Monday, March 10, 2014
The fashionable recolouring of tongues from pink to white is a growing phenomenon that is taking talking to an even higher level. The person on the street might be undecided on the merits of tongue bleaching, but as demand for it increases, more will seek it. At present it is just a matter of cost. Online surveys show that many who do not have the funds for tongue bleaching would have it done if they could. Self esteem coaches are quoted as saying that white tongues are needed. Precedents have already been set. Anal bleaching is quite fashionable amongst the groovy, and head hair has been bleached for many years. Coated tongues, the forerunner to bleached tongues are still generally accepted, but natural whiteness is losing its appeal. Not enough coverage. The necessary tongue whitening drugs are already available on the shelves of exclusive high street stores, and future government subsidies should make tongue bleaching an affordable option for everyone; an initiative designed to complement the increasing demand for appearance alterations. In a more exposed society bleached tongues will inevitably become the norm. A bleached tongue is most appealing. Such a tongue will be the recommended gateway to purity and inner beauty. It’s what people really want.
According to white tongue theory people can’t be themselves without having sex appeal. When white tongued people expose themselves while talking, they are more likely to gain the approval of family, friends and peers. Soon they’ll be attracting lovers. And white skinned people are known to be the keenest in this regard. However it would be easy think that since white tongues mean perfection, white skin is naturally perfect. But what if the person who wants their tongue bleached is dark or yellow skinned? Should they be discriminated against? Will this phenomenon lead to a new kind of racism? According to the white tongue theory the colour of one’s skin bears no relation to workings of the tongue; the tongue should be bleached because the tongue is the gateway to pure thinking, a pure tongue means a pure and godly mind, separate from the body. Skin colour is irrelevant. What is inside, in the mind, is what really counts. White is the colour of speech’s freedom. According to the theory, when the tongue is successfully bleached the dark side of the person’s nature is accordingly creamed, for words spoken have new meaning, and according to marketing prophets, this new meaning will whitewash any jaundiced attitudes and skewed thinking.
The first person to explore the possibilities of tongue bleaching is the mysterious scientist and necromancer Darryl Dharma. Back in the 80’s Dharma was an obscure thinker living in a one bedroom council flat with his parents. Since childhood he’s been obsessed with the possibilities of his mind. He read Descartes over breakfast. After puberty this obsession extended to his awkward body. A discomfort grew over the split between his mind and his body. This led Dharma to the idea of unifying his mind and body in a single presence of purity; inspired by the logic of the Trinity, but less one.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Let it be said that the only thing that really matters is matter. Who said that? Johnny. He’s a deep thinker who spends his salad mental days writing down his deepest thoughts. He’d like to get his thoughts printed on paper and published one day. He’s in the so-called aspirational class. So what’s Johnny been thinking? Well, he’s been thinking he’s nothing more than matter and or either also even as well as substance. A complicated piece of substance true, probably the most complex there is, him being a ‘conscious-of-himself’ human, but nevertheless still substance. He does things when he’s got the energy, and when he’s got the energy he does things. Doing and energy are to him the working substance of his substance. Maybe when he’s energy and he does things with energy, his energies clash within his body and he is matter. He’s been thinking that perhaps the atoms of such things could do with his splitting. And then there will be less of him to split; and then less and less. Johnny would like to do that. Keep splitting his body so he can unmake himself, until ultimately he’ll be just an unnameable substance, and with his mind looking on.
Those who reckon spirits and souls exist wouldn’t like what Johnny is planning to do. But Johnny always says fek ’em. Let them try and stop me. He knows what his substantial reality is about and pooh to anyone who thinks differently. They’re never going to change his mind. His matter comes first. It’s all that matters. Ha Ha. He’s a physical guy; he’s mind-flesh, in that his senses tell him about what’s going on around him while he is touching his body. He’s saying that it’s his inner side getting out and about in the surrounding world. He touches his girlfriend’s body. He’s made lots of love. Made some war too. So long as an experience creates tangible matter. His senses like it, and so does his mind.
Johnny’s wondering what is beyond his cells, nuclei and atoms. Beyond his matter. His mind says there’s something, it. By unmaking himself Johnny reckons he might find out. But then, who would know about it? Nobody’s got back from death and reported their experiences. It’s going to be the same problem. How far can too far go, just to prove a point? And will Johnny be almost nothing except mind; or nothing at all? From nothing comes nothing and from nothing there is the rest of everything that Johnny hopes for. His mind says so. He’s a package, more or less. Wrapped up in himself basically. It keeps him from disappearing into the four elements. He’s been with air and fire but they didn’t unmake him. They remade him. He doesn’t like his scars.
Friday, February 21, 2014
The Fourteen Spirits
Nemn is the first confronting spirit to meet the pilgrim
In the clothing of the hangman, the head of an adder
The pilgrim from bloody birth is condemned to die
He must pay his respects to natural feelings of grief
Sofemoot appears as the corpse of a valiant knight
To present to the pilgrim all the worries he must bear
His refusal will mean he cannot expect a good life
For his lifelong burdens contribute to his timely death
Ibemu then comes as the aftermath of an avalanche
So much destruction, so much chaos and misery
The pilgrim beneath the rubble must climb the debris
And move on regardless, always looking behind
Ssocthelene his old mother clothed in virgin white
Mourns for her son whilst she embraces him whole
Though angry with her, he must forget her influence
She will understand when they meet in the afterlife
Iziot the brave in the tired body of a wartime mule
Gold medals dangling from its overburdened neck
He is the one friend, who stands long by his side
The one who loves the pilgrim in ways like no other
Colithac stands a proud ibis before him, his lover
She is ready to wipe away all the tears he has shed
And that passionate love is not to be taken for granted
Her determined patience is strength to be revered
Hotuumberi the wave is the next spirit to confront him
After the swell and mosh, and all the flotsam has left
The pilgrim for the second time will hold his breath
But for longer, his gasping for air tests his strength
Etah and her sisters are dervishes in his chaotic mind
They are dreams, consciousness and unfettered ego
They dress sensually and challenge his moral self
If his eyes are downcast they may lose their power
Mousmous the hurricane spirit blows in from the west
The blasted pilgrim tumbling, fearing he’ll be smashed
Fortunately the Great Ditch cradles him when he falls
It had migrated from America especially for this task
Zentily has come as a tailor with an elephant’s snout
And delicately divests him of his ragged clothes
The tailor’s tape is measuring him up for linen cloths
From the shoulder to the knee he is covered as such
Naames is the spirit that will cause him the most pain
With hammer and nails his senses are crucified
He will neither hear, nor taste, smell, see nor touch
And in the air above he will hang, the butt of all insults
Colid is his earthly end and will dispense with his name
This spirit shall make the pilgrim into something unreal
Not born again, rewritten or complicated by overdubs
He will come a being quite unknown to this world
Wahola picks up the broken pieces and anoints them
And begins the ancient ritual of fervent worshipping
This is the beginning of the millennia of a great legend
The pilgrim is unrecognisable even to his maker
Athne the undertaker suited in white has a broad smile
And possesses the clean body and prepares it for rest
The pilgrim on the third morn will draw the stone blind
His anointed body fragrant, permeates from that day on
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Fic O ‘Lil
Fic O ‘Lil, the limey shrieked
Thy five year old hath truly speaked
Och grammar! You pathetic loon
Get thy tongue from silver spoon.
Thy cousin the Famous Sewer Rat
Hath dignity and your measure that
You who speaketh a basic kind
In your five year old I hath find
Thy roots, thy ancestral glitch
None would marry, nor would hitch
Rutted madly, spilling out babes
Left and right, Illegitimate Naves
“Chec that spelling”; och hear it bleat
Our five year old hath an acid beak.
In time you might lay less with mine
Go to work and stiffen thy spine
Aye; and I’ll be a speaker more likely
You’re name be ours, shared politely.
From Tympaniaios Poems published 2013
Monday, July 15, 2013
He believes in God
Said the madman
To his psychologist,
Prove God said he
And the madman said no
Thus he was let go
For who is to say
Delusion is no belief.
Upon the spot of death
A pile of sugar lay,
Upon the coffin’s head
A similar pile lay
For there is nothing worse
Than scattered memories
That are lost
In this period of grief.
There was a time
When the mother
Kept her mouth shut
An impossible task
One might say
But all energies were needed
In the talking jungle.
Breasts drawn on a man asleep
Is no mischief,
For when this man wakes
His transgender dream fulfils
The man’s wish
That he will now die
To what he was born as.
In a conversation between
Spittle flew from out the mouth of one,
And the other seeing her distress
And upon returning it to her
Saw that her brief sickness
Was no more.
There are some whose personalities
And if they are not liked
No one will seek them
But if they are
They are best caught in leather boots
Since attractive personalities
Are easily slipped into.
That if she tells all who ask
Who she is
Then that would mean
Revealing everything about herself,
That is why she has a special friend
Who goes with her
And tells her name instead.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Whilst lecturing the faithful on the evils of relationship hazards outside the bounds of god endorsed matrimony,
Whilst lecturing the faithful on the evils of relationship hazards outside the bounds of god endorsed matrimony,
Who fear and dare not move beyond their directed lifestyles knowing that the genitals of the wayward reap no peace from herpes and syphilis and other diseases beyond god's mercy,
Be it homosexuals, adulterers or teenage romantics who defy the logic of the ecumenical commands that serve the people to perfection,
Amid the dire warning of the putrid consequences of ignoring or defying the word that both serves and commands the people,
Whether it is temporarily in purgatory or permanently in hell's fires eternally licking at the wayward anatomy and singe pubic hair,
For the infinite mercy of god has its limits and cannot be expected to tolerate the bad behaviour of the educated and blessed that should know better,
Amid the compassionate cries for the ignorant souls and the mentally afflicted who touch their private parts and know not why,
Amid the violent call for sinners to denounce all human evil and its vile manifestations,
Whilst delivering such scripted diarrhoea from the open bowels of Satan himself
The disturbed preacher begins his redemption.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Once out of his house and on the train Googly, that is his nickname, explores his relationship with the world, his junking of its conventions, going out of his way to seek higher ideals. For one born on the peripheral bounds of a vast metropolitan city, it is remarkable that from early in his life Googly has imagined himself a great teacher, who, having renounced materialism, is instead sitting quietly, bearded and homeless and surrounded by students.
Googly’s father and mother desperately want him to be a footballer and an accountant; the career of the first being gloriously brief but built on huge contracts and endorsements, and the second slow and steady, building on knowledge, credentials and experience. Googly decided at twenty two he will have none of it. He wants to learn about life on the streets, and witness the lives of battlers, the lonely, the stressed and all who are not at peace with the world. These are his people Googly feels for, not badge wearers and status climbers. By night he does what his parents wish and he attends night school and goes to footy practice, and by day he does things his way.
What presently alarms him is how people live and work in city noise and its associated stress. To Googly they appear to be like bees at a hive, moving like chaos but always close to the hive. For Googly there is a desert space in the city in which to think and to contemplate, but if one does not see it the opportunity to experience it is impossible. There appears to be no doorway for people to pass through, no space around the hive, and nowhere for individual bees to go and sit and be safe alone. To be alone and be still and observe Googly believes, helps the bee person understand the controlling motives of city behaviour. In this space the lone person is painless. There are no unethical pursuits of pleasure and happiness. There are no rewards for shopping, no kudos for competing. Googly has found such deserts in back alleys and behind trees in parks, and in public conveniences. But when he tells other people they can’t see it. Some yell at him calling him a guru nut.
What goes around should come back around, good for good and bad for bad; and yet they often don’t. Things happen upside down. Googly, observing in his train travels, realises that many who suffer are also good, even though they suffer. Others, who are not so good, and who are selfish and petty, still get along on the turbulent winds that drive them. Googly is finding that he lives in a strange world of topsy-turvy rules. And there are few second chances.