Mom’s Amusement

imagine the slow-released madness placed under the tongue

my friend and I have a bet that his face is too tight under his skin, a pale ghost milked by his masters to prolong life in the dark place

where it’s too hard to see tomorrow,

by now she could see the decades of self-sacrifice, a mind-at-large in hyperspace. She was long gone by now though.

Me – just another caged animal let out for mom’s amusement.

broken sun

a drop of blood in the stars
divides the blue against the broken sun,
the fiery light passes from hand to hand,
gnawing on our bones in a corner of heaven

some beach scratchings

This past weekend, we packed up the Outlander and headed northeast to King’s Lynn for a little camping excursion. The first one of the season. I know it’s late, but heck with the earlier weather not being the best and then vacation time in Fuerteventura, well the days and weeks fly by and before you know it’s mid-July before you’re pitching tent for the first time in 2018. Looks like we caught the last of the dry, hot weather too, so good deal all around.

King’s Lynn is a seaport and market town in Norfolk, England. At 102 miles, it’s the nearest beach to us (actually the beach we went to was about 30 miles north of our campsite in Hunstanton. It was fabulous grabbing so much fresh air over the weekend, and two nights of open fire – bonus!

 

On the beach, I crafted these two poems:

profit

instead of profit,
music is the bottom line

dance floor constructed

sexual

mind-altering
experience to create
a language of desire

the break from real
sold to us through
escape

the environment
where physical connection
seemingly encouraged
emotional engagement

suppressed.

 

 

the composition of style

sexual energy
makes less than
what it seems

body becomes object
the desire within,
a chance to touch
the forbidden

day breaks
the magic ends

keeps coming back
keeps pouring in

gay or straight flyers
advertising the event
energy, sex, or otherwise

the composition of
the style of

the streets of New York City

I got in line came
face to face with attractive
young women bundled against
the cold in stylish pleasant
conversation, sensually dressed
heroin-chic, collecting £15 for
privileged entry.

I entered the chapel
headed for the bar
too early for the truth

at the bar, I found
the congregation
of the beautiful

demarcating
truth from beauty

 

ignorance

can be yourself
don’t bottle up the body,

keep it open.

when all self-identifications remain
get rid of

god.

no self-definition, i am
energy and bring nothing
reality here, can i

demand nothing when you
want nothing, seek nothing
expect nothing

unexpected!

a man engrossed
prescribed by his scriptures
will get wrapped up in them

so many saints
words may be true
independent of ripening time

stay open and quiet
you seek no place
know that

don’t burden yourself
names seeking ends
desire for truth, this is
your profit

seeking at

shaking his shake like

I finally finished Jack Kerouac’s Book of Sketches. The story goes that in 1951, Jack’s friend Ed White encouraged him to do like painters do and make sketches in the street but with words instead of paint. And so Kerouac did. He began writing down prose poem “sketches” in the small notebooks he kept in his shirt pocket. For two years he recorded his travels, observations, and meditations on art and life as he roamed around America and Mexico. The Book of Sketches is a compilation of all his sketch notebooks.

I really enjoyed this book. It’s like a prose poem version of Robert Frank’s The Americans. The book left me inspired to do the same, to create little prose poem sketches of my day. Since I mentioned Robert Frank, I thought I also might go back to doing Hipstomatic snapshots throughout the day and add those with the prose poem sketches.

Alright, here goes the first one… (oh and I might as well add a modern twist and add make the prose poem sketches hypertext prose poems sketches…how about that?!

girl – bun in her hair
bouncy breasts little tan
backpack – watching
her from a stain-glassed window
lifting heavy weights on the bench today
outside playing on my bluetooth headset

the parking ticket attendant
walks like John Wayne
how did he get this job
bullying people he can’t see
just another filthy agent of the state –
massive control

Punching the weight up to 130kg
it’s not what a body looks like
it’s what a body can do that counts.

all american nightmare
making those good girls bad

Short dude in the locker room
shaking his shake like he shakes
his thing…way too long

people are broken,
what’s the point of
trying to fix them

focus on doing my thing
like frank santra, not the cake
version but this

that’s it
i go into the evening, fresh

Oh and this puppy arrived today from the States:

god be sitting on a fence

god be sitting on a fence

up the road i saw him peering
at the traffic passing by then he

wandered over to the tobacco shop
said something to the barelegged
boy leaning on the countertop

adjusted his spandex shorts and left

darkness

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.”

no glory

so i lay there
playing with splinters
in the late red afternoon

the angels of paradise
hidden in the mystery
of my days leaning
on warm wings sang to me

sticks lie broken
dead leaves gather dust
i am homesick here
in the ashes

all i wanted was
glory found only
strange sadness instead

night’s leaves

on a pristine
october afternoon
i applied for a job
begging at the ports

all for the sake
of feeling my way
against the ghost
of your truth

my lies limed
and loaded flowed
easy riding the night’s
last flicker of hope

i was young
i tried to capture
you with rhymes
and exotic suggestions

touching myself
pretending to be
a poet of all things

you were a tourist
picking through
the constellations
looking for something
behind my falling words

you found nothing but
a boy from jazz highway
rustling night’s leaves

rapture

on the radio
the buzzing world
whistling

blowers moan
the clack of
balls clicking

so well straining

a high thin monkey
woman begging for
rapture

ant-people, something has happened – the remix

Best experienced through headphones…

ant-people, something has happened that’s made me question the nature of my reality, a thread to follow…

the point of intersection between the human mind and suppression. i don’t think you will ever see me again. i achieved what i was incapable of.

the time wave,
i sent it.

the strong rule the weak and the clever rule the strong. the distribution of our current system is the deadly bank account. there is a dangerous underground operating in telepathic space.

dangerous adventurers who plan to outthink and displace the static fragmentation of our united class society, everyone living lives as a member of a particular class thinking every kind of thought without exception, stamped with the brand of class rubbing elbows and getting jostled in by the crowd.

It’s not the big that matters

The blogging game has changed so much since I first started blogging back in 2003. Blogging these days has been relegated to the content marketing game where folks are pimping their wears trying to position themselves as thought leaders in the hopes that they can either become social media influencers or marketers disguised as “passionate” experts in something. As Tom Critchlow explains

…much content on the web is designed for scale, for sharing, for gloss and finish. It’s mass media, whether it’s made by a media company or an individual acting like one. So when people think of blogging their natural reference point is create something that looks like the mass media they’re consuming. Content designed for pageviews and scale.

That’s big B blogging.

I’m much more interested in small b blogging.

Small b blogging is learning to write and think with the network. Small b blogging is writing content designed for small deliberate audiences and showing it to them. Small b blogging is deliberately chasing interesting ideas over pageviews and scale. An attempt at genuine connection vs the gloss and polish and mass market of most “content marketing”.

It was Seth Godin who inspired me to move back in this direction. I listen to his akimbo podcast episode on blogging.  Seth has been at the game for something like 16 years without a break and pretty much sticking to the same format. Seth is much more into go for the small audience directly and then let that handful of “true fans” spread your work and your ideas for you because they love what you do and what to share it with their friends.

Here’s the episode if you want to listen to it:

Speaking of Seth, I feel moved to re-read Purple Cow. I’m feeling like being remarkable on some level.

work and play

A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labor and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both.

before the beginning

in the moment she answered
formless in-between states of grief
shadows dancing underneath her eyes
she did not recognise me

darkness
dull and desperate
before the beginning
began

i caught myself staring like a
chimp caught humping another
chimp, never would i be better

imitating the ways of the master not to
create but to destroy the beat of her heart

vapour and dust

and then it made sense to me
i stood witlessly fumbling the
key to endless happiness she
sat on the bed with her hands
clenched, ‘i will help you hold
the hatred, spread it over the
fields black and foul and what
will you do for me?’ i will give
you another life layered in gauze
and honey, burning in teargas
i will save you from the vapour
and dust of sad dreams