Addiction compartmentalized, set
and setting aside time to make the chemical shift recovery
of a precessing gyroscope
nutating off to Death’s cousin.
Big bangers smash the “prevailing
cosmological model that describes the early development of the Universe,”
against the alternate, Infinite
Universe Theory / Continuous Creation Theology / or Steady State (politics),
inspired in the “Dead of the Night”
(1945), that blackbody
redshifting away (or
blueshifting towards) ab-ad infinitum, faithfully, passionately, and most
importantly, without compromise, 3C
321 smiteth the DRAGN
with the same oldness problem
which I have a (Grand
Unified Theory) GUT feeling started in the Gutenberg Galaxy
with the formless potential of Anaximander.
The currency of expression, opposed
to the current metric of productivity, also, “an opposite to the state of chaos,
that of cosmos” (DotW p47) incontrovertible control, maintenance awake behind
the wheel, and situationally aware? (I want you to be here but you’re not, you
are haunting, ghosting, and white striping.) Anglo sentiments live within
incontrovertible security locks, but are balding, fearful, yet strikingly aggressive
when the guard’s guard is down, in the company of blood, or when there’s an
opening, (a god to disrespect). Becoming
the proof which lies in the recesses of superstitious human thought, our mathematical
make-up, our subconscious backdrop, what we’re supposed to do, how we’re
supposed to look. Follow instruction and
master emotion or refute discipline and undermine your own true intentions, a
hurricane in a teacup, a narcotic prognostication, future taboo. Honi soit qui
mal y pense. “The highest to which
man can attain, is wonder; and if the prime phenomenon makes him wonder, let
him be content; nothing higher can it give him, and nothing further should he
seek for behind it; here is the limit” (DotW p72) (“…the prime phenomenon is
that in which the idea of becoming is presented net.”)
With a
head full of heedless security, not thinking about death, but the great West
Egg/East Egg debate (new money vs. old), with a funny frying pan for a wife, and
his luck from the presses, he wakes up with a hard-on he doesn’t know what to
do with. His wife, the old hamburger patty,
repels, so he puts his muscles to work clearing the evacuation routes, make way
for 7am traffic, 12/22/12, by shoveling the driveway of first powder. Conservation of energy would suggest that he
simply plow his wife, but he really likes his muffin, and he knows that the
best things in life you have to purchase, family capital ‘F’.
The
Russian does not fight Capital; he does not understand it…a people which should
have lived for many generations more without history was forced into a false
and artificial history of which the soul of Old Russia was incapable… the
Russian has freed himself from Western Economy. To him, thinking in terms of
money is a sin…The sword is victorious over Money, the Master Will defeats the
Plunderer Will.
Money
is for the man who knows not what he wishes to obtain. What to watch? What to eat? Lasagna or
quiche? Why not both? What games are on?
What games could we play? (Teikei?)
“Hateful Haiku”
Hate the referee
Who hates reading the
rulebook.
Hate makes history.
The
problems many are possessed by, such as being in a way in which many celebrate
the holidays through the giving of possessions produced by machines, efficient
decision-making through Mecca, Morocco, and other markets. If it weren’t for hate, nothing would get
done…presumably, presumably I have to do something in order to live, but I have
nothing to do but this corrupted poetry, mutated verse, and perverted refrain. If the skies can open, so can I! As it is, I’m
frozen inside my robes from the outside winter and I wish I had a retail flamethrower so that I could melt my
future and run my present on coal. “The
machine forces the entrepreneur not less than the workman to obedience. Our
unlimited need to serve, to follow, to honour someone, true as a dog, blind in
belief in spite of all obstacles.”
I AM CLEPSYDRA ENTELECHY!!**the perfected water clock
“What
is important in life is life and not a result of life” (Goethe, from DotW p16). If I had thought for a second that I could have died and kept on living the same way I was
with her, I would have. Fact is,
self-preservation sympathetically catalyzes the strong to fight and the weak to
flight. Minute intellects regret life, romanticizing death’s door-to-door
delivery service, sympathetic to the fight of the strong and to the plight of
the weak, pity. On the front porch in a
rocking-chair, rocking a double-barreled shotgun to threaten the scalawag
slyboot off mutton choppin’ like some blessed kike on Christmas wondering what
it’d’ve been like to get it all at
once, (What’s mine is hours, Eureka!).
“Now!
Mother.” stomped Shirley Temple’s brat form in black gloss shoes, white
stockings, a princess dress, and a pink tiara, wanting her little pony in the
worst way possible. Goodie two shoes
depravity, a comedian torments her cute curly-haired sensibilities to give her
a good cry. Lip smack, shrugs, like “What
can I do?” making a waitress of a table-turner without the wit to retort. Eating scum-sucking catfish for the price of
heat, fever forever, homoeothermic half-shark, half-human,
skin like alligator, at home with heroine and, ubi bene, ibi
patria.
“A
small number of superior heads, whose names are very likely not the best known,
settle everything, while below them are the great mass of second-rate
politicians-rhetors, tribunes, deputies, journalists – selected through a
provincially conceived franchise to keep alive the illusion of popular self-determination.”
(DotW p27) “Where there are no facts, sentiment rules.” (p30)
The
tequila mockingbird parvenu was a racy wonton dog, an animorphous mass of
swiftly contested celebrity. The
punisher and the angel who loves punishment, naughty girl, the monster in the
cherry blossoms, she glides though scenes, musing feelings, not screaming,
although that would be a nice finish, bemused. Ender’s Jacuzzi, Pocono college
beverage joint, perhaps Piggy the butcher would have appreciated more, loved
more, wanted more, looking forward to the next rush, pushing the limits of
cognition, memory, and memorability.
Ender’s mender, o so tender (cat soup, meat without wonder) Itchy + scratchy
yellow-headed functionality, family tune din to a talking girl with her perky
nub who positions bed knobs, polo painting scenes, and Libra balances with gold
leaf, copper ceilings, baby, out at the club like a seal in the laser lit
macabre, light glistening off blood glistening off silk sheets. Still strangely
sensual without her facilities, hers was a history of having had not-not, oh
yeah.
DotW stands for Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the the
West, (1922).
No comments:
Post a Comment