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back The Picture Thief by Peter Wilson Number of episodes: 13 Words of previous episode revealed to each author: all of story Written between 6 Mar 2003 and 7 Mar 2003 One night in Nigeria NZ - 3,800,000 Nigeria - 120,000,000 30 x Recall the first time. The truth about every second word is... ...knowing everybody's got somewhere to go like wind borne seeds, floating on the breeze setting down on dirty stagnant water Believe Black To Be up Being That which Has been Will be Found Again. Golden boys from the forth reich Hollywood by Leni Riefenstahl The eyes mirror is cracked in Purial America Prototype cowboys with bottle-top heads. Wrap up warm, the weather looks indifferent. The Lights of puberty The fading fading Mall Girls Drink-up Self-belief. Nigeria - tribal. Government - corrupt. The leaders steal the oil money. She's a precious girl, You're lucky to have her trust. Now she's opened up to you There no time to hold back Love, like still-water, Is rushing water, now She dips her hands. Stagnant pools of thought. No more drinks get drunken. No more flowers to forget Tonight. In this bar alone my nerves - are strangers, So suspicious. Paranoia Takes new forms. Philip from Nigeria - what a nice chap. Pendants unsmiling faces Mandala details. What poison is this? From inner-space. Poison gas from inner-space. My brain is cotton wool, the fumes have got to my head. This place reeks of semi-combusted rainbows. People look strange, their limbs don't seem to be on right, having arms and legs seems unnatural now, they look tacked on. ...the lust from the past, from the dead, it is not overwhelming, now... ...Amoebic memories... "Belief is shattered by a party who believes in their own (and others) public (projected) image/s." Not to fight desire, nor to give in to it. Desire is impermanent like everything else. It grows stronger the more attention is paid to it. Let it skip on by, happy puppy, it will stroll along to new trees and lamposts, new adventures and petty distractions. Breakaway, fall, float like cinder ash dead leaf memories wilt and molder, curl and crumble. Getting turned on is natural - in the continuum of sexuality - the desire / attraction is not right or wrong, but in obsession / addiction to a pattern of desire / attraction is like all habits - dead. Wash away the dead ways, the grime on your windows - cleanse yourself. Not following or conforming - acting like dead gods - it is in your heart where joy is always anew. Joy is not found conforming as others (or you yourself) image-in you to be. Images are addictive Addictions are destructive Extremes of imbalance Like a dead Miscus insect, now, Sinking, slow. To see things / people as images of desire is always wrong. Desire-them-you not the external or projected from you image-in. Kick the junk by positive action - positive involvement in the real: life/people/time/space awareness. It is too easy to switch off into dead habit / pleasure-desire cycles. The basis of society is image - like junk it is addictive and distorts mind and vision - once conditioned - the person hooked. Balance - a sense of identity - not too strong (delusion) - nor too weak (confusion) - no fixed anyone means dis-intergration, balance - the key is awareness. Addiction to the delusion of permanence. Desire is consumption disguised as an end, impermanence disguised as permanence. The old dogmas fell then crass commercialism took over that sleeping snake, underneath - no systems - no patterns. (all patterns?) Wisdom is not of the flame, nor the cinders. Joy is not pleasure, it is seeing without desire. Bloated notions of self, self-identity let it (them) slide this major problem in all societies, because the notion of self is sourced in/by - desire/ competition/ fulfillment. Hollow eyeless false energy. Images are addictive - exercise is a cure - can help you kick, move - physical energy takes latent energy (mental) and makes (active) physical energy. The process is creative and empowering. They have come to believe in their public image. look natural ? seem strange ? quote peace ? support wars ? everyday economic violence ? lusting from the past? dead minds. In low places for a while, we bade our time 'till the sun did shine. Every moment forgiven, not a dead thing but a real being, grown in mercy, turned from pride, dead to ego and the confusion of tides, only joy now is what we are. Our mistakes feed us, both good and bad coexisting, creating in impermance, we are dynamic every-moment, knowing guilt is fear of change. No matter, you're free and beautiful, forgotten from labels and free of moments. Why do they let the kids run so wild, because they're so constrained, and for the dead dull minds there is a glimer, a voyeuristic joy. Getting selected patterns As unreal bonds and bonding. False promises Dogma and chain Contradiction, complacency, double standards Terminal necessity On the trade winds No defining that the act itself is poor mimicry of The people around here confirm what you know Groups form, blinkers on From reality, from what is going on - blindness in numbers - tacit agreement to mirror corresponding delusions to the other. I saw it a moment ago that all but sleep descends now Every thing is beauty, now is forever when you see people as they really are and die to memory, joy floods your being instantaneously, now you know you cannot harm or kill, take vengence, for hurt is gone, fear is gone. You are love. What matters? How you see yourself and others, or how you actually are? The conflict pulls people in - despair, blindness, ignorance - but there is always more than one way. I–I / Now-mind Little or no relation to real so conflict separation trauma pain becomes - truth only becomes more distorted with time, truth is out of time. Real / I-I people are unquantifiable or qualifiable - impossible to quantify (ascertain) - impossible to quantity qualities (judge) Images are approximations, are used as distortions with little relation to real life. Conflict pain of course people image fixed thinking violence / force of will = right. Being blind to blindness they separate I from all I's(you's) through (with/ by) images which are always false due to their basis in memory." Nothing is sacred except people. You are Irrepressible I want to rise with you Effervescent Talk to you. You are Beyond these pillars And stones, as delivered delusive art. So I just smile, While I know I look demented, But I am lifted with you And the joy you inquire. In poison images floats such folly My fancy once, twice, did mire. Images not people Madness is widespread I knew this as a child The difference between what is and How we act. Deal, treat With other unique as Real indivisible selfs It was so strange feeling this in child-mind. There is nothing to think or say In the sun today, Grace. Monsters live in storybooks, evil is more high-brow, Working with paper guillotines, black ink over red. You think that time is on your side, that deferment is at hand, Still you’re only trapped in someone else’s predilection of right Meekly waiting for the law to break your honest hand. No, two wrongs don’t make a right. Learning to be real (what you always are) - If you watch yourself without judgment then you will see why you do things and don’t do others. - Remember Hierarchies support and perpetuate delusional image worship, both of self and other than self. - Hierarchies, groups, justify indifference – simply because you belong and therefore others have to not-belong and are not worthy or less worthy of attention. - This is the violence of everyday – the violence of every moment. This is violent respectability, exclusivity, failure to recognize other sentient human beings as being (as is’s) in themselves. - Wealth and power is used to disguise, to hide pain, and fear of death. “See the distrust and fear in her eyes, the Prada handbag ain’t much of a disguise.” Power Hierarchies combined with notions of right create indifference and decrease empathy to / for other people. They actually increase harm by limiting mercy. The speed of which one man will rat-out his fellow corresponds with how much the person in question believes in dead ideology as opposed to the reality of other human beings. We all have weaknesses and make mistakes, ideologies would have us believe that these should be the same, uniform – that mercy or forgiveness cannot be granted for one without upsetting the uniformity of justice. What is justice – only a dead ideal, each person should be treated as individually forgivable as the next. Deal with the person as a person, not as a result or variable of justice. Organization deadens natural human empathy. Structures that encourage feelings of: “I am better” are widespread. Empathy is destroyed by ideology – real people obviously suffer from being abstracted, even if the intentions are good.(for a lessening of suffering) No rules are helpful. The law does not serve us, but we it. God is life, not dead religion, god is people living now, seeing now, knowing and living – for external conflict, internal conflict are interrelated and indivisible, they create and sustain each other. Living in now and I-you communion, each real treated as actual, not image projection, nor reception. “Still playing follow the leader, grow up please!” There is nothing to think or say In the sun today, Grace. Monsters live in storybooks, evil is more high-brow, Working with paper guillotines, black ink over red. You think that time is on your side, that deferment is at hand, Still you're only trapped in someone else's predilection of right Meekly waiting for the law to break your hand. No, two wrongs don't make a right. Learning to be real (what you always are) - If you watch yourself without judgment then you will see why you do things and don't do others. - Remember Hierarchies support and perpetuate delusional image worship, both of self and other than self. - Hierarchies, groups, justify indifference, simply because you belong and therefore others have to not-belong and are not worthy or less worthy of attention / respect/ love. - This is the violence of everyday, the violence of every moment. This is violent respectability, exclusivity, failure to recognize other sentient human beings as beings (as is's) in themselves. - Wealth and power is used to disguise, to hide pain, and fear of death. "See the distrust and fear in her eyes, the Prada handbag ain't much of a disguise." Power Hierarchies combined with notions of right create indifference and decrease empathy to / for other people. They actually increase harm by limiting mercy. The speed of which one man will rat-out his fellow corresponds with how much the person in question believes in dead ideology as opposed to the reality of other human beings. We all have weaknesses and make mistakes, ideologies would have us believe that these should be the same, uniform, that mercy or forgiveness cannot be granted for one without upsetting the uniformity of justice. What is justice, only a dead ideal, each person should be treated as individually forgivable as the next. Deal with the person as a person, not as a result or variable of justice. Organization deadens natural human empathy. Structures that encourage feelings of: I am better - these are/ this is widespread. Empathy is destroyed by ideology - real people obviously suffer from being abstracted, even if the intentions are good.(for a lessening of suffering) No rules are helpful. The law does not serve us, but we it. God is life, not dead religion, god is people living now, seeing now, knowing and living - for external conflict, internal conflict are interrelated and indivisible, they create and sustain each other. Living in now and I-you communion, each real treated as actual, not image projection, nor reception. "Still playing follow the leader, grow up please!" Experiments in Thought is all it is Everything is beautiful If it doesn't kill you, And everything does. Our notions, ideas Die for us, not the other way around. Monet atmost-pheres Minimal expression with all feeling Shoot the ceiling space With neckties swinging No living moving thing But shot for a long time Like a reverie or meditation Is there something there? (A series of shots of ceiling spaces in different buildings and transportation - Still focus for a long time - let the imagination burble in and out ?the air, is there something there? Spaces not meant for action or movement ?No living form but absence making almost all most form?) I wish peace on Earth ?Yeah, yeah, sham it out ?your every action violates your hollow words ?I want peace ?I want the wish to be enough. The will is good, I am good, right? Radiant love (light) once defined is a black-hole. Love defined is not love at all. The ungraspable miracle ?the wealth in the unseen of light, patterns untraced unperceived that was in her face. God is now beyond pleasure pain redundancies. Pah! It's just group dancing. I don't believe in time, I don't believe that I don't believe in time. Sticky snow Morning dream She knew all her past lives Remembering them all Five marriages since we Last were She knew things that I barely See, The field Where I see but a blade. What is left of it now The marvelous dream The streets made clean By pure snow The infection of slush Snow to road, to concrete Asleep dreaming snow dreams of my forever. We love tradition We love the old We have national holidays We eat and bow Respect for the aged And for those moved-on But lock up the living The factory frong. (To actually care - compassion does not have blinders or limitations, only applying to those who you deem worthy, that is not compassion, that is not humanity, that is dull servitude to judgments and ideas.) How can people think their actions, their world are just / right / good when people are suffering injustice and harm no forgiveness for the ones behind bars, no mercy for the families left the claims of right or justice are hollow, traditions of self-deceit, evil thinking (non-thinking) and habit. Thinking must be the key what good will an action bring / serve real good, people good, not just revenge guised as retribution or sadism dressed up as deterrence. The heartless drones in uniform are not justice are not civilized are not is not human (all too human) The budded worms Ameobic eyes closed-mind acceptance Blind in violence. We all stand by drinking rum and cokes While a man is ripped apart The blood splatter is filtered by the blue light Until It feels innocuous like warm rain. Hitler's in the closet Stalin's got repressed memory syndrome. When the truth comes in sleep From the bed of identity The dead energies of mine Stir on waking, Mine and my belief. We're simulacra Scarecrows, not real human Be-ings at all We kill the human saps, before they get Too tall We are automated robots Running on habit and Blue steam. Technologically advancing Rails, we used to kill By tree. Quick! before they... ...suckle the Cathode rain. Society and it's remote control Switches the t.v. in your brain. Little scarecrow, listening to The sounds of we, In Enter-trainment. (That we are not human - occasional mutants dealt with severly.) The automatic media The lawn sprinkler Feeding the weeds And killing the plants. Consciousness is not only discouraged but prevented and persecuted. They are not human - doing something because it is written down. Where is thinking? Where are their hearts? Umbrella of power, protection Right now the sun is shining But not on everyone Right now you're taking Freedom for granted Under the sun. Let the dead energy slide Stay in life, keep in life. What templates are used to define / make reality. A just / a judge and therefore act. Of course images will influence the way people act and think ?especially those (the majority of society) that use memory (judgment stencils and templates) to view the world ?Negative / Harm desire feeding images will shape what is seen ?i.e: things are viewed, seen as needs, a needy way ?I need sex, beer? Objectification of all isness (is's) ?that which / who is, results in a steady and increasing reliance / dependence on memory ?as images and new images ?whether perceived (as labeled) as good or bad. A pretty girl or a girl being killed. The only way out is not to be in memory to start with. Education is a great support, (or bind) it gives a place to stand. So do your feet. Wishes guised As judgment And desserts Paste on Ideological Smoke-screens Delusional Not-what-it Seems for Tired and brutal Minds. Necessary Violence Is down there on the floor. With half empty water bottles Juice bottles and loose change Who would steel this car? Only the thirsty. It is respectable not to have more than passing and therefore false compassion. It is conditioned, that we all aren't trembling - the horror of every-day violence, if seen it will trigger more than fleeting compassion, indeed compassion is something else all together than what is commonly defined as such. Ever hungry - blood letting - consumption by it's very nature is destructive. Flesh fires a'warming our simulated fingers Our machine hearts, Sinks for dead energy. Underskin, the lovely ruins, Hack and slash, The bubbling ruby-red, Fancy for eyes of steel Cutting, cutting Tissue, tendon, Sinue, The Umm Qasr Karbala Baghdad Ruby mine. Impermanence in your heart, your gut you know, you feel it there. (Not merely superficial linguistic verbal ideological meaning understanding) We all have a light A place in our hearts A minutae sun which Can light the way Joy is in us all But we shut it off With distrust and fear of self. To believe in others over control consuming competing is fragmenting I saw it as a child, then didn't / I wasn't learning, but that's what they called it / I called it that too / entrapment in reality patterns / thought giving thought the semblance of truth / but thought - reality is distortion. Society/s have a heap of phoney morals and steaming ethics to distract you from seeing and thinking and realizing the violence underneath, like badges of compassion on the machines of war. We're the biological suicide love club society. The light of the world If someone gives you fear, then give them love, give them hope. What are we teaching? - What if all response was love? The appropriate, the necessary - love. "Someone gives you fear, then give them love. They give you pain, they give them joy, for dread and guilt show joy and hope." Dreams Will I forget the magnificent detail climbing up and over the Hotel on the hill with a view of the city and sea. Such complicated glass towers and circular patterns. I pulled myself up weightless flying over the roof-tops of the houses as they got more expensive and expansive. Then the swimming pool driveway and rich kids fooling around, I looked around and then went down the hill (to the sea) - this time as a little girl character, returning to her father from Nelson, a sea-logger. The little girl (I) was on a motorbike (with a friend), she crashed as her mother gave chase. Then a re-take, the scene again on B.M.X. I was the only one that made it down to the water. The mother chased her, (I watched more outside her now) but she made it down to the waters edge where the strange log-barge floated ?our passage across Cook Straight. Earlier at a park in Korea/ New Zealand talking to the old man with strange old flagon of D.B. People selling shrimp pizza-pancakes, they could speak English and sales-Korean. I got the old D.B. men to let me past their B.B.Q. rest-stop table and we exchanged a few blokey words on the heartland and good ol?brew. The little girl was mischevious. Always talking back to her mother, playing up. My dream P.O.V. (consciousness) attached to her somehow but I floated off (a separate viewer) when she met her grizzled father. He gave her a present, I think it was a bottle of coke. She'd have to get used to his rough bush lifestyle now she had left the rich way of life at the hotel and her mother bankroll. The oblivious conflict from the very start pulls people in ?despair, blindness, ignorance ?but there is always more than one way. I-you / Now-mind Little or no relation to real so conflict separation trauma pain becomes ?truth only becomes more distorted with time. Real / I-I people are unquantifiable or qualifiable - impossible to quantify (ascertain) - impossible to quantity qualities (judge) Images are approximations are used ?distortions, no relation to real life. Conflict pain of course people image fixed thinking violence / force of will = right. Being blind to blindness they separate I from all I's through images which are always false memory, Nothing is sacred except people. Images not people Madness is widespread I knew this as a child The difference between what is and How we act. Deal, treat With other unique real indivisible selfs? It was so strange feeling this in child-mind What matters? How you see yourself and other people, or how you actually are? Can we educate to see patterns and not just follow them? We teach dead memories, systems of belief, with and by. Teach people they are powerless except in / by channels of money and ambition in a Darwinian world with unfathomable metaphysical mysteries and consequences. To be human is the ability to perceive patterns? Fixed patterns ?stagnancy / - ////// Cut across the beat Change the script. Awareness is not seeing in / by selected patterns. We are all blind! No time to philosophize. Wash the sleep from your eyes. The violence, the terror is immediate. I've been blind for so long. I knew this as a child, but then I shut it out. I decided to join a traveling circus, to get away from the persecution and advertisements. I saw the lotteries of soul pollution, I could see the numbers before they were drawn. I've getting into appreciation, not just concentrating my affections like I used to. We've yet to kill all the histories in history In this human mill Where we burned the bodies And ground the bones Waiting for the dream ships To arrive In white folds of flame She wears a silver pendant around her neck. There she is, taking big meaty strides. On the street alone, just her and her pride. like the jewels in your throat and the silver that lines your veins, you too are precious. a keeper of hidden treasure, deciding the fate of angels. he left you as warden of a universal good, but as Bhrama knew, he was taking a mighty risk, gifts of free will, desires and hands adept at crafting, blood and stone metal and bone. yes, it certainly was a gamble, at once a conviction wagered on time. -------------------------------- 1. my grandmother had dexterous hands, she could peal fruits and vegetables in seconds flat. she came from a large family, she knew what it was like to go to bed hungry. when she was grown she married an older man, caring for four children while working in the family taxi business. i only knew her youth from photographs and stories she and my mother would tell. in the final weeks of my grandmothers life her mind was clouded by dementia, leaving the transient out of reach, but she remembered her childhood clearly and told it to me. her memories resounded sonorously around my budding soul, the cascades of memory provoking me to grasp tenderly what i could barely perceive. she was not afraid or regretful nor was she resigned, her eyes held a peace, that I hoped one day would be mine. she was a strong woman, who kept a beautiful garden. she was a hale new zealand woman who married an older man. 2. years later she came to me in spirit, her thoughts flooding me fast. i think maybe she was trying to tell me not to worry so hard. memories so heartfelt don't seem like memories but something more. i remember when she took me fishing showing me how to bait a hook. i remember the orange cordial she made us, i think on her hands and face which held such sagacious eyes. i remember her last days. -------------------------------------- Un-loving dead metal Surges through the concrete night. A burning mount of exploding death Blinding natures sight. Devouring wheels of steel Plunge head-long into the night. Ever the consuming dragon Blackens what once was pure light. In-human steel rolls by Belching poison from A demon throat. Oh! I rage against the wheels of steel, The breakers of bones. Maker of un-healable wounds And immortal tombs. The un-loving dead metal, Cuts through my organic peace. ------------------ two old men share brittle cake on the top of windy hill. i lye on the concrete, parallel to lifes foundations. the air is cleaner here, i lye still and listen to the clank, the hum and the hiss, somewhere below me a pneumatic hammer is punching holes into the past. I watch the industry, the sapling flint below, think about the pulsing young hearts, pushing words through steel, proclamations, of dandelion minds. -------------------------- "A flattening of affect." (Psychiatric report) if this is reality I guess you can keep it. israeli rockets launch from american trailer parks. from age five I was a trained policeman with all the voices of violence booting up the programmes of hate ready to run. love is a habit that we don't teach in schools. instead it's: spot the pink elephant learn the administered rules. that which had been deemed fit. Is just legality for fools. if this world is ruled by adult rationalists i guess you can keep it and you need not be too surprised if I display a flattening of affect. --------------------------- heels clip clop down the street, in milk. wantoness flows, in milk. it's six o'clock and a procession of female miracles are prototypically stepping down the footpath, each a testament to their parents greatest achievement, their most precious offering to life. my lissome mind receives it now, not without thanks-giving. I bathe. on me, on you, is milk. the sun sets, my heart enveloped in a potent ferment of rest. like the jewels in your throat and the silver that lines your veins, you too are precious. a keeper of hidden treasure, your fancy decides the fate of angels. he left you here as warden of universal good, Bhrama knew, he was taking a mighty risk with the gifts of free will, desirous hands adept at crafting blood and stone, metal on bone. yes, it was a gamble, and a conviction wagered on time. -------------------------------- 1. my grandmother had dexterous hands, she could peal fruits and vegetables in seconds flat. she came from a large family, she knew what it was like to go to bed hungry. when she was grown she married an older man, caring for four children while working in the family taxi business. i only knew her youth from photographs and stories she and my mother would tell. in the final weeks of my grandmothers life her mind was clouded by dementia, leaving the transient out of reach, but she remembered her childhood clearly and told it to me. her memories resounded sonorously in my heart, her cascades of memory provoking me to grasp tenderly what i could barely perceive. she was not afraid or regretful nor was she resigned, her eyes held a peace, and yes, an acceptance, a wisdom . she was a strong woman, who kept a beautiful garden. she was a hale New Zealand woman who married an older man. 2. years later she came to me in spirit, her thoughts flooding me fast. i think maybe she was trying to tell me not to worry, but I don't know, only that it was her. memories like this are so heartfelt that they don't seem like memories at all, but something more. i remember when she took me fishing showing me how to bait the hook. i remember the orange cordial she made all us kids, her grandchildren i think of her hands and face and eyes, her sagacious eyes. i remember her last days and am there, close to a secret that i won't know, not until my own day draws near. -------------------------------------- Un-loving dead metal Surges through the concrete night. A burning mount of exploding death White hot halos scream it's blinding sight. Devouring wheels of steel Plunge head-long into the night. Ever the consuming dragon Blackens what once was pure light. In-human steel rolls by Belching poison from A demon throat. Oh! I rage against the wheels of steel, The breakers of bones. Maker of un-healable wounds And immortal tombs. The un-loving dead metal, Cuts through my organic peace. ------------------ two old men share brittle cake on the top of windy hill. i lye on the concrete, parallel to lifes foundations. the air is cleaner here, i lye still and listen to the clank, the hum and hiss. somewhere below me a pneumatic hammer is punching holes into the past. I watch the industry, the sapling steel below, think about the pulsing young hearts, with steel for veins and dandelion minds. -------------------------- "A flattening of affect." (Psychiatric report) if this is reality I guess you can keep it. israeli rockets launch from american trailer parks. from age five I was a trained policeman with all the voices of violence booting up the programmes of hate ready to run. love is a habit that we don't teach in schools. instead it's: spot the pink elephant learn the administered rules. that which had been deemed fit. Is just legality for fools. if this world is ruled by adult rationalists i guess you can keep it and you need not be too surprised if I display a flattening of affect. --------------------------- heels clip clop down the street, in milk. wantoness flows, of milk. it's six o'clock and a procession of female miracles are proto-stepping down the footpath in-front of me, each a living testament, their parents greatest achievement, their most precious offering of hope. my lissome mind receives it now, not without thanks-giving. I bathe in milk, White occurance in me, Pure in you, is milk. the sun sets, my heart enveloped in a potent ferment of rest. ------------------------ The subway accelerating into a beam of light describe the sensations of passengers signal beating hesitant violins relate individual passenger characteristics merging blurring. As the subway moved off from the station it seemed for a moment it would keep excelerating faster and faster still as people are pushing back into the seats stretch noodle thin faster than light into a beam of pure... Going so fast slipping backwards through time. Ancestors falling into, Wars, Old houses, feelings and sensations not yours from another time. (Narrative p.o.v. interconnectedness of everything first person narration.) Pools of veinated silver Soft recognition like the wind A world without Mirror shock Not concentrated focus. (soft) O¡¯ Justice, Hungry god Son of self-deceit And brother to mercy. His child retribution Is drunk on powers wine Smashing rocks on the stone of blood The soft insides seep through his hands And he says: ¡°Look! They weren¡¯t real stone At all. His crystalline will Infects man like gold flattery Until his eyes are distorted: "a broken man is not a man at all." O¡¯ Justice You blind demagogue Hobbesian wet dream Your veil now descending An acrid blinding fog. Beads of sweat in the desert, beads of death. Yeah, we are all one, Under a Coca-Cola sun. Just yesterday the rain came down From an invisible un-manned cloud. It blew the village well to rubble, it's a weapons factory now. Where once there was a river-bed Close by they planted grain The first civilisation, Is now a militay parade. Money trees grow in the desert, From cratered smoking ground. Missles drill for oil, Through us without a sound. madness is lifted or perhaps merely feet are wet drained of pictures only junk is left. a slow arrival of echos the veil of repudiated blood is cold and respectable like frozen corpses under mud. yellow Christmas is drowsy from the dead dry fog weaning, descending, enveloping in sin. a remote control love-affair, the power-plant my understanding that which was so passionate, now ardor decays... fog. / off. clarity in an instant, freedom from the dead, from the days spent walking in the woods, crunching memories underfoot. ´« an inch a half in two hours this morning, two more inches this afternoon crumpling squeezing underfeet it¡¯s joyous not the even the man old ¡°stop that snow fight, no fun here please,¡± can get me down. flurry of softness droppling ruffling big small many varied great bright snow clean candy floss white miracle three or four inches friday snow. Sometime I want to watch a movie where the male lead has to run around skimpily clad like it seems their female co-stars always have to. An action flick where Joe is thrown into the action with only a pair of speedos and a low cut shirt. Holy joe Sky soul Folding time Septuagenarian baby flow. She's Buddha Without teaching Flowers without reaching Sun without shine. i keep getting spam telling me how to become the man that woman desire how to use human growth hormone and penis enlargement to become some kinda engorged harpoon a super-alpha-male i got one that started in bold type "tear her apart with your... well that's just the way to love her and what woman wouldn't want that? super-archetypal-penny-traitor desperate to make a hole big enough to climb in, to climb back in the juice caboose i worry that this mail has it's practical adherents ticking insectoid time-bombs looking into a lonely void like the queens mirror twisting in self destruction for lesser idols of lesser gods. Malleable like the mud Like some ancient truth Looking for someone to mold them into A precious lie Self-corrupt, from mud to China porcelain Shiny skin, a cave, the snakes they slither in Fill the gap with lust and sin Broken dolls and Jumping Jacks The hand they need to push them down Empathy comes from identity Self-understanding from the hub. If god knows all at once, how can he differentiate? His image ?are we his imagination? His photo ?through ?images are upside down, reversed ?Form ?would form reverse to no-form (no matter) If people die then so do ideas. Throw out the concepts if they don't fit your truth-love. If you are not harming no-one then where is the wrong. If Jesus lives on then it's not as a dead idea, dogma or sacred order. Only in hearts can selfless love survive - like miracles last forever, so does every day. Dead ideas are judgments given. Missiles fire and Hollywood teaches. Doctors kill to save lives. It is a tragic waste, this animal-death-fear. Ideas die for us, not the other way around. Quietude of mind, watch the jumping tricks of the mind, who you are is not this, just as the tides are not the sea. Little girls in pre-pubescence I watch them and marvel They have what so many lose Simple unique pure being. Positive action = positive change. back © All work herein copyright the stated authors.

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