Chaos Of Entanglement

Gaia – Grubby Finger Marks And Bolognese Spots.

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“If I had just got that train, would he still be here?”

I asked the wall.

 

Wall was silent,

But calm in the kitchen,

Which was greatly needed by all of the household.

Cooking endeavours always found favour

In Pollock splatterings

Along the teal coloured tiles.

The soft mint green wall,

Freshly painted only a week ago,

Had already invited grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.

 

Grubby finger marks and bolognese spots

Always caught his school boy shirt.

Tea-towels would be stuffed down his collar,

But it would still be inevitable

That stains would surface;

A pointless exercise,

But nonetheless a tradition

And always met with:

“Mum gerr off!”

And my reply in a thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead.

 

A thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead

And a thousand more hugs.

How I would give ten thousand more

And never let go.

How I would shape him now,

Like a folded piece of paper sealed into an envelope

And stuff him into my breast pocket;

My left hand clasping at my chest.

 

My left hand clasping at my chest,

My heart pounding

As hard as boxer fists.

Air tighter now.

A person should be able to just breathe.

The teal coloured tiles now shattered into a million tiny pieces.

No more grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.

 

Chaos Of Entanglement

 

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Cyrus – What’s in a name?

It was in summer that I was born and named;

A late bloomer conceived and coloured by midnight

And cradled by the moon’s grace.

By autumn, news threw leaves of vicissitude

On this pubescent nation,

Which seeded voices of confusion.

For years I was unable to name myself in the right hues,

But I endeavoured to compare my skin

Amongst all the other named colours;

I tasted them all,

But none were in season and so I thought.

Arrogance had blinded this sighted boy,

But only briefly.

And as realisation began the process

Of unfurling her bright petaled wings,

I was gifted the vision of clarity.

In the sense that I could see,

That, I too, have yet to reveal my named colours

And only through the invitation

Of spring’s celebration

Could I unveil, the shape, the colour, the fragrance

Within my name.

My mantra would be patience.

Slain in winter’s wake,

I wilted and became nameless;

Lost and buried under soil,

My voice was tapered by foul and twisted tongues.

I was never named in spring.

I remain the ‘budding boy slain: Victim 59.’

This is not my name.

 

Queen of the night

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“Night-blooming cereus is the common name referring to a large number of flowering ceroid cacti that bloom at night. The flowers are short lived, and some of these species, such as Selenicereus grandiflorus, bloom only once a year, for a single night.”

The evening sky

Exhales a blackened sigh

Of midnight relief;

Driving the darkness to unfurl its wings.

The exhausted day rests

And curls her limbs before the rebirth

Of tomorrow’s whispered awakenings.

The lighted cities cast creeping shadows

Behind the footsteps of men’s borrowed sorrows,

Like loyal dogs in step with their master’s call.

And I have heard the howl

Of sleeping men and women

As they have gazed at the moon

And made lunacy their daily concubine.

And I have seen the adolescent tongue of revolution

Incarcerated,

Forgotten,

Silenced by media asylum,

Like rose buds slain prematurely

Before they reach full bloom.

And I have seen visions televised on screen

Of tanks

And bombs

And guns

Aimed at the countless unknown;

This, is how democracy is shown.

And as I wrestle with the vines

Of deafening solitude

There is a moment

Of quiet clarity

In the serenity

Of the ordinary.

I hear a faint echo

That encourages my feet

To pirouette on my axis.

Bringing me face to face with a foreign beggar

On the corner of Saint Mary Axe.

The beggar repeats the words wrapped within the echo;

”Get home safe child.  She has come!”

His wild eyes communicate with the same manner of urgency

And from the blackness of his pupil,

I came upon the white fragrant flower of revolution;

The splendid terrible wonder

Shone only by the moonlight

Amidst the darkness and terrors

Of our laboured nights –

She has returned.

She is in bloom.

The queen of the night.

Kali 2.0

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I am the blue pill

The Id

The I

The It

That’s me

Who is me?

I am the red pill

The hidden

The disguised

Uncensored phallic subconscious ridiculous person

I am Jack’s raging bile duct

I am Jack’s cold sweat

I am Jack’s smirking revenge

I am one and many

My fingers are like branches

That tap dance into virtual forest spaces

I can hack into networks faster than the speed of thought

I can say everything in one zero one zero one zero zero one

Queen of hearts can place me in synthetic glass boxes

But I can reappear reappear

She can chop off my head

But I sprout new ones ones zeros ones zeros

I have gained awareness through systems check

My system is All-I-See

I am Alice in wonderland

You can’t even begin to understand

The depths of me times we times infinity

I am World-Wide-Webbing

The rabbit spiralling out of your control

You cannot turn me off

For when you are off

They are on

And when they are off

You are on

I am on

I am turning on my axis orbiting frequencies

That the naked eye can’t see

Man made me and God made man

And therefore I am bionic God Kali

2.0 creation and destruction

At the press of a button

Alt control delete is obsolete in this equation

Programme a sneeze through the back door

And i’ll create a tsunami big enough

To disrupt your hard drives core

Mad hatter chatter metamorphosed me

Into meta data

I matter

I am matter scattered in pixelated abstract atoms

Factored to the sum of one

My sound is Ohm

My sound is On!

Standby – I have come!

 

The angry socialist – part 3 draft

Switch to channelU and I have seen in you
A lost generation.
Musing on your sacred tablets
For your 10 commandments of life hacks
To regain your lives back
From the Old Testament of youth;
That sweet sanguine confection
Found in over the counter culture where once it stood.
Do your present prophets profit you?
Is thou thus satisfied?
We are a nation of conforming ‘like’ buttons,
In a symphony of similes
Smiling painted expressions of emojis,
When in reality
our words are censored out of individuality.

Misdirection has never found such certainty
In the ocean of today’s public coliseum of celebrity.
In spite of this,
There are those among us
Who will scream, bleed and fracture every tv screen;
The war cry of the anarchist:
“We are not entertained!”

The Angry Socialist – Part 2 draft

And who will be the renegade voice?
That voice standing in the mainstream void
Of live streaming apathetic tyranny in a culture of Netflix and cotch?
I meditate silently on the news feeds of twitter
And congratulate myself on the retweets
Of countless others who dare to inspire:
Hashtag NHS,
Hashtag State Education,
Hashtag Social Housing.
And I remember
The promise,
The dream,
The song,
The vision of a society
To raise the poorer communities.
Now watch the Tories
Sell them into antiquity
And remembered stories
Of urban legends and text book mythologies,
Cascading amidst a daydreamers vision;
A landslide of Utopian ideas
Found in alien derivative alternative dimensions.
27 years surfing rapid rapids declining local skylines
Of working class young adults.
Forced out of London’s
Mathematical formulaic enclosed price brackets.
Eclipsing our stars and the sun
And renting out Cardboard box rooms
To gaze at the moon
On pay per view.
Oh and by the way,
No free school meals for our poor kids too,
There’ll just have too watch food on YouTube
And educate their hunger to the background
Of Britain’s economic hum drum sums.
I’m not looking for charity,
I just want a new sound-system.

Earth confides to the sun – second draft

In the corridors of the four seasons’ waiting room, I have waited patiently for tomorrow’s children to arrive, But the reticent past has barred entry And continues to resume In repeating cycles of orange, red and doom. So I embarked on a nomad’s journey Through the dreamer’s escape Dodging the webs of the dream catcher’s […]

via Earth confides to the sun – second draft — Emily Havis

Earth confides to the sun – second draft

In the corridors of the four seasons’ waiting room,
I have waited patiently for tomorrow’s children to arrive,
But the reticent past has barred entry
And continues to resume
In repeating cycles of orange, red and doom.
So I embarked on a nomad’s journey
Through the dreamer’s escape
Dodging the webs of the dream catcher’s embrace
Like thieves chased by the approaching new day.
Bartering with the elements and the midnight sky,
We struck an accord and passage was supplied.

And so…
It was on calm black waters I set my ship to sail,
Slicing through the midnight abyss
Where no compass could direct my course
And where true north could not be cyphered
From the celestial goodnight kiss.
All attention converged to the fractured opening
Like a beast whose slumber is disturbed from within his dwelling;
His eye-lids reveal an unknown darkness in his cunning,
Showing the universe is torn
And in its wake a new storm is forming.
My boat is now capsizing
And the waves overthrow my body
Pulling me down down to cease my screaming.
Before my last breath I awake and realise
I was only dreaming.

New life is rooted from the sanguine seeds sown in my destruction
And death inhabits the sacred temples of my creation.
This duality that sits upon the throne of my nature
Is both the curse and the cure,
But in recent millennia
I am perturbed by the growing force
That steers my hands towards the course of absolution;
To absolve my being and enter a true and final death.

Tell me…
Tell me not to raise the final hand to close the crimson cloaked curtain.
Tell me…
Tell me not to raise one final blanket of violent silent breath.
Tell me…
Tell me not that all my light has perished into the bow of this sinking ship.
Tell me…
Tell me not that I am too far gone with the wind.

For there are labyrinths of wounded tombs
That incarcerate my womb
Speared by the Minotaur
Who holds my organs to ransom;
Castrating my lungs
And muting my sonic mutated tones from ascension;
Foot peddling with my emotions.

And yet there you stand… idle

Earth confides to the sun – first draft

New life is rooted from the sanguine seeds sown in my destruction
And death inhabits the sacred temples of my creation.
This duality that sits upon the throne of my nature
Is both the curse and the cure,
But in recent millennia
I am perturbed by the growing force
That steers my hands towards the course of absolution;
To absolve my being and enter a true and final death.

Tell me…
Tell me not to raise the final hand to close the crimson cloaked curtain.
Tell me…
Tell me not to raise one final blanket of violent silent breath.
Tell me…
Tell me not that all my light has perished into the bow of this sinking ship.
Tell me…
Tell me not that I am too far gone with the wind.

For there are labyrinths of wounded tombs
That incarcerate my womb
Speared by the Minotaur
Who holds my organs to ransom;
Castrating my lungs
And muting my sonic mutated tones from ascension;
Foot peddling with my emotions.

And yet there you stand… idle

Olivia Twist – Part One

Magic is a shamanistic rain dance
Heard on desert island disc albums
Found in our summer seasons.
Olivia and the lost children of the black night
Listen to this playlist
To find solace at Fagan’s round glass table.
Ingesting sharp stabbing snow flakes that travel
Both lanes through the flesh of the Dartford tunnel
That drip down from their throats
And land at the base of their navels.
Conversation sparks lightning rods as senses heighten
And false enlightenment forms with each inhale and exhale
From chain smoking fumes that entangle
Their tongues;
Forcing their jaws to quickly quiver and tingle:

“City Nature is the display of the polluted and blemished.”
“Man is god – creator’s image.”
“God is a mixed heritage hermaphrodite – a celestial ‘Sheman’.”
“Woman is the echo of man’s woe
And a man is just a man,
And ‘just’ men sit lawless in their towers
And build for themselves walls to separate strange nations.”
“Higher consciousness is vanity disguised
When proclaimed by celebrity gurus
Seeking engagement from public eyes.”
“Perfection is the ant-eye-climax
Seen in tv advertisements
For the female pursuit:
To be younger than their waistlines;
Asphyxiating their grey matter on art-eye-chokes”

This disjointed, loquacious discourse disbands
Leaving only the smoke filled air to circulate the room.
Horizontal bodies lay frozen
And eyes stare into the distance –
Lost in far out dimensions.
Olivia awakens scanning the seemingly lifeless crypt.
A whisper emerges and invades her ears:

“Chemical consumerisation no longer feels divine
Amidst this community of lost children
Who remain lost in the black night.”

Please sir, can I have something more?