Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Monday, November 22, 2021

livelihood

 

 



Jackals attack the Lion,
It's a bad mistake.

Jackals,
the Vulture's pets,
attack the lion
until it's too late.

Leave the lion be,
see?
Wrapped round vultures wings,
Jackals push until it's too late
Doing bloody, gutwretched things.

Jackal's mess with the Lion
Oh Waukesha is the last bite
Until the Lion has had enough
Extends his claws
The time to strike.

The Vultures, he'll get to later
Jackals never had even known
How wrapped round vulture's wings
they are, until all their chances
are blown.

Waukesha, now, is the last one.
Jackals need not respectability
They'd just ripped and bit,
and cut and tear
until tangled to a t

forty sixteen north nineteen
a jackal drawn from a card
mowed down, now, several young lions,
now,
being evil
for a jackal
ain't hard.

When Big Lion sees, and gets his run
his taste of blood is high
After time and time of
turn the other cheek
he says the time to devour is mine.

Waukesha, Waukesha
Waukesha, Waukesha
Jackals, how have vultures led?
The Lions of life
Lions of the modern world
are uprisen,
pissed,
fiery red.

Sunday, November 21, 2021

450K



 God's toning to the Creatures

Animals,
Invisible Animals,
Transcendent Animals Unsighted
By the Shale Way.
Oh Animals
Seeking Hemlock
Whimpers Unburdened
Up Old Trailway .
God's Creatures
what must we Do
in the Vital
Timely saw
with the Roots up
to stretch to Soil,
now,
with the scurry
of wildlife paw.
God's humming
when the mind shuts
Old song hymns
By deep breezing
Hemlocks
to cure the thick pocks
Creatures say:
Don't let winter come.
_
Survive Winter World Animals Natura All
What'd done to Earth

Saturday, November 20, 2021

Wildflower Creek




"WildFlower Creek" 11/20/2021
If this is WildFlower Creek
Then where have all the Wild Flowers gone
Compassion and an Ode
which is patient for older time.
If you live up by the mud birth
and can keep from startling swan
life may keep that compassion, still,
to the age of 29.
If this is WildFlower Creek
see the seasons that expand
will find the changes made in people
form in greater breadth of hand
& if they hone on right in to
where Wild Flowers converse
That sleep and rest of the soul
will wake us to a new Earth.
Muddy and slick with sun descending
and rested birds on bent ash
Those were the feelings in late crisp air
the sights all well seen last.
And muddy banks with pearlish orbs
to corners of drowsy care.
Trailing thoughts of near said words
falling felt in late crisp air.
A great rest comes, and muddy seasons
are nurtured by pearl bright orbs
The sunlight falls into endless dark
and roots tuck down to warm.
Pearl orbs cycle, then deeply resting
Pearl orbs like mindful words.
Where air keeps cold, warm stores its spark
kept scheduled on sangrene charm.
again and up after deep sleep resting
see the world by thirty three
mumbling off and wiping eyes
near a bright early world's high ash tree
All words stained from past lives testing,
all thorns and ugly drift healed
A pearl orb at its peak
from a mint body & refreshed view
Tall and sentient Wild Flowers revealed
.
#Poem #wildlifephotography #Dream #Poetry #Poet #FolkArt #Writer #WaterArt #Autumn #AutumnColors #DIYartist #Create #GoldenDawn #Bota #AshTree #InsomniaArt #FolkWriting #RuralArt #countryphotography

Tuesday, November 16, 2021

The Chaos Tourist





 lost or found song/poem draft

The Chaos Tourist
Ravens eat carrion
Real Like Flesh
A fantasy like money
Costs Alliot, lot less.
It's not leave me alone
It's leave me be
I've tales to write
& Lives to Be.
Of course I'm problematic
I want peace, to be
without heat at my back.
or cold at my feet
Yeah I stepped outside
killed someone who
tried to kill me
Fed a couple ravens up
asked them "why can't
they let, ever let
let a man be--"
and of course I'm problematic
I want peace, to be
not wedged between people stones
not staked down at my feet
& I guess it's symptomatic
how could I grasp that in my dreams
Got my lungs and grip miles in
Nurture that today you
can only find in dreams
The people in this world
they teach me nothing true
& I bite my clove
and set my way
reaching star light blue
Setting off
for who knows where
In cold and far, chill
chill blue
Setting off for
who knows where
nurture affords
someone who


#Poetry #Poems #Creations #Wanderers #TreeRoot #METAalgorithm #CensorFireHeart #HumanitysWindow #Digitalage #Pendulum #Raven #Roaming #Resurrect #Myspace #CharacterArt #TheMob #Inquisition #Bohemian #FolkArt #Americana #ThePendulum #ThePendulum #ThePendulum #TheMakersDream #WakingDream #JerseyShore #Prius #Prion #Priapus #Scaper #Boomer #Zoomber #Banktastic #nepotism #Subterfuge #ArchetypeExpresson #StarlightBlue #ProjectLookingGlass #SoulProtection #BrightSpiritus #FeedHipstersToDragons #FundedByTrustFundManHaters #TheBigRascals The Point of the Study of Peace *&* Human Intergral advance in Nervous System Expansion

Monday, November 15, 2021

Another Highway Song

 






It's another highway song
It's been one all along
One not put up to sale
Like freightship, held in long

And it's another highway song
In fact it's always been
Those who know what they'd shipped
Can't sleep an eye shut,
Can't pretend

But in another way song,
A wayfarer in fashion land
It's better to beat the censors
Or be so bare, in tight-thread demands.

Unless the older fables
of worlds of Earth, yet worlds beneath
Were well read all the time
Who'd know what way songs mean.
So they'd say to light a candle,
nowdays turn on LCD
You'd read, like Hansel, and Gretel
or lift the lashes if now to see.

Friday, October 15, 2021

Pendulum Dash

,


Runner Up for the Pendulum Dash
Head toward the Rain, 
Run out of Breath holy fast
Dread behind and high hopes
In a satchel shook loose
Hang around
In the Skies
Check the time, 
Here way too soon.

Well, wait a while
Til the buzzards
Come walking
On their own

Meet you there
At the right spot
Outside 
Their secret home

They've got a satchel 
And a dial
Tuned to a
contagious plan.
They cut you down
Before you thud
Reaching out
To give a hand

Gonna need
A couple days
Gonna split up
Go several ways
Gonna keep
A satchel wide
Gonna tune out
Contemptuous 

Here's a mountain
Go halfway up
Pull a letter
Out of a tree
Read it silent 
With buzzards elsewhere
Written explanations
'Why they chose me.'

Well son you ain't 
On that list
Of enclosed 
Humanity
You can't dispose of
Wretched pasts
Let lone high hopes
Or burnt debri

So those wicked birds 
Or wicked, they say,
Will sparse the skies
And have their may
They're going to send satchels
Partially open
To all of those
Who just can't pay

Because its going to take the lost
Like you and you
And it takes the lost
Like you and you
To open your eyes to
Financial bloodlust
Who even villify
The buzzards, too.

That's why its raining ashes,












#Mountains #residue #writing #writer #landscapes #rural #Saturate #RuralPhotography #CountryPhotography #drifter #HighLove #Obscene #buzzards #SecretTrails #TheTrial #Poem #Hilltop #FridayFun #Kal #ergi #WakeUp #youreDreaming #Skies #Cascade #Stories 

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Messenger Moles

'.'

                  No, the rumors are not true. I would like to clarify upon what may have been going around at the idea that I was chasing around a messenger mole and had somehow, after grabbing upon the critter, had been dragged by the committed and fuzzy super-charger, became sucked into the tight and confining tunnels in which the creature makes its secretive and often routes.

                  If it were true, in any way, I would say something of possible advice or maybe it would be a set of stern recommendations.  I would say you know, if you ever see a diesel-powered messenger mole, and it has saddle bags tied around its rotund little back, and it is hauling down the side of the roadway, and you think Gee, It's a good idea and maybe I can have some fun out of this should I chase it down, and try to intercept its contraband of information,  I would say, Cease. Stop. Go no further.  And I am not saying that it is true.   I am not saying at all that perhaps weeks, and months would disappear from the regular world, from that world where rain falls, and hits the ground, and  deteriorates crooked and already nimbling sidewalks that curl and curve around residential areas and posh bowling centers.

                   I just wonder... beyond all things... how a little mole can gain that much speed when it has a human there attached in a vice-lock grip of its buttend.. and how it can penetrate into the ground, one of it's usual and obvious hidden entrance ways to porter its on-board secret information.  That it can suck a human in to its narrow network of underground vicinity, and lead deep into the earth crust not only itself with its little saddlebags of important notes but the human grasping on to it.  I'm just saying... It takes a long, long time to worm-belly out of such a place.

                Meanwhile on the Earth's surface things go on as usual. Meanwhile, on the plain of human existence, folks cheerfully stomp around with massive chips on their shoulder. Happy about such prizes and winnings they carry them about, wondering where to redeem them, where to trade them in for the value.  And the gutters clock with leaves. And people go up on to unsteady roof, and dip down to a secured and frantic lean. And with that lean a person might reach down with a metal unbent coat hanger and hope to fish the leaf clutter and old autumnic gunk from out.. but where can you find a metal coat hanger these days?  What nonsense would it be for some Sam or Susie to go up onto a roof top and lean down at a secure lean and hope to rid and clear up gutters with a plastic hanger?  I do not know.. I would not know. It would be a thing to see, quite a sight, and I would have if I could have... I thought about it, as I was wiggling my way out of the messenger moles little bending network.. You go much slower. Much, much slower, by the way, alone and using only wiggle force instead of the rocketing commandeering as from clenching onto a messenger-moles rear as it burns distance full speed.  But that is only... this is theoretical.

               Well I think the mole had gotten its carryon delivered to the rightful recipients. If I would have just hanged on longer I might have entered a hollowed core.. a sort of networking center, less condensed. Less extremely constricting.  Then there would likely be a meetup and passing by of several hundreds of other messenger moles. And they would be passing back and through and to and forth. It would be like as some earth center.  If enough moles caught at my being there they would have tried to have at me. Despicable, it would be, wrestling down some convoy or super army of moles, stringing across my arms and limbs while I dart and swing and try to throw them off.. but their bites would be so secured that they would not whip away. And more would pour through from the hundreds of thousands of mole holes that lead to the drop-off centre for their organization. It would be pure terror, so I am glad that that did not happen. Not that it did. I'm just saying. I am not trying to fancy those insidious rumors. I am not trying to entertain them. In fact, like I said, and I should stress this, and it is what you should be able to leave with and take away with you, if anything, it is that if let's say you heard this happened, it did not. It is not a good thing to talk about. You should just leave moles alone if they are running along.. Let them do their own thing for gods sakes!  Don't fuss about what they might be carrying along, with little notebooks and transcriptions written from little tiny pens.

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Say What the Script Says





"Soil,
I built a house made of twigs. My ears were stuffed with cotton balls and then wrapped with saline garb.
The burp of some worldwide creature-snarl crashed the  house in no time.
It was not the house that God built.

My eyes, they were also wrapped over.

The great mother of the night wrapped me in her skies
weeks long enough to squeeze me out as some birth.

What I was, nobody did say.
So I was handed a pick axe*

and I dug, and chipped at, without seeing, not knowing what.
The central nervous system basked in wonder.
Could be I was building a house!

No-- this was not so.

With a fury and bad taste in my mouth I ripped off the bandages and wraps
and drove off
with a storm in sight.
It was hellish and thick with more electric grey
than anything I had ever seen-electric-grey

and the pin-sheer pouring beads pinged
My naked flesh was agitated
the cold had me feel alive.
It would not let up, nor should it have.
It could have washed me away from me but it did not
it could have knocked down this house.

For so long there was torture and laughter from the intensity
of that which would not let up
and the distances and the geographies
were foreign and indecipherable.

We do not believe in angry gods these days so it was tough to
know what to call of these stirrers-up.
Probably a bad wrap at the day of DOW Jones, forever away.

However, what once were visible skies and low clouds
came to be a viscous coverage
and I was through it and within it and being spit-around
and gobbled up and clinging on and hanging on
for my life, feeling something all beyond.

Was a pilot. May-day may-fucking-day. It was a tease.
Rumble was affair and all that could be seen were yellow
road-line squiggles and the up-pelt of hammering blasts.
This was a manic baptism and the cause of disappearance to many isles.
I wanted to go under but had kept clinging on, and accelerating.
This happened for probably a couple of hundred of years, or so.

It finally-- came to be where an exit was up ahead. Some change in
the skies tapestry.
It blinked off
and as bright as day again
I was whipped out of the hellinistic peltering
with a stiff back-bone.

Needed a side-road, I prowled upon many
but the manic traffic
only let me get the one I did.

The one that I found was spectacular
with open fields and vivifying sights.
There were no worthless desires there
or thoughts of outer-time.
Just there and what could be seen
was enough.

My wanton lusts for hot wet pussy and a fancy title before my name
were left somewhere way back beyond
for a few moments
and the argyle faces I had seen before that storm
with crooning freeze frames
managed to take a holt, too.

Stepping onto my feet,
I wrapped my ears and eyes with saline garb
and planned to built.

*this is what is done when uncertainty is abound. You are given a pick-axe and made good-use-of.

-The General Lo.
"

photo 08/16  words 10/22/2016 free-'writ as stress'reliever

Monday, June 11, 2012

Tent the saints of derrivement

I was thinking that it would be a good day to sense the tests of enjoyment..
Or.. to test the scents of deployment..
No wait, to... Tent the saints of derrivement.


I was thinking that it would be a good day to test the senses of enjoyment..
Ultimately that came to

The Damsel of amusement,
The playful Lunar Lady of Lingerie Lactation
The Eternal Ev'e of Extraordinary Elusiveness

Not every time that you skim into the world of an upbeat stride of joyous love will there have to be an awaiting echo of the sounds of authority sirens
but if there ever is, surely, the bramble to either side provides a great covering.

The certain romance that comes along through stories that involve bank-robbing, teeter-tottering on the brink of near societal collapse, simply skipping stones or crossing ridge to ridge upon a fraying slip of rope all push upon an edge of a personal whim fulfilled.

Now, why they are called Sirens, at any sense, is an interesting thing altogether.
Surely they aren't beautiful. Surely they aren't deceptive. We all know the reason. Only when undercover are they deceptive. But unless you have an authority fetish, then no way would you even invite them under your own covers.



There was a woman on crutches crossing the street between the parade
Many thought she was a part of the parade so they cheered
She embarrassingly smiled at the misfire of public gesture
The Elephants did not know that she wasn't part of the parade
Later on the carriages thought the pancake was part of the road.

 -------------------
'Hip to the charm of an ever pervasive cool
The uncool became cool and the cool still remained cool
and the counter-cultural became cool, to a limited  ability
Cool meant, really, being able to buy something
So the only fuckups and scumbags that remained were the
ones who could not be cashed-in upon to dress in the flavors of cool
So they stayed warm
Then everything ate itself
Inside out, with flashing yo-yos
And automatic polaroid filters
and electronic syngerettes
A tribal fire of differentiation
Waging a war of difference
Confidence to be 'weird.' Weird is cool, if affordable.
Just only on an accepted level
because leaving and then entering the self would be
too far out and weird out all of the cool weird hip cultural cool ones
I am the girlfriend of an american G.I. Joe Doll
I am the ever-perplexing dominant of muffler repair ripoff labyrinths
I am the King of supersonic hypocrisy how-to's
The storm that came through the
readjusting of questions and answers
slightly reworked so that the other can feel more comfortable
and less offended by outside ideas'
-Nathan Ninety Seven. Blabmouth Residentials.
 --------------------
I have a poem. I am going to present a poem. This is a poem. Are you ready? Here, here is the poem.

Senator Julie, where is this place?
Why did you put me here? Have you deceived me?
This is foolish time spent
Sitting around watching Kindergarten Cop
Why would.. I just wished to tell you.. bla bla bla.

The springs of vanderbelt rushed out so clearly
from the ears along with wax out of Mr. Briamble's head
As he slept, as he kept carnations from the breeze
Like a joy he did learn from weeping willow trees.
Happy Labor Day, hope your family is doing as well as ours
Love, Always
The Bronsons.

Actually the poem is here.
Hold on, let me find it.
Hey!! I see you trying to leave. Yes it's true not many enjoy sitting through a poem. But how many have really tried to.. Maybe you'll like it... So sit your fanny back down in this chair..

..oh, not a rocking-chair,eh? Not good enough of a chair!? Splinters!!? well, Why I oughta... Alright.. Sit on the floor, then, and listen to this poem.
Comfortable? Okay, Good.


I kept riding my motorcycle down past cheese factories and past breadcrumb towns
Falling in love with a whiteboard eraser can make you do some unquestionable acts
There's a wild confliction that scurries between holy roller vixen and tribal warrior
and somehow the vividly sharp smells of cheese factories did not make that go away

Remembering all of the times we used to pogostick together near the ocean
We avoided the crabs and held hands
We should have held hands after pogoing
but sometimes lessons are funner to learn the hard way.
Sixteen miles away from the cheese
and when the stink faded the memories were able to rush back more quickly

I remember you telling me "I think I exist, I'm pretty sure I exist"
but when we're all so pulled into our own dreams
sometimes it is a vague acknowledgement
Though somehow both of our dreams were able to merge smoothly
Somehow kissing you came naturally
and I remember playing "I left My Pastel On The Bed Cover And Woke Up Blue"
for you on the piano
You would sing to the rises and falls: so beautiful
and fingertips touching became such a subtle thunder
that all of the sorority drunkards screwing like rabbits at that very moment
all added up
could not match the pristine joy of my thumb against your palm
which only meant that kissing
with all the time in the world
amounted to nothing that a memory could recreate
Yet every thought of it brought on such details rebirthed
Donkey Kong with all of the bananas in the world
could not have been happier
and I would burn a winning lottery ticket
if it meant being able to snatch you along with me
and flow on out of that hell hole

As the playdough towns sank after panic
we would simply reshape old buildings into gardens and vines
We would go to the phone company building
and turn it into a submarine
Then push it from the shore
and watch it float out into the forever
and sip smoothies out of crazy straws
and cover each other with yard sale stickers
only to have them peel off
when we skinny dipped in cranberry juice






Friday, June 1, 2012

The Term Mimery


August 14th will announce the publishing of my collection of suicide jokes, pre-planned post-humously released. The book will come in a special sharperly-edged hard cover composure. I do not plan to fake my own death in the oddity of being  too successful in the realness of the situation.

I offer to the guillotine and from the heart or index finger some more songs from the Chameleon Shelter.
Disc 4 song 1
Disc 4 song 2
Disc 4 song 3
Disc 4 song 4

I wrote this earlier to capture a certain 'mood' to later be ashamed of. A practice of exposing such a draught state is a practice of courage/stupidity indeed! 
There was this newfound mission to create a cast iron plexiglass bronze statue of Ghengis Khan's cock and wheel it into the state capitol and then hang myself from it in the background scene of America's Got Talent if they are ever to film there. I'd be naked of course with bat wings sprawled open and the Eye of Ra scribed onto my forehead and the head of my cock with 'Vote Yosemite Sam' written on any other available unmentionables  as an invitation of cultural dissemblance.

& I give great praise for feel these feelings of abandonment and the ability to post such personal thoughts to the realm of electronic babbling whereas such things are likely better kept in personal/unseen entries. Yet the temptations stack too high to not display such babblings not unlike trying to catch a snowflake on the tip of your tongue and having it blacken your eye instead.
**Note:If unmentionables are seen then would it even be worth mentioning them at all?
It would be too obvious to even begin mentioning. Is that why they are unmentionables?


Dearest Gooseneck Rumperdumper, 
Thank you so kindly for standing me up once more. 
As always, I basque in your accountable lies
& surefire talents of bleeding a well-meaning socialite.
If you could perhaps, stick the key up your nose & unlock the sight 

of unseen worlds of courage & practical friendship,
be sure to wipe the boogers out of the way first.
Also, if any soul may reside left through lies again & again, 

tell it that even strangers have remorse for sadistic
acts of coldness.



but sometimes personally we invite such feelings of dischord to therefore prize any moments of serenity or calmness that later arrive. Ha ha! Indeed!
///\\\\\\\\
!~!#$%$********^@@@!!!

But in less jesting,
If you dislike or feel that what is out there and offered to the public does not have any wisdom or is a cultural
wreck then you can create a desire yourself. And no matter how low-funded or unable to book a 'big name'
if you have the heart and dedication you can get it done.

It is YOU (Excludes Becky and Jim B.,Sorry) (oh great here comes another one of those inspiration speeches on the capability the individual) of who holds liable the world you see around you. Permissible. If you don't like it,
stop participating in it, NOW. No fore-worries, but in the moment Now! (Yes this is an order of
disorder! Obviously you MUST follow an order?)
Also if you Love it, go for it!!
A fool can be the smartest persona to undergo for the Fool does not suffer the trauma of worrying
about risk!
(Note:If somebody enjoys being told what to do and you tell them to enjoy making their own decisions, who will they turn to thereafter you arrange for them to be freefounded?)

Thank you for dealing with the racket.



To Lives,
Which lives,
Sewn and retraced.
The upheaval of removing from this realm,
The impatient curiosity to unveil the great truths to divide the
birth and life.


Some Island between worlds was then perceived as not necessarily being a bad thing.

Being Horned does not make you evil and being Horny does not mean you are bad.
The animals become more trusting to me yet the human bipeds seemed more and more astray.
Was there some sort of radiance of disruptiveness circulating around my being?
I glance up over my shoulders and at my reflection. Nope.. Must have missed it. Hmmm.

I thanked the experience every morning rather than waking to say "Alive again?" but curiosity
to the great End stood it's head in the doorway of persona only for each time a credit card was
swiped or a stranger pretended. Some place, some chance I wished the offerings of Love that I granted
would be endeared but often it only seemed to bounce off an understandable shield of "Don't
talk to strangers
" and many other afflictions resulting from a Terror-World.
All the seemingly programmed shields of public behavior radiated with an obviousness but we were trapped in some sort of cell of cell phones.
The archaic age of a telephone booth bare and stripped with it's metal chord dangling like an electric rats tail near more highway dust. But still blades of grass grew from those concrete cracks! Hope, Divine. Grass choking out concrete, slow defense.

A divide looked to culminate where ideas were rising to those who shed their attachments,lessening
their weight and a form of sunkeness and entrapment stuck sweatily wet and heavy to people who wanted to gather more and more items to display their sense of freedom.
Such a trick is obvious to see when you are not the one going through it but when you are experiencing
it, that need to feed the objects you symbolize as 'established' takes up so much time and energy
that it looks akin to carrying around a weight while saying "I Fly! I Fly!"


But to break the boundaries of these expectations and randomize:
That Chameleon world.
Many masks to wear and many new enjoyments to indulge.
But still mostly when these actions were put to test the lonesomeness carried onward.
These ideas were too risky. Breaking character now are we? Can't have that!? Perhaps even convincingly seen as some sort of mental illness;
But no hallucinations, no 'alternative identity' so to speak but merely observance of mood.
Testing different cultures, walking in many footsteps and allowing many practices.

The happy man is not ALWAYS happy even if he is seemed to play that role on a permanency.
The Tough Bitch will cuddle and love given the right opportunity and the Brute Narcissist will shed a tear of sadness and joy.
Was the rude man at the counter still that blatant asshole the moment you described him and his actions to your friend or perhaps he has lightened up by that moment and is smiling But by your history unto the next time you see him he is burnt into time as a blatant asshole who wouldn't sell snuff to a 14 year old.


The further perception is practiced and moved about more casual understandings seem to uncover
to a strangeness. Masks masks masks, everything morphs to a metaphysical hysteria for a slight second
and you can observe your very own actions and reactions from the magnets of others intentions.

These echo through these upcoming song subjects not unoften(A wise-ass way to write 'often'), such as the use of identity.
True, given an uprepared mindset, these subjects can overexert an anxiety and scare an individual back into the coop of warm-safeness and back to holy-like directions to follow.
But to face those inner selves, simplistic instructions and normalites disintegrate into a certain con-artistry to usurp the free will of a wandering soul.

Really, the idea of claiming to need a passport to cross a boundary seems to the mind of this entity writing this right now such an absurd and offensive notion. As offensive as identifying a being to a security number.
Do I hideously feel like a party-wrecker to say that the illusion of free choice becomes a wreck in itself when you, a being of option and energy and assumption, would not be permitted to cross from a section agreed as a division of lands without the proper patronage?  Property, by choice.

We mow our lawns each weekend to impress our neighbors (Those of us lucky to have a lawn) but
balding the natural, when you re-evaluate the tradition, seems like mockery in the face of hunger when food could be grown on such a canvas.
Concrete also could be seen as an irremovable weed. If you could permit such a view even for a moment
and then move back to disagreeing with it you might at least see what I mean as 'Jumping personas,'
but the practice is admitably still scrutinizing to my ego when I try to live in the view of shoe-stores being an essence of necessity.
Applying different ideas and even imaginations to energy devices and the non-thrills of bitching and
misery may allow an abundance to come to light.

Imaginations birth the reality of capability and we seem to be fed imaginations of torture and self
loathing all too often and guess what? They become the anchor of expression whereas new ideas
could sweep through possibility instead. Just look what I wrote at first... Slightly self-loathing, attacking the self with hints of doubt attempting to create something from the heart and release it, with no budget or any such thing, into such a corporate-ruled world of novelty and image.
Surely I could have written about time, dedication and pride of being able to take so many moments and so much self-reflection to create.. But in this culture I feel like a guard is set where you stand out as a bastard or target for fully appreciating the self.
We all seem, at the moment, to wade in an agreed discontent.
(I still wish to say that every woman/man is a Goddess and every man/woman is a God but only if you wish to be. You can also be miserable and feel the expression of serving another being. (Or both, on and off.) It's none of my damn business really but casting that idea out there was always something I felt a necessity of. Even though sometimes you will hear the reactions of frustration in my being and becoming as agitated as anyone. Note: The author should practice what he preaches more,more often then allow room for more results.)

Recognize some things you hate and ask if it is something you do not yet understand or if it is really from your view and not an just impression/reaction of another media hype.
To acknowledge fear of a new pattern may allow a person to overcome that ingrained idea.
Nudity:Inhumane, whereas it was celebrated, the curves of body, in ancient cultures...
Or even the idea that ancient cultures were seen as primitive where the word primitive is something
to mean dumber or less intelligent.
Look at some of the structures that still stand to this day while,in comparison, the fragments of square geometry tip,tip,tip. Shape: Jagged:Wither, Curvaceous:Homely



There are worlds where television jingles ring jolly amusement to the listener.
I always wonder why the use of whistling is so prominent in those cheesy things.(Siren.)
I try and not acknowledge the existence of such things really, does that mean that ignorance leads to
bliss? Really? Ignoring what you dislike and focusing on what you enjoy?
Or shifting a view to accept and not mind that some people may sweep head over heals for an advertisement
of refined glistening everlasting Ubik usable at any time?
If it is the differences that separate or make us unique then is there a hidden fear to unite some of the
follies between unspoken perspective? I.E. Coming to terms with some of the things we see as idiotic in another person's choice. The only thing, I suppose, that ruffles anger is when another's ideals invade the choice of anothers ideas. Somebody else's insanity or righteousness should not prove to be too 'destructive' as long as it doesn't advise to dominate and destroy your own insanity or righteousness.
That is a lie.**
I keep thinking of how boring it would be if everybody was the same,
If everybody could mold by action a character of their own choosing:A character that reflects a person's
exactness.
It seems amusing to the individual to think such things. Almost as if I pitch those thoughts accordingly enough and in a way to invoke your agreement or a notion of possibility then it is absolute!!
If I were to piss you off or offend you while speaking it then maybe the above would have purely been bullshit, but with the right about of honey and cinnamon well....
Impressionable: To impersonate those we admire, of course.. and then rebirth their traits into our own actions. But to take a practice of living for one day in the mindset of somebody we loathe... Would we become that person or simply find a better attempt to see where their ideals come from?
**Note:The above is jibberish and should be ridiculed.

Also, there are hardly any references to any of what I am writing anyhow. Wouldn't it be easier to believe if I
used quotes from other people or historical references? From historical...books.
Would you agree 100% if you could live for an aeon or two, or come back an aeon or two from now and flip through a history book... Would things seem a bit tilted or commercialized to sell a safe and nationalist mindset?
What if History books could be group-written by several cultures!?
"No, he's wrong... this is how it happened.."
"Chapter 3: Pure bullshit, that last guy.. THIS is how it happened."
Maybe even a woman would be allowed to write one of the chapters as well.
Note: This is why Mimery and muteness is also a great approach.
Mouths will excrete when they are not being fed. Ears will be filled when mouths are not being fed.

The more you spend the more you save.
The more you drop a stone onto your foot, the less it hurts.
See!???
And it is true. Try it. You will see.
If you don't try it then how will you know?

I also really wanted to point out that kettles don't talk, and neither do pots.
A pot, by our traditional distinction of the linguistics of inanimate objects, can not call a kettle anything!
Which leads into the next great mystery unsolved but firstly  you are going to need to go out and obtain a stick of celery. If you already have one handy then  wait just a bit longer.

SOMP

Rushing creativity seems blasphemous because sometimes you (or I at least) have to wait for when you do not plan to accomplish some thing. That made me recently re-question the way that many 'acts' or 'entertainers' albeit artists and creators, too, often have deadlines for releases or imagery.
It may stuff a hole in a quick dagger of mildly wet plume, if you may let me put it that way!!
All of this makes me feel like a furious slug. 
(Note that blasphemy also seems ideal to me in many ways so I shouldn't have a problem with what I have just written in a way that seems I may have a problem with it.) Sometimes you don't plan what images you use or cutting your neck shaving but it just happens. None of this has to do with downloading the album of what the above image refers to from here or waiting for it to be properly released with full album artwork and highest kpbs possible. And now back to the nonshow.
...
..
and now back to:

Now a procedure will take place.
This is it.
And from here I will proceed with a short story draft. It really is best to read aloud. This goes for certain if you are in a space of strangers around you. In fact, given the obvious interest and adoration of this trendy and life changing blog (which such steady subject matter,) it is not a bad idea to, if you are at home, leave and go to a public space simply to read this out loud. The results will be a practice in courage and fun. On a similar note I soon plan to give a book review of "How To Lose Friends And Alienate People"  by Irving D. Tressler and Quinch. Having never given a book review in my life I figured I am just as qualified for such as a homeless group judging food. Which would be more commonsense than well-fed sneebly critiques critiquing food that they eat 1/3rd a portion of. Snibs.  But now,
a procedure will take place.

****************
DISTURBED in a mildly erotic way,
Chafey merged as one from two colliding plummets of street debri blown from
either direction.
***********************

Chapter two: The Eloping Antelopes of Bramble Bay

The prophecy wasn't too hard for him to fulfill.
Eight q-tips,
a package of Elephant rope,
a pulley and
three plunkets of eyebrow hair from a green eyed,hazel-haired ballerina
and the next second he's sipping a brandy thinking about how he had just fulfilled the prophecy.
Good stuff, but easy work, he thought as the semiotic bar maid squeaked on over to offer more brandy.
It mixed in with the grease quite well.

Compliments of the agency.
They had their own lounge nestled on the same corridor that housed the life-sized pinball machine.
Nobody ever escaped that.
Twelve crushed.

He sat sipping the drunkenness as it settled into the grease watching the shadow of the beautiful lime-haired bar maid recede along with the sounds of her squeaking all  leaving him to chatter his thoughts internally with a background of inaudible radio transmission pulsing from the front bar.

He had to restore everbody's secrets from Section 802 before they splattered everywhere. He created worlds then sucked them up in design 706's version of the quantum vaccuum package as a demonstration to mass-market the sucker.
He custard'd culprits of the ice cream sandwich clam-hampering escapades and bagged the big one after it escaped from the city zoo but it all became so boring so quickly for him.

"I'm sorry Somp, but we're all out of elbow grease." The bar maid, on her squeaky wheels, said upon her fourth return.
Apparently he drank it all.
The brandy was useless without it, so he returned back to his office.


He heard the screams coming from the pickle room as he passed through the hallway and back to his private office.
The Styrofoam cup sat beside the photo frame of his ex-wife Mecky and his son.
Both stared back at him as he sat up straight in his chair in some meditative trance of zone-out.
The stryofoam cup wore some pathetic expression of uselessness. He wondered why he still kept that portrait of Mecky and little Jonesy Bibbins there all this time. Then he remembered, and wondered why he forgot. Beforehand, As if the styrofoam cup failed to deliver any answer, he swung his left hand in a chopping motion and swatted it from the table.
It bounced yet didn't gesture any sign of pain. Such a pathetic cup, but glorious in it's inability to perceive pain or agony.. Agony like that which occurs when he thinks of his dear Mecky.
Faint sounds could still be heard coming from the pickle room.



                      SOMP T. SPOMPS
                          Head detective
            Astarabco Investigation Agency
          We're better than what you'd expect!

He put his business card back into his inner pocket 

The Crugar spotted ceiling, the polished ostrich desk and the Nematode clow appaulstry,
the place really had it's perks but for some reason Somp's heart had always resided at that world
that existed before being a detective.

Poor Mecky, he thought. Poor Mecky and Jonesy. They never should have taken that submarine vacation to
the Bermuda Triangle. He would have disintegrated too if he hadn't been busy on the 408 Diabetes Radish
assignment. It was either off his job and disintegrate on a family vacation or save North Carolina
from that atrocious Radish disaster. Deep inside he knew he could have spared North Carolina just for that slight chance to get back his loving Mecky.

The stryofoam cup continued to lay there.
A muffled "weeeeeeeeeeee!' was heard coming from the pickle room.
Somp stared at the wristwatch drawn around his arm in black felt tipped marker before realizing it was time for him to punch out.



**********************
Loti left in the sky bridge. Noodles hampering in the Scroggleton stem.

The disaster was averted as Chafey balanced on the radio-wire. Crossing from one building to the next.
He felt a set of eyes manifest but scrambled into the air before he was recognized.
*************

Chapter 2

How to gargle battery acid and keep promises made to baboons



A woman turned and ran.
Somp was heading back to his apartment after walking down Jorbis Street near where the steel centipede had dropped him off. There was a blur in a white dress so bright that it looked as if it were a hemlock shark pearl against the dark evening of the Thrisdaugh night.
He swore he saw a blurring jaw of jagged teeth swing against the air as this child ran off from near the front
cavern of the apartment stand.

They are still here... he reminded himself. Case 230:The Unspeakable!!!
He shuddered and tried to forget about that as he squeezed himself through the elastic proportions of the
building's entrance. Down the three fleights of stairs he unlocked the door to his room on the 6th floor and
set down his briefcase by his Victorian bedside per usual. His breath tasting moreso as elbow grease as usual that night.
He walked out to the kitchen and went to the cupboard to pull out an opened tin of elbow grease.
It's been a while since he had any.

The thick steel mainframe and durable walls provided a comforting and reasonably peaceful living environment often ignored or passed up in the likes of a setting of many books or movies. But this was real life, Somp thought, then wondered what the heck he was thinking about that for.
Elbow grease without the brandy, he thought, it causes for some unremarkable thoughts so he decided not to remark on any of them.

For the past five years he had been here doing his detective work.

He flicked on the TV after getting Betty out of her cage and going over to the Ibuson Goose feathered love couch.
Betty was his pet mouce. The antlered Mouce that Mecky had sent through the air mail as a souvenir on her way to Bermuda.
It was a last penchant from before she and Jonesy had disintegrated; A present of life and joy that waited him at the desk of the Apartment thingy after Operation 408 Diabetes Radish had been sucessfuly completed by Somp.
Now Betty was all he really had.
They both rested in front of the TV

'Everything's going great. Life is lovely. A hot air balloon landed safely today in South Venice and donations to the swift snoppling youth group were given out with joy by the generous celebrity foundation.


Monday, May 28, 2012

Throw yourself into an unsort of current




 Passing five orange newts along the mountainous path up, up, up.

They were so blazing in brightness that the black circular dots on their backs stood out like an ice cream hut in a desolate New Mexican desert. Against the trails they stood out even more like a blemish on a model or a sixty-toed,20-eyed,plaid-skinned gypsy moth at a boat sale. So casual and fiery, I often find it easy to sit close and watch their calmness. I'm sure they feel affectionate about a giant human-flesh creature hovering over their tranquility, leering down with an amusement worn as an expression.
Then again, horseflies are ballsy enough to attack a creature 18 times it's size, so like David against Goliath or a Smurf against a giant turtle posing as a continent, the difference of stature does not always jeopardize courage.

Days beforehand I wandered into a large tortoise near Recluse Stream.

 
It was, however, out of commission: Expired.
From the first photo it obviously looked as if there were a possibility of life. Yet approaching closer proved a crispiness resulting from the heat (as a Doktor's-guess.) The soil creature had unfortunately been docked. It's shell was impressive and it's age likely to have been qualified for many birthday candles. Do turtles celebrate birthdays?

Back to the Newts:
Passing newt number four and newt number five: Legs have done days of biking on a flat-rimmed, squish-tired, stuck-gear, lopsided-handle-barred bike and now a sturdy amount of trail walking commenced further flesh bending.



So at the top of the trail the view was a reward for footsteps gone trotted. 




And two hawks spun in the air. and little baby bugs harassed the skin with little baby bug bites. If there is an immunity to avoiding skin-nipping bugtagonists it is to lose them when they are not looking. That is when bug spray or yelling at them to stop are choices you would rather not indulge in. Just run. They surely won't catch you
Your efforts of escape surely won't be an amusing joke to the tiny winged things, surely to lose you, and not chomp into you the second you stop thinking you have lost the lot of them.

The wrist watch I had drawn, again, onto my arm seemed to have stopped working so it was only a guess as to how long I had been up there at the lookout. The watch said 11:48 when I started yet it remained 11:48 before I chose to depart.

There were three ways to go.

The way back down from which you came, The second way around which goes a full circle and back down to the bottom trail, and that way which you have never went before. The first two ways are trails. You can recognize, by color coded bark scribbles, how to keep from wandering off into uncertainty. I chose the third way.
I decide to go somewhere where the newts didn't even show up. Unless they were hiding. They're (un)known for that.

Some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid.

You never realize how slippery your shoes are until you decide to descend down a mountain side that is loose with leaves and topped with fine soil.
A water thermos and tripod are looped through a camera strap and the best way is to slide sitting on the ground using your shoes as boats. This was the third way.

Convincing somebody else to go with you would be more of a nightmare than the actual plummet itself.
That is why sometimes it is best to solo into adventures that would seem hellish or insane to somebody else at first glance.
Shaking up anxiety and then over-coming it or riling up the new can spark something you've never known about yourself.

But, secretly, anxious at first or bewildered by possible stupidity of the situation, I think certain people would love to get trapped into such adventures. Others I could see possibly arguing for minutes over which safe-trail to take back down.
Until you JUMP into the slide and it is either come-along with me or go back down the safe way.

some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid

Deciding to get lost, to abandon having any familiarity of anything around you... to have no choice but to become more aware of your surroundings and self... there becomes no excuse for distraction. Leniency becomes forbidden and impossible.





So I slid down and down and down. Piles of leaves with slick shoe bottoms gliding me down. I knew it was far and I knew that it was steep but it started to even surprise me "I am not at the flat Yet!?"
The stupidity of the act started to rise. Perfect. Morph that idiotness of the situation into some kind of enjoyment. 'This is a life, Okay. Going back up would be painful and a retreat."
some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid


The choice to become lost unites  memories that serve as a sort of subconscious underworld. They [memories] can re-emerge into the present and act as a shadow or an antagonist if they are not properly taken care of.
They become alive again; The mythos of hades becomes a mentality..
But also, I think, Eden can arrive when the second self is met.. As to look back at things you currently or have once feared and to embrace them and even find pleasure in those moments.

We become what we are by the ailments we avoid. One less thing to fear and shun is one more thing to experience and learn from. 

Many avoid that with comfort or formality (which even using as an example and self righteous or ignorant, sorry, it's not my life just an ego of contrast. D'oh!,) But I think once you toss yourself into those rapids you can find something desirable. Recognizing you are at a point of no return can be refreshing anyhow. I think after the first four minutes of descending downwards you I recognized 'there's no god damn way I am going to start climbing back up now.'
So then the roaming and investigation of all-that-lay-beyond begins.

That is a difference between growing and thinking you are already solidified or finalized. It becomes childish to enter a hectic or foreign situation but so much more can be learned from facing that chaos or fear and then re-stabilizing in the unknown: Searching for a wisdom of childishness. After all it was those new, surprsing moments that we entered and tested as children that brought us into the forms we accept as solid in our personalities now.

To a child every experience seems new and refreshing or exciting to the senses. Then we become punished for our curiosities but to re-establish and tamper with the patterns I think brings out that 'roamer.'
(Curious and smart enough for new tastes and idiotic and foolish enough to risk securities and sometimes even life depending on  the jumps.)

some action of throwing the self into a quick rapid. Note:Worrying too much causes worrying too much.



It eventually came to large stones predicting a leveling to change from such a long ways of sliding. Once it became flat there was a good 18 minutes of walking, in one direction, following the insight of what kind of plants were growing in groups and the hollowness of the ground versus any wetness where one may begin to sink indefinitely.

Knowledge and quirps become a cluster of rattling objects in a large cemented ball all trying to escape out of a pinhole. You, or I at least, felt that certain informations were ultimately useless. The spaces to fill an area were sometimes so novelty that you start to compare your situation to: If I were dedicated to getting completely lost without a single security, would I be able to function on living amongst all of this?
What kind of information could I trade off or could have sacrificed to look around to the Earth that surrounds me and confidently be able to say "Okay I'm going to eat this now and it's not going to kill me in the most annoying way." All of my mental stats of novelty opinions would ultimately die in that concrete rattle, being useless in self sufficiency.
Ferns okay Honey Mustard okay.
Well then ultimately you start to learn and prepare, then recognize an ass-kicking joke that tells you that the risk of gambling Earthly foods/delights may be just as fair a risk as a daily input of f.d.a. approved foods. 
 into a quick rapid

Eventually it started to get marshy.
I felt like I was in dinosaur-land and reminded myself of those Land Before Time cartoon movies. Many old memories came up being so scrambled from 'identified' and reconnected to 'wander.'
Really this was the land before time. No wall-clocks. Wondering just when the last time that it really was since a human biped had walked through these grounds.

Old friends and climbing up hills. We had hatchets and built forts. Shoes were better dirty. Lighting sears catalog bra model ads on fire and climbing to the very height of swaying trees just to get a view of which direction may cause a vigor for the limitless child. Limitless until curfew and the next school session where your curiosities are ailments and imbalances.
We'd, my childhood tribe-friends and I, would sometimes come across things like old decayed trucks in the woods and they would be like the jewelbox of treasures to cave dwellers or the satisfying grail for the seekers. Having those feelings reflect to this were another surprise from entering down that hill to the unknown, into your own self, a kind of mental key agreed upon.
Wear a long sleeve, dumbass, great idea.



Blue dragonflies circled in either direction along the entire base of the pond. Frogs near the shore set of their alarm sound before hopping in to where the soup layer of pond film quickly patched the hole into where the frogs took cover.

After hopping myself over some mud that sunk who knows how far into who knows what I found my first sign of human bipeds.

Slunk into the ground like once the bodies that who have drank them
A pile of bottles were clomped in moss like the bodies that had sank them.

and so I did what any other rational breath-breather would do (because any rational breath-breather would, upon any situation, do what any other rationalist would be known to do, which would be to do what any other rationalist would do)
and I emptied the contents down into my gullet allowing the liquid contents of the mystery bottles to merge with my innards.
(Authors note: This is either a display of fantasy and needed amusement to excite the story telling or a true event to which I had survived or the fungal possibilities have not yet caught up to effect or kill me. You decide.)

There is something about finding older things, even mechanisms of drunkenness, that light an interest of a time capsule. The absurd idea of wondering (are there absurd things to wonder about? Rebecca!??) of what somebody may think if they find a plastic coca cola bottle or a dented beer can decades from now only offers some meek embarrassment about a present generation. Though somehow the shapes of these glass bottles match that nostalgia of pretending to know the things they have seen or who may have handled them.

Also wondering how many things we own and maintain, we rely on.. What will live on to be antiques or even become uncovered or how much of it will plastically-plaster away? To find these bottles and then a piece of an old sink telling that somebody resided here allowed a feeling of seeing how all of the streams replace to new paths. Floods come through and change the regular curves and S's of ditches carved out that the water was convinced was the correct path. A calmness of carelessness then emerges. All of that yarpling about billboard signs I loathe of will only be a presence of placement as they will all dismantle.

Maybe some day a human biped will feel light footed and meander the off skirts of an old city or vegas and under the marsh and bramble discover a giant head. A giant head with a mustard-like, time-stained smile grin of a tattoo model from a once-advertisement. Small whiskey bottles will still be scattered feet below the surface somewhere. Laptops will however be mooshy smithereens with cities of data mixed with leaf crisps replaced by newer leniency or forgotten.

Bramble scramble and under a twist of grab ass thorns
The birds eat those chasy bugs and frogs cast their horns
Pass a larger pond and leave a shed of masks
Then hop eight times past more swamp slime and make it back to the tracks