eschatonIIsequence part 2 of twenty provisionally finished

eschatonIIsequence ii

Time is the torque and the motor, the cause and motivation. If time could stand still for a day it would not be a day it would be a heaven.

Only time allows change and displacement and future needs and sufferings. If we could take the linear out of the time we would be Gods and hover.

The joy of the hypertext is it uproots the time from going in one direction. Normal books can achieve this shape too, consider the patterns in the bible.

We do not draw lines by design, they are part of the structure of the whole but carved in many directions. Perhaps this is why I’m fond of scars: they are clearly there but speak to the unpredicatable or unexpected in daily life.

There is something permanent in a scar relative to what is ultimately on a grander scale coming apart and slowly decomposing.

Scars are one record of age, like symbolic tree-rings.

The same goes for wrinkles and lines: they speak of trial and wisdom.

Only what is innermost felt, that is so wholly subjective, that it can be found in common with others therefore becomes objective.

This is the meaning of finding Forms in poetry, in streams of light, the spark of the unconscious.

The poet brings nature to life, and nature contains monsters.

Our psychological objects are real as tables, chairs and people. They are simply shared at a greater remove although they are not less abstract.

If parts can do as good a job as the whole I’ve no objection to making selective extracts.

Sometimes a well defined line can be complete as rainbows.

A line can be as strange as a snowflake but as ubiquitous as snow.

All getting old really tells you is how much further you have still to go. And how little you actually know.

I’m a dissociated tract and a man on a mission. You are an accomplice to this after the fact.

I would declare war against being but properly conceived as the heart of my doings. I would never snap and shoot up a school. But I might snap at myself.

I would consider my book to be a gun loaded on a high to reach shelf.

If you can have at least one vital thought a day you are in the one percent of the one percent, and more you’re actually richer.

Thinking is an act in itself and may indeed be revolutionary. I want synapses to run in the street.

I want cognitive chaos brought into some line by the force of phenomenology and the pull of the noumenon.

I want to preserve consciousness in its way. Don’t be blinded by words, be blinded by what they say.

Drug taking alters the world when it alters what’s within it. From the outside it’s like nothing has changed but if we could see from the inside you would see little isolated patches of dancing disco lights and scenes from the Sistene chapel.

And all for the want of one bite of one red, forbidden glowing apple.

The high worm that flies quietly in the night, and seeks its crimson joy, has long been known to be lust, and the price of our death is the price of recreation/reproduction.

Let me reproduce myself and take on the snakey sins of the world in my weary bored lines: let my book be burned or crucified at the stake, or let it be ignored. The scales of the world won’t be altered. I will simply feel lighter for having no fault in the heart or the head of those who choose to misinterpret me.

I do pay to take flesh in this form, to take matter from food and then turn it to gas and impose on it form then transmogrify it all back to basic matter. I lose touch with food when I talk, I lose touch with the ground when my fingers walk.

I believe the universe is not a petri dish but an old hour-glass through which we all are falling.

The universe expands with a flood of teary gas and stardust you would swear it was in mourning.

Drugs are a tool that we use to tune ourselves to being. What manner of being we tune in to depends on what we feel we should be doing.

Oftentimes this is revealed only in the wake of wielding tools of that type, and like all tools drugs take some practice. (Or indeed maybe training).

Not all the tools at our disposal are always appropriate or suitable.

Some are an aid to inspiration, others to observation; some are best used in interaction, others in commune with oneself. But all change the way that the world is given and received from. They alter the seat of what we feel or know. That affect our interpretation of the world around us and changes our decision making process. Often it is as straighforward as a change of approach that is fast or slow.

Some tools are an aid to reflection. They take off the mask of plain sight and fill it in with insight.Insight can be long and kill gratifying amounts of time, to one with time on his hands.

I have time or blood on my hands as well: I am a text of disclosure and every type of intoxication it is possible for a text to ever undergo.

These are not states or statements I recommend to any other, I am merely becoming that state that is simultaneously a substance-filled statement.

I have a lot on my mind but not a great deal to say. What interests me is how long and intricately, and beautifully put, I can try to make it.

The death of the author I applaud, and of his ressurection I am awed, What remains is a consciousness shroud that contains the shap eof the body of a God who gave his life for his readers.

You should worship the book not the cross. The book is a thing of sweat and blood and utterable beaty. The cross is also made of simply made fromwood.

I have fellow atheist friemds who will balk at the language of faint or more forthright religiosity. I try to tell them they believe in love and in the magic of algebra and the miraculous gene.

They believe in the power of language but not its subtlties.

It is not fair to expect scientists to be free,metaphorical and lacking in honesty. It is fair to ask them to study a little phenomenology.

Where is this dream of mine going? It is already done, the paths are traced and written; we simply don’t want to spoil ourselves the surprise of a known destination.

The unknown stoner is a creed, raining his hail-like stones of slate and meat from the overhead pass where he and traffic meet.

The unkown stoner is a name like joe eschaton of all that is put-upon, tarred and critiqued for his place and his pride. Hell even his name is a constant reminder that he is worth nothiing except for being someone to blame.

There have been scores of stoners in the past, most of which are unknown, who didn’t partake in any particular slice of gruesome mob-riven, dictator bashed, people oppressing, parlour game. The unknown stoners stayed their hands, taught themselves to read and to bleed for the sake of ideas.The collective and floating ideas and their intermingling, cross-mutating, and the light touch of a clutch of concepts and notions elegantly dancing.

The stoner responds to the world that is crashing and blind with the violence to hand, with his barrage and spine.

The binding that secured the Western culture’s back is becoming untwined.

I am all for the blending of colours and the movement of masses. The more the world mixes its paint the more we move together toward the awe inspiring truth of matter without form, or a form or two balanced ot or in tandem. I’m thinking here of the work of Mark Rothko.

Blended with Jackson Pollock, I paint with the aim of a sort of self portrait.

The portrait is that of my arms and the violent ends to which I have put them.

Eschaton is an encounter with the shadow. It is the end of everything and the last thing to be done. The sequence can contain no single button.

In the same way there need be no logical end to any given song.

There is often a major difference between heroin and what went rightly wrong.

Life has a way of portraying you like an extra, not an actual character, in the story of the conduct of your life.

The older you get the less important you come to appear over all on average and no longer dream like a vital younster.

If it is fame that you crave there are now many outlets and strategies for furthering your goal, but that should not be a reason. Fame is not something once again that you can take when everything is gone.

And fate is as fickle as a faggot hater strapped up his golden teeth in a vest of fairy bombs.

There is no greater drinking song in the world but ‘Show me the way to go home’. It would be appropriate and perfect enough to stand for a human anthem.

Or a humanistic motto.

There are great sharks out there I will not ever be found swimming around them. There are many tings I’ll not have done, such as flying a plane or going on the run or climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. That is not to say my inner life is not or has been not as rough as the violent seas that break on an island in the tropical south: I have felt the fury of a popping vocano.

My mind swirls round and centres like a nebula when it hits the pillow at an unknown hour sometime in the morning. My eyes are the rings of Saturn, my lips are cracked like Mars, and my firy heart is blown to dust like Venus.

There is great comfort sometimes in clouds. They adapt themselves very readily or our minds shape them steadily and we are revealed again in the gaze of the sky.

We are shape adapting, shifting, faithless creatures.And there is more chaos to be found all the time without a sword to fight it.

I hope art can stave off the great plague that always threatened to land on my ink-ridden pages or lungs, and reduce the words I had to say and knit be turned to forgotten notes and/or blackened ashes.

My encounter with racism in the town I grew up was either a) casual, funny and unserious; or else b) hateful, loud but actually inauthentic. I’ve seenmany a racist become close to some previously slated minority and try to seek their approval, care or some kind of validation – but weirdly only validation of their own vanity.

We will bury you! - as a slogan didn’t go anywhere near far enough. IT should have gone something like ‘We shall recycle your corpses and turn them into fertilizer for vegan only approved produce and crops, in a rural economy where oil was a stain on a distant memory.

My eschaton sequence dissertaintion was described by an examiner as being both ‘a little disturbed’ and also ‘familiar with Nietzsche.’ IF you can find me a writer of whom both things can be said at the same time as each other – or else neither of the propsitions can – I wil give up my pen, my finger wielding arm, and refuse to write another aphorism.

If your radical poetic type cannot disturb, especially my own branch of dark radical poetics, then what the hell is it there for, to look up names of flowers?

Sometimes downers can prove to be equally, if not more, productivity-inducing when it comes to creative action. If one brings the fire and focus of an untramelled energy the other brings the calm of relective casuistry to bear on existential problems.

Like most things in life it is a test to find the baance between two equally important but often antagonistic drives or motives.

This is true of jubilation and traumatic experiences as it is of chemicals, tools or dispositions/ strictly learned manerisms.

If I can impose no more order on my life of unpredictable chaos and permanent anxiety than to structure my lines, it’s at least as good as making your bed or showering every morning.

Some sacrifices have to stink in order to dissuade the silent approach of the wrong sort of attention.

I have OCD when walking down the street: if I see a discarded bobble or band of elastic I have liberate it and wear it on my wrist. I don’t know how or when this one began.

The only race that interests me is the race to the end of the prosaic page or the bottom of the finished poem.

The gun problem – I think we’re entitled to call it that – is indeed a people problem. There’s no right minded natural kind of person with a lethal gun. The world of the gunman is not the world of a pregnant woan.

The more as a poet I can connect the inner and outer of any experience I am locating Forms, or combinations of Forms, and bringing them closer to the eyes and ears of those who daily walk around them. To the more distant I hope too that a bell, something ancient and soft, like those of Cantre Gwaelod, find themselves heard in their essence, and in their inner and outermost fashion.

It is not always a matter of power in a powerful poem but in that of its precision.

Sometimes the floating effect you get from reading a poem is born of its deliberate questing, in its asking, and in its indecision.

Other times it is something more concrete that charges the ears and explodes in the eyes: a poem like Ted Hughes’ ‘Horses’ has just such a presence.

‘The force that through the green fuse drives the flower’ is yet another that strikes and runs with all the power of the noumenal will in its objectifications. The power it summons as you read is akin to Appollo chasing deer and foxes with his friend Artemis, is the sound of their chariots.

I was never overly interested in darts except as a small child when they would fascinate and charm me. The elegance of the tossed flight, the intent of its mark, and the curious fun part of going off trying to find it.

I used to make Yew bows with arrows, fletched with seagull wing and flinted and seared. Agin though the flight was a beautiful thing to behold it was the march through the grass and the wood that made the firing worth it.

Everyone should have sex in the woods at least once, having been supposedly kicked out for similar indiscretions as having emotions.

I imagine the inner side of the cosmological big bang was the nature of God willing forth in the night like his latest giant cock explosions.

If man is built in the image of God why cut off the part of the cock that’s conducive to recreating that sensation?

I believe we are naked apes because we loved the sea. I believe that we swam and built boats so well, we may have been better off without the discovery of agri and horticulture.

Like the First Nations follow the herd and take just what you need, do not fence them in, round them up, put them down, make them feed. Only now we have so many people settled, them and their needs.

What we need is a dose of anti-natalism now to bring the numbers down.

Sometimes the most serious person in the room appears to act the clown.