Only the deaf say Women can’t rap…

The finest Women are valuable not because they are Women, like the finest men are not valuable primarily because they are men. Their value, at least to me, is found first, foremost and always in their honesty.

ANy hint of Misandry or Misogyny is not found in those I value. Precisely because we have far more at stake and to deal with than the reality of manufactured gender pussy riot politics. Its the direction of the mainstream towards gender politics that encourages a couple of meatheads in the queue at Coles, to respond to my change in tone towards a lady at the checkout when she forgets my request for tobacco, then rolling papers, and this tone would change the same for a man, probably more angry, and the meatheads glare and menace with body language and move too close around me as I prepare my bike for launch…and probably feel they are doing something good. I sigh and snarl in return…

I am unsure, and only ponder, not care, if it seems appalling, to suggest we have moved from a difference of skin colour with muted response, to a difference in gender to seal flapping in the aquarium for more sardines tossed by the minder…

The best of any species is not focused on its gender. This is a direction by design. And I am surprised, at first, by anyone who doesnt see this. Then I am unavoidably brimming with contempt.

Yes it matters when I meet a man or woman, if they are a man or a woman, but it matters more who and how and what they are well beyond gender…in heart, in soul, in spirit, in mind. \

Keny ARkana is one of the truest screams of the femininity of the wilderness in human form I have ever heard. She seem as street weathered and wise for the experience as any man I have known. ANd her eyes remains Womanly Beautiful.

I am too long in the fang and prone to reveal anything of depth solely when I find others who hint at the same.

Gender blind to everything but my sexual impulses,

which are strong but dont govern me,

for other primal urges are stronger and of the spirit,

nothing holy,

more weasel,

…it cant be helped…

 

scrambled transmissions from whatever I was in 2018…

What is the value of false mirrors?

The problem with Eden, in a biblical sense, is that it suggested a garden, which could never go wrong…and earmarked the character who caused rotten fruit to appear on the branches of such perfect stems, as something EVIL…yet, without that character, lets play the game…without the devil…we would have known nothing but perfect seasons, of perfect growth, of perfect blossoming, of bountiful produce from our perfect endeavour, never anything to learn, never any need to grow beyond what we are, never anything but la di la holy holy holy perfection.

In that story, I instantly thank the author for the devil.


When people express themselves to me anywhere close to pure, and prone to chaos, and manic, and emotional, and wild, and as real as the Wind and the Tides, which to feel, moves me…I want to know them more. For we are of the Wind and Tides.And if they then share my values, my Sense of Right, then I want to be always close to them…


Our capacity to love, only rivalled by our capacity to hate, is what seems to stand us apart from other species. Give up on the hate and focus on the LOVE. Fight for nothing but this…with Fang and Claw and Fury.


I find so much belief in other-wordly, perhaps preternatural, possibly supernatural, in the stories passed down generation to generation, which were culled with the industrial revolution. Are we better off to consider what centuries of humans believed in as clearly, plain stupid and lacking the ‘knowledge’ we have now? Or have we become industrialised ourselves? More machine than human.

We can cure so many diseases, many of which came as part of our ‘progress’. We can see further into space than ever before, send probes to study Saturn’s beautiful rings, yet our studies of humanity and all creatures great and small seem to be now set as solely commercial. We do not even understand why and how we dream…And are herded to focus on Love as a reality TV show. When Love is all that can ever matter…it rarely makes any sense, in its most passionate form given to us by Nature, but it is the richest wine of life than can be supped.

I used to believe that Love begun and ended with charity, of truly, always wanting the very best for another…but I have come to understand that Love begins and ends with Trust. Of believing everything of another expressed is True. Honest as the Forest.


I sat in a troll hairdressers last week. Watching an old man near his grave sat next to me wipe the sweat from his brow, listening to a smug pug faced goon in The Chair speak to the Lady with the blades with a smile on his face which reminded me of the smile I saw on the face of my brother when he emerged from a brothel on his bucks night…I was 16 years old, and disgusted, beyond appalled; everything I had built of an image of the brother I never knew yet was so instinctively happy to behold was shattered…That same smile, smug…I suspected this chap having his hair cut didnt often get the chance to speak to women, and was making the most of a maternal figure cornered. Maybe he had some weird Oedipus inklings. Many do here…for they are raised on a totem as the Prince from infancy, when no infant earns such a title from merely birth, they earn this from how they progress, the man they become. I listened to the awkward exchange and the mentions of animals…

…what irked me the most was reason to chuckle when the conversation moved to the animal kingdom. This sickening egoism presenting as ME ME ME as the end of a production line of Nature of God.

I know moths more likely to inspire me than the vast majority of humans. I marvel at butterflies, the daylight cousin of the moths, with daily happiness, and I see perhaps 10 of their winged flock per week and probably 1000 humans. Its not the realm where I live, for the situation is the same back in the motherland.

People are forming and valuing relationships on facebook likes…or the lack of.

When they should be marvelling at butterflies.


My fangs have become long and now protrude ungainly even when I try to smile. Trapped to such a degree that I find parts of myself dancing in tune with those adhering to a life absent of feeling, out of habit, a life delineated by ignoble acts, a life taught, rinsed and repeated, door to door, face to face, mouth to mouth. My heart baulks with horror and pain, my lupine spirit howls, as I look left, right, up, down, and even to my surface, and find nothing of value, of meaning, of growth, of substance. I am finding nothing but an awkward acceptance of everything I hate become me.

Is this the habitat where I dwell, am marooned? To some degree the answer is YES, for the majority I collide with cause me to rage and fang and ponder whether they are brain dead, soul dead, or governed by overt direction to behave like a cunt to everyone but themselves.


When will we learn. When will we appreciate that we have been given the most precious gift known to any creature? The gift of life.

Which isn’t a move towards spirituality. Or cosmic ponderings, yet I find purchase in both…It is a roar for everyone still living to appreciate their LIFE. Their chance to feel to think to express to learn to grow to adventure…

We are a long time dead. That is without contention. And yet, we focus so much on yesterday or tomorrow, when pondering the NOW that we reach towards this silence of eternity, this expiry of anything we can ever know as SELF. We discuss with ourselves time travel more than find total focus and presence in the NOW. This is due to fear, not logical reasoning. This is due to conditioning. This is due to intentional direction to make us focus on anything but the NOW.


I seek and need more humans,

more Other life,

which and who can see me for what I am,

not quite proud but okay with my awfulness,

probably more comfortable discussing this,

than any praise…

Could be a cockroach,

Could be a weasel,

Could be a wave when I am diving naked wild and free in the shallows on the day after the night of the fullest of moons…

I hold the smirnoff bottle high and lit up like Diogenes,

smile from the corner of my mouth at the lions in my den,

throw myself into the ocean when I can feel it reaching for the celestial realm with its everything,

and part of me senses,

it can take me along for the ride…


The many produce at best flashes in the pan,

Generally flatline of what we know and feel as soul,

They hide in the flocks of the wild or others seeking shelter from the glare of honest mirrors,

Yet remain plastic.

Remain with their facebook ‘activism’

They attend organised ‘protests’

With the police and businesses and council alerted,

They even pay for the permit…

 

I listen always for a pulse.

For a fire within which burns and yearns,

I try to set this alight when I suspect or hope for it,

Yet I get to the Ocean,

To you, with your Bethells deafening ferociousness, just the shallows,

But to me yes yes the ocean…

At least once per week,

I have dived in recently and whilst chilled to the femurs,

Ive emerged energised,

For the waves to flow through me even briefly,

Connects me with the natural rhythms of the everything.

 

I seek always what makes any part of me throng and throb and pulse…

 

Woman in her most nubile flames of a divinity which has no good or bad after the explosion,

Thunder and lightning striking on a maddened by the fullest of moons high tides,

The brutal honesty of humans who have known more dark than the light.

 

My intellect delves deep enough to realise I am too often in the shallows,

For the spirit,

The lupine howl,

Drives everything I am…

 

It’s a need to feel some connection to not just the brutality of the wilderness found on Earth,

But the rings of Saturn.

Because these are my tribe.

 

Those of Earth and Sky,

Not some hippy free love silliness,

Love aint free.

Only a fool would consider otherwise.

 

Happiness aint free.

 

Look at the world around us,

Its war and hostility everywhere but…

Nature is the same,

Its all war and hostility,

Yet that’s what makes the moments of respite from the horror,

All the more glittered with stardust,

And eden,

So we must seek them and grasp them,

Whilst first accepting,

Its easier,

Then understanding that we are designed by Nature for war and hostility…


I

AM

HEADING

TO

MY SOUl

AND

I

WANT

TO

TAKE

YOu

With

ME


I see a madman in the mirror.

Yet I find his glare reflected in those of staggering fierceness and wild howl.

For within me lies and rouses often a beast.

There is something of the wilderness which I cannot keep fully quiet.

Ever seeking the pulse and throng of vitality that I have found only ever in Nature,

and the Untamed.

……..

Purposeful and real…

As are all non human animals.

Survival then adventure or solace.

Is all they ever seek.

….

The closest beyond my species I can find in myself is weasel,

or cockroach,

which to many would seem like self deprecation.

Though those who know me well would understand that I consider most humans below the cockroaches and weasels,

in my reckoning of all things.

 

Which makes me not quite a misanthrope or any other man made concoction,

just a man,

at least honest with himself,

who seeks to scurry and survive in the eye of the storm of Existence,

alongside those who have no choice in the matter…

They are forced to focus always on the movement of the moon in the sky,

the rise and fall of the tides,

the wind and the rain…

On all that matters most.


 

 

\ To express your SOUL…your feeling and instinctive core…is the hardest thing in life, and the most beautiful. What value can be appreciated by giving anything less? SHOW YOUR SELF OR MOVE THE FUCK ON…


 

Honesty is more painful a privilege…

I see a madman in the mirror.

Yet I find his glare reflected in those of staggering fierceness and wild howl.

For within me lies and rouses often a beast.

There is something of the wilderness which I cannot keep fully quiet.

Ever seeking the pulse and throng of vitality that I have found only ever in Nature,

and the Untamed.

Narcy seems an adult wolf to my instinctive cubhood.

He does something which I know and feel is purposeful and real.

Purposeful and real…

As are all non human animals.

Survival then adventure or solace.

Is all they ever seek.

‘Our DNA is of Earth and SKy…’

I know a man who is more of Nature than me.

he talks of shadows.

and finds in me more of him than we ever close to discuss…

we meet close to always bare feet on the sand or neck deep in the ocean.

And his value to me is so absent from anything he expresses or expects,

for he is like the wind and the waves far more than I could ever find myself,

for I am more human than he.

Honesty is more painful a privilege with the majority of my human tribe than for the animals…

 

A human unable to avoid being of the earth and sky complements a human unable to avoid being human.

 

The closest beyond my species I can find in myself is weasel,

or cockroach,

which to many would seem like self deprecation.

Though those who know me well would understand that I consider most humans below the cockroaches and weasels,

in my reckoning of all things.

 

Which makes me not quite a misanthrope or any other man made concoction,

just a man,

at least honest with himself,

who seeks to scurry and survive in the eye of the storm of Existence,

alongside those who have no choice in the matter…

They are forced to focus always on the movement of the moon in the sky,

the rise and fall of the tides,

the wind and the rain…

On all that matters most.

Prince

Prince came before it was a social crime to stretch gender and sexuality. He was not condemned, for perhaps people had no guiding principle, from facebook, in terms of how to react, so they did so instinctively. He sexualised women whilst sexualising himself. And was a true pioneer in this regard who could only have done what he did in an era where so much social upheaval was happening that gender politics were of little concern, only his sound mattered…

Looking back over his catalogue and he comes to seem more and more a fierce, open, immensely sincere hero of lost times. Seeking not mainly the accolades for his style, just to be heard and felt and maybe, to find his efforts inspiring to others hiding behind the facades society have placed upon them.

Prince wouldn’t have survived in this era. Too sweet. Too sexual with no judgement yet prone to judgement. Loving and helping and giving his everything to beautiful women is no crime. Neither is raising a Woman to a platform of divinity and climbing up towards her in song and prance…when she feels like your universe, your everything. And you want to tell the world your story…

 

Milan Kundera – Immortality

A persian friend with moons for eyes mentioned the author’s name to me a while back…knowing I write and read prolifically, and eager to suggest someone I might like and find within his work inspiration. A noble, kind gesture… I didn’t seek out the wordsmith, waited instead for him to come to me. As he did…found in a box my beloved hellhound was sniffing out after initially assuming an ENEMY, out front a neighbour’s house.

The framework of the novel is curious. The interspersing of focus of Goethe, of a story Kundera was writing, and of Kundera himself seeping into the narrative was odd yet well managed. The writing is intelligent, measured, educational and moves at a pleasant pace…yet…the tome lacks any pulse. It feels like its written from the Goethe and Hemingway realm, a realm after Death, looking back upon life impassively.

Many themes explored and considered are interesting, yet always drenched in an apathy bordering on nihilism. And as a man who thrives on passion, on instinct, on feeling, on romance, on seeking oneness with the wilderness within and without, the journey through the many, admittedly well connected pages, felt depressing…

Which isn’t to suggest the book is not readable. It is. Moreover, I am suggesting that if you are a creature who revels in the thunder and lightning, who understands that Feeling Means Everything, and to ponder the afterlife in any meaningful way is a waste of Life, choose to deal with it later…if you thrive on appreciating the magic of life, the intensity, and look upon the full moon standing naked in the garden with a glass of rum in hand and salute a Power you can never define but adore and bow to in reverence…then avoid this book. For its anathema to the passionate, to the fanatics, to the true lunatics who refuse to focus on the End and instead focus on the Now, those precious few who seek no words of any Man to guide them through the darkness, roar and rage at any and all doctrine, for guidance, they look to the stars above in a clear night sky and the moon…and the tides of the ocean.

I did not enjoy how my mind made sense of Everything expressed, exposed. My heart and instincts were roaring with disapproval throughout and I have finally ended the thing, and tried my third Gore Vidal book, found its not what I need, and turned back the clock to Hunter S Thompson’s Generation of Swine, which I ranked fairly lowly in regards to his other outings, at the time, a different time, my mid 20s when life was more a welcome vortex of beautiful chaos…And in the first fistful of pages, I have found more solidarity of spirit, and laughed wildly on the sand before snarling feeling Hunter course through my veins when accosted by a reject from ko phagnan beach hawker patrol and dealing with her playfully and sternly, mainly to make myself chuckle…

Writing to me, anything and everything to me, HAS to be about feeling and spirit. By which I am not referring to any doctrine of spirituality. That is not for me. I learn more of my spirit from riding through a storm when others are running for cover and feeling a need to be like the hail and blizzards, onwards, ever onwards…and as for Feeling…is it not truly, all that matters to everyone?

Essentially, Immortality lacks any appreciation of what matters most to me…SPirit and Feeling.

If you need to seek out the intelligent attempt at wisdom of an old man, then I would suggest you try Knut Hamsun instead. For despite his cynicism, which was concluded early in his life, mainly during his trips to the US, he never lost appreciation of both Nature and those amongst the human hordes whose hearts beat with the tides, Wind is the Passion in their Sails…This book is close to the death of Dreams.