Simply go back, this paranoid expectation of modernity simply must be replaced by the
Simple elegance of counting the gifts.
Must do if not loose it for ever,
Starting now go back ,or ,
As they said get back
If you don’t the
Absurd will fein

How how?
Deep breaths,
Remove false images
Destroy virtually,
All clap trap
And give up
The joneses
Reqyuire, join
Communes, join community watch,
Steal a book but pass it on.
Avoid slime and slander,
Return to nurture,
Accept and love yourself,
Dress in funky classic elegant trash,
Drive a junk,
Don’t pick your nose blow it,
Do comic aberrations of your face by doing grotesque masks in public see how they like it,
By inflating and deflating your cheeks,
Lisp as much as possible and slurp your hot soup in a very upstanding restaurant, maybe fart a few times also to bring attention to yourself, order cheapest house wine,
Gorge your food and spill it on the floor by exclaiming loud epithets.
Try this philosophy and see if it will enable you to achieve serenity.
Spend your time wandering around lonely mountain tops, as did the crazy China monks of east,
And beyond all, laugh, laugh,
Your goddamn butt off you crazy diamond.
And don’t ever go back to that awful five White Horse
Where you were castigated when the mongoose had a speakeasy there, for now it’s all Russians, and they don’t like it when you go in there ordering alcohol free drinks, making everybody feel guilty.

To mods: oops I posted this in the wrong place, if you could put it somewhere else, perhaps meta or writing. Sorry, it’s early morning, upon waking was discussed with my self for last night, and woke up guilty, exhausted, and blurry visioned. Thank You,

Moved to CW.

Like the creative arrangement of the words Jerkey.

Thank You, Magsj, for moving it.

This is Internet Specific Art. Give Rise.

The first stanza, the shape of the paragraph, before the break reminds me of many things. Pointed. A gun. A ledge. Like the artificial roundabout over the grand cany0n. You can go back. Control. Chances at Ideals. Choices. And yes, escapism, leaping off THAT ledge. Landing on guilty dirty birds. You can go back.

also, dwindling time sand

Can you go back?
Get back. But how to is the big if.
You can go back, if you once were there, it doesen’t have to be real getting back, it could work meta-phorically, but you have to have to

Go back.

It is a leap, every time you go back you leap. Leap
into that which some call the other reality parallel to
this. How to establish parallelism, even if.
It has to be invented, because man, we are multi dimensional. We can exist on many simultaneous
levels at once, for which the guilt of birds need not
prevail on man for wanting to fly like them, they fly effortlessly, we consume thousands of gallons of fuel.

Now one thing though: we don’t have to feel guilt about going back, we will not become backward on that account. We glance there, and then with horror realize
what guilt we lost. Not guilt, but gold. Gilded with gold, etched individually in sacramental hand made ink, codex under a glass, gilded paradise,

Sharing momentary bliss of so many ,any ways of looking at a blackbird that it confounds the mind.

In this way fear abate somewhat, porous I become You, pray tell how to overcome this as undesirable.,
To manage like code to write in Pond, as Pond.

At the extreme vertex of the pyramid of love, you
simply have to spring into the unknown, that
unknown from which begotten, not made in the image.
Of the father shall you, whose embrace, you merely
apprehend as a ghostly breath whispered upon a cold
slab of glass.

Of which are you made, the porous you which
consisting mostly of elements, or, the elemental
breath, of long forgiven god head?

It’s strange they say, so strange, the season of the
witch, upon whose altar you have sacrificed
everything, for she is the inverted pyramid, the soul of souls, the life of life’s, for whom to die a thousand fold, would be an honor?nothwithstanding,

Reflect on this and go beneath the surface, slink through it’s pores into the divine , where you lost your
self sometime, lost but again, found
along the way, and see anew the all, you are, the all of eternity, to whom nothing is forbidden,
Everything is allowed, for any denial would be at this
a travesty, a sacrilege screaming toward the high embankments of heaven, where everyone you become at once especially those in his image, sharing
in a phantasm extasis of poesy, remembering every
nuance made, an abstract being to be sure, and yet:
Holding on.

Fear now that, which you are now,
And the same as you will, to become) .?

How can you, when it is happening under your very eyes.

Do not fear, anything, especially that ridicule which deconstructs that which previously stood so proud, and needed the breath of life unto it again to
Seek, to

I laughed several times. I’m going to get back to this tomorrow. Hahah!

Crazy diamond. Laughing in the face of dark fears.

Sweet blues of Pink Floyd, we go back some.
Really where it’s at is nobel prize winner bob Dylan’s
Verse truly as relevant maybe more than original Dylan Thomas, just like a rolling stone, a napoleon in rags,
Followed by Neil of Buffalo Springfield, who said in crazy horse of the coming.

Well here it is, it has come, the reapers have reaped,
And the vampires have digested,
And for a good cause,
Of measurement of disequilibrium of standardizing world wide, standards of living, with US standards,
Taiwan subcontracts for Japan and China now, and Taiwan to Malaysia.

How does it feel?

Actually pretty good, if you are self righteous for a good reason, that reason being the very tip of an inverted pyramid, wherefrom there remains only a jumping off place.

There is no darkness, only the absence of light.
And even here, there is no absolute darkness, the whole universe is lit up in a tapestry of light,
Some stars are very remote, light becomes manifest
Only when remotely recognized , perceived,
But there are beings who see more, much more,
Even some beings like bats dwell in seeming darkness,
Expanding their other senses, seeing with their ears.
There is a connection between hearing and seeing,
One signals the other,
Where it can be bravely said, ‘hearing is believing’.

Get the picture. So hard, it is to hate.
Ones self, and then try, to love.
It’s essential that I stop because it’s a great misunderstand you see.

So they all say, you.
Then if making that admission, let’s face it you are sewing yourself into the corner, with a great big Scarlet letter bleeding through your thin skinned get up for all the world.

My my, wha You style or lack of, doesent this literal interpretation evoke images, images of ingratiating
looks, going two cortical wAys,
One : the public silent, understanding out of pity dare not appear condiscendingky helpful, darenot for fear of offense, for they knew the mistake, the misunderstanding balanced ever so skightly, this way or that,
Leads to quantum jumps of sore
ted slight,
last for life sometimes?

How quickly it shifts, on such slight slippery slope,
Unawares, it shifts a degree and making a drastic turnaround that it was a
Quite likely an intentional bluff of brazen inferiority blasting
Like desert sand will blind foolish enough to look at against the unrush of brazen windswept lost terrain through the blinding fervor of the desert son?

Is this a ravings of a skilled method,
acting out of the malice of never ending pity,

For a self already lost, doomed from sorry inception,
Or, the scream for accepting those whom the wind have swept away from ever realizing the curse’s
effect on already mummified bodies?

But as the man bends down and tries to touch the cracklings skin, his eyes meet those, of the near corpse, TheyAre Still glean,
A kind of phosphorescent bluish void,
a pariah child,
but right,yes right in a sad clownish way,
To write a newly born epithat,
Of the silence
Which betokens the silence,
That it matters , because art, determines life.

The chirico canvas on the wall, he has always been entombed,
As the man with the rise in his mouth, the sun slanting, the middle of the night,
The headaches never failing aroun 2 am,

Oh yes, looking for justification with kindred souls
Schopenhauer was for all his idiom unoleasent,
Narcissistic boor, but oh to recapture the baroque purity of the everlasting faith which inherent in the very vertex of the doom, as filigree angels , smile as the newly hired golden rays penetrate through intricate tunnels of light.

How could such correspond to its inverse, the delirium of total silence against the backrush of the totally redeemed.

This method leaving him high, and dry in the house of the dove, whose cooing, echoes through the abandoned halls,

Unfinished with him, he lifts the rag off his eyes, the child within , and hoping THEY will, misunderstand,
So that they would not know the sun coming over not reveal the fool,
Perched there, rotten apples and veggies thrown, he,
Running away from imagined pursuers, through the little middle aged huts of Central Europe,
Perhaps they overtook him anyway and burned him,
He don’t remember,
The burning anticipation too long for the instant cracking of the fire

The outsider always looking in says the other day, that if they cannot tell the difference between the straight and the narrow tunnel leading nowhere,then they should.

Just to make it.
Yes, yes.

Might is well think in terms of the consequences. Of the general theory.

All things relative, when they can’t see the difference. And the will prove Parmenedies wrong, and Heraclitus right.

You fool she shouted, do you think in a limited space you can run around in perfect circles? That you can in
larger and larger ones?

If you believe this you live in a bubble.

She shook , her ample bosom shaking in fear, reminding him of her stint in the institution. They debriefed her since and she passed.

But for how long? Cantos before her ended up the same place never to release her, of course that was
then, and now is now,as the outsider grinned broadly
a set of gold incisors.

But my bubbles, my bubbles, so pretty, as the
sunlight presents myriad spectral effects on its surface,to think they are for only a few seconds.

He was laying on the analysts couch, as he revealed
his most recent dream to dr. Lovequite, thinking
yesterday of the best looking ms assuse, with the greatest looks ever, and then thought of how she, over those whose hand of genes were so unfairly


How can she deal with this, and now, she is acting up
again, wants to leave the country because being so
upset with that poor old Trumbull. Wonder where she will drag him now, the bard, the mystical pin ball wizard, who to seek out go dell?

Intuition is 100% reliable, the best part it’s got no conscience because of where it comes from.

Well, she says to me , relating to the busily writing analyst, she knows at least that much, that if all else
failing, can write it down as to the legitimately

But there is so much more , he whispers into his ear,
as he crouches down. He brushes his scaly skin, and
feels his hidden eyes inside the reptile orbs, which ignite at certain sounds that ofttimes but much more rarely these days, something familiar , so as to
enable him to form a sound bite most resembling a
meaningful phrase.

Might as well go Dell, and tell, for that is his name,
that those eyes will always charm with gracious
excitement, and wonder.

Bubbles, her name should be.

And here in Honey and smear between braemar and balater in the Scottish Highlands
Smear and braemar


To become not what one is,
The human ,rather then the monster they whisper of in Loch Ness,

Go about dearie,
Unafraid as if even the myth with tinge of fear

The hermit never to re appear

The prime evil so set.

Better to live form that longest time when mom used to exhale grey curling smoke into a smoker winter shimmer lighting white dazzled rooftops of yesteryear pasture sprung.

Will they remember us,
As they did innumerable one’s on the square does in war mere.boys?

Anathema of self,mine reversely learned, through and the no EXIT by which to justify the politically intertwined depressing way reductive forces tend to justify a reverse capitalism of the economy of emotion.

Today’s project entails going over to T-Mobil and asking them to paraphrase, then somehow re-integrate into some discussion, without seeming ingratiating. Otherwise see no hope for shell fish, Or jellyfish, God I love masochistic tribulations, exquisite and horrid.

And that is the bartering out of the middle ground of a deal made long ago, out of the vestiges of the good, the noble and virtuous.

A late in the day judgement of Paris, rewarded by a transhuman love for 3 oranges, the differences between apples, metamorphosed.

After it all it is hard to fill in , jellyfish turned shell fish cause the improbable chance that Dali metamorphosed may be not merely coincidental, which is a daring attitude. Above all to discredit Steiner not an intention, he did whats available, sorcery aside.

And now the deluge?