She Loves Most Those Who Enslave Themselves To Her

Song is so endlessly fascinating. It is as if it will only show itself to you if you are willing
to live in the cracks, in the places that feels slightly uncomfortable. Only when your perception gets a little skewed, or your life a little upturned does it say, ah yes, here I am again, I have found you worthy.

She is like a siren you can never quite get to, or the mistress without Royal blood.

And when you start living wrong, when you upset her, she just vanishes. No mail or telephone call to check in. Just her presence felt by her absence.

She likes it when you renounce. When you kill distractions. If you chuck out television sets.

She is jealous of all media, but seems to make exception of newspapers. She is utterly fickle,
yet somehow exacting.

And there you have it. She loves most those who enslave themselves to her. And even in that context, if she finds you hollow she gives you nothing. Well, maybe Muzak. But there´s never a shortage of that. One resource that is not peaked.

Humans after all will never run out of shit.

Rites of Passage

Those night sweats. Sometimes each night, and without warning, and without
reason, and worse in the cold where sheets are sodden & the bodies pimples
find themselves without friend in winter.

You´ve bought again into the wrong thing. And it didn´t come at a discounted price.

And there´s nothing going forward but austerity. And that is fine. That is how it
is. That is real life.

The exclusion of joy accepted in the name of going after it. Not fake but proper.
With the discipline and acceptance of what life is, or has named itself to be.

Food processed. Guzzled by the body in merciless hours where no one sees nothing
and for that reason has more value - but also more pathos. Those hours sweated by each
one of us in the name of dream. Always alone, and necessarily alone - it is a rite of
fucking passage.

And morning is relentless and doesn´t change its schedule for you. And winter might
wrestle with climate warming but it isn´t going with out a fight buster. And
if it does, it will be with the mother of all freezes - and you my friend, yes
you - you are not going to survive it.

I will of course. I am off to the Arctic Basin. I am going to mate with my austerity
and make new curses to the false names given to God by man.

I will breed relentlessly with the nothingness. And be enlightened in my futility. And I will
pay a glance back over my shoulder to my withering memories to make sure
they are truly dead, and have no longer cause to haunt me.

And loss? Yes loss always finds new ways to manifest. Innocence is measured
by the count-down to its ending. And for that reason it remains the most precious thing that ever existed on our little bit of rock.

I don´t care about the Sages, or the great books. That which throws a murderous
glance towards innocence will find nothing but obliteration from me. And that
makes the very nature of things my enemy. And in that I find my grievance with
God.

Not in my own fall - that is already fallen. But in that which is yet to fall, and
was given no fucking chance in the first place.

And it is not depressing or introverted. It is just the bare facts laid out cold, facts I am
okay with. Facts I will work with. There is something worth fighting for. And preserving it
is the greatest lost cause since time began. It is the most noble fight. And in that place,
and only that place, can we find holiness.

For Whom The Bell Tolls?

The bell is tolling and there is nothing you can do, your time has been called.

Pat down the apocalypse ash. Empty the urns they are too heavy to take. A last glimpse at the
remnants by the alter of what you have held most dear.

What does the skyline look like?

It is brilliant in its savagery. Inimitable in its endlessness. Mocking towards the survivors.

Its light pervades the ground. Even the shadows are pregnant with it by its absence.

You have entertained the darkness one too many times and now it has set in to stay.

How much we resist the changeability of things. How much we yearn for what doesn´t exist. Our stability´s. Our bourgeoise longing for order.

Love seems to ask for attachment, to take hold truly and dearly and forever. Is that why we are so in love with love? That it consistently mounts the greatest, most dashing, most futile challenge to time´s irresistible march?

Do we love love because it necessarily must die, yet dies so beautifully? Love is the greatest martyr. When it dies it becomes more powerful, more transcendent than time itself.

When love becomes idea it becomes eternal. But it doesn´t stop the pain, that it necessarily and consistently dies. Its human form perishes. Its memory dwindles.

Yes still it finds new ways to be reborn, new ways to conquer, new ways to revitalize itself. The more it is crushed the greater it becomes. The more it is found scarce the greater its return.

Love. Love love love.

Forgive me if I am attached. Forgive me for my manifold delusions, for my pitiful insights.

Because before somethings we are naked. And even in the face of the most ineffable evil, love stands unbroken.

And What of Happiness?

And what of happiness?

What have I to add to that particular question?

Elusive?

Jesus, did you ever get close to even the potential for an original thought? And that is not the dear Messiah to whom I am asking that question...or his doubters for that reason.

I am just talking about skull crushing and complete and utter unhappiness. The one that kind be hidden from, except from the whole dam world, because that happens to be your very own twisted expertise.

The happy face the clown puts out in the hope that someone will recognize it smashable.

There is my heart. Rip it out. What? You failed? Well that is hardly surprising given the fact it is already expertly drawn out and dissected into all its deformed longings on this particular operating table.

Give me some champagne. I am crying my millionth uncried tear tonight.

Give me my rewards for the prizes I don´t deserve - they mean the most....that way i can laugh genuinely for the first time.

I need something to break.

So i chose the most beautiful, the most cherished. The weakest? The easiest? Relationships are always the easiest to break, because they are in the most private things. And we always reveal ourselves the contemptible scoundrels we are in the very places where we are most hidden.

Forgive me please because I cannot forgive you.

Life is too replete with its opposite to countenance any type of councelling.

It just intrinsically baffles itself because it plain and simply does not want to be understood at all. In any way what so ever.

There.

I am unhappy.

Can I say it any more plainly?

Dust Filled With Sunbeams

Cauldron desires. First instinct is to clamp up, shut down.

See saw between what you give and what you take.

Sometimes the protagonist of selfishness.

Other times you give till there is not a drop of liquid left in your body.

You finally arrived. Not worldly. But in terms of reduction. In terms of an essence.

Killed everything that is beautiful in yourself. Traded it for an ugliness that was honest.
Felt that was a foundation you could build on.

No preening. No pouting. No good hair cuts, or tight trousers or hot dates. Warfare on everything that is to the outside acceptable. A completely futile attempt at something pure. Murderous focus.

Focus on killing the beautiful, the loved, the joyful, all that is worthwhile. The things they sit upon their laps to look good to the world. To cause a stir to be seen. To yawn fucking yawn fucking yawn, I yawned once, I yawn again, I yawn with beauty, I yawn with pride, I yawn with fuck you´s and I yawn with thank you´s, and I yawn at most stuff....but when I see something humble, something real something worthwhile.....I see it.

And when I don´t I am just a moth. And I ask forgiveness. And also to the moth that I use for the clumsy metaphor. It is unmeant.

Give me more void that I may rant into it. Your endlessness is the only place suitable for my contemptible complaints.

Have the fucking courage to put whatever it dam well is into words man. Shake it off. Damnation upon damnation, and a salutation to the monks.

I remember your vows of silence and I see them noble.

They are not forgotten. What you said is not forgotten because it was never said.

You liar, you cad, you speaker of nonsense. You tapper of buttons & fruitfilled technology, where is your pipe? Where your glorious hat, with its dust filled with sunbeams? The typewriter that you don´t know how to use. Mocks you. Makes you feel worthless.

Every photo of a type writer with an empty bottle of wine and ashtray full of cigarettes made you feel empty. Like there was a stolen moment in time that someone else robbed you of. Those fucking bastards. Those fucking contemptible bastards. How dare they?

You make your self anew. A warrior. A Criminal. A Nothing. A Something. A vessel full of love or neglect or capacity to bring something that would be a wonder in itself.

And curse these words too while I am cursing. They remind me of every moment unwritten. Every moment unlived. Every moment the courage was not taken to do what needed to be done. And in all those moments you wasted your potential and what you could have become.

But then you became what you are and you find yourself unable to regret anyway. You are completely acquiescent before the complete and utter ineffability of chance. You are a saboteur and constructor at the same time. You lost your way to find your way. You had to lose your way: it was the only chance you had of making a map of the unknown.

And there are place where what ever you do is stolen. Whatever you do will be stolen from. Ha ha ha ha ha ha fucking ha ha ha ha ha ha. ah ha ha haaha h haha.

Others names put where they don´t belong.

And the endless voice of the universe screaming out in its fantastical cackle about the absolute sheer and utter absurdity and entertainment of it all.

Because everything you care about in this particular moment is nonsense. NONSENSE.

And only with that realization can you start again anew. And get back to where it was that you should have begun from in the beginning.

It Is All In the Contra

Sometimes the joy of it all is just knocked out of you. The work you do comes to nothing. Your efforts ceaselessly futile. Your new beginning are robbed of all glamour and fairytale & new life & reinvention & fuck you to the skies and everything else & you are just left there w/ cold brutal reality as your only lonely friend and companion. And he don´t go away. You hide under your blanket, or cycle your bike harder or maybe you just try to slow down a little, but that bastard is always there, and he´s always got your number & no matter how many times you move house or country or pet or girlfriend or bar or whatever f ´ing calamity it is next, he just has you.....locked down....in his sights.....and you are one finger trigger away from what he decides for you.

Yes there´s a clenched jaw, yes there are enough fuck you´s to go around. It is one of those evenings & you are unapologetically venomous and spiteful because there is no apotheosis, no eureka, there is just you & what you got, and what´s more there are too many of you, not just in your own skull, but on the streets, in the dam city. And that is fair enough. No whining is going to do f´all for the population or the president or anyone else. And yes you can keep man-ing up and doing your part and playing your bit but fucking damnation it has all gone to dam hell, and you with it.

So there it is. But it´s not the whole dam story because there is an important place for anger, there is an important place for pro & contra. You know, that Shaekey, he knew a thing or too when he talked about the black bile. You just gotta vent it. You gotta put it out. Because there is a joy in there none the less even when everything is in the shit, when it all is in the contra.

It is the law of path, and just sticking to it with dam gritty bloody minded determination, and if everything has gone down the pan & is for nothing, then fuck it, at least if you are in the cauldron w/ heart then that is something anyway.

So here is a toast to this wonderful and pathetic and unread and beautiful useless blog that serves its place in this personal destiny of things. Thank you for listening to this moan, this groan, this boring self-pitying, purposeless slimy little bit of drivel thrust out into the unknown. You have helped complete me and brought me back to the part that knows there is purpose and path - because even though I know there is not, I know there dam well is....and it doesn´t matter how to nothing you get, it ain´t about needing to believe or know something.....because it just bloody matters that it IS in the first place - yes - that it is.

So here´s to you. This one is on me x