Scam of Abundance

 Focus family! I am deeply humbled to invite you to participate in a very spiritual fractal exponential Divine Family, co-creating a mandala of abundance with sacred geometry and community. Together in unity we will embody each of the elements on an infinite journey of dream-weaving in surrender and abundance, giving unconditionally to a sacred economy to support each other in manifesting our dreams.

This spiritual journey of sacred infinite abundance begins with embodying the element of fire, flirting with the law of attraction, and along with seven other immortal souls, sending an unconditional gift of $US1440 to the divine being embodying water in the centre of our sacred mandala of abundance, overflowing with generosity from the eternal chalice within your heart.

Our mandala then splits in two and you syncronistically flow into embodying the sacred element of air, blowing over the sacred landscape of our collective activated heartspace by inviting two sacred yes beings who resonate with the magnificence of our collective vision to join our family of love and light and financial abundance, making sure your sacred breath supports our 16 new fires, eight in each mandala, to make their unconditional gifts of $US1440 each to each of our new sacred water beings and keeping our mandalas inflated and aerated.

Flowing in divine grace into the embodiment of the element of earth as our two mandalas become four, you will channel the energy of our beautiful Pachamama to ground our connected family, helping ensure 32 new members join and each unconditionally gift $US1440 so we all may advance.

Having moved through each of the elements week by week in harmony with the cycle of our divine moon you will experience fullness and completion as you finally embody the most sacred and precious of all elements, water. In the centre of one of the eight unique and special mandalas, as the heartbeat of the loom, as the inspiration for our family, the positive love-light that illuminates us all, the most spiritual and sacred of all utterly deserving beings, you will receive the abundance of eight of our 64 overflowing new fires and their unconditional gifts of $US1440 totalling $US11,520 to spend on the manifestation of your most transcendent dreams of infinite abundance. Your ego will dissolve as you allow yourself to surrender to receiving such infinite abundance.

I know what you must be thinking: How can a system based on the need for infinite exponential growth, if the number of people must double every time we move to a new level, if before we get to the end of the tenth mandala we must involve more than twice as many people as exist on earth, possibly bring abundance to everyone? Surely it will collapse at some point, as all things do and all the people who have not yet entered the centre of the mandala will feel disappointed and cheated? That's exactly the point. It's not you that is asking that question, it is your trauma-based fear of abundance, it is your negative need to perpetuate the scarcity mindset you have been taught. It just shows that your heart is beyond closed. Yes, it's a pyramid scheme, but isn't everything a pyramid scheme these days, isn't our whole economic system based on those in the centre taking from those on the outside without having really done anything to earn that money? If you go into this sacred sacred pyramid loom mandala scheme consciously, with good intentions, how can it possibly be bad?

It is important that you enter our divine family in full awareness that when you make your generous gift you may not receive anything in return, and that when you invite others to join, they may never receive the abundance they deserve in return for their trust and commitment. But that's the point. You are deciding in blind faith to trust the flow of abundance, a deeper connection with community, creatively weaving a supportive web of abundance for some; you are feeling a sacred yes, you are committing, you are surrendering. There is no real good or bad, everything is about intentions, and our intentions are definitely good.

Yes, 960 people must be involved for all the people who paid you to get paid, it is mathematically impossible that it works for everyone, but maths is not going to advance your soul towards enlightenment, only the unconditional belief of everyone. Let's step into our hearts again and stop letting fear ruin our heartspaces. There is no true or false, only different perspectives. If you have no fear-based negative expectations then how can you be disappointed? If you are stuck in the conditioned mindset of tangible limits I invite you to think and feel into the infinite. Allow yourself to grow beyond the tangible into the spiritual and you will experience infinite abundance for eternity. Love and light, family, love and light.

I am not impressed

I am not one of you.
I am not of this place.
I am not a sterile alien
in an environment mediated
for my comfort and convenience.

I am not impressed
by your pretentious stateliness,
your hollow decadent sobriety,
your cluttered simplification,
your demonic rationality,
your psychopathic paranoid security,
your technological connected isolation,
your nihilistic self-conscious alienation,
your incomprehensible layers
of ironic PC cynicism,
your empty distracted busyness,
your guarded defensive attempts at socialisation,
your beautiful plastic carcasses
taunting my desperate loneliness,
your sterile industrial filth,
your abstracted categorised scheduled
attempts at spontaneity and joyous expression,
your reactionary self-justifying
fear of anything remotely different,
your angry ancient humiliated defeat,
your opinions,
borrowed from deformed malignant celebrities,
your offence,
reeking of violent disgust,

Your pleasures of the flesh
are merely self-abuse and delusion.
Your freedom
is selfish irresponsible isolation.
Your democracy
is entertainment.
Your consumer capitalism
is just a flurry of hysterical advertisements,
shamelessly manipulative,
to justify emptying the earth
and filling it back up again.

Your entire wretched civilisation
disgusts me,
makes me want to gouge out my eyes,
castrate myself in hopeless horniness,
harden my heart with bitter cynicism,
or run away into the wilderness.
(I choose the latter.)

I see through your pretense.
I don't believe you.
I see you,
trying to be fake,
painfully real,
painfully feeling, noticing,
undermining your own observations.
I see your brittle tender humanity
tucked inside your personalised
plastic packaging.

But I haven't been paying attention
to the hype, the cultural conversation.
How am I supposed to be talking now?
Am I naive or offensive?
I don't understand.
I have stepped away too many times.
I'm too far gone.
I'm not like you anymore.
I'm not a part of your futile games.
I'm just a confused beast
just self-conscious enough to look normal
most of the time.

But messy silly fun in the wilderness
is obscene and illegal in the city;
and I cannot reconcile that
with my need to not wall myself
in a private garden of despair.

But right now
I love you.
It hurts me
but I love you
and I want us to travel together
in the forest, up the beach,
into each other's hearts and trust.

Somehow I still have faith
in your ability to break through.
I possess precious memories of
moments of mutual discovery
that are more real to me
than your robotic role-playing.

I am merely human, transforming,
amorphous, ignorant, intuitive, emotional.
I need love, intimacy, mutual respect,
honesty and purpose.
I refuse to imprison myself in
a suffocating private paradise.

I want to sleep under the stars
or in my tent,
on the earth,
wrapped up warm
with you, in embrace,
without thought,
deep sleep
and
deep wake
into a vivid morning
transcendent in the new day,
no tendrils spreading me around the world,
unwaveringly present,
flowing through a simple beautiful life.

Perfect Mathematical Symbols

The mythology of our culture is that we are special in an unprecedented way; we have finally attained the rosetta stone, the ark of the covenant, the holy grail, the knowledge of good and evil, objective science.  We look back in pity at the civilisations of the past; theistic, superstitious, foolishly believing that their peculiar mythologies held any weight in the absoluteness of reality.

We believe we are very lucky to be alive right now.  We are secular, we are educated, we no longer believe in the futile mysteries and rituals of the past that seemed to separate people from the banal mundanity of reality, that which we find so undeniable and boring.

We understand that we can look back on the past with objective processes and make pretty good judgements in our ignorance of what fits into each of the grand poles of our sacred binary, true and false.  We can categorise all literature into fiction and non-fiction, as if some words contain perfect holographic pieces of reality and others are merely fantasies of the human mind.

We know intuitively what language is and how to experience it.  We go into a theatre and sit down; the lights go down, the lights come up, and we totally identify with the world displayed before us, we have a full emotional and intellectual response, remaining aware that it is theatre.  The lights go down, the lights come up and we resume our lives, having neither rejected nor been deluded by the play.  We are moved or inspired, we integrate the language of the play into an understanding that is the basis of our universe.

The universe is as we imagine it to be.  That is why we call the arbitrary constructs of our bureaucratic institutions the "Real World"; whereas to create a life in the wilderness, serving and depending upon the processes of nature, is to live in our own personal fantasy.

This is the world demanded of us by the Reptilians, by the One Percent, the world we consent to whenever we send our children to school.  The world of the ages, of mythology, of magic, of mystery, of entities and astral dimensions, of divinity and sacredness, has been proven to be a self-delusion.  It's not true and it never has been true.  All past humans were ignorant and only now are we on track.  We know we don't know anything, but at least we know what we don't know now.

At least we can completely shroud our lives in information and entertainment until we don't have to experience them anymore.  At least we can capture reality, from the atomic to the astral, in perfect mathematical symbols.  Those symbols may be too complex for us to understand, but it's nice to know someone understands them and can thus hand down the tablets of reality from the holy mountain of the laboratory.

One day, we hope, all of reality will be contained in perfect mathematical metaphors, all mystery will be explained away.  Safe from ambiguity in our perfect world, all the jargon of science will have trickled down into common language.  The world will make sense.  We will be perfectly conscious of our irrelevance, we will have become provable abstractions, no longer succumbing to subjective experience, no longer experiencing the world at all, no longer merely human, the perfect world conforming to our perfect models.

A Lucid Failure

This is the text of a performance I gave at the 2015 Melbourne Fringe Festival.  I was intending to produce a play called Lucid, but I failed and instead performed this monologue.  You can also listen to an audio recording of the final performance.

[I enter in smart-casual attire.]

~

Today I stand before you weak.  But I am not ashamed.  I have been strong before, I remember what it feels like.  I know how to get back there.  But right now I am weak, clothed, civilised.  I have no gifts, no riches, no joy or inspiration to offer you at this moment.  I offer you only a taste of my despair and desolation; my story.

You came here tonight to see something I was unable to deliver.  But perhaps my failure is as worthy of your attention as my success may have been.  You may have come for entertainment; and if so, I apologise.  You may have come for nudity and scandalous displays of humanity, and in this I will do my best.

I have come here tonight to stand before you fully naked, because I think the human body is a work of intense beauty, and that gentleness, vulnerability and honesty are the most powerful ways we can interact.

I wrote an intimate and challenging play, intending to assemble a team to rehearse my convoluted play until we could perfectly replicate it on cue, but I failed.  I wanted to present vulnerability and intense presence in an entirely contrived and artificial form; and I know, it sometimes works, I have seen some great theatre.  But instead, all I can offer you is the real thing.

I'm sorry, I'm just a person.  I'm not a character, I'm not a metaphor.  I am an immense and ancient entity in a delicate physical body.  I can dress for the occasion but nothing prepares me for the world like being totally naked.

Skyscrapers of bullshit

I dare you to challenge me in my intensity.  I dare you to penetrate my intensity with your reality.  I'm not talking about an aggressively emphatic positivity or cynicism or sophistication, I'm talking about the shamelessly awkward and the painfully beautiful and the mystery.

Cos I can do bullshit, I've done bullshit.  It takes a lot of energy but when it works it is wonderful.  But I can never sustain it.  My physical body communicates loudly and clearly with my bullshit body and consistently undermines my illusions.  My physical body is a living aspect of this living world and it flows and cycles with the rhythms of nature. 

I guess sometimes I'm in dream or in entheogenesis or between incarnate lifetimes and - who knows - maybe there I can project realities out into the world, but here I am on Earth, channelling soil and water and air as food through my metabolism, channelling the same food as all the other creatures in this world.

Yes, I live in this contrived world called City, but I'm not confident of its absolutism.  I'm not sure its existence is acknowledged throughout my entire body or throughout the rest of nature.  Are you real, City?  Or perhaps a more pertinent question, can I believe in you sufficiently?  At least sufficiently to participate, to belong, to have a career maybe?  Is it possible to believe that much?  Is it possible to defy what my body communicates in order to participate, to be a part of things? 

The real world calls out to me and my body yearns to dance barefoot on the naked earth and dive into cold rivers early in the morning and to make love under the midday sun until our bums are burned red.  But I am told the city is where it's all happening.  This is where history is unfolding and the future will be made.  This is where the hopeful and the hopeless people have congregated and where they pool their hope and hopelessness, trying to find some revolution or long-term relationship.  I guess this is where it's easiest to project our majestic and pathetic fantasies onto reality.

So why did I come here to City?  To create a beautiful fantasy of bullshit that I can not only believe in but live in?  Or to destroy illusion, break down my own rural bullshit, use the gifts of my primitivism to undermine your urban bullshit of media, entertainment, enforced civility and sterility.

Can we discover each other beyond the divide of our idiosyncratic unrealities?  Surely we're really here, manifest in the same tangible reality.  Can we touch each other in this reality?  Can we trust each other?  Are we brave enough to reveal the nakedness of our undeniably warm fleshy vulnerable bodies?

I don't know what happened.  I was disappointed, I was disillusioned, I was confronted.  I'm afraid my bullshit was penetrated by people with whom I shared trust and whose trust I betrayed.  And now I stand naked and alone, despite my friends and the real love we share, despite these absurd fabrics hanging off my body, despite this blessed opportunity to address you beautiful, gentle and intelligent people.

I don't know whether I'm trapped now in my own bubble of unreality or whether I'm wandering illicitly in the wilderness.  I'm searching for an oasis in the desert, I'm ready for a ray of sunlight to break through the dense foliage, or to come across a warm hut in the dark night, or a body whose scent reassures me and I can breathe in peace for a moment knowing that no fantasy is necessary to sustain a human embrace.

Snake

I was told my power animal was a rat when someone saw how good I was at shoplifting, walking out openly with a bagful of stuff, finding cosy places to sleep everywhere I went.  But I was never very comfortable being a rat.  It's not very sexy.  I wanted a better power animal.

And one came to me in a dream.  I dreamed that I woke up, got out of bed,  and went outside to find a fox staring at me in calm alert presence before dashing off into the bush.  A fox!  As sneaky and feral as a rat, but also wild and beautiful, with the luminous eyes of a loving dog and the potential for danger or gentleness.

So at our power animal guided meditation this summer I expected to see a fox.  I walked through the landscape I was guided to imagine as it slowly became more vivid, looking around for a creature I could relate to.  I was holding a staff, walking with it, feeling its power, when I suddenly thought of Moses.  I threw the staff to the ground and it became a snake.  I reached out my hand and the snake returned to my hand as a staff.  I had been carrying my power animal with me the whole time, always having that potential in my hand, to transform into a snake.

Sneaky, quiet, passive and yet potentially dangerous; sleek, sexy and close to the earth.  For some it might be terrifying to have a snake slither up your leg, bite you on your ankle or your thigh or your...  For others maybe it's quite thrilling, especially when at any moment, that snake can pull back and I am not a cold-blooded reptile, but a warm body with a pair of luminous eyes that reveal everything about my loving intention.

It was a snake in the Garden of Eden that tempted Eve to eat the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and she ate that apple, and the juice runneth over her lips and down her chin.

The Christians claim that the snake was Satan, the deceiver, but Joseph Campbell claims that in every culture except the Judeo-Christian-Industrial-Economy culture, the snake was always the primary deity of the garden and that Jahweh was a peripheral deity, though clearly trying to make it big, favouring one race over all others and spreading across the world with the power of genocide and agriculture.  Jahweh is still the primary deity of our culture, the atheists worshipping him as ravenously as the fundamentalists.  Jahweh supposedly doesn't exist anymore, but he's the same god of genocide and agriculture, now a secular god called The Economy.

The snake is still the deity of the garden, perhaps, its belly always close to the earth, a deity who is close to the goddess, the mother of all life, who gives the apple to man, Adamah, who is also of the earth, despite his lofty ideas and the strange demonic voices whispering in his head.

I grew up in a Christian Capitalist culture, a member of the chosen people, the pure whites, to whom the planet belonged, as far as the eye could see.  We already had satellite imagery, so we could see the whole planet, and so it all belonged to us, one master race under god, with liberty and justice for sale.

But I ate the apple and after that crude oil milkshakes tasted nauseating and I would argue in the street with evangelical Christians and try to undermine their numb-minded sincerity.  I would argue with evangelical Capitalists in uniforms at train stations, or security guards who kicked me out of my shelter into the rain in the middle of the night, trying to sow seeds of doubt into the idiot sincerity with which they were "just doing their job".  We never know what seeds eventually sprout and grow, but we do know that antagonism provokes defensiveness.

I know I can shed my skin when I need to.  I can leave behind my own numb-minded sincerity and the idiotic culture I've allowed to leak into my psyche.  I can be a rat hiding alone in my little hovel and I can be a snake and eat that rat whole, simply upon deciding to do so.

And here I stand, appearing reasonable and civilised, but knowing that this staff in my hand can at any time be thrown down and I can become a snake.  I can shed my skin, I can change my name, the way I dress, the way I talk, I can become a new person, reborn into a new life.

I can leave behind a life of loneliness, antagonism, moral superiority and freedom, I can refine my words on the ears of the sophisticated until they are sharp and effective.  I can subvert the straight and tense by slithering up their muscular leg and biting them on their ankle, or their thigh, or their...

I can integrate, I can shed my skin, I can give up my values and maintain my integrity.

I can drink chlorine and my thirst will be quenched.

But I yearn for more, I settle for no compromise.  Nothing will satisfy me but total power or total annihilation.

I am who I say I am.  Nothing will come between me and the world but my inevitable death and the reliability of that death reassures me that I cannot take this too far.

I want to drink your semen every morning like a shot of espresso from your ecstatic ejaculation.  I want a new lover every new day.  I want to reveal myself so they all know who I am.

Yes, I shop at the stupormarket now and yes, I keep my myki topped up, but I am not another hetero slave, I'm a fucking faggot shaman, you fools.

[ssssssssssssssssssssssssssss]

Not damaged

I construct elaborate fantasies around sensitive men who have not consented to being cast in my lonely love stories.

I often destroy genuine connections with the unnecessary awkwardness of my impetuous imagination.

Sometimes when I agree to meet someone at a later date I place them in my masturbatory sexual fantasies and mysteriously, when the time comes, they are evasive and don't want to meet me anymore.  Apparently my ability to repel those I am attracted to with desperate intensity is telepathic and reaches across time and space.

I work so hard to be attractive and then spectacularly undermine my own efforts by being a fucking pervert.

I want nothing more than that which I know is impossible.  I want paradox manifest as flesh and I want that flesh warm and sweetly smelling like man.

I want everything I don't really want and I'm willing to sabotage it to save myself.

I'll sabotage everything I can experience, everything that is gifted to me lovingly, because there's nothing more unattractive than the neediness of another human being.

My mother knew I was a faggot when I was a toddler, finding me fast asleep in the wendy house at kindergarten where the girls had tucked me into bed.  Due to some facile religious idea she half-heartedly tried to discourage me from having sex with men, maybe knowing she would fail.

Less half-heartedly she told me about the man she fell in love with as a teenager and married, pregnant, at 18.  He was abusive and dismissive and didn't live up to the gentle archetype of her loving father.  She would tell me, "A man should never hit a woman.  A man should never touch a woman unless she wants him to." and all the weight of my mother's strength, and all my love and respect and admiration for her fell upon that phrase.  How could the strongest person in my world beg an abusive man not to leave her?

I was told that some men hurt children, doing nasty things that traumatise them for life.  So when I was eight years old and I was coerced by an older boy into touching each other's dicks, and when I played sexual role-play games with my older brother, I was convinced I had been "molested", and for ten full years I believed I was intrinsically damaged, that this damage defined me, and that I could not tell anyone.  I became good at secrets, I became good at shame.

The decade in which I kept this secret was the decade in which I realised that I am queer, alienating me from the primary institution of our culture, while my entire life revolved around the most homophobic environment I have experienced, high school.

Now I am proud to be a faggot and I'm living in Brunswick and what've I got to do but get laid and find love and build trust, right?

Do I even know what the object of all this unquenchable yearning is, beneath the images pornography have burned into my brain, beneath the infantile relationships modelled on Californian cultural propaganda, beneath the cultural norms and social institutions that I am totally incapable of participating in, that are built under the assumption that I don't exist?

I don't want to model my relationships on sitcoms and cartoons and when it comes down to it and I'm naked with another man I really don't feel like emulating that pornography that gets me off so easily when I'm alone.

These models are vapid and homogenous, they serve no purpose in my life.  I feel like a precarious line of text writing my way further and further out onto a blank sheet of paper, nothing to guide me and no one around.

My mother committed suicide within a month of my 21st birthday and so being an adult for me is to be without idols, without illusions and without role-models.

I know what's real when I experience it, I can feel it in my body, I know the difference.

But who's here to match me in my desire, who's here to confront me with my misapprehensions, who will be present with me in the shamelessness of my shame?

Will I be present when someone decides to love me?  Will I defy that love because I know I don't deserve it, or I deserve better, or cos they just want me for my companionship and my human warmth?

I can handle your pain cos your pain empowers me to help you; nothing brings me greater happiness than to see you flourishing.

Nothing generates more heat in my body than the proximity of your body.  This is physical.  I can't help it.

I am falling out of the sky right now and I just hope I land somewhere I am safe to rest a moment, cos this world we've made can be so hostile and dangerous, so gentle and accommodating.

The loving power of attraction

I am a pervert impeded only by my respect for those I am attracted to.  I want to consume them like a delicious meal whose intense scent makes my tummy rumble, but it has to be voluntary.  It's really not fun unless the intimacy is a mutual desire to know each other, to protect and nourish each other.  There's nothing wrong with a bit of exuberant sweaty sexiness when everyone understands and is comfortable with its meaninglessness, but I'm reaching for something deeper.

Why am I sexually attracted to straight men?  Some masochistic desire to deny myself?  Some dangerous idea of a challenge?  Or maybe I know that when a straight man allows me to gently graze my fingers down the tender sides of his torso, or lightly touch my nose to the open pores of his neck in naked embrace, then the purpose of our encounter really is to communicate, to open ourselves, to touch another human being across the tortuous divide of our individual incarnations.  It is not enough for me to find someone whose peculiar fantasies match my own so that we can get each other off pleasantly for an hour or three.  I'm looking for something else, but I'm still letting my sexual desire guide me.

Perhaps our attractions, momentary though they often are, are deeper and more profound than we usually acknowledge.  Maybe our beings are interconnected in ways that we cannot fully know or comprehend.  Maybe beauty is a form of communication, and when someone is beautiful to us they are demanding our respectful attention.

I have the utmost respect for the messages my body sends me, surely the only reliable source of information about how to exist in this world.  When someone's beauty draws me towards him - I don't know why I am mostly attracted to men in this way - I feel an empowering surge of energy, love and focus.  I give this man a focused attention I would not bother with if my attraction had not drawn me towards him.  I try to breathe into the intensity of this feeling, to not scare him away in his civilised vulnerability, and whether I like it or not I respect him enough to not leap on him and consume him like an overripe mango or a stolen block of chocolate.  I look into his eyes and wait to see if he's brave enough to match my gaze.  I move towards him to see how proximity feels.  I want to touch him, I want to talk to him, I want to smell him, but what I want is not important.  What's important is that which moves between us.

During the summer, when I was strong, confident and full of lusty joy, a young man smiled at me at a festival and I was instantly in love.  I saw him leaping around like a big dumb kid, two metres tall, 19 years old, surely as horny as me.  One day I finally approached him, I gave him a head massage, he relented further into a back massage before we finally spoke.  That night, with my heart pounding and my genitals filling with warm blood, we snuggled together and talked.  He had a lot to share with me and for some reason I was the exact right person to tell.  For hours we talked and I listened joyously in the warmth emanating  from his clothed flesh.  He allowed me to press up against his unspoken but unambiguous boundaries and I was happy to give every particle of love that my attraction provoked.  When the conversation was finished he said goodbye and rushed off into the night.  Though I was still so horny I had to masturbate to relieve the tension, I felt totally satisfied that our connection had been completed, that the mutual moment that my sexual attraction had drawn me into was fulfilled.

Apparently we had a mutual need that his beauty made apparent to me, I confronted that beauty, uncertain of what would be required of me, but comfortable in our mutual ability to see and hear one another's needs and feelings.

So what if I develop a trusting friendship with a straight man with whom I am sexually attracted, whose painful and delicious beauty compels me to give him the attention I would otherwise not bother with?  Is my love real or am I just trying to get him naked?  Will he trust me that my love is stronger and more real than my perversion?  That my respect and desire are totally indistinguishable?  Can we fully embrace each other and what is emphatically real between us?  Or must we fear the confusion of moving beyond the cultural roles that are supposed to define our relationships, as if every needy, joyous and sacred moment we share can be correlated to a series of distinct categories?

I cannot relate to any of these categories, so if my behaviour disturbs you you have to tell me.  To me, every moment of genuine connection is something new, a step beyond a culture that separates with words from the world of experience.  It is entirely unknowable, rather it is tangible, we can smell it, and feel it in our belly.

If we feel safe, if we feel so inclined, we can draw closer together.  We can find a place where the state will not charge us with obscenity and we can enter fully into the surrender of trust and intimacy, whether sexual or emotional or linguistic.  In this moment, my perverse sexual fantasies are profoundly irrelevant, and yet it was my insatiable sexual attraction that drew me towards you initially.

Why do I call myself Faggot or Queer in this lifetime?  "Faggot" comes from the fagus tree, branches of which were used to burn witches or heretics at the height of European theocracy.  At this time "heretic" was indistinguishable from "homosexual" and so it is that faggots like me are the heretics of a culture that seeks to homogenise our diversity.  Even gays are supposed to get married and get mortgages now.

Having failed to destroy homosexuality the theocratic culture we all continue to perpetuate is seeking to draw all faggotness into its narrow bubble of normal.  They tell me my faggotness is supposed to separate me from the luminous beauty of your relative straightness.  I refuse.  I am not gay, the opposite of straight, I'm a faggot, which has no opposite.  Perhaps I'm lucky to not live in a time when the stake is my opposite and burns me at the state as a heretic.  Perhaps for this reason we need not be so brave to reach across the divide and touch each other.

Why do I call myself Queer?  Because my role in my tribe is to queer the straight, bend the rigid and blur the boundaries; to confuse the rational, to embody the ambiguity and to kiss you if you want me to.  I won't tell anyone.

I am real

There's beauty fucking everywhere, am I not supposed to desire it?  The beauty tears my heart out and drags me towards it.  This beauty is people.  I want these people.  You.  These people are you.  I want to touch and smell you.

What?  Are you going to call me a fucking rapist?  A pervert?  No.  I'm a fucking faggot.  That's who I am.  And I want to get naked with you.

Forget the pornographic images in your damaged brain.  Forget it.  Here I am.  I'm real.  I have desire.  I am a man.  I have testicles and testosterone.  I have a fucking cock and so does every man. 

Every man has a cock, like me.  But not like mine, your cock is different.  I want to see your cock and meet your cock and taste your cock.

But that's okay if you're not ready.  Let's start with the eyes.  I know I'm full of pain and desire and ecstasy.  I feel my animal body every second of the waking day.  But I think too.  My brain's no fucking animal.  My brain is civilised.  Educated.  I was lucky enough to grow up with the most wishy-washy inoffensive Christianity ever devised, but I got my religion. 

I got my disgusting body and gays like to each other's penises in each other's bums and watch out for the paedophiles.  I got don't get into cars with strangers who pretend to be your parents friend.  I got sometimes you go through a phase.  I hid the shameful secret that I was a sexual being for a full decade 'til I was 18 and it was too intense to contain.

I was told it's not safe here.  Put up your fucking barrier.  Hide behind your fucking cell phone.  Desire from afar like you're in a glass fucking box and go home where you're safe and look at photos on Facebook of real people and project them onto pornographic images of real people and dream of real people while there are real people right through the wall of your bedroom and that person sitting next to you, he's real too. 

And I am real.  I might be intelligent and painfully self-aware and self-obsessed but I'm pathetic and irrational too.  I am emotional and needy and sexy and fucking magnificent. 

I have read poetry to a straight man in the rainforest in the clouds and then sucked his cock 'til he ejaculated in my mouth while it rained on my manuscript. 

I am alive.  I am real.  This hair on my chest is real.  I've earned it.  I have greys in my beard since my six-week emotional breakdown in Golden Gate Park, sleeping amongst the eucalypts, eating shoplifted superfoods on picnic tables by the fake waterfall that needs a pump.

I am real and my fucking horniness is just love made filthy by my filthy fucking culture.  Our culture.  Claim it.  It fucking stinks like shit but here we are, pretending to be above it all. 
Pretending to not be human, not be animals, not be mammalian monsters with cocks and cunts and none of this is crude it's just our language, it's the Anglo roots of our language.  It's not vagina, Latin, it's cunt, Anglo.  This is who we are. 

How fucking weird that I can do this, I can say this, but then here I still am, there you still are, we're both still wearing clothes, neither of us are crying, neither of us are comforting the other, neither of us are recovering from the perversity of the world we've created.

Here we are.  White Australia.  We did it.  Colonisation complete.  A fucking total success, like it never happened.  Like it's always been this way. 

What else did we colonise?  Our children?  Are they civilised?  Are they white?  Will we let the black ones through if they wear clothes?  If they wear clothes.  Will you let me say anything I want, if I wear clothes?  Will you let me get drunk and vomit in the toilet, if I control myself?  Will you let me love you, if I don't touch you, talk to you or look at you? 

I'm not in love with one person.  I walk down the street and there are people everywhere.  They scream, "Come.  I'm beautiful.  Touch me.  Love me.  Talk to me.  Respect me.  I'm here.  I'm real.  I will not reject you."  And what do I do?  I keep walking.  I'm terrified.  I don't know what's going to happen.  I'm not safe here to feel things.  I'm only safe to buy things, to do things, achieve things, get places. 

Connecting with random people on the street, just cos they're beautiful?  No.  That's not how it works.  You know that's not how it works, that's why you keep walking.  It has to be accidental.  You have to be introduced.  You have to have mutual friends.  You have to find yourselves suddenly and spontaneously alone.  You have to act like you don't care and you can't fake it.  It has to be real. 

My entire body is on fire all the time.  I'm sorry for my crude language, my love is anything but crude.  I say I want to violate you and it's true, but I respect you and I'm not doing anything without consent; without joyous consent. 

I'm not doing anything unless I know for sure it's going to positively transform your life.  Cos my love and my passion are the same thing.  My desire to respect you and to smell your dripping cock are mutual companions. 

I'm not crude, I'm not a pervert.  I'm not a sexual fucking predator.  I am me.  I am here.  I am real.  I'm a fucking faggot and I intend to manifest that as fully into my life as possible and into this pathetic religion we call culture. 

I don't know what it's going to look like.  I'm studying the shamans, the pagans, the heretics, the ecstatics, the mystics, the lunatics, the poets and the fucking borderline autistic schizophrenics.

But I'm a faggot.  I have a body, a heart and a life.  I am here.  I am real.

  !

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake (p1-15)

THE ARGUMENT

Rintrah roars & shakes his fire in the burdened air;

Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

Once meek, and in a perilous path,

The just man kept his course along

The vale of death.

Roses are planted where thorns grow,

And on the barren heath

Sing the honey bees.

Then the perilous path was planted:

And a river, and a spring

On every cliff and tomb;

And on the bleached bones

Red clay brought forth.

Till the villain left the paths of ease,

To walk in perilous paths, and drive

The just man into barren climes.

Now the sneaking serpent walks

In mild humility.

And the just man rages in the wilds

Where lions roam.

Rintrah roars & shakes his fires in the burdened air;

Hungry clouds swag on the deep.

~  ~  ~

As a new heaven is begun, and it is now thirty-three years since its advent: the Eternal Hell revives.  And lo! Swedenborg is the Angel sitting at the tomb; his writings are the linen clothes folded up.  Now is the dominion of Edom, & the return of Adam into Paradise; see Isiah XXXIV & XXXV chap:

Without Contraries is no progression.  Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence.

From these contraries spring what the religious call Good & Evil.  Good is the passive that obeys Reason.  Evil is the active springing from Energy.

Good is Heaven.  Evil is Hell.

~  ~  ~

THE VOICE OF THE DEVIL

All Bibles or sacred codes have been the causes of the following errors.

1.  That Man has two real existing principles, viz: a Body & a Soul.

2.  That Energy, called Evil, is alone from the Body, & that Reason, called Good, is alone from the Soul.

3.  That God will torment Man in Eternity for following his Energies.

But the following contraries to these are true.

1.  Man has no Body distinct from his Soul for that called Body is a portion of Soul discerned by the five senses, the chief inlets of Soul in this age.

2.  Energy is the only life and is from the Body, and Reason is the bound or outward circumference of Energy.

3.  Energy is Eternal Delight.

~  ~  ~

Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained; and the restrainer, or reason, usurps its place & governs the unwilling.

And being restrained it by degrees becomes passive till it is only the shadow of desire.

The history of this is written in Paradise Lost, & the Governor, or Reason, is called Messiah.

And the original Archangel, or possessor of the command of the heavenly host, is called the Devil or Satan and his children are called Sin & Death.

But in the book of Job Milton's Messiah is called Satan.

For this history has been adopted by both parties.

It indeed appeared to Reason as if Desire was cast out, but the Devil's account is that the Messiah fell, & formed a heaven of what he stole from the Abyss.

This is shown in the Gospel, where he prays to the Father to send the comforter, or Desire, that Reason may have ideas to build on, the Jehovah of the Bible being no other than he who dwells in flaming fire.

Know that after Christ's death, he became Jehovah.

But in Milton; the Father is Destiny, the Son, a Ratio of the five senses, & the Holy-ghost, Vacuum!

Note.  The reason Milton wrote  in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.

 A MEMORABLE FANCY

 As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius, which to Angels look like torment and insanity, I collected some of their proverbs; thinking that the sayings used in a nation mark its character, so the Proverbs of Hell show the nature of Infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or garments.

When I came home: on the abyss of the five senses, where a flat sided steep frowns over the present world, I saw a mighty Devil folded in black clouds, hovering on the sides of the rock: with corroding fires he wrote the following sentences now perceived by the minds of men, & read by them on the earth:

     How do you know but ev'ry Bird that cuts the airy way,

     Is an immense world of delight, clos'd by your senses five?

PROVERBS OF HELL

In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

Prudence is a rich, ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.

He who desires but acts not breeds pestilence.

The cut worm forgives the plow.

Dip him in the river who loves water.

A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.

He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.

Eternity is in love with the productions of time.

The busy bee has no time for sorrow.

The hours of folly are measured by the clock; but of wisdom, no clock can measure.

All wholesome food is caught without a net or a trap.

Bring out number, weight & measure in a year of dearth.

No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.

A dead body revenges not injuries.

The most sublime act is to set another before you.

If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.

Folly is the cloak of knavery.
Shame is Pride's cloak.

~  ~  ~

Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.

The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs.  Excess of joy weeps.

The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.

The fox condemns the trap, not himself.

Joys impregnate.  Sorrows bring forth.

Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.

The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.

The selfish, smiling fool, & the sullen, frowning fool shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.

What is now proved was once only imagined.

The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant watch the fruits.

The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.
One thought fills immensity.

Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.

Every thing possible to be believed is an image of truth.

The eagle never lost so much time as when he submitted to learn of the crow.

~  ~  ~

The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.

Think in the morning.  Act in the noon.  Eat in the evening.  Sleep in the night.

He who has suffered you to impose on him, knows you.

As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.

The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

Expect poison from the standing water.

You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.

Listen to the fool's reproach! it is a kingly title!

The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.

The weak in courage is strong in cunning.

The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow; nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.

The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.

If others had not been foolish, we should be so.

The soul of sweet delight can never be defiled.

When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius; lift up thy head!

As the caterpillar chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.

To create a little flower is the labour of ages.

Damn braces: Bless relaxes.

The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.

Prayers plow not!  Praises reap not!
Joys laugh not!  Sorrows weep not!

~  ~  ~

The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands & feet Proportion.

As the air to a bird or the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.

The crow wished everything was black, the owl that everything was white.

Exuberance is Beauty.

If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.

Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of Genius.

Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.

Where man is not, nature is barren.

Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believed.

Enough! or Too much.

~  ~  ~

The ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.

And particularly they studied the genius of each city and country, placing it under its mental deity;

Till a system was formed, which some took advantage of, & enslaved the vulgar by attempting to realise or abstract the mental deities from their objects: thus began Priesthood;

Choosing forms of worship from poetic tales.

And at length they pronounced that the Gods had ordered such things.

Thus men forgot that All deities reside in the human breast.

~  ~  ~

 A memorable Fancy

The Prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel dined with me, and I asked them how they dared so roundly to assert that God spoke to them; and whether they did not think at the time that they would be misunderstood, & so be the cause of imposition.

Isaiah answered: "I saw no God, nor heard any, in a finite organical perception; but my senses discovered the infinite in everything, and as I was then persuaded, & remain confirmed, that the voice of honest indignation is the voice of God, I cared not for consequences, but wrote."

Then I asked: "Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so?"

He replied: "All poets believe that it does, & in ages of imagination this firm persuasion moved mountains; but many are not capable of a firm persuasion of anything."

Then Ezekiel said: "The philosophy of the east taught the first principles of human perception: some nations held one principle for the origin, & some another: we of Israel taught that the Poetic Genius (as you now call it) was the first principle and all the others merely derivative, which was the cause of our despising the Priests & Philosophers of other countries, and prophesying that all Gods would at last be proved to originate in ours & be the tributaries of the Poetic Genius; it was this that our great poet, King David, desired so fervently & invokes so pathetic'ly, saying by this he conquers enemies & governs kingdoms; and we so loved our God, that we cursed in his name all the deities of surrounding nations, and asserted that they had rebelled: from these opinions the vulgar came to think that all nations would at least be subject to the jews."

"This," said he, "like all firm persuasions, is come to pass; for all nations believe the jews' code and worship the jews' god, and what greater subjection can be?"

I heard with some wonder, & must confess my own conviction.  After dinner I asked Isaiah to favour the world with his lost works; he said none of equal value was lost.  Ezekiel said the same of his.

I also asked Isaiah what made him go naked and barefoot three years?  He answered: "The same thing that made our friend Diogenes, the Grecian."

I then asked Ezekiel why he ate dung, & lay so long on his right and left side?  He answered: "The desire of raising other men into a perception of the infinite: this the North American tribes practice, & is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification?"

~  ~  ~

The ancient tradition that the world will be consumed in fire at the end of six thousand years is true, as I have heard from Hell.

For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to leave his guard at tree of life, and when he does the whole creation will be consumed, and appear infinite and holy, whereas it now appears finite and corrupt.

This will come to pass by an improvement of sensual enjoyment.

But first the notion that man has a body distinct from his soul is to be expunged; this I shall do by printing in the infernal method, by corrosives, which in Hell are salutary and medicinal, melting apparent surfaces away and displaying the infinite that was hid.

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is: Infinite.

For man has closed himself up, 'til he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern.

 

~  ~  ~ 

 

A memorable fancy 

I was in a Printing house in Hell & saw the method in which knowledge is transmitted from generation to generation.

In the first chamber was a Dragon-Man, clearing away the rubbish from a cave's mouth; within, a number of Dragons were hollowing the cave.

In the second chamber was a Viper folding around the rock & the cave,  and others adorning it with gold, silver and precious stones.

In the third chamber was an Eagle with wings and feathers of air: he caused the inside of the cave to be infinite; around were numbers of Eagle-like men, who built palaces in the immense cliffs.

In the fourth chamber were Lions of flaming fire, raging around & melting the metals into living fluids.

In the fifth chamber were Unnamed forms, which cast the metals into the expanse.

There they were received by Men who occupied the sixth chamber, and took the form of books & were arranged in libraries.

from The White Goddess; by Robert Graves

My thesis is that the language of poetic myth anciently current in the Mediterranean and Northern Europe was a magical language bound up with popular religious ceremonies in honour of the Moon-goddess, or Muse, some of them dating from the Old Stone Age, and that this remains the language of true poetry - "true" in the nostalgic modern sense of "the unimprovable original, not a synthetic substitute".  The language was tampered with in late Minoan times when invaders from Central Asia began to substitute patrilinear for matrilinear institutions and remodel or falsify the myths to justify the social changes.  Then came the early Greek philosophers who were strongly opposed to magical poetry as threatening their new religion of logic, and under their influence a rational poetic language (now called the Classical) was elaborated in honour of their patron Apollo and imposed on the world as the last word in spiritual illumination: a view that has prevailed practically ever since in European schools and universities, where myths are now studied only as quaint relics of the nursery age of mankind.

Strip Ourselves

I am barren with desolation.
My life is a well of emptiness with a ladder that I choose not to climb up and out of.
I am trapped in my own assumptions and conveniences.
Pity me not, but love me and desire me and invite me to foreign paradises.
Become a yearning throbbing genital of the earth and draw me in, become my lover or my confidant, exist with me in the most intense sobriety of presence.
Cry with me, become pathetic, sob into my warm body and slap me 'til I sob too.
Let our naked bodies feel exposed and safe together, let our genitals meet in calm acceptance.
And then we shall dive into the ocean and she shall take us as we are and strip us of our pretensions.
We do not enter her with togs or with surfboards to hide from her or conquer her, we allow her salty goodness to refresh us and deposit us in a sandy sunny world not entirely the same as the one we dived in from.
And then we burn our hair and our clothes in a fire of driftwood and we no longer subscribe to the shame and personality that have obscured our power most of our lives.
I am naked beneath my clothes and I am a real living human being beneath my culture.
I am hot-blooded, breathing and desiring, weeping alone and overwhelmed with the beauty of a veiled humanity before me.
I cannot rave at the masses because my sanity holds me back almost as much as my fear of arrest.
I am the masses and I am listening carefully for the secret to unlock my life from the profane time adulthood has thrust upon me.
I remember sacred time from childhood, and I have rediscovered it in the wild, in the pure wilderness of earth, in the wildman in my body and in the purity of my fellows.
How can I tell you I want to eat you without appearing as a sexual predator?
How can I tell the world I want to be eaten when I am so comfortably marginalised by my comfy social democracy?

I transform the moment I am experiencing into the eternity we all deserve.  I reject the historical crisis we have talked ourselves into as I reject the culture that has structured this conversation.  Time begins anew whenever we choose, when we celebrate the New Year, when we submit to the ocean, when we strip ourselves and walk out into the night.

Patterns of birth and death

The only memory of our homes found by archeologists will be the fruit stickers in the compost,

all the rest will be looted for resources by the deteriorating many of our descendents.

I know it will all be gone as I know I will die,

because I believe in time.

The illusion is obvious, it's now hip to reject Reality,

the linguistic entity that defines our lives.

Sensitivity draws me towards the details of times' plurality

like the plurality of dreams,

but the extent to which these universes exist

is the extent to which I can talk about them with my friends.

Communication creates my reality, and communication rejects what I do not like.

Time heals everything

                                        that shame does not obscure

                                        that is exposed to the light

                                        that is not breaking into dense carbon beneath the surface of my skin

                                        that is spoken into honest air

                                                    with friends and lovers

                                        that is not subject to censure by The State.

It rises to the surface,

painful as a volcano,

spews its wrath,

releases hate-gas into the atmosphere;

the trees breathe, the earth eats, the waters rise and fall,

themselves cleaned by rain and salt, patterns of birth and death.

Paterson by Allen Ginsberg

What do I want in these rooms papered with visions of money?

How much can I make by cutting my hair? If I put new heels on my shoes,
bathe my body reeking of masturbation and sweat, layer upon layer of excrement
dried in employment bureaus, magazine hallways, statistical cubicles, factory stairways,
cloakrooms of the smiling gods of psychiatry;
if in antechambers I face the presumption of department store supervisory employees,
old clerks in their asylums of fat, the slobs and dumbbells of the ego with money and power
to hire and fire and make and break and fart and justify their reality of wrath and rumor of wrath to wrath-weary man,
what war I enter and for what a prize! the dead prick of commonplace obsession,
harridan vision of electricity at night and daylight misery of thumb-sucking rage.

I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins,
eyes and ears full of marijuana,
eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border
or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman;
rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun;
rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati;
rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies;
rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los Angeles, raised up to die in Denver,
pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain,
come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage,
streetcorner Evangel in front of City I-Tall, surrounded by statues of agonized lions,
with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp,
screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, annihilating reality,
screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of the world,
blood streaming from my belly and shoulders
flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and highways
by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones hanging on the trees.

The Maori Jesus, by James K. Baxter (1966)

I saw the Maori Jesus
Walking on Wellington Harbour.
He wore blue dungarees.
His beard and hair were long.
His breath smelt of mussels and paraoa.
When he smiled it looked like the dawn.
When he broke wind the little fishes trembled.
When he frowned the ground shook.
When he laughed everybody got drunk.

The Maori Jesus came on shore
And picked out his twelve disciples.
One cleaned toilets in the Railway Station;
His hands were scrubbed red to get the shit out of the pores.
One was a call-girl who turned it up for nothing.
One was a housewife who'd forgotten the Pill
And stuck her TV in the rubbish can.
One was a little office clerk
Who'd tried to set fire to the Government Buildings.
Yes, and there were several others;
One was an old sad quean;
One was an alcoholic priest
Going slowly mad in a respectable parish.

The Maori Jesus said, "Man,
From now on the sun will shine."

He did no miracles;
He played the guitar sitting on the ground.

The first day he was arrested
For having no lawful means of support.
The second day he was beaten up by the cops
For telling a dee his house was not in order.
The third day he was charged with being a Maori
And given a month in Mount Crawford.
The fourth day he was sent to Porirua
For telling a screw the sun would stop rising.
The fifth day lasted seven years
While he worked in the asylum laundry
Never out of the steam.
The sixth day he told the head doctor,
"I am the Light in the Void;
I am who I am."
The seventh day he was lobotomized;
The brain of God was cut in half.

On the eighth day the sun did not rise.
It didn't rise the day after.
God was neither alive nor dead.
The darkness of the Void,
Mountainous, mile-deep, civilized darkness
Sat on the earth from then till now.

She took with her

When my mother took her life, she took the life she had helped me build with her.  Everything that was bright and exciting in my life was built on the steady foundation of her support and encouragement.

I do not know why she thought her death was a positive decision.  Did she not have faith in me, as I had faith in her?  Did she not believe that a mother and son are always such?

I struggle now for a heart to expose myself to, and find only indifference, sex, philosophy, vapid suggestions, poetry and an impenetrable apathy and nihilism.

What we call hope in this world is willful denial, blind adherence to preordained goals in an ever-changing and complex world.

What we call faith is a blind and violent destruction of everything truthful and real, a raising up of banalities and plastic figurines in defiance of the Supreme Divinity forever visible to those those brave enough to look.

What we call love hesitantly peeks through the routines of convenience and humour, terrified of the intensity and perversity and filthy nudity of a love that penetrates us everywhere - fiercely in a single shared moment - and doesn't necessarily result in contracts and domestic arrangements.

We fill our sadness with objects - not too beautiful, not too sexy - pathetic in their limits.  Not to remind us of our best moments - exuberant, dangerous - authority and culture forgotten!

Before paranoia, before the ugliness and violence of the world became so unavoidably central, before fear of the world, I had a mother who believed in me, who knew what I knew, though our irrelevant thoughts were different.  I had a life that stretched out into a future, out into a world - out into a world that would be breathless and impressed in my presence.

Now there is a pervasive silence and endless empty streets in identical cities all over the planet.  Nowhere to go when everywhere is the same.  Familiarity in the most extreme.  No one to be shocked.  No one to hold me unselfishly.  No one I would go to unselfishly myself.

She made her decision, sucked her life out via the portal of a common poison.  So common we all spew it out into the atmosphere every day.  We all kill ourselves and each other little by little daily, pretending we're alive.

The world is dying and my mother told me with her own death.

She gave me life, love, hope, and then she cursed me with a lifetime in knowledge that we're all dead.

I can never forgive her, cos she's not here to forgive; I cannot resent her cos she's not here to resent.

There are seven billion humans on this planet and not one of them is my mother.

My father is a teenager.  My best friends are all infants and I am supposed to pretend to be an adult.

I am an unweaned baby with no breast to suckle on.

The religions and entertainments my countrymen suckle make me sick.  The dairy industry my nation is built on is not a viable source of nutrition.  Eating and fasting make me feel equally disgusting.  The houses I was raised in make me feel weak and humiliated.

She's dead and the son she knew is dead.  There's a man sitting here, writing.  A man she will never know.

The world succumbs.

The world succumbs.
We are enveloped into the enfolding.
We join the retreating wave of biomass.
Another species no longer hoping.
No more convenient delusions to survive us.
No more development of our civilisation.
Science as ignorant as the day it was born.
Nothing to save us from ourselves.
No noble cause to die for.
No morality to alleviate our guilt.
Not even a home to return to at day-end.
Mother buried in the void beyond understanding.
Not even our children will survive us.

I am still here, facing certain death.
You are still here, I face you too.
Nothing to say beyond the wind of exhalation.
Surrounded by a deafening silence.
So much space and time to behave in.
Everything to do but nowhere to start.
So much love, but never enough.
Just the potential of 12 hrs of overcast sunlight every single day.

to God's perfect Darkness [thank you, Allen Ginsberg] [thank you, my triangle]

Death be upon us all in the realisation of our karma
Death be upon us all in the leap of faith into dangerous depths of love
Death be upon us all in the consequences of our bodies
Death be upon us all in the recurring dream of our denial
Death be upon us all as we linger frightened for lifetimes on the precipice of our inevitable completion
Death be upon us all in the transcendence of our perfection from the materiality of time
Death be upon us all in the mercy of an unforgiveable failure
Death be upon us all in the blessing of our forgiveness of others

Death be upon us as the harsh truth of necessity
Death as the change that saves us
Death the abandonment of generations of accumulated hatreds
Death as the swept-away invigoration of the River of Life
Death, the Gatekeeper of Infinity

Death, the answer to every question
Nature's perfect restoration of balance
The god of mercy and transformation
The baptism of fire
The world we've dreamed of in fear and unbearable yearning from birth
The debunking force of every human cosmology
The dusk at the end of every day
My greatest fear and hope
The only solace we can rely on

Death be upon those who fear it the most
Death be upon those who choose it in their sad lives
Death be upon those whose bodies cannot contain the intensity of life
Death be upon those exhausted at the completion of a necessary task
Death be the blessing of a Culture long-gone-wrong
Death be the triumph of those whose natural integrity have alienated them from their own culture
Death be the Apocalypse we've all been praying for

Death be not the beast in the darkness with which we threaten each other
but the gift at the completion of Hope, the completion of Karma, the fulfillment of the wholeness of this moment

In the beginning was the word; in the end will be the word

In the beginning was the word.

In the beginning of the story is the word; in the beginning of the world the story depicts - the world the story inadequately conveys, the universe that the story dishonestly embodies - is the spirit, the unmanifest, formless, unspoken, the unspeakable, that which simply is.

On this particular day God, or someone without a name, spoke into existence the form in which he would temporarily experience the spirit that hovered over the surface of the waters.  The waters, it seems, are the conduit between the spirit and the form, the unmanifest and the manifest.  The water is receptive and selflessly conveys messages between these two dimensions, often bringing spirit into form through life in the material world.

God is like us humans and his every motivation, his compulsions and his true nature is largely hidden by the incessant noise of the voice in his head, obscuring everything but its own insanity.  Because of this no one remembers why God did what he did, any more than we know why we speak religions, wars and industrial economies into existence.

Often after doing something and not knowing why, God will simply wait for it to finish, knowing everything manifest is limited in time.  Or he will use the time to figure out why he might have manifest such a thing and what lesson it could possibly teach him about himself and about he universe.  At what point are we now in this process?  I suppose we are deep within this lesson of God, anticipating the end but with no idea where the end might lie.  It seems we've lost sight not only of the beginning of this process, we have lost sight of our present position, so desperately focussed on the end as we are.

If God can speak into existence the beginning, can we speak into existence the end, we wonder?  Or can only God speak the end into existence?  And if God can do so, why has he not yet done so?  Surely he's figured all this out by now and can end it all and inform us of the punchline.  Surely, we say.

So perhaps it is us who must declare the end, like we declare war.  In so many ways we have already attempted to say the right words, to declare the end, to announce to the manifest world that the story ends here, or at the end of this sentence, this paragraph, this chapter.

In the end was the word, and the word was spoken by the species who suffered the most, and who caused the most suffering, and the darkness on the surface of the waters was permeated by light, and the light illuminated and revealed all the curves, all the rhythms and vibrations of the waters who make up the living systems of the manifest world on the Planet Earth.  The waters know what time it is, and when the time is right the water will flow with an unrelenting momentum along the most gentle path to the vastness of the ocean, that of which we humans know so little, that of which we respect and fear much more than we would admit.

How can the beginning and the end be so close together?  How can the beginning and the end be so far apart?  Has this God abandoned us?  Is he observing dispassionately?  Does he love us and wish the best for us in some vague ineffective manner?  Is he the image of our own distant all-too-human father who we project onto the dark panel of our forgotten?  Is he the will and the intention and the powerful creator within us, obscured by the symptoms of our schizophrenia, falsely externalized and objectified to avoid the responsibility of manifesting our own necessary apocalypse?

In the beginning was the word, at least as I remember it, because I do not remember the beginning, my culture and my education have obscured the genetic memory that connects me to my ancestors.

In the beginning was the word, because all I remember is the story told about the beginning, made fully of words, revised and retold very recently.  When I truly listen and try to comprehend these words that reverberate through my body as the rhythms in which they are spoken, I become very confused and disoriented.

These words, this story, are like a nasty paranoia, separating me from the world in which I was born with my own resistance, my own anxiety about my inability to resonate with the vibrations offered to me.  I listen to this official story again, it is the same story, I notice, that is told in the schools, in the cinemas, in the speeches of presidents and parents.  It is the same story told in 99% of our books, 99% of our conversations and 99% of our laws.

I am trained in the perpetuation of this story, so when I don't listen, when I do not notice the vibrations moving through my body, the vibrations which may or may not manifest the first cancer cells to consume my earthly form, I can correlate the story with all the buildings, all the institutions and all the expectations in my environment.  Everything which does not correlate with the story falls into two categories: that of which we can deny the existence, and that which we can dismiss as "Nature".

"In the beginning was the word," I read in a weighty underrated overemphasized book that blatantly defies everything that is said about it.  I feel strong and confident and I dangerously allow the words to reverberate through my body as the spoken vibrations which they transcribe.  I am briefly confused by my inability to correlate the official interpretation with the intelligence innate in my body, my manifestation in the manifest world, my conduit between my home-universes.  I realize the words I am reciting in my head, read from the pages of this exceptional book, tend to create an image in my mind, like a projection onto a blank canvas, and do not seek to acquaint me with the reality I experience through the conduit of my body, therefore there is no reason why these words should resonate with my body.

I breathe easier and the paranoia eases off, I relax and am able to perceive my environment more easily.  I observe with my senses, create images and theories with my mind, and constantly try to place myself in relation to everything I find.  I test everything against the body with which I experience reality.

"'In the beginning was the word'?" someone says.  "What a crock of shit!  In the beginning was genetic determinism."  They tell the story of the determined Gene who made us all in his own image, who loves us and compels us to be fruitful and multiply and spread his good news around the world, subduing and repressing all other species in favor of the One True Gene, on Gene to rule them all.

In the beginning was the word remains because God must have used some word to speak this process into existence.  The best I can come up with is AUM and I get together with hundreds of people in nature and we hold hands in a circle and chant our word long and slow, with a full deep prolonged breath as a single word.  We focus and we respect the process and afterwards, in silence, we check the resonance with our body, with the sky and with the earth.  We notice the calm, the peace, and the acceptance with which the elements receive this syllable.

But the dream from which so many of us are aware we need to wake, this unusual and unknown and now unconvincing process that God spoke into existence at the beginning, persists and we must continue to live within its bounds.  We know little about this process or the reason for it, but we know that it is unacceptable because we are experiencing it as humans and the world we have culturally manifested does not promote human life.  We notice our dependence upon and interconnectedness with all life on this planet and we notice the cultural process persist in destroying all life on this planet and the environments in which life flourishes.  We notice the love we use to orient us, to stabilize and guide us in this world subjugated in favor of money as a guiding force and how love makes us feel beside love.

This world is unacceptable, we tell God, and he does not respond.  We tell our peers and they stare at us blankly; they don't care.  We gather together with others who have noticed and who care and we no longer need to state the obvious.  We do, however, need to continue living in this world, and moving through this process.

In the beginning was the word and in the end will be the word, but they may not be the same word.  We attempt various formulations and keep record of our closest approximations to the word that will finally bring about the ending that we're all anticipating.

In this world, regardless of the relationships we have with this or that deity, anticipation is not enough.

We are responsible beings, intelligent, creative, empathetic, adaptable, and we all must manifest this word in whatever form comes most naturally to us, that correlates with the innate responses of our body, our connection to the manifest, our connection to the unmanifest, the conduit for spirit and life and finally truth, that Holy Grail, that elixir which may just bring down this whole unholy edifice, this Babel Tower, this false god, this refuge from responsibility; the resonant realization that will release us from ourselves, from Jahweh and Allah and from the selfish gene, these demons who do not exist and therefore we cannot understand.

~

Don't tempt me with the few insidious myths that provide futile solace to my often overwhelmed heart.

When we breathe deeply we not only calm and centre our body and its modulating emanations, but we inhale the scent of our environment, we smell the hormones and the pheromones of each others' bodies, released via our pores.  We inhale the particles of light that we cannot see surrounding each of our bodies and we learn a lot that we cannot necessarily speak or think about with the language of our birth.

We are present for each other and that's all that matters.  I can feel the warmth and scent of your body and I feel love though I do not examine the conditions that accompany that love or the timeframe during which it is allowed to bloom and blossom.  I do not cling to it any longer than necessary and if I do I simply experience slightly more pain before inevitably letting go.

When it's in my stomach it's mine

I translate memory into language and store them in stories.  I believe too much of what I tell myself to be free and too little of what I am told to be respectable.  I fluctuate with drastic anarchy and return to some temporary equilibrium.  Technically I'm always me but I don't know who that is when I'm not at home and my home can change from day to day. 

I am surrounded by a beauty I cannot possess so I eat stolen food because when it's in my stomach it's mine.  I want to kick the habit of disempowerment but I'm paranoid I'll offend the state.  Prohibition signs scare me more than anthills or strangers.

I want to receive the human glory of every beautiful man I meet but to receive one must first ask.  Only the vast ocean is big enough to receive the expanse of my love. 

I choose not to limit my imagination with boundaries nor my life by imagination.  The best things happen to those who are ignorant.  I breathe myself into existence; I breathe myself into intense presence; I try to breathe in unison with my lover.

I am free to run but must dodge the psychopathy of uniforms.  I bleed only when it is necessary to rupture my aura with the mini-death of healing or pain.  I am a hyper-dimensional psychic entity and must eat a lot to sustain my social normality.  I reluctantly explain and justify my presence and observe my form become syntax; this disturbs a part of myself I cannot attribute linguistically and therefore does not exist. 

Theoretically much of my behaviour is illegal, but no one arrests me.