Lurch
A poem written this summer. This is now the 'second disc' of a double album I'm working on under the persona of Calactus- to be released on garageband.com
misty mountain hop top stop via Led Zepp-Zepplin whilst in an appreciative mood now- 38 gone age rancour’s
age rank demographically targeted for minimal product the pink pound 'that's a good dollar' sayeth the deceased sage of a time gone gotten
forgotten while I ponder whereas wh
wherein
the time trooper storm troopers aka the Catholic church nuns, yet another comic from these shores this time,
simile similar.
access open access all time's when in fruit dish taste, a foreign taste....dot dot dot,
unpleasant?
Repugnant?
Nay,
neither,
never
Pleasure once once filled wit a joy o'er bounding in this are they free? cultural ambiguity. Do you see?
Like a once said thing a friend has been with the mind tapped into the semi conscious a flurry of images
streaming- as would broadband video; porno hardcore & detrimental to one's own subconscious well-being?
Or a release,
simple,
effective,
within contractually obliged as-long-as-you-keep-it-outta-da-workplace mentality.
Is it free?
Are we free?
Are you free?
Constraints pass by in the house,
that specific house ruled throughout my recurrent dreams
done up now as my health improved,
chateaux/mansion-esque, filled with people,
what people?
Don't ask me, faces come and go in this down-sized, upgraded version of thy self,
physician heal thyself whilst the trees gently are included dripping rain
in amongst this scene,
where have you been?
Where have you meant to be inst asketh the prophet cameth to the window sill,
7 headed dragon actually a friendly beast who careth for the motion sickness detector in this life that is 'just a ride';
expansion:
'But it doesn't matter because: it's just a ride. And we can change it anytime we want. it's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money. A choice, right now, between fear and love.
The eyes of fear want you to put bigger locks on your doors, buy guns, close yourself off. The eyes of love, instead, see all of us as one.'
BILL HICKS Dominion Theatre,
and where we get off, where do you get off?
How do you get off?
is that important anymore whilst the beast of libido rules within a burning scented desire & all is cryptic to the once cause where the eternal bitches run a sweat shop until the males die exhausted by the holy squealing cooing screams of indignant righteousness nagging foul fowl pecked uppeth to the breach in ' I can change him'- (N.B. SPEAK THIS IN A SARCASTIC TONE),
and lest we forget, the damaging son-of-bitches, the women haters, the self-hatred bully mother fuckers who stick their bile deep within the open cuts left by other bastards before, where do these two types of homo-sapien belong in the great grand scheme of things?
as she turns smiling and tear filled jerky snacks reveals a past rather forgotten or then again should it be embraced with each flesh coloured lampshade lit shadow as a chemise falls to the floor in soft focus a turning,
spinning,
wistless,
journey goes through the emotional
emotions
laughter
wept
to see
such
fun...dot dot dot
we are all loved within thoroughfare,
cheap casual gay sex satisfies where the blank response is the best response,
1st thought is best thought,
bisexuality is
not any more a crushing curse but liberates throughout the soul where no soulless soap opera dictates in a fraught tar pitched n feathered wish to control dominate
or at least with the freedom of thinking in the vessels that are called our minds where we can go,
we three:-
spirit
body
mind
the 3 battles
i.e. sanchin- a karate kata involved with making the practioner indomitable as one must first know and conquer oneself before the passage of time rips this poet's, writer's, artist's head off like a polar bear deciding to take a short break from seal meat and try some succulent, pale, northern, flesh.
is £35 a week that used to pause and change and re-wire and release or drag down to the pit of hell as more is oft laden where it should be laden
or where one can break through or - in this instance- give up all to the all seeing 3rd eye as Hicks used to refer to.
our dreams are ones where the palatable becomes sweeter in the justice of the self,
myself,
me
you
and
I
to the reeeeeeeeeal crux of what perspective of time gives us in this instance it matters nae not no never in Nevers,
market smells arise and chatter of French words- sentences constructed in a loud passing of birds wings that spire up to the azure fat cloud spotted sky,
I ponder,
I wonder,
camera shot does not empty this this
that when one is felt sfelt to the fact of humour a blank giant anteater, a favourite borrowed image, blinks slowly at me,
'you do me a solid, I do you a solid,' he says, unthreateningly.
God bless him.
God bless you dear reader, or your God or faith that you may hold dear.
May we join as one in peace,
I care not if your Sikh, Hindu, Islamic, Jew, Christian, Catholic, paneathestic, Druid, atheist, agnostic, Jedi, Buddhist, Zarasthutrian, or any other that my poor ignorance can neither shed light on, remember, encode to the encryptician where once I may or may not have known,
an important piece of peace in a prayer that has hope within it to this where we spend our time in this swirling mass of water and land conflicted within its own patience.
where stones were once covered by Ice Age frozen impacted glaciers the meek now humble themselves before great swathes of what was before,
that
we
are
only
of
this
memento,
that
we
could possibly
be
of
the Earth,
from earth my love my ashes crumble and disappear into dust the acceptance of death, 'how do you do Mr Death? Mr Reaper?' like the Japanese,
at least from my moistened garlic cooked meal, pressed flesh toward a pickle jar all thoughts now turn to the once hope dream stamp,
where the blade cuts deep as a bitter memory- never happened- as though another person took over, you disassociated fool, 'where hath thou been o foolish boy!'
where were you?
'who the fuck are you?'
the water dipped and swirled 'round to the maelstrom that has become known as life force,
a task force,
ground f-ing zero where the ghosts of yesterday still disturb the dust about themselves in a clumsiness only saved for ill placed, ill refuted pity 'mongst the super halls of power,
a wish crime,
thought crime,
doubleplusungood,
we have won no victory in ourselves to think that this is the moment where we can come from to the Earth,
raised born & bred she has long, long long femurs and high cheekbones that betray selected breedin', like a neo Nazi experiment gone wrong the worship of the blond/blonde cannot contain us in it's sweet wrapper of celebrity, snapped & packaged in HELLO- the bred breeding goes on as a canker to the high achiever a misgiver,
misnomer,
hey.... hey..... Homer...doh!
you have all washed away the sins of what could be when the wrought fought over Normandy in which where how who they say nothing to the false prophets would gather their forces to discharged to the ultimatum that we progressively give ourselves- ashamed I included, like a rat whore selling one's self to the materialist wake of bullshit-
bright eyed and frosty dewed the temperate climax over takes my soul,
my being,
admittedly in the wake of fluoxtine, the depression drug, clue: cyclothymic personality- i.e. a Doctor Martin's football league of manic depression, bipolar my..oh..my..
where'd do you go to these frantic last places in the space of a breath I heal with the come expectorant,
joy and unnoticed,
a levelling to the mind, soul and body that can be wished upon,
tasted upon,
and acted upon,
'pon.
open fields of mindscapes progressively shed all in a light fantastic,
the orange glow of a past work beams back at me in replacement of the sun, godson sun god, worshipped beyond the dollar, yen, pound, rupee, euro,
slight greens mix with the luscious hue a moment in time elapsed, uption misfit dreams of angry of
switch to the hitter of who' on 3rd base what of....?
he breaks off in the monotone syllabic and cries tears that could have once been the way we could have been
he never expects nowt but regret,
yet
finds
peace love joy ecstasy where the branches of the wind worn trees follow the steep hillside path to a newer lane of consciousness in what field of the brain does I he find you me now?
I ask you, where do the squashed petals under trainer foot, now ready for the summer and dressed and dumped within the parameters of time,
time,
'time is all I have without you here..' boo hoo
boogie-loo.
what a mess of colour that turns turgid within the crossed chromatic cock-ups to the rank & file drudgery in what could have been,
what should been an easy shadow to catch within the hare's whisper as it dashes along the tarmac road just ahead of the ol' Ford Escort, now a cube of crushed metal many miles from that sight.
a weight lifted is a burden unexpectedly given release through the confessional, and this is not born through materialism, merely not even a God thing,
maybe
driven by Him,
maybe....
'Let's get Jesus on the case'
interracial, international freedoms persuade the joy to speak up, speak out, speak freely. permission to, how and now what where do you live?
I question where the boat comes into the dock at night under cover of a low lying fog that seems to permeate ol' London town again, again,
you were never there oh sweet love where did you go LOL? is it a break, or is it a person to be the intense of what could be when one wishes to be free,
but
you
are
free
you
wally! (GENTLY SAID)
Clevedon the experience first of love, or was it love, or maybe something other infatuation across a borne ident' awakening?
move on to Mark in
Wh-where are you?
Where are you?
choppin forward n backward in time to Slaughterhouse 5, quotheth the poet: add in here: .......................................................................................................
S & M amatuerly done n then a new twist, loud when she came to experience the love of what may have come through as lives crossed within time on what could be when we meet as human beings,
spanked rosy cheeked I you she served as a dish delightful,
then later on, jump up, jump down, frustration loneliness she belched, as did I recently afterward,
spent yo' wad, wadge, wiggle, the eternal freedom of hunger that penetrates deeply within the heart,
what of it baby?
Babe...where have you been?
gushing forth in a Christian laid to bare chested comedy breasts where the people were once there..dot dot dot
fist raise in the air as a protest song plays to the bare derrière in at once forsaken to the will, a mistress begged for forgiveness from oh sweet dominatrix wish,
step back and forward in time to the same sameness that liberated through too much alcohol now is in no need of that for the heart beats, beats pulsing joy of thrill like a teenage a kid obsessed a dog with 2 dicks some say said,
a hotness abstention in the the fresher year where once a queer ne'er do well never knew was there,
where?
Where in the blessed way path straighten off the beaten rug to the blood that gives up in a cut,
we were once
What could be their song be now in this pressure cooker of what could be in the time of memories played back to what once could have been done,
release mistress from the clutches of an affinity too close question ark that bit or too far removed in what should have been done, or the orb predicts something greater will finish the song,
don't stop, don't stop,
I'm gonna come around to the place where I had been before in this place where once we could be,
kissing to the lips do you do you do you in the place where we could be in this time of rejection of fitting in,
I am a human and I ne'er do well or is that just me, who could be?
who could release in the time of the giant thoughts images agoraphobic to the point where we were there in the time of the battles that raged on,
an angry stop gap, pounding fat against the reverberating flesh sweaty and free fall to the area wet beyond the means,
a long time choked,
the passer by look on dispassionately,
the rearing white hump of a horse bolting to the utopian ideal where once we could be,
a stony rose jerked to life regrettably just to de-drain the raging well of what wants to be,
gyrating hips the oyster bed of forgiven images, sights, sounds, smells and most importantly, taste of flesh exquisite wet or cometh to fill over the brewing tankard that life supt to the point of no return; in for a penny in for a pound,
loosened to the moistened lube that has no tube to the applicator scarred flesh & sacred we pray to this dish,
inexplicable,
indescribable,
words faze the brain like a drug applied directly to the main area of consciousness in what could have been we.
where do we end? Drunk people tell you what they think under influence of alcohol or something or other, people other 'fluenced to the point of turning words about or twisting them,
specialness,
nostalgia will itself to the meditative exploration of the self, yet do not venture too deep dear brother as you may wish y' ne'er had,
cautioned to the point of nae return what do you do?
'who the flip are you?'
you can find the peace in the memory palace of what once was, what is and what will be to inspire the revelatory downward spiral of time up and through itself
to the spire of 'just a ride', time- like a twisted rubber band- comes back and through its own end always repeating in what could be with the butterfly effect roaring like a fighter jet over head,
there are dark holes yes, but with the light halls of beautiful and love making memories, and all the things in between sweet blue bell glade woods on Ashton Court Bristol, these things keep one a live, and healing hom homo sapien carries on,
for another day,
for another dream,
for whatever has been,
whatever is to become,
whatever will be,
no choices and at the same time every choice in a dream we can space ourselves to wish, to dream, beyond the sheer plight of what William Blake once warned of the materialistic in sad industrial corruption fields,
and endeth in time a prophesy of a wheat field playing with the wind in friendly gestures, Van Gogh's vision of heaven here on Earth, what do you think he means dear reader? Joy, joy, joy, dot dot dot.
Not, not, “not in a million years.”
“Oh,” acknowledges Lecter in the finale of
where is object of fascination/interest, i.e. the character thereof,
of
off a celluloid punitive preamble preoccupation,
script given,
script hath been written,
script where once o’er bespoken,
(am I forgiven)
remembered....then....forgotten.
lest we remain all tight in dreams where once you fuckers started they cannot stop,
‘once you pop...you-you-you-you-you c-can’t stop’ cease cut,
cease cut.
Hard fed within the anger without self-ref’ re: before Drunk People Tell You What They Think
Tis all reflective brother.
We are free you and me,
To hold before the slipped wastage of before our lessons can be learnt within ourselves mother,
Mother, tis, this is, y’ son.
Impeached the breech in this worthlessness a hunk chunk character chowder
Churned River Avon turns the bloated corpse in a tidal brown soup
Bobbed up to the police hook that gathers yet another
In a memory lapsed,
“concentrate Joe.....this is an important one!” the friendly voice urges.
In a memory grasped,
Elena, in an inn Clifton,
Fleeting visit,
Small inn,
Vibes of love briefly felt, savoured, an hour or two at least,
Lest forget that in the darkest place one can find peace,
Not just in sex,
But in company,
In sharing this human existence,
In a ‘flat warming’/warning party
Experiment with the beast,
Tame it,
Release it,
In the name of everything that is Holy,
Forgive it,
For Christ’s sake please embrace it,
Embrace it.
Torn to seven winds of all the voices where this place of worship reads
Like a priest before ‘Mary, Holy Virgin blessed art thou amongst women,’
Nae prayers to the best of my knowledge
Where sacrifice is heard in faint rumblings of the distant Word,
The Word where blessed they offer us forgiveness,
Trait,
Spoilt,
Flat,
Route.
Bounce on, bounce once more over the swung/’swing low sweet chariot’,
Jag’, Escort (Ford), (Citroen) Volcane again where St Ives stormily pathfinds into view,
‘n’ the temporal shift that is Cavalier (Vauxhall); all cars rushing metal upside down crash,
crunch,
LURCH!
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- Johnson