The Smile of the Unvanquished

Hopelessness, futility, "the senses stripped", the black flag planted in my skull (Baudelaire, 'Spleen' ): if you roved around in my dreams, those plagues of recent date, you would find a world of gray chaos, where violence is rampant and sorrow a lucullan feast. The deceased chained to bed filled with catheders,the mental ill sculpt into rigor, eyes in pain, mouth agape in supplication, hurt never erased. Reproach everywhere. Cluttered and stale rooms, halfway buried memories, pygmee goats buttheading you in a fight for domination to show you up, pests scurries around your feet and white-colar ghouls try to claim you into their ranks,always in terms of submission. The Grand Guignol inflicts pain of a psychic order; hope smothered, disorientation and beyond one's wits searching wildly, anxious and yet not defeated, resolute, angry and somehow three steps ahead of the tendrils and suckers, for a way out of this pandemonium. You run through streets and façades tha

I always maintained that a balanced mind is achieved in open, cleared and void spaces, a retirement from from the chaos and fickleness that takes hold of our lives trapped in society, work, even family.... It certainly works healing for the short dash, or as a repeated therapy, a ritual performed with a certain and fixed frequency... But I'm not so sure of that helps in the long run... this ceremony can become a flight from discontment, that fails to find another mode of expression... or it devolves in some kind of addiction, like everything else ordinary and good, and tried, thanks to a familiarity in putting the mind to non-active and settle into that comforting ceremony... However, a balanced mind could be the umbrella term for a range of qualities that create a special, particular and unreducible personality. Strong and couragious, sharp-minded, original and apt to open new visions and perspectives, and so forth... Even hatred can be transmutated to a force then, one that is co

I have these nostagic flashbacks recurring, which makes me smile towars the blue yonder.... walking off to a time now lost, faded to an almost surreal veneer... As if in the present we dwell and choke for a droplet of life among the ruins and the dust, our souls reduced to a needle cushion upon which brutality and shame pin everyday, while nothing entices anymore, and motivation remain vacant.... A smothering atmosphere that blinds the senses, makes the heart decrepit, tears down ideals, and puts apathy and lethargy side by side, each on a throne, ruling masses who live in absence of life and in absence of death....

If there's no reciprocity, everything fails, give to receive in turn.... you need to make a hollow in the soil to grow a plant, but to let it root and abstract the nutrients from the soil, the emptiness must be cleared with soil and pressed solid, or the plant will grow askew or die....Some hollows are though ...but pits, where nothing can grow than ghosts of what could have been...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCNelxxc1JE "Scary monsters Super Creeps Keeps me running" The scariest monsters are probably walking disasters in human form; they rage and harry, deplete your strength and resources, leave you behind like a foundered wreck, and old ghosts swim to the surface to haunt a mirage blotting out in the distant wall of the horizon.... So time consuming for nothing to achieve... That parasitic kind... the walking disasters, ghouls so full of their own shallow pretense...

A: "Who are you really?" B: "I'm your friendly nightmare. The one that sits well with you, and reminds you of what you should be and what you can attain if you will it" B: " And now I tell you who you are: you're not the one of many who feeds itself with anguish to wallow in it and perish... you just seek up a storm, a making of your own will, a thought experiment, while you already know where to head, and what plan and organisation, logistics if you like, you need to carry though to get your hand on destiny... Now forget what I said, dream on, and walk tall... struggle, achieve whatever you can, and make the path and your destiny yours, not as a property but a flow of experience, an emanation of what your nature's core holds... dream on the storm.... "

It's an auld and nearly forgotten fact of life that whom is outcast from the sphere of greed and profit usually will show compassion and will give rather something they can miss, than to hoard it to all cost. Whether it's time, money or a bowl of soup and some bread, it doesn't matter as they have firsthand experience ...of what it means to see nothing but dark murky days and vast solitude. Many take sumptious baths, lift their bodily traits and embalm themselves in perfumes and deodorants, but while they're surely refreshed (of what exactly? does their dull and obnoxious lifes knacker them by the end of the day? does it hurt to leech and exist for shallow perspectives?), no action of this purifies their soul and neither is their way an shrine for heart of gold...

Here's something that hordes of coloureds and North Africans might sing from the top of their lungs while their marching into Europe: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzivmOQWkVQ&feature=related Hit the North My Cat says eeeee-ack Hit the North 95% of [hayseeds or corn-pone], guaranteed Computers infest the hotels Cops can't catch criminals But what the heck, they're not too bad, they talk to God Religioussssss Hit the North Manacled to the city, manacled to the city All estate agents alive yell down nights in hysterical breath There's no lights so pretty Those big big big wide streets Those useless MPs Savages... Hit the North (Manacled to the system) From the back third eye psyche, the reflected mirror of delirium, Eastender and Victoria's lager, the induced call, mysterious, comes forth - Hit the North (Savages) Hit the North Now have a look at this citation to understand how the situation was long before we relinquished our supremacy over the world: "AFT

in the mist,he picked up the call of the foghorn. there he made his way through the bracken, the nettles and the rocks to find haven in the light tower. a blustering gale sank its icy talons into his skull, though when he saw the true source of the howling roar, he behold a giant beast, hungry, desparate and alone. blades of teeth snapped him up, devoured the mammal insect, frustration now quenched, bellowing fatuously raised spirits. and the man's soul was indeed in some haven, but'twas not heaven, although it was at least, warm.

a leaf floats along a rivulet, and on that leaf, an insect, tiny core of clenched virtues, made base, unwitting victim of peradventure meddlings, foolish zest or to emulate itself in face of the inscrupolous ordinariness of tried path and behaviour. and it knows that soon somewhere out there the carrier will be trapped amidst the growth of the bank, or sink into the murky water, smothering in the fumes of rotting green, and it knows too that at each stage he may as well fly off, no hostage to any quagmire, decreed against a sentence anytime. that it sails up the blind watercourse to its terminus, wherever this one may lead, shrugging off the weight of atlas, while it lifts its body on its glassy wings, upon which the sun sparkles in flashy percussions of delight, to the breezy air that once broke off that leaf from a stalwart tree...

Scum sometimes I am so damned emotional and angered, playing at first things down by quirky humour, dry and absurdist at the same time, and behaving like a dour hard nut, but then I refuse to accept their iniquity and almost drown in the foaming drool of my madness, stirring my blood, straining my veins, flexing my liquified muscles to fight, lucidly knowing that my crusade will be as successful as any exploit by Don Quichotte, the reckoning of the heroicWehrmacht at the Eastern Front, the pleading death-rattle of an emphysemic old geezer, a baby's smile before it pleases the Lord Jehova to take its cadavre to heaven. I lurch into passion's intoxication, wielding stiff and rigid the teeming hatred of my ancient soul to crush the vermins of this world out of existence, with a pain and grief beyond forgiveness, with the horror and blood leaking from my cavities, the venom of my spit, the frost of my esmerald predatory eyes, so drunk to relish the hate, the hate for all these fuck

The Song of the Astral Oarsman   Beyond the moon, beyond the stars, floats my raft across piebald nebulae drawn farther along by my prowess earned through sweat and blood and the dyspnoeal winds coughed up by a brooding vermillion star, conjunct forces of unlikely associates, but as miasmic woes cut into whispering moans, excaltation swirls in sultry approbation of abomination, spit, semen and blood fizz with life, infectious ectoplasma rampant for a greed that trades the sequence of birth to death berth in a mirroring dialecticism, and reverse it again, to branch off  measured yet unbound, unfolding the canopy of our polypious perseity, so am I aware that my journey will harvest many tributes, awe minds, inspire hearts and bolster spirits, whilst my name will only sow frowns and torpor among many others, long after I signed off  as my own archetype and my dust lay slumbering on celestial bodies... But now my attention is steeply pitched to this black invitation! I rake decidedly into