The Act ov Being Very Polite

Backwards Steel Wool Insides Smiling Outwards

the wooden teeth are click-chippin’
on the gumline of her oral vision
the sky rock above is sighing, splittin’
on the abused kindness of her givin’
and all her lovers always wonderin’
why she keeps her insides sovereign
and all her families always thunderin’
‘cos when she loves her soul is tumblin’
all day then she gives up a jumpin’ start
as every smile’s poker burnin’ at her heart
she hurtles ‘round, thus turnin’ a-circle
moves sleepwalk-dream, thus rolls in wonder
surreal snakes coil inside her bellies
hiss-whisper that the seed is readies
“a man, a man, he is always sleepin’”
“why?” you cry back, all ways weepin’
wake up trapped in regression’s womb
all flowers grow reverse inside this tomb
that grin is also burning with the wood
that lit up a lost smile, chipped n’ crude.
21-09-2011

Wooden Womb

I cannot remember past events, mostly; I seem only to recall them as an abstract canvas of different emotions and frustrations, incestuously climbing and tumbling in a huddled mass, and sticking their fingers into one another’s sockets. People melt into each other and events are underwater dream-like, 70-years ago yesterday, and I don’t remember the person who experienced them, I only remember the experience. Even the experiences are more like meditations on what I would have felt, rather than what I feel.

Everything I ever wanted from life is a frozen metaphor for something different, and it’s a ghost sliding away from me every year. It’s a relief, because you never really want your own dreams; they’re more like things that come to you from a thousand years ago, and trick you into living for them. I never had any to begin with. To stop looking for the things you always searched for, and instead desire anything that makes you feel anything that you find difficult to feel. That is why people have childen instead of chasing life-long dreams: when you hold a child in your arms you are guaranteed an eternity of feeling. It also seems to make people cease thinking; perhaps so much emotional gravity renders intelligence no longer necessary.

Of course, people have children long before they even know who they are. What a cop out. It’s just as boring as not having them, however.

Random Excerpts #1 (Cut-Up Technique)

the liquids of emptiness. I have managed to escape for so many years.
You do not know Hell. I do not know Hell. We live in the fields of milk, honey, oxygen and virginity. The trees live;

excision, and rummage inside that drawer of the past. If only, if only. If only we could remove the bad days —

lover licks those walls clean, but sadly, they spray blood again. The cycle repeats.
Every whore

winning the world when it’s as empty as post-pogrom, post-pestilence, pre-

old men everywhere, playing their games; they were stroking their golf clubs with salacious relish, as if they were phallic symbols of wealth and power. I pulled out a hacksaw from my golf caddy and removed my penis from

perpendicular looking-glass. The jewel stone throne was a venus

With every day, we catalogue another dilated chamber of history inside ourselves, and find

a child snatched by a hawk

The Third Ear

Many people do not appear to understand what music is.

There is little difference between a toddler banging pots and pans and singing “LA LA LA LA LA” than there is to a grandoise Wagner performance. What the former lacks in sophistication and composition it more than makes up for in sincerity.

The music industry is a necessary evil (less necessary than it used to be, however), but it is not music itself. A builder whistling on a building site is creating music; it isn’t capitalistic or subsequently signed over to a record label.

Everything you hear and every sound that is created is music (and even every sound you do not hear, but that is for another day). A forty year-old man who was born entirely deaf would weep with awe at the sounds we take for granted every day, should a cure for deafness suddenly be gifted him.

Some arguments I have heard against the creation of music:

a) I have no musical talent.

Tell that to a congregation singing hymns in a church. Tell it to an African tribe singing and dancing. Tell that to birds trilling. Tell it to the toddler banging pots and pans.

b) The music world is already overflowing and it would be arrogant to try to contribute when so many can do it better.

The music world is overflowing with uninspired, insincere music. Someone with no musical ability could not be more arrogant than the scores of bands who are only creating music in an effort to be rich rock stars. Creating music in an attempt to compete inside the music world is a mistake to begin with. Better to make music outside of the music world. If the music world comes to you, fair enough: you can use that world to suit your own agenda. If it does not, it is irrelevant.

c) I don’t want to be famous! I was popular at school, I don’t need to be loved by strangers.

Don’t see music how the music industry wants you see it. It is not about being a beloved international pop/rock star. The music industry wants people to believe music is a vehicle to aggrandise the masturbatory ego, to find self-worth by proxy (through the worship of fans) and ‘become someone’. It’s a soulless machine.

Music for music’s sake. Not to be a rock star. Not to be famous. Not to fellate the ego. Not to push your political agenda. Music to create. Music to find the artist you lost when you grew up and left behind the child who would create every single day when he played. Art is the adult’s version of a child’s playground. Art is not pretentious, it is the imagination with the straitjacket removed.

Creation is the ultimate existence. To imitate the world in which we live, which is creation-dominated, is the closest path to God. The world constantly creates and destroys in equal measure; like a sculpter moulding a sculpture and flattening it out to create anew, over and over. Rather than procreate and kill, which is a base bastardised and subconscious imitation, we should create and then disregard music/art/literature with equal passion in a conscious absorption of nature-as-inspiration. Create a masterpiece then disown it and start all over again.

When I decided to create music it was one of the best decisions of my life, and most likely I will never make a penny from it. That is what most would fail to understand in a capitalist society where no one is encouraged to think about anything that does not result in financial gain, in the same way that most fail to hear the amazing sounds all around them that they’ve grown used to hearing on a daily basis.

Pseudo-Suffering/Variant Sea

Some people believe that body dysmorphic disorder is a desire to be better looking, which is, of course, a tediously simplistic and erroneous assumption. To single out BDD sufferers in this is unfair, because every human being desires to be “better looking”. Even those movie stars who are born with Greek perfection (or who we are conditioned to believe are beautiful, since most are smoke and mirror creations) will rapidly age — and being used to the torrents of lust projected upon them, and a job that requires the humourless sterility of youth+beauty, will probably feed the black tiger jaws of the cosmetic surgery industry. So no one is safe from the desire to be better looking: no one on Earth is entirely secure with their body, because decay is inevitable in even those who are remotely comfortable.

So, people with body dysmorphic disorder DO desire to be better looking; this is because they are human beings who exist in a world where capitalistic demands are imposed upon your genetics. The difference in this desire is that people with BDD also want to be anything that makes sense in an internal dislocation haunted house of inverted mirrors and dream-state psychologic.

For example, an idea of being better looking could be picking up the nearest razorblade and carving fifteen hexagons into your face. That makes no logical sense, surely; scarring is only attractive when it is accomplished in a rugged and discreet CONTRIVED ‘manly’ fashion; it’s less attractive to see two arms mutliated with thousands of self-abuse marks (although that is changing, since self-abuse can be marketed and promoted as a cult of unity), and even less so to see a face that has been torn apart by a knife. Those with BDD cannot be judged as people with tradtional logical reasoning when it comes to image and self-esteem.

Visual anti-logic and dislocation is the ghost inside BDD, and it is forced upon the remote viewer in an upside down existence where the theatre is the open spaces where the projector is bounced upon everyone you meet (and most you don’t). Is that superficial? No, because it’s more real than most existences, which are even more shallow. It is self-obsessed? Yes, but the desire is to escape the haunted house, so it is beyond control of the viewer. It’s a self-obsession by proxy; orchestrated by the illness, rather than the personality. It is an inverse self-obsession, where the desire is to escape the self, rather than to bathe in the  obsession of vanity. The BDD freaky funhouse is an effort to drown in the water of the obsession, not bathe in shallow-water indulgence.

The problem is that this all sounds really glamorous and tragic, but in reality it is fucking dull. A licentious ocean of emptiness without limbs to move along with the pleasure of the orgasm; a ghost observering events as a outsider. There is no excitement when you’re viewing in third person; it isn’t emotional pornography. A mousetrap that doesn’t snap and has no mouse in it; the cheese sits there while the mouse doesn’t move.

I would write thousands more words about this, but I really cannot be bothered just now.