1. OVIRI ( The Savage – Paul Gauguin in Tahiti)
woman,
wearing the conscience of the world-
you make me want
less civilisation
and more meaning.
drinking absinthe together,
hand rolling and smoking cigars-
being is, what it really is-
fucking on palm leaves
under tropical rain.
woman,
wearing the conscience of the world-
you make me want
less civilisation
and more meaning.
drinking absinthe together,
hand rolling and smoking cigars-
being is, what it really is-
fucking on palm leaves
under tropical rain.
beauty and syphilis happily cohabit,
painting your colours
on a parallel canvas
to exhibit in Paris
the paradox of you.
somewhere in your arms-
i forget my savage self,
inseminating womb
selected by pheromones
at the pace of evolution.
later. I vomited arsenic on the mountain and returned
to sup morphine. spread ointments on the sores, and ask:
where do we come from.
what are we.
where are we going.
***
2. Uswe are composed
out of the fate of stars
a light dark light so old
and tuned that regards
most of Us as Other
peasants
who are clothed
without privileged presents
to burn wood in cracked stoves
under crumbling cover.
stitched to Their time
we entwine
in our own interpretation
of this spinning station.
only burlesque bright skies
and the iris flowers of abandoned eyes
can change the fixed views
of a selfish landscape
into united hues
of equal state.
our reality is broken-
we are the hosts
and ghosts
who have been stolen
the violated tokens
of corporatist totems
screen greed being traded
and invaded
then beaten for protesting by police
working for the Thief.
***
3. THE ASCENT OF MONEY
the stars are those
we have forgotten
both living and dead,
floating in clustered constellations
not labouring in rows-
with hair growing grey
and teeth going rotten
singing songs, God's godless pray.
harvesting crops.
chants drowned in clocks
of tobacco and cotton,
the peasants and slaves of civilised nations
duped by liberty
in recent history-
dug out canals, made railways and roads
out of tarmac to tread-
into factories
like tribal junkies
hooked on cheap gin and beer instead
of joining the cholera's watery dead-
ten to a room in a slum and lead-
like human batteries,
sleeping without moonlight
on sarsen stones,
or druid voices in their homes-
where thoughts have no dreams or flight,
just sleep, recharge, get bled.
you have to be poor,
to think utopia
can be something real-
not to exploit or steal
that ambrosia aura of women and children and men
for the spoken wages of despair-
that suck you in,
glad but grim
when times' clock punches that card by the door
and mass myopia
conditions all to labour, keyboard and pen
for food and shelter with a roof and fourth wall
shanty made out of cardboard, wood and tin
in sunny Sao Paolo, where the samba rain leaks in
while orphaned children beg and play
eating the forage of capitalist waste
dodging death squads night and day
imitating Socrates at football to hope to taste
what's inside the cold, glistening towers
casting invisible powers
behind the smoked glass and soldiers of stone
leaving blood and bleached bone
from over there-
where the ascent of money doesn't care
about it all
because its infinity is small.
***
4. THE DIVISION BELL
they have civilised
the language of hatred
and corruption-
turned it into condensed
subliminal codes
to be absorbed
passively
and aspired to
through elite worship.
this softening,
that swims in intercourse
with Oppositions
and Self mandates
it's wars and poverty-
hides the bodies
from presentations
where the Smile and Fist
work together.
there is no Division Bell
that Speaks and Moves
with and for
the majority
marching past outside-
like Natives
carrying their bags of belongings,
being screened and moved
from lush lands
early into cemeteries
or onto cattle trains
out to desert Reservations.
the Doors
of cold centuries
blow open,
and we see
how Treaties
are still Broken and Abused-
by those we entrust
who have turned
the Globe of Everything
we are meant to Share
into something Bought and Sold
all Right to be Owned and Inherited.
most sheep don't Mass for much-
just a patch of grass to graze
and a shack to shag and sleep in-
a few, have their own field
and privately furnished rooms,
but when they all adore
w and k's first tour
on the front page and tv news
for twelve days of conditioning,
or letch and leer over the tits on page three-
the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law
makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-
until it comes for them.
***
5. RED SKY
i forgot to put my image in a photograph.
it was walking with a crowd inside a dream;
humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph
who have left this herd, unseen-
to its shadows of indifference
and coats pulled-to in self defence,
searching for omnipotence-
red sky too intense.
do i stay, or go now?
work it out for me?
what is left to grow now?
to make, and be?
black doors in the distance,
let in specific light,
while opposites of resistance
limbo in twilight-
like wicks without matches,
living in opaque eyed hatches
and wired stone-
drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches
for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches,
now splinters of bone,
not coming home.
***
6. PYRAMID PRISON
in detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley's imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.
her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism's
ectopic extinction.
this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.
free masons of money and wars,
warp the alter of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust-
no longer rivers
of shared stardust
in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.
painting your colours
on a parallel canvas
to exhibit in Paris
the paradox of you.
somewhere in your arms-
i forget my savage self,
inseminating womb
selected by pheromones
at the pace of evolution.
later. I vomited arsenic on the mountain and returned
to sup morphine. spread ointments on the sores, and ask:
where do we come from.
what are we.
where are we going.
***
2. Uswe are composed
out of the fate of stars
a light dark light so old
and tuned that regards
most of Us as Other
peasants
who are clothed
without privileged presents
to burn wood in cracked stoves
under crumbling cover.
stitched to Their time
we entwine
in our own interpretation
of this spinning station.
only burlesque bright skies
and the iris flowers of abandoned eyes
can change the fixed views
of a selfish landscape
into united hues
of equal state.
our reality is broken-
we are the hosts
and ghosts
who have been stolen
the violated tokens
of corporatist totems
screen greed being traded
and invaded
then beaten for protesting by police
working for the Thief.
***
3. THE ASCENT OF MONEY
the stars are those
we have forgotten
both living and dead,
floating in clustered constellations
not labouring in rows-
with hair growing grey
and teeth going rotten
singing songs, God's godless pray.
harvesting crops.
chants drowned in clocks
of tobacco and cotton,
the peasants and slaves of civilised nations
duped by liberty
in recent history-
dug out canals, made railways and roads
out of tarmac to tread-
into factories
like tribal junkies
hooked on cheap gin and beer instead
of joining the cholera's watery dead-
ten to a room in a slum and lead-
like human batteries,
sleeping without moonlight
on sarsen stones,
or druid voices in their homes-
where thoughts have no dreams or flight,
just sleep, recharge, get bled.
you have to be poor,
to think utopia
can be something real-
not to exploit or steal
that ambrosia aura of women and children and men
for the spoken wages of despair-
that suck you in,
glad but grim
when times' clock punches that card by the door
and mass myopia
conditions all to labour, keyboard and pen
for food and shelter with a roof and fourth wall
shanty made out of cardboard, wood and tin
in sunny Sao Paolo, where the samba rain leaks in
while orphaned children beg and play
eating the forage of capitalist waste
dodging death squads night and day
imitating Socrates at football to hope to taste
what's inside the cold, glistening towers
casting invisible powers
behind the smoked glass and soldiers of stone
leaving blood and bleached bone
from over there-
where the ascent of money doesn't care
about it all
because its infinity is small.
***
4. THE DIVISION BELL
they have civilised
the language of hatred
and corruption-
turned it into condensed
subliminal codes
to be absorbed
passively
and aspired to
through elite worship.
this softening,
that swims in intercourse
with Oppositions
and Self mandates
it's wars and poverty-
hides the bodies
from presentations
where the Smile and Fist
work together.
there is no Division Bell
that Speaks and Moves
with and for
the majority
marching past outside-
like Natives
carrying their bags of belongings,
being screened and moved
from lush lands
early into cemeteries
or onto cattle trains
out to desert Reservations.
the Doors
of cold centuries
blow open,
and we see
how Treaties
are still Broken and Abused-
by those we entrust
who have turned
the Globe of Everything
we are meant to Share
into something Bought and Sold
all Right to be Owned and Inherited.
most sheep don't Mass for much-
just a patch of grass to graze
and a shack to shag and sleep in-
a few, have their own field
and privately furnished rooms,
but when they all adore
w and k's first tour
on the front page and tv news
for twelve days of conditioning,
or letch and leer over the tits on page three-
the Universal Flaw in Their Rule and Law
makes them troll and bay for this culling of people-
until it comes for them.
***
5. RED SKY
i forgot to put my image in a photograph.
it was walking with a crowd inside a dream;
humming songs, that once turned on a phonograph
who have left this herd, unseen-
to its shadows of indifference
and coats pulled-to in self defence,
searching for omnipotence-
red sky too intense.
do i stay, or go now?
work it out for me?
what is left to grow now?
to make, and be?
black doors in the distance,
let in specific light,
while opposites of resistance
limbo in twilight-
like wicks without matches,
living in opaque eyed hatches
and wired stone-
drawing heavy bolts and nervous latches
for pawn heroes, in cold dispatches,
now splinters of bone,
not coming home.
***
6. PYRAMID PRISON
in detritus metronomes
of human habitation
the ghost of Shelley's imagination
questions the elemental,
experimental
chromosomes
and ribosomes
of DNA,
reverse engineered
that suddenly appeared
as evolution yesterday.
her monster mirrors dark wells
of monsters in our smart selves,
the lost humanity and oratory
that fills laboratory
test tubes
with fused
imbued
genes
to dreams
of flat forward faster
distinction
to disaster
and barbarism's
ectopic extinction.
this is our pyramid prison,
where all souls
and proles
climb the debased
opposite steps of extremism,
like Prometheus Unbound,
defaced
sitting around
the crouching sphinx
abandoned by missing links.
free masons of money and wars,
warp the alter of natural laws,
so reason withers
and wastelands rust-
no longer rivers
of shared stardust
in the equal symphony of spheres
in space,
filling our ears
with subwoofer bass,
definitive
primitive
medieval
evil
waste.
