Sparks of Starship Angels…

I_151“Over Bridges of Sighs
To rest my eyes in shades of green
Under Dreaming Spires
To Itchycoo Park, that’s where I’ve been

What did you do there? – I got high
What did you feel there? – Well I cried
But why the tears there? – I’ll tell you why – yyyyy
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mind
Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun
They all come out to groove about
Be nice and have fun in the sun

I’ll tell you what I’ll do – What will you do?
I’d like to go there now with you
You can miss out school – Won’t that be cool
Why go to learn the words of fools?

What will we do there? – We’ll get high
What will we touch there? – We’ll touch the sky
But why the tears there? I’ll tell you why
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mind
Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun
They all come out to groove about
Be nice and have fun in the sun
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful”’Itchycoo Park’—written by Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane…

Fred Hoyle—the astronomer—once said; “that the act of assembling the simplest living organism from simple molecular ingredients was as unlikely as a tornado whipping through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet. Yet somehow it happened. Was it blind luck? And if it somehow happened here, could it happen somewhere else?”

Stephen Crane wrote…’A man said to the universe:’ “Sir I exist” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.”

The prodigious size and the age of a universe is eternal-speak…Rage and range and contractual—contracts—of contractions—expansions—as endless as day-night and mind-time—rewind—refine—and that sense of rhythm or rhyme…Planets and Stars and Nebulae and Space are creations of countless moments of being—ceasing and again being—for minutes of seconds—or the ever—being of forever hours in times’—mind. Special is this contract—of life’s contractions—expansions—of being—of ending—and of Life’s—purposed—Life’s—meaning or—Lives of just—Living…Now and then—won’t that be cool?

Angels fly in starship to scout where next to stop-land-wait-end-and begin again-begin. In star-ships the folds of space shortens the distance between star-light and star-bright and the day of night. In starship—galaxy edge and galaxy center matters only to the standing one at waters’ edge on planet-fall. Small is a matter of size and nothing less than sky-lights and heaven’s length. We dance Universe…you and I—hand-to-hand-shoulder-touched-lips-to-eyes and never tears. Eternal Spirits cannot cry and never Universes’ end and we—Spirit—and—Spirits never die. Robot once—then again and again and… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

But Love! Is the spirit of heart and soul—does not require name or title or reason or permission or through the grace of… No! Things called government nor religious-named or senate or congress or court or king or country has right or reason to legislate or forbid the strength of Love between anyone…And! Stop the builders of weapons! Too late? For—sword grow as shield grows—as bomb-to-drone-to—the shrieks of madness—drown-too—silence the gentle swish and swoon of love and touch and care and taste and the sweetness of dove’s morning cry and the living sound of baby cries and gurgles and… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Plague—begins and ends as folks—end and begin…Robot death or death of substrate or the walkers that carry—Eternal Spirits at—Spirit—pass—a world or ten or a thousand places ‘cross— birthing—universes. Warmed—to the form of you and me—the us and them of this—here and this—now. And! Time is damned—except by those tellers—of time and those singers of timed songs. When futures’ laugh…Moments—span the days of—does not matter minutes and dances twirling into relief… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Instead—let us again—dance across these universe—as we wish to dance. We—you and I—and spirit-dance—when the flesh of non-interchangeability sheds substances and gains sustenance. Life spark-sparkles forever–then lends light to darkness—knowing this—is good—is sweet. Now or then—won’t that be cool?

“Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
And nothing else matters…” from ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, and Kirk Hammett of Metallica.

We are Children of the same Verses of these Universes—We have the Right-to-be-Everywhere… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Itchycoo Park’-–performed by The Small Faces

Star-Gate Jesus…

N_66The Bull of Bendylaw

“The black bull bellowed before the sea.
The sea, till that day orderly,
Hove up against Bendylaw.

The queen in the mulberry arbor stared
Stiff as a queen on a playing card.
The king fingered his beard.

A blue sea, four horny bull-feet,
A bull-snouted sea that wouldn’t stay put,
Bucked at the garden gate.

Along box-lined walks in the florid sun
Toward the rowdy bellow and back again
The lords and ladies ran.

The great bronze gate began to crack,
The sea broke in at every crack,
Pellmell, blueblack.

The bull surged up, the bull surged down,
Not to be stayed by a daisy chain
Nor by any learned man.

O the king’s tidy acre is under the sea,
And the royal rose in the bull’s belly,
And the bull on the king’s highway…” by Sylvia Plath

Saturn’s spin and around that swirl—twirls a large third and the seventeenth moon ‘Earth-side’ calls “Iapetus.” A Titan of Greek-Speak and Uranus’s Son—and father of Prometheus—survivor or—an ancestor of the Race of Humanity—once Mothered by one—and Fathered by—you pick this one. The shine of Moon—Iapetus—is also one-third circled—by a rim of twelve high miles— from surface and into sky…Hesiod once described a threshold of bronze—night of dark cloud wrap—‘where Night and Day draw near and greet one another as they pass the great threshold of bronze and there the Children of Dark have their dwellings.’ On New Year’s Eve—as the year of 2005 waited for a blessed replacement—NASA’s Cassini spacecraft—photographed an—eight hundred and eight mile long by twelve mile high rim on Iapetus—and Hesiod—smiles.

Twilight and Dawn departure and gates to swirl through—go-to-spaces—between places—both here or there or again back to another here—to fear—to find—to die or to live again—in places without time-signs in parts—or sums to hold again…Ecliptic twirl and galaxy cross—spaces when composite—forms appear-to-disappear—Serpent speak and Eagle reach—Ophiuchus—holder—or bold—once again— Quetzalcoatl boys and fair Gaia girls—wander star-gates through—and touch-find—found reaches—useless rhythms and trouble—times. Or— Ophiuchus high— stands above sun—rises—feet crossed—Galactic wider and planetary—substance filled from brim-to-rim and back-again…

Star-Gate Jesus—dates to twirl and galactic whirl—shapes-to-shift and age-to-bend—zygote-to-grave and back-again…And! Always Spirits—find this time—the twine-rewind—to rock—to roll—to touch—to love—and give up—gained-remained—differently renewed or altered—remained and be again the same or once and twice and—other…Saviors’ seek and ashes heap—wars of thought—too bloodied—fought—still write-righted—incorrect—then reject and still—the will of few ‘gainst wills of blood-spills and always—just because—the walls of Star-Gates—fold and begins another—one-to-come-to-go and arrive—again.

Matters not—what gate we fall through—matters not—what star burns us…Matters—that gates open—matters—that stars are hot…

 And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Mummers’ Dance’…by Loreena McKennitt

Circus States of Stasis…

S_44“Love came to my door
With a sleeping roll
And a madman’s soul
He thought for sure I’d seen him
Dancing up a river in the dark
Looking for a woman
To court and spark

He was playing on the sidewalk
For passing change
When something strange happened
Glory train passed through him
So he buried the coins he made
In People’s Park
And went looking for a woman
To court and spark

It seemed like he read my mind
He saw me mistrusting him
And still acting kind
He saw how I worried sometimes
I worry sometimes

“All the guilty people,” he said
They’ve all seen the stain-
On their daily bread
On their christian names
I cleared myself
I sacrificed my blues
And you could complete me
I’d complete you

His eyes were the color of the sand
And the sea
And the more he talked to me
The more he reached me
But I couldn’t let go of L.A.
City of the fallen angels”…’Court and Spark’ written by Joni Mitchell

How sweet word sounds—worlds—as every utterance touches rhyme and rhythm speak—unlike—gathered watches of waiting and watching—a sky-speak of whispers—into the air of night—another spot of raindrop flight—landing ‘gainst—warming sands and salty seas…Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Trilingual editions both same or exiled—silence long and the knowing word—of these places—away from the sounds—of her and the notions of—her quietude. Sand and Leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—now notions of her away sounds and her quietude. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—silence see—and thunder be—peels across sky and rolls onto shoreline—and skylines—and time.

Touch now…And! Feel the intimacy of rhythm or rhyme as touch–speak hides deep— inside—the formality of syntax creep and syntax crawl—where ear-here—hears echoes buried—an idiom—not conveyed by any dictionary’s spaces between word-speak and why…The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere.

Word—whirl and shoulder-speak—between things and folks—now world twirled and swirled—communicated—debated and always—translated…Why? When silence of touch—the space of race—cross the beast—of peace—and whispers of dare—chance the softest face to love—gain—lost and gained again. Word whirl…The masters-of-idiomatic usage-of-etymological-implications-of-an untranslatable language-discovered-said-remembered-to-be-forgotten-translated and written another way at another day-in-time. Samuel Beckett’s—‘Waiting for Godot’, ‘Endgame’, ‘Molloy’, ‘Malone Dies’, ‘The Unnamable’ and ‘Tetes Mortes’—first in French…Were then translated by the writer…Did Beckett first thrill-to-the-spill—the conception of these writings in English?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Court and Spark’…by Joni Mitchell

Joni Mitchell – Court and Spark

Moonlight and Ghosts…

63Ghost clouds block moonlight as they all race clouds across the early morning sky tuck somewhere between dawn and night. And! What is the color of souls? In these dreams–see war…Fight and know death….There be gods in this place? So! Come to Cloud—early in transition time and seek flash-ride to spiral and skip into framing time.

“Among the stars
there is a place to where
my heart always returns.”Home by Unsun

The Walker, a silhouette tucked low beneath Grand Moon rising carved carefully—a cross sky—too close to be real and too real to be proximity’s cost—close to-shapes-to-shift-shape and closer to buildings tossed across landfall along sea-line to skyline. Tide comes in evening time and changes along season’s alteration same as sunrises and sunsets and shadows play beneath twin moon season with splashes of textured cloud color or star twinkles too far to see or too close not to catch eye—notice in brain and spirit touch—same time.

The Walker glides across a jumble-tumble of dusted stones made by rain—visible as digging once moved dirt above rock faces and dragged these weighted ones from place to necessary places—for buildings built or buildings removed—restructured—replaced or destroyed. Needed things at required times when places were homes and buildings ruled land-side…And! Little killer pills—be only notions of Lizard Kingdoms where the notions—of you ‘peel’ums’ available and needed—from the glory of car-trunks—pushers and such—supply for profit as price swings with demand or your supply? How about today? Or! Tomorrow—maybe too late for profit or always tax—almost—and the wonder—when the next shipment arrives?

She is the Walker Warrior and places—claims to Bridge above the Ruins of ‘Sity.’ Below the places of spaces—once a great tangle of yards and rails carried the price of commerce—commercially to and away and beyond her bridge—dirty sea ships sailed toward one another. They bounced the line—black shadows—slow creep—beneath an injured sky. No wind. Masts—no sails. Crude…Not fueled—cold furnaces and boilers—empty drums—warm air. She now— adjusts eyes and turns and follows silent ships passing one—another. They ride the line—no wake. They do not disturb the oiled sea or change silt-less shoals beyond an invisible channel. She watches them and waits for their return.

Walker forgets to breathe. Fog horns moan and moan again just within cones of hearing—an evening rare—without fog or mist. Held inside—air rushes into throat and through her nose and mouth. Sea odor—her eyes tear. Bridge time is fine and darkness safe…She searches sea. She swears the line has moved closer to shore…And! Ships are gone.

Red-winged Beatles and cousin Greensacks live and die in the course of words and butterfly life—just above Caveland around cutout doors of steel and rusted tacks and salt-soaked wood—where (x) marks most spots and braces require nails to hold together both life and doors. Caveland stores many—for—outside—Plague dances a two hundred year-long-sing-song and with sickness—death and destruction forever-follows. Watch the next fire begin and end as another begins and ends until tower eyes can never see the next and the next and the eternity of signals that mean absolutely nothing to ‘Sity’ people framed against that August sky.

Move along—always move along toward fear among these places of reasons-to-be or reasons to move along? No and yes or not really or really scared of the mixes in the yes and no—until ‘run togethers’—forget to be afraid. Little ones grow old and die inside hundred year old lyrics just outside tomorrow. And! When holding yourself very still—red beetle wings are very loud and their textures—light—will guide your motions through the night. Red beetle cousins sing and those born-to-die—select their own sing-songs. High above the Towers-of-Bridges—Watchers use as signal frames—hard-wood fires and pine cones of quick sparks ‘til death do crackle and stop…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Summertime Sadness’ by Lana Del Rey

“Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That, baby, you’re the best

I got my red dress on tonight
Dancing in the dark in the pale moonlight
Done my hair up real big beauty queen style
High heels off, I’m feeling alive

Oh, my God, I feel it in the air
Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare
Honey, I’m on fire, I feel it everywhere
Nothing scares me anymore

Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That, baby, you’re the best

I got that summertime, summertime sadness
S-s-summertime, summertime sadness
Got that summertime, summertime sadness
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

I’m feelin’ electric tonight
Cruising down the coast goin’ ’bout 99
Got my bad baby by my heavenly side
I know if I go, I’ll die happy tonight

Oh, my God, I feel it in the air
Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare
Honey, I’m on fire, I feel it everywhere
Nothing scares me anymore

Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That, baby, you’re the best

I got that summertime, summertime sadness
S-s-summertime, summertime sadness
Got that summertime, summertime sadness
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

Think I’ll miss you forever
Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky
Later’s better than never
Even if you’re gone I’m gonna drive (drive, drive)

I got that summertime, summertime sadness
S-s-summertime, summertime sadness
Got that summertime, summertime sadness
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That, baby, you’re the best

I got that summertime, summertime sadness
S-s-summertime, summertime sadness
Got that summertime, summertime sadness
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh…”

 Summertime Sadness

Layers of Flash…

Star_735“Know I’ve done wrong,
Left your heart torn
Is that what devils do?
Took you so low,
Where only fools go
I shook the angel in you

Now I’m rising from the ground
Rising up to you
Filled with all the strength I found
There’s nothing I can’t do”…From the song ‘Love Me Again‘…written by John Newman and Steve Booker—

We are not layers of flash and fear and afraid of flash and a million directions without notions of where and how to go or leave or approach or fade away. We are not human…we are alive—life—simple of reason and always on our way away to leave or stay or afraid to simply fade away…Climb now— branches high—winter nigh—leaves not springing—sprung—prior budding and climbing high and tucked just below frost line—mountain soft and night-time slow. Tree high and not moving twin-spin—slower—motion still.

Foreign—not home and light-year long—away from places seen and spaces known before earth-fall—tunnel bright—tunnel sight—and—a space of place between real—and among the magic ones. Planet guided—peace pleased—run coming to streaks of night flash and day dash and a clash of two…And! They come by copter churn-twist-chop—by lorries-engines-rush—by cart-horse-pull—by men stretch-manned-carried—and all wounded ones or twos or many more or less and behind the layered flash of red-pink-nights—we wait and wonder and gather-to-elves notions—of life to stay or life to pass away—today.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true—except when suppressed and distorted for unnecessary gains and a perversion called wealth…We are the eternity of spirits—no need beginning and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life. Symmetry with no form except wind and rain and careful storms of chaos and figure. Go figure—the here or the now and still history is not preformed or manufactured except through the controllers—of spins and twists and the thrill of the lie. Or—go figure with the smile of Leonardo or the Lady’s laugh or the chatter of many minds or—just a few—of many hearts. Is it better to flee or better to dig livelihood from the bottom of one’s own grave?

Arrives—those machined boxes machine-sweet—and together in minds of same or alternates where we twirl the whirl and call the laugh or two as boxes open and away we—they separate into some things or less or the loneliness of crowd bridges or twin screw moments of those spaces of time without seconds. And! Yes robots—we—search blood and find taste good in mingle – tingle moments—touch-amazing—touch not those imagine sources of unnecessary wariness and one becomes another and brief the flashes together spread the separate into singularity no more than once…Again—again and again.

Wind across this liquid—sunlight and thick wave dance—lights and slivers of silver and gold. Followers watch for scraps or bits to fall toward their reach either diving for something new or rocking gently on this clear sea of warming suns and moonlight’s dance of song and silence. Our nature to run with and from the many or the few? See often through the curved ceiling of doorway when curved light enters twenty-one tiny windows round these openings to escape places and leave regions. Still more a spirit than the body proper until chemicals of doubt and satisfaction rule body self ending sometime in time without mere reasons to be except—a rhythm to complete.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true except when suppressed—through layers—distortion—or flashes of fear—tears…We are the eternity of spirits—never having to begin and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life.

And! Beautiful you are…

Love Me Again‘…performed by John Newman

Star-Dusted Moons and Chorus…

53

Walk the path of these days and past’s presence and today’s—tomorrow dreams. We are builders of grand places and the ancients of straw homes in tomorrow’s futures? Often music calls a spirit to dance ‘round a late night fire somewhere in distant time—We began before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

By the fire light of these dwindling tribes—children marvel at both the dancing flames and the warmth of lights against the nights and outside—shadows beyond their eyes. They listen and stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places— no start—just—imagine and see—in minds’ own spaces—desired regions of before dream and after ‘wishing was true…’Paint now pictures—loving these caves and these walls and these tribes of we and me and us and them and before the storm and after the end of rains and winds and bumping things and silent shrieks once loud now absent from ear and fear and tear. Sounds of life—’cross a million miles of rock and rolling—till another day of storms and another night of passion—shadow dance beneath a star-lighted ceiling. Once again—share moments and lives and the power of life. Blood and love is the matter of the matter and the survival of these survivors of wherever gods and whatever storms. Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

We are not resource. Forests are not board-feet. Precious animals are alive and well and multiplying within circle-life and when undisturbed are balance—the harmony of earth twirl and whirl across space—required for survival and never a commercial aggravation of money changers and the idiocy of gain. Precious must be protected—wise beings—remove from destruction—as our survival of future days and future nights. Unless! Flash—we stop and our carbon-based trickle ceases equal value and determination…We are not resource. When forest covers this place—land once stripped—now concrete jungles—scattered sky-buildings and layers to portions—to little—to—too much. Resource-speak—twist these places into battlefields and crime and punishment and damage civilizations— and cease—peace. Nations—  ‘battle-cries of freedom’ and blood-pours—poor laborers and slaves create— hope for many and freedom for few. Life is not—a purchase or a product—sell. Eternal Speak—of—all Life—Eternal Spirit—Forever! Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Hear pitch perfect spirit chorus pushed from moon-side to earth-side and back across ear-to-ear and from throat-to-voice and again out into spaces of hearing voices and silence. Create listener—speaker—and the quiet times of silent-speak. Gods—we create—creation of images dreamed and beamed to radiated radiation—we spirit-dance these sounds without vibrated-vibrations or derivations’ chaos there be—than we see and be—both the life of songs and silence…Not so often—the choir of silence—sings-songs the gatherings and sweet rolls of honey bread and wine. Soft conversations—land’s across—diners where breakfast—breaks-fasts of night and sleep-ends in shrugs—stretched—muscles—twitched and sounds—reminding lives of living gently—cross clefts of treble wires and bass notes—tucked beneath a bottom line. Falling trees in dawn lights at the center of creation’s place—vibrate notions and sounds both of illusive—illusions and illustrated—illustrations. We! Gods of these creations—find this to be something good—that is part—Way… Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Robot now and then and once again when creature walks splendid winds across another place of times—remember and stories of this and that—told by any-to-any-listening—of robot tales and adventures as the course of discourse launch comes—songs of sailor’s speak and wig-waggle ‘cross a thousand skies—complete with warrior legends and the strength of priestess kiss and home returns. We all sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family and the you of me and the me of us and all—eternal spirits we be—the power of life—inside folded space or outside yonder rim-spin—we are…Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Brush to lids of my own eyes with sweet your lips and touch deep my heart with spirit dance your strength as my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin worlds together and taste soft wine in starlight bright and setting moon so large that reflected eyes lock these mind spaces in forever memories of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis sweet this Night…

‘Winter Trees’ by Sylvia Plath

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.

On their blotter of fog the trees

Seem a botanical drawing –

Memories growing, ring on ring,

A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,

Truer than women,

They seed so effortlessly!

Tasting the winds, that are footless,

Waist-deep in history –

Full of wings, other worldliness.

In this, they are Ledas.

O mother of leaves and sweetness

Who are these pietàs?

The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”  

 

And! Beautiful you are!

‘Stardust’ …by Delain

Of Elephants and Peanuts and Hay…

C_2Christ’s conception—wiz-bang—through Sky God to Earth Woman is a curious ‘why?’ Holy Triad—Father-Son-Spirit—and Star-Beings always need Earth’s Women-Folk to wiz-bang into fleshy-form—WOW? Required question mark is huge and the reason is another Novel…The Socialist teachings of Jesus and his group of many—are True—”Do unto others as you would have others do unto you”—Good-Better-Best?…Twist and Bop through religion’s gov…into just another control of Capitalism—”Do unto others before they do unto you”…Pay your people in peanuts and become a new Billionaire…In this world of Circus and Show—elephants do require more than peanuts to survive—donchathink?

Hope: When the brain envisions humanities’ finest moments…Love and Peace and Touch and Trust…No charges or gains or losses—Flashes between the realities of reality and those sweet spaces just an instant before lips touch as co-mingled breath warms the cold evening air.

Hope: A rational response to rational insanity. A second when no one stares into empty space without noticing starlight’s star bright and star ship passing between light-speed and arrival—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere and in all places between sky and ground realizes what we do not have does not mean anything…

Hope: Feeling color through both the eyes and with our fingers. Hearing a lover’s voice touch our heart before substance becomes words of meaning or reason or another notion. Or when silence—completely fills all senses with thunder and noise and music and notes chaotic or symphonic simplicity as duality ceases and singularity melts into universal unity and truth.

Hope: When the you of me becomes a never enemy mine and boarders between living and dying fade away as the greed of destruction destroys the greedy nations of earth-sky and the trade of imbalanced balance earth-ceases and decreases the rich or the poor or the education of stupidity or…the ad infinitum of better-me-than-you-god-meaner-than-your-god or…my way and your way is not a direction apart—instead; just another direction…

Hope: Are we not all travelers scattered across someplace-somewhere? We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be a ‘something else’ without a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced—steroidal—surgically modified—blast of cartoon fashion or lip-stick mouths—pouted and mounted on another pictured perfect and replicated glossy imitation of sport manned—model swish of a dish of corruption or a dash of hopeless fanatical fantasy.

A Different Hope: To all the people of our sweet twirl of a whirling world—We are not the names of branded folks and slaves to the wages of our filthy governments of violence and of infections by a thousand virulent religious markets scattered among the blood of people-speak. Those magical hands quickly fill with currency and the tongues of many, fear-spewed lies against people, creatively mingled among a thousand creative gods called too many names both feared and forgotten.

Not Forgotten: Is the love of man and the love of woman and of freedoms not divided by the capital of greed and the power of stalled legislation—an impotent executive branch—and a purchased judicial robe—incumbent and complete with sugar and a belief that all men are created through an equal mixture of both men and women—rich or poor and beyond the borders of a wherever boarder for non-reasons and never judged by the fallacies of color—big guns—atomic—and an eternal diatribe of isolation—individuality and Fear…

Planets Away: A World once existed where women would walk that planet in day/night safety and men did not know a word called ‘war’…Where love was love and force never existed…Wherever—Whatever—Was never called heaven or hell…A place where life belonged and life was good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No! We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we Love our Children—The Government of Gods are never required…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive’ by Darrell Scott—performed by Kappa Danielson

Sing Me—Song Life…

H_327Again to be—to see…of loving the loving…of hands joined-to-body moving…of swings and wings and…Spirit-singing and peaceful sighing…Creation—The Witch smile and for this instant within a moment of Time—‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine Re-wind.

Stands the man and watches the slow up and down of water’s edge out toward the line as sea touches sky and sky layers—stacked above vision quests and heart beats. He walks ground-fall—down among slabs of stone mined and shapes made—mortar-steel and rusted lines—scattered behind him until backward—falls statues of Heroes Twenty-Eight and crumbled monuments—of warriors once live and stories dead. Swindle Park is seven miles of hill—of cliff—of ruined edge and oiled dirt. West-end of October City and well above seashore’s trenched runes and dunes high sand reach—less now—removed-to-somewhere windless and quiet. Stands the man—cliff high above shorelines of oil and streaks of gray foam and canals of—current dead—collapsed stone walls and dust. Watcher he is and Speaker he has been—quiet now except…

He is Preacher Lost—Teacher of Cost…When forgetting purpose—his words bounce along ruin—places and echoes—with occasional truthspeak and rhythm. Almost hearing—is almost praying—is almost living—is almost dying and the sighing in his ‘wordspeak’ is devoted to once wind-times and bell-chimes and air without oily tears—fears and devotion. His is soft voice— slow to quicken—to rise and fall—once practiced—practical—moneyed-honey sweet and ability-able to earn salvation—bred—by those pretend gospels of man—Godspeak rhythms of love and hate and death and destruction from beyond the norms of sky-fall and cliffs high above seashore’s sand. Godspeak Destroys—However—Warriors pull triggers and push life-defying ‘live and let-die’ buttons…

Mumble-Tumbles across Swindle Park—’cross go—skies ago—as together and custom and life and speech and reason to think and thought and living and dying immediately stop…Reverses gone! Visions—homeward motions and little lights in windows at world’s ends or beginnings—extinguish and lost to never-light. Flashes light never-sky and star twinkle beyond layered sheets of gray-grayer and darkness without the twin-of-moons disappear—above earth-spin-sky-hide and die. Strip bare–ground and devour-quick ways around the planet one or two or three or… We—Worlders destroy our own—too many and our own—slaughter mother-world and failing to protect becomes insignificant. Mumble-Tumbles and Swindle Park is ‘falling down’.

Layers often diminish and the going inside wounds—cry for sweet peace. Peace—is never-last and leaves the day and by life’s end—flits ghost-shaped quickly across dream-side. Just before the worn die—worn smiles and body sighs—silence—more time and more and more and…Concert ends after air-breeder-body-stops then—ready Guide—Soul Breeder leaves behind damage—places of many names and Nemo travels ‘cross skies toward—-anywhere. Long sky visits or short sky freedoms—then trapped by anything and bang—bang—Sky-spirit drops and body stirs in good places. Then—born—star traveler sleeps in safe arms. And! Infant loved—is robbed of star knowledge and memories of past life and the future—memory of sleep and again… Primal-side begins in Mumble-Tumbles ‘cross Swindle Park.

The circle safely closed—the web building starts—the markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guide—folded into original shape— until it is—again required and opened to read and follow—’cross sky-bridge….Bang-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again…‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘It Was A Very Good Year’—written by Ervin Drake and performed by Frank Sinatra

October City—Spring Flash…

132‘Shining candles and harbor flash…From sea today and follow tide…Come to harbor—sirens call…Shining candles and harbor flash…From sea to safety side tonight.’

Flash-Dash and Streaks touch world along these places called ‘Swindle Park’ and across those places tucked down-low between and below Triple Viaducts—twin ruined and one complete. Flash-Dash and Streaks ground to rounding shapes and sparks crash-burn among twin faced-tumble-rumble—crumbled slabs of once concrete-shapes and marbled disks and granite stones—marking graves of those more or less and always flesh-dead and flash gone.

Flash—Fear stir hearts and images dash among the ruins of loss-increase or additional decrease—not instructs of constructs-destructs—simply here and gone and back again. Way-of–life-facts-matter-more-less-import-export-unimportant—matters-little or lessons-less-scar—hearts stir—breathe—catch and release…Still—Animate-imitated life as the silent sounds of folk-scurry-hurry-worry cause days of notions known—and the motion of future wig-waggle prayer and intimate—initiate Life—mute-points—of stop-to-go and back-again. Wig-waggled stars—wig-waggled bars and scars of wig-waggled hope and strangled-wrangled strength.

Where does flash of light and lighted-fit-to-starts-to-end-to-back-again—begin-again or end-again? Light-to-lighted again-of streaks and flashes—bright-subdued-enhanced-increased ’til eyes—too bright-to-shine fill—spill and will darkness soft-to-see—to be as streak-flash-dash ‘cross Swindle Park and brighten October City again-to-end and back-again and rumble-tumble sound—’Say’—ground-to-clouds of layered sky and dawns of bright-grey—’Way…’

To hell with Lies-of-Government—and we really know these lies—don’t we Now? Leave those Lies-of-Religion ’cause—if the Goddess had written a true Bible of Books—She would never have walked steps behind men…Paternal—Maternal..WTF? Everyday—She and He stand side-by-side—before the mouth-of-caves and die protecting their little ones? God created ‘first’ Man…WTF? ‘Religions first created God…There are many—first or last…Must be written by Governments to control—to kill—to rule and Governments—Religions do create hellish creations—donchathink? Oh Yeah! Around this wig-waggle-world—We ‘scurry-hurry’-folk do—Love-our-Children-So…Religions of Governments—Are ‘Never-Ever’ Required.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘There must be some way out of here” said the joker to the thief
There’s too much confusion”, I can’t get no relief
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth.’

‘No reason to get excited”, the thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I, we’ve been through that, and this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late.’

‘All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too.’

‘Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.’…

‘All Along the Watchtower’written and performed by Bob Dylan

Something Listed—Something Gifted…

T146“We took the blood of the earth
and fell in love with death
with life itself as an excuse

Black is the sunlight shimmering below;
it flows through life and the guilt we share

We’re hiding in chorus as starry eyes close,
and seasons part in farewell;
‘cause we drained her blood, then forgetting her face
to hide from everyone”…from ‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’

They paint—leave for ‘Coming In’ time. Neon glitter—shape-shifters-sighted-ones and blended against leafless limbs where standing trees fall and scatter across Viaduct’s—crumbled-tumbled stretches of stone tops—cream colored brick pieces and dust and rust and shadows of ruin or waste. Wheeled chairs race and wagons of faded reds and oranges and brown stripes with dull  yellow splash again blend and rend  groomed clones of oiled evening clouds and fading light as moons—of—three rise along earth line and spot shorelines before a greasy sea of salted rains without sounds and without life.

These are the ‘Coming In’ times. The ides of moments—ready flash and center of day to ready play and anticipate reason—discover—life does happen covalently or not—rejoice—-not to understand—or withstand—not to require and still OK…Momentum—drinks to spill—before air or fear—taste and waste rush before shriek-spear-kill where motion ends as hanging cloth covers wired thorns along ruined ditches of rain fill—flow from boot smooth flat-to puddles of  blood- mud wait—sun-play and dry air—wiz-bangs and life…

Smoke—rare air as blinding fog ‘cross both water edged—split sanded reeds and hill high vantage will seize—piece of crack stone and marble rim—broken faces—silent shriek and damage. Three ships down and seven constant slivers—shiver war and win to lose again. Harbor towns—two and  needless souls search bodies—left alive or fallen upright. And! From waterside—cannons fortress high—twin–slam—shells and balls—as death upon us and they and us and not and again—upon us. Ship pitches—wood and steel and souls—toward sinking-side with mast blast splinters and holes enough to die.

Water—butterflies—beetles—purple colors and birds emerge—from fog and race toward size high heaven or lights. Join—flying life and from colors of purple light into gull-white birds and gray liquid along a sparkle of beach sand and moonlight—bright. We! From heaven join Earth and now—again fly from battle  to  place and war seen—dead and those dying come this way— to fly—to watch—to learn—to leave…

Then! Gather here the shaped-shifters and one-sided sighted eyes to watch till wizards of crashes and dashes—cease games of pieces—ground motion-bah-boomed to silence or death as witch either appears or disappears into smoke—mirrors and magic shape ghosts—toasted by those lifted glasses memorized—memorialized and as quickly forgotten as recalled.

Brush to lids of my own eyes with sweet your lips and touch deep my heart with spirit dance your strength as my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin worlds together and taste soft wine in starlight bright and setting moon so large that reflected eyes lock these mind spaces in forever memories of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis sweet this Night…Instincts trust in…For anticipation often does nothing..

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’ by Draconian