Shorn of faith
Too bloody serious
Dipped a toe in the sea
Not funny, just cold, just cold
These gadgets do not help… or do they?
I certainly feel very connected and in touch.
So the absence of attention from people who are not listening is more noticeable.
I will fight to improve my share of the pie.
I will grow sick from its poor carbohydrates.. cheap white sugars…
Convert to fat, convert to fat! Either that or head to Damascus.
Experience of not knowing, acute, ever more acute.
These limited post-its will run out of steam shortly.
A splatter gun round of hurtled mirth.
A chain fence pulled sharply tight.
Night falling across the time zones.
I will soon drift into a bed without your arms.
But there is a curfew on these lousy emotions- they call it adulthood.
By then it should at least be possible to act out some sense.
Or beat it in through repetition.
Like a panel beater with a crappy old banger.
Welcome back, old bangers, to the roads and driveways and car parks!
Welcome to the flip side!
Now we finally get to see the underbelly of the circle, the bottom of the curve.
We are poor, we are broke, our tiger boom, gone up in smoke…
But back to before, when all that mattered was whatever it was, and change everlasting sought to spell its name across the ember sky, while the sun dangled above the dark earth, spewing old light in lines at the rock and bog.
And all mystical embraces were spent of their force, when upon them the eyes of the cameras turned.
And the unpolished lines of the dancers provoked the knowing upturning of many mouths.
And the rituals once cherished now looking innocent, vicious and viscous, and their replacements somewhere running amuk untethered.
No, tell me, is it always possible to laugh and find mirth in the audience’s mirrors?
Every day around you in every molecule’s expression, life, death, and the social middle.
Now, inwards, is there anything wrong with
Sweeping out the skull to see if anything stupendous hides under the dust?
But as the little specks are brushed out the ears, consciousness reneges on its promise of honesty, it’s throne of reason thrown out for treason and its attendants fleeing with their pensions. I am just trying to connect, from that particularity inside, to the outside, also inside. Everything inside, but far too damn big to see at once, and always subject to the droning of the senses, pushing out and pushing in and constantly distracting the holy centre. Of course, if you plug them out, one by one and drop the power cables in a pile, no signal remains. Only cold, dark, interior.
So what of the oneness, and what of the grand nature? Or have I missed the point, and has society failed to instil the right measure of social purpose to spell out to my self the nature of my being? What, after all of those institutions have been dismantled, have we left to bargain with, on the face of evidence in the face of total nothingness?
But drift I did and too far, now pulling reins and gripping the mane and hanging on and waking back to another level. You, maybe asleep, with bottle of alcohol consumed and coursing in your system, crying over the lines from a million miles away and despairing at the distance, needing a touch as much as myself and unable to hold back. Unable to reach though too, bitter tears useless at melting physical absolutes. But give it time, time time time. See what happens. Why are these the only comforts I can afford?
