermodynamics and the fundamental forces of this universe is, to use modern parlance...gay"

It is not as much affecting the laws of nature and becoming large enough and influencing enough of whatever exists on such a large scale, it is that we are glad to be a part of whatever we are a part of. Creation, life, music, love; even to gaze into that which means nothing and ponder that such a thing could have a meaning. That is life, and that is soul. That is what gives the meaningless a meaning. That is what makes the unity of our 'random' cells worth something.

Can you count the angels for me?

It's under your autonous system.
You have no control over it.

Monkeys asked to carve out my liver said it was necessary to live a full life without superifical bs. Synapses say that I don't give a shit anymore for making new connections. Synapses say we've had enough of shadows to paint a wall with cracks and call it a working relationship.

Random

let us catch our gaze upon the sun for another reason to challenge what is said about the light,

and scourge into the darkness that we may perish people's lack of sight.

God Called In Sick Today

There's a thick black substance and it's running through the streets
and washing over streetlamps,
from melodic melancholy beats.
And it doesn't care that the birds still sing,
or for the fruit trees exploding into a genetically coded life.

A flooded honeymoon,
A star lit street corner gone now beneath,
An embellishing oily reunion.

No one wants to know

You have to imagine what the catholic nuns feel towards the death of Jesus.
You have to imagine what Saint Michael thought as he flung those demons towards hell,
towards eternal suffering.
Oh what a sacrifice our human weakness, oh what a battle down to the twine of it all.
And you have to imagine what it must be like to burn in order to be saved,
and to be saved what it must be like to burn.

And what of those lost creatures, whom Jesus cried for,
and Moses marched for,
and how they came to be.

Was not Hitler once a human being?

Oh but its not so simple, no. Its never so simple.
A million scarred creatures doing the right thing a little too long to be right anymore.
Because in order to understand the gruesome truth we have to know it first,
and how we fear to know that dark corner where the sluts stay
with hardened faces.
And how we fear to peer into that certain line of poverty where there is never any return,
and that certain level of hurt, without regret, while the world forever burns.

And you have to think what the nuns know of Jesus when they pray at night,
and you have to think of what Saint Michael knew basked in his eternal light.

Funnel it again, FUNNEL it again. I don't want to be too close to understanding.