weasel talk…
Programmed to press buttons to peek at screens as soon as I wake, from the haze lingering grisly from my delving into the shadows where I dull my mind, give awful fuel to my feelings, and yet still I can write and write and try to be Right…and what do I find, not in the shadows, but once the old hound has been carefully kept comfy in his nook as close as can be in the cashmere and hard fought for Marrakech threads, as I want him to stay lovely in his brief stretches and old duke fiend purr growls..curtains opened, the light hitting me like a hammer to the eyes and behind them is a murky swamp of synapses, focused only on a need to find movement, rouse from my heavy set drift to keep dreaming, stay warm…but I know its wrong to stay there, when the sun, even hidden behind clouds and barely offering echoes of the warmth and glow which gives me and everything else on the planet life, even the deepest of the creatures found in the Mariana Trench, some of that goodness filters down down down…and I need more of the surface level sparkle and brightness…so I get moving, whine and groan as I force the gears back into first…and ease off the clutch.
I turn to the little screen, then find the bigger screen, as the water boils and the bacon sizzles…begin the daily onslaught of imagery and words and soundbites and headlines and shares and likes and hates and imagery…all of it secondhand, at best…more often manufactured and third and fourth and fifth hand shared and retweeted…I am more connected to the digitisation of humanity and myself than my projection of pleasant weasel suggests.
And what do I see, from these screens which everyone is looking at and reflecting?
black knives and wives matter. black pride for just the LGBT++ people of colour…corporate sponsored riots and protests leading to nowt but pepper spray practice for the cops and fuckbook vanity eagerness for likes and hearts, babies in thousands of many poses as if that is something to be heart and like clicked, political prescriptions of elite cunt Tucker fuckery, Trump and ‘insider knowledge Qanon Adrenocrone harvesting of the child sex rings bullshit’ and its twin symbiotic child of the empire, on the so called left, when they are both on an obvious circle….both funded and directed by the same overseer and producer of the circle…speakers of truth, a word I rarely use, who cannot accept anything but their truth found in what gives them a sense of value, or strokes their vulnerable ego…
Its all about division. Promoting, cunningly… division. Cutting away with every clickbait, right left fuckever, from any sense of solidarity of a species let alone any promotion of finding marvel at the simple pleasures of existence. We are all in this together, 1.5 metres apart? And people are sharing such fucking awful encouragement to remove ourselves from each other even further…when touch, voices spoken in close embrace, eye to eye, heart to heart, soul to soul…is all we have left to keep connected to each other beyond the words and faces pulled learned from a social media machine which is owned and very carefully and powerfully designed to make lemmings feel like they have a voice and can be heard.////
The transmissions come upon me as a constant avalanche. Moralising gone berserk yet fed by the MACHINE which seeks to control, to dictate and make us feel like we can do something meaningful, on a fucking screen…digital do goodery is the new super cool. consume, regurgitate and roar for revolution! on a social media platform paid for, engineered by, controlled by, those with their claws on the control panel? And so I get blind to my mind, which I have long known is as potent as gorged too much on this incredibly well constructed prism of how to behave to get your virtual love and feel you are fighting the good fight…Fighting on a screen is like stamping on ants, no matter how loud you feel you are screaming and right, and anyone who doesnt agree with your idea of RIGHT needs to listen more or is a fascist…but what of me, who doesnt agree, and am deemed a fascist, a right wing psy-opted enemy of? of what?…but nevermind that. What of me…Im a fascist who visits the ocean every weekend, to swim and immerse myself in the big drink or prance in the shallows then hop skip jump across the rocks to lose my humanity and the rest of humanity, and find solace and marvel in looking towards the watery sun hidden in the clouds, when it peeks briefly, and the light which gives life to our planet, to all creatures great and small, dances and sparkles upon the surface, forging what feels a path between me and the Source…my feet are chilly in the water, as the tides froth and flurry, and i can hear nothing of the QUESTION RESPOND REACT QUESTION REACT RESPOND..for there are no questions to ask when in the wilderness, just marvel to embrace…wondrous marvel.
I keep delving through the swamp, seeking anything which makes my heart and soul and mind raise its snout and weasel whiskers in awe of finding a pure given of the something natural found within the homogenised humanity which might mean something new or real…
Humanity has little to offer other than lust and the rare and precious expression of quiet hearts to meet my weasel rampage…the rest, the many? I feel closer to the moths and wombats. So keep delving and sometimes come across others with far more potently crystallised poetry than my ramblings find other than in brief and obscure peaks amongst the troughs>>>>
There is no revolution or activism on facebook or twitter. They are owned by the very corporate power in total control. It sickens and saddens me to find close to all those who attend organised and often corporate funded ‘protests’ so eager to share this wonderful deed they have done on the most obvious medium of mega money direction, and embrace the ‘likes’…look at OUR history. Revolution comes from very violent struggle, of too many people approaching a tipping point and finding their only option mega violence. The french, the russians, the mayans…none of them went to share their marches on facebook. They went to war. They cut deep with everything they could find, at the root of the system which was oppressing them. They didnt moan about racism and oppression on the prime time platform of the oppressors…Look to MAndela, and his brutal wife. They bombed and killed and maimed, as they had nothing left to consider as mechanisms of change..
I lean ever more to the wilderness. Stumble upon those who found chance to howl and fang on the mic within the system before all became…vapid skittle prick merchants and Di Caprio talking of saving the planet before taking his private jet to his own private island. And everyone applauding. Not everyone…for I am always clinging towards the outcasts, whose careful or too wild and raw output registers a pulse which makes my own throb and want to be closer to them.
I am the coward of the year.
my appreciation I yearn to hold near and dear,
of humanity,
ever more commonly rooted in a bothersome charity,
when I want to feel kin with those who howl,
and prowl…
devour the flimsy,
nourish and challenge the strong,
fight with every breath against all that is wrong.
I am No better than the tramp in the gutter,
a weasel man who speaks loud and proud but gives my essence only ever in a shadow mutter…
I dont seek to be ‘liked’ and count virtual heart symbols as encouragement that I am on the right path.
My hope always is to find humans and all creatures and the moon and the tides, meeting and accepting the flow of my weasel heart.To feel part of something which matters for all of us.
‘Its all about who looks the nicest’….
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