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

Almost—Most of Maybe…

347“I’m a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm.
And the scars that mark my body, they’re silver and gold,
My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones,
It keeps my veins hot, the fires found a home in me.
I move through town, I’m quiet like a fire,
And my necklace is of rope, I tie it and untie it.

And our people talk to me, but nothing ever hits home
People talk to me, and all the voices just burn holes.
I’m going in (ooh)

[Chorus:]
This is the start of how it all ever ends
They used to shout my name, now they whisper it
I’m speeding up and this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart
We rip the start, the colors disappear
I never watch the stars, there’s so much down here
So I just try to keep up with them red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

I dream all year, but they’re not the same kinds
And the shivers move down my shoulder blades in double time

And now people talk to me, I’m slipping out of reach now
People talk to me, and all their faces blur
But I got my fingers laced together and I made a little prison
And I’m locking up everyone who ever laid a finger on me
I’m going in (ooh)

[Chorus]

And this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat
Sparking up my heart
And this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat-beat-beat-beat…” Yellow Flicker Beat’ written by Ella Yelich-O’ Connor and Joel Little

Revolting around Revolution? ‘Plant your flag on—truth…’ Science eternally dances with superstition…Once and often either—momentarily wins something-of-else or another choice-to-follow…Crossroads to matter—chances to spark—and destiny always flirts with other up-and-about—perhaps…Real Sea—we’ll see—and another and another—of water-ships and places far away…This is here and between landings another beach—reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away…Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise—as waves dash high into moonless sky and crash along miles of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again and time marks nothing—when endless and everlasting.

The structures of language—cause subtle or severe alterations in conceptual visions of context—pretense—rapture—tense and always scattered across a multitude of speakers—defined—refined and confined to unspoken sentences—still known—with no required explanation—and often not wanted. Linguistic challenges may confuse—process notions—preconceive programming—patterns of similarity—welcomed-rejected-detected-embraced or ignored…Survival’s portion—portioned and scattered across understanding simplicity—and the variances in relativity—either linguistically determined—or silenced by rain—loud—gentle beginnings or the whispers of fire-fly wings and lighting…Wait! Eyes—tightly closed—to hear thunder—rolling across separated skies—as unseen flashes—knight the ocean—and crashes boom into the silent space—between raindrops and life…

The distinctions—either unreal or real or may-have-been or yet-to-come—sometimes live without explanation or sane reason—will power or triumphant chance—and still by some mischief of happenstance—occurs—reserves—replaces and in-time—stumble-bumbles into never-was and never-will-be—again…Linguistic challenges—choice and time—oh my! And! Still we refine-the-define—providing to our senses—the words we speak and the world we seek—differentials in place—because the space between us is—mile-wide-empty or mile-wide-distracted—reacted—contracted or ‘just because’ of causes affected— and explanations.

The relativity of linguistic principles may—too often influence and warp the processes—through how—we know-what-we-know-we-now-know—or almost future—know-what we almost-may understand—sometime—in some-place-in-space—somewhere-in-time…And! Does language determine how we think—or does how we think—determine how we speak? Do-Does-Maybe-Almost-OK? All fits—all places—mostly—almost right-writing and writing-right either incorrectly or almost-always finding fit—too and almost—never-quite-writing-right-correctly…Non-linguistic behavior is sometimes an extraordinary type of behavior—donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Yellow Flicker Beat’ by Lorde

Lemon Whirls and Gumdrop Twirls…

M_135“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’ by Draconian

Walked to once war—places—of warrior kill and spill of red along the sandy streams of green spaces—dreamed graces and where man—gun—marches—of rustle and rice mix—water—man—gun—to run—to stay and wait for the standing dream-scenes—plays and dances of red colors and life runes—places in ruins along sandy streams—of greener spaces—dreaming graces—places found and now not remembered—OK…We cannot kill a man’s family and expect forgiveness. Come by drone—by rifle—by bomb—by war or proxy—no one can forgive another for the murder of his own blood…Family by family—street-by-street—village—town—city—region—no matter and absolutely—no forgiveness. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

Planets of beginning’s end, and flashes within war clouds on high and on lighted skies for a trillion miles across the sky. The Alpha and the Omega—where Titans rule Atlantis—and—men of great—remove or rule places in time—now gone and a history of never was—on both the Earth and in the sky. We are—before Floods and long before parts of Genesis—that sometime happened—on—sometime worlds or other spaces—of other places and other times. Our Garden of Eden—not Sins—and then—tossed off-world? Eden could—have been better than ruining—by—T-Rex or consumed—by stronger uprights. Eden and sin and serpents, oh my! We are the proof of far removed parents—when gods may have ruled and created women and men—in places from Sirius to Mars to Earth and back—again? Our rulers and our ruled and our voices and our religions have rewritten our beginnings—in so many places and in so many—might have been accidents—that—these truths or fictions—have blurred the start of lost and the loss of—start. And! Still—the rest is yet to come—why not? ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

This garden is hilltop high—we come here—almost twice—to plant flowers and remember sometime—with our voices. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life—crosses—path as—resting—inside good woods as we look down—toward cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and that valley just last evening. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

These—everyday—fail to notion-grasp the chance—of peaceful notion—depending on how-where you be—when flash streak—smoke reek—eye burn—tear and fear and the warp of notions—peace cease—little ones die before—killer memories evolve—into sweet substance and light bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail—set-to-wind—rail balance—‘neath ruin— bridges of seven—or on—another land-fall beneath another sky—homes to build—caves to clean—and again for a short while—arrival—life comes home. Better—than missile speak or places too far gone to seek bomb shelter—chance for another—another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow—death—peace—good life—ways forgotten—gone. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

“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. Again 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.” ‘While I breathe—I Hope…’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Rebel-Rebel by David Bowie

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

Sort Soon—Falls Too…

bladerunner“I’ve… seen things you people wouldn’t believe… Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those… moments… will be lost in time, like tears… in…rain. Time… to die…” written—by Rutger Hauer…from the movie ‘Blade Runner’…based upon the book ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’ by Philip Kindred Dick…

We are ‘Dreamers’ of these high places and we are—‘Dwellers’ of sun dried deserts—fancy or choice—more and less and greater—eons ago—spears dulled and clubs without stone faces—found beside open doors kept to keep night creatures away. We—She and He unfurl the curved sail and wooden ships upon calm waters—leave shore side—tide high—keel free and ready to follow the spinning twirl—east-of-west and south-of-north.

Imagine…A World once existed where women-folk-could-walk-planet-wide 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…We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we do love our Children don’t we?—A Government of Death is never required…

Woman—warrior—Man—warrior…We will together—if required—die—protecting our children and our homes…Man Warrior—know—as you dine in candle-light with Woman Warrior—She is Equal—She is Everything…If the Gods created 1st Man—must have needed a test-subject—before these same Gods created—‘Perfection’…donchathink? Isn’t it interesting—in this ‘paternal society’ of a ‘WTF’—‘Good old Boy’ world—that without Woman Warrior—‘We’—could not physically appear? Hey Boy—‘who is your Mama?’ And again—and again— and—With her gentle touch—She spins these spits of dancing DNA—touch and born—this day—across these Spinners…

Entity Religion—is in constant enmity with one another? Satirizes self-contented morality and suggests that—in the end—all religious groups are going to engage in violent and selfish acts— regardless of their professed moral teachings. Just another Government and ‘governing whimsy’ is corrupt—nasty and destructive. Religions’—immaculate contortions—‘American Style’—twist in-out of ‘the Separation of Church and State’ producing a ‘Governmental Right to Legislate Morality?’ Wrong! Oh—Hell—Yeah—for only Lovers-have-Lovers’-sacred-right-to-Love. Love is being…Morality is a selfish word!

Dancing circles of…Maybe life or love’s memory or the almost real—of a now-to-then and back again—Spirit-speak and upon canvas—lines and circles dance and dash as songs play and laughter reaches to diners’ corner and open doors call to inside secrets of ink motions and canvas wet with colors and the scent of orange and green and brown and yellow and perfume inside a night of air and dare and wear and fare or the future of moments again without the layers of walls climbed and discarded…Loving the love of—gathering together strength—of one or two or many more than them or us or we—be strength of Love—no rules to follow—no moral folly or selfish—rules …when ‘world words’ are the songs of death—control—fiction—suffering and the lies against Spirit—Speak and Life. Women Love…Men Love…Love is Perfection—is Touch—is Peace—is Spirit—Song and…No rules or explanations or ever-speak required.

Creative Spirits—dance above violence and selfish acts and moral teachings and government and religion and hate. All good things always end faster—than we wish them to end—And! —Sometimes the fall is woefully too short. Search the find and the now—knowing ones shall guide spirits many—through time trips and time slips—beyond—below and through—the side-to-the-side…Difference is good and coffee—splashed cognac and love often braces against colder nights…Tis sweet—this love—this touch—this hug—this kiss—this warmth—this mist—this night—not missed…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Blade Runner Love Theme’…by Vangelis (Evangelos Odysseas Papathanassiou)

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

An Earth of Outs…

7‘Karl Marx considered capitalism to be a historically specific mode of production (the way in which the productive property is owned and controlled, combined with the corresponding social relations between individuals based on their connection with the process of production) in which capitalism has become the dominant mode of production. The capitalist stage of development or “bourgeois society,” for Marx, represented the most advanced form of social organization to date, but he also thought that the working classes would come to power in a worldwide socialist or communist transformation of human society as the end of the series of first aristocratic, then capitalist, and finally working class rule was reached.’ Stages—and—wages—and—cages—Oh my!

If Earth Outs—wish destruction—mankind—stop everyone—from being—sparks—of—creation—for—our children…And! The end of body human begins…Not with shifts of fantasy— arrays—preys and delivery—too soon-to-end-begin—-and—end-again? Robots be—forever we—and carry the wary—protecting little ones—without self-worry or worth…Without them—we do not fail—we do not wail—we disappear—with no learning—yearning or memory—left behind the matter-or-this-matter. We touch hands—and on these autumn shores—our eyes—pupil-wide—to—gather moonlight and star-dusted smiles—die and nothing remains…So! Take—to heaven—to hell—Beam—up—away we go!

They arrive—and suicide—begins the end of civilization. We are—world-colony—and use—stop and start and stagger—another Earth diminishes before—new illumination and enlightenment. They strip—bare—ground—quicker than we—consume—our way across-planet-sides. Off-World—Ones—devour—sour—our own—too many—our ownership—of—slaughter—our—mother-world and the failure—of protection—insignificantly—significant. These fools and folly of off-world—end—our only way to continue. They fail—to see their vision fade—into star-stream and moon-dust. They remove—our Love…

So! Come then—damned angels of death—and test us—deep in—wooden belief—in victory-scatter—across worlds—not seen and never known. Do not—longer—wait—damned spacer. We will meet each of your substitutes—head-on and with fine swords—and—endless firing—with necessary death—sings-shrieks—all along these towers—these homes—these beaches—these reaches—and—far—beyond these seas. You—select—places toward spaces—where—we die. We will dance with—dragons and—happily die. War against a—now visible—foe is—good war and—death against—tyrant is—good death. Pick carefully—this world—change with simple death—-and our—slight chance to win. Take— our babies—into—your heavens.

There is a rear door that guides—toward—another Column Room. Tessie—likes—purple scarves and dotted cloth. Jona likes—go-hide-places-on and other rooms—off—big column and down—darker halls. No one comes here—except Crowman and those ones—the Hurts. And! Not so many of them around—not—since last rains. Crowman—never worries about the timing—of this—because—he has never known time.

‘I have seen this thing before, to no one but the Hurts and they listened to him always, since the beginning of things, of days or nights or evenings or mornings, or when things were and were not. I know this place like the farm, the river when fish were fish and would swim right by the bait.’ This is the road. A hoppity-skippity-small little road not needing a reason, rhyme or paving covers over sidewalk – cracks that if “you step on a crack or break,” something that rhymes with nothing by a word that names the place where sidewalk ends then starts again.’

Crowman stands on—eternal legs and starts down—the ‘hoppity-skippity’ road. He stops—the Hurts join him. He skips toward them—they skip toward him. He turns—and—a little light flicks just skips in front of him. A little flitting light of sparkle and little else. From—eternal mind he sings—words—a short sighing melody—nothing else. “Beret, and when — not much mmm-more.”

Little Tessie through a small hole between her front teeth whispers, ‘Butterfly…’ No question, not statement, not fact not…not ‘Almost a Crowman!’ ‘I know this!’ ‘We Know!’ ‘I know—this Sparkle!’ ‘Know Spark!’

Then Butterfly whispered: ‘This is this line—I have waited and watched and wanted and needed and loved you since Day’s End. It is—it is—it is a little hoppity-skippity prayer of a little road that begins. ‘

The Hurts—laugh—and so often laughter hurts. Not this time—of day—not this time.

‘Angel?— Nope… Gone?— Naw…With Us?—Naw…Then Gone OK?—Why—Nope…Then?‘

Angel touches—angel and—angel touches—the angel….Light—touches—light and Crowman almost knew a nothing or something that did not—matter the matter—or—irritate the matter. Light smiles and yes—Tessie—Angels do smile.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘What did you do in the War, Dad?’…by Sonata Arctica

Spinning Triangles…

5from the ‘Thunder—Perfect Mind’

“For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin. . . .
I am the barren one,
and many are her sons. . . .
I am the silence that is incomprehensible . . .
I am the utterance of my name.” (a feminine power divine)

We End…Storm-side fury—then gone…Quick-to-die and always—short to live. Snow— drinking blood. Wind shifting sands—the path always found—footsteps always gone. Come and go—never footsteps just paths beginning and footsteps—gone. Pictures supply—by the pushers— drugs—be free and around every curve something still-stands—still-falls—still-prays—still raptures and always fades. And! I will love you until—the wheels finally come off… “The world is an indecipherable-essentially absurd but fascinating spectacle.” (From Joyce Carol Oates):

‘The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his “natural superiors”, and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous “cash payment”. It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom — Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation. The reason the bourgeois exist and exploit the proletariat with low wages is private property, “the accumulation of wealth in private hands, the formation and increase of capital” and that wage labor is created entirely by competition among the workers…’ (Friedrich Engels)

Why compete—when together—we can ‘Over-Come.’…Xenophobia is fear of self…We have a right to be everywhere. When the rich become too rich—the wealthy—become selfish… Capitalist—classes abound…Now! On this earth too few people control the wealth—slave to wage folk are losing…Distribution of America’s wealth—Maybe—‘an only way to survive’ donchathink?

The Siden war of occupation and terror continued for too many generations. Unfair war! Unity Central participated across planet distance from Siden World…Memory slipping of why supported; however, wealth and greed and the war-breed-slide collided with the like-minded. Historians now practiced the slice/dice recording of the winner of the Siden War. The destruction of a people include the body-spirit and the ways of people. Gone from prime memory—their art and their language and their reasons-for-love…Gone—their family traditions—their celebrations and their reasons—of-living-life. Siden—gone.

History spins tales—of warrior-world and of victory spoils. Truthful-liars create their world and into sand and dust go everything else. The spinning of ‘truth-creep’ bumps into pages of ‘Urgent News—Read all about It.’ Attacks—are always proper and necessary. People destroy—always the enemy-mine. And! Let their story end…so we can forget all about it.

Not all people are warriors—Our little ones and our women and our elders (the teachers of tradition—life—wisdom—hope and continuation) also die. They are societies’ survival and their names and their lives must be remembered—Correctly counted and reported and cherished in the present and the future. The People of Siden? Ultimately—religion’s mad wiggle becomes the rhyme and the reason for an unfair world…Religion always kills…Death of life is wrong…When death seizes a life may death be a natural ending and not a war-forced sorrow. Then—‘We may not be born to be wasted.’

And! Beautiful you are…

Roads

“Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong
Storm.. in the morning light
I feel
No more can I say
Frozen to myself
I got nobody on my side
And surely that ain’t right
And surely that ain’t right
Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong
How can it feel, this wrong
This moment
How can it feel, this wrong
Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong” (written and performed by Portishead)…

Sail Songs—Then Gone…

Somme_33“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.” ― from ‘A Farewell to Arms’ by Ernest Hemingway…

Is there a formula or a discussion in the Scientific World for the existence of ‘conscious’—‘spirit’? Are there only three dimensions? Is ‘time’ added to those dimensions? We— physicals—have five senses. Normally—Normal? Why is everything beyond normal—considered or called—nonsense–hallucination—superstition or miracle? Our world is a magnificent construction of many constructions. We believe—or do not believe—in derivations of inclined-living or higher-self or soul’s purpose—or spirit or great beyond-the-mean- averages of life and death.

Do we simply wish better—’Self’ or ‘Angel’ beyond the physical? Do we remember other self—before birth and after death? If we do—then are ‘We’ Eternally universal Spirits? Do we see outside our rejections and failures—as learning to be better or do we forget—We-be-We? Remember when warmth was without fire—Remember when our mother’s blood fed us and whispered love into our blood-hungry spirits before we became—Scientific?

What of spark that travels into the light of—joining life inside and outside the days of pasts’-present’s—future. Behold Spirit Dancer! Do remember—when warmth was without fire and strength absolute without—the Science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious-religious—without name. Before time—wig-waggled across universal spirits—began—‘We-Be’.

Witches are—the power of lives and life and choices and dictates and control. Witches are—fire builders—raining oils—falling from somewhere-to-there—without distractions…The Coven hurls great sounds and flashes across sky and through the clouds. In worlds—Cosmic Travelers visit and see—deserts and fertile valleys and green and salt and clear pools and the warmth of Blood-taste. Escape into this city—filled to brim with witches and ghosts and spokes in times’ harmony—choirs-of-one-chorus and harmonious—enchanters along with magic—made-of—lace.

This is the time of winged fire breathers and statues of motion and beaches of rocks without sand. Horses—without wheels spin and donkey flocks—carry unarmed soldiers into war covered places—blood without sound-shriek and taste. This is—mystery place. This is—dream stop—timed—clock without time. A minute starts without beginning or time or reason—rhyme—to begin—or end moments later—and cease—both—notion and substance. Realm call and words spoken are never—sound. These words flow ‘cross bands of bounded paper in font digital—and fashions—stitch upon silk cloth and imagination.

We form the notion of eternity and dance upon timeless patches of cover—underneath—blue of skies—before rain-dusted night drive us underground—to places of swings and scenes of grass covered deserts in light and sparkle. Escape to City—the Sity—of oil rain—crumble towers and rust color skylines—tucked just below sky ceiling. Walk upon the crusted sea and into days-of-nothing-less. Across skies ago—wails of the finish—of together and life and custom and speak and thought and reason and living—dying-to-stop.

Immediately—reverses gone. Motion and the familiarity of home-stop and vision of little candles burning in—windows—home lights—world end—extinguish and gone. Sailors without sail and soldiers without war and the need to succeed in twinkling flashes disappear—across sky above earth-spin. They disappear—we end. And! End civilizations. We became world-colony and use and stop and start and stagger and another Earth diminish before new illumination and enlightenment. Strip—bare–ground quickly—we consume our way across world sweet—planet fine. ‘Off-worlders’ devour our own too many and our own slaughter of mother-world and the failing of protection—insignificant.

Fools and folly of off-world stop our only way to continue. They fail to see their vision fade into star-stream and moon-dust. They remove—our Love…He looked up and said…”Scan the sky-sweet baby. Must leave… They will kill you. Somehow—Go to them. And you will not die.” She too looked and saw his face, “Without you, I am dead…Without us we end. Without you and me— no Baby and without—we are…” Bank wide and Somme River wet—fell—physicals—sixty thousand—spirits all and stories to-be-or-lost-to-see—inside smoke—wiz-bangs—life chokes—barbed wire and tears—‘cross ‘Crimson Fields’—sixty thousand—one day long —lives too—gone.

We are few and so many—Lost-Broken-and-Forgotten…War is now! War is yesterday! War is murder! War is ‘Crime against Humanity’…Ask—or—It does require time—however—today we free-fall toward acceleration and the annihilation of Everyday.

And! Beautiful you are…

“Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In”…written by James Rado—Gerome Ragni (lyrics) and Galt MacDermot (music)…performed by Digital Dagger…