Gems from the Mega Rough Vol XVXVXVXV – Ice Breaker
I have written enough words of late, to the people who matter enough, and to who in turn I matter enough, to understand me, to wade through the word swamps I produce where my essence on its raft of twigs seeks land, sanctuary, and after a horrid journey, is ailing and wailing, in dire need of the lighthouse to guide me to safe shores…
And so…rather than continue with the word play, it seems for the best, now that I have reached the sand, crawled off my raft and found sanctuary, to express myself in classic hippetyhop…let the words flow through my dreams as my ears are nourished, and yours in turn…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGWbbvxG1pk
As I explained the horror of my 2016 to a close friend over a cappuccino which sent my brain into overdrive, I found myself realising that the wisest man I know in this hemisphere is not just perplexed, but scornful, of my approach to life as total transparency. I understand his point, for to continue, to strive ever onwards with total openness, when no others are adopting the same stance, is, as he knows and I know, a certain path to trauma, or at best a pariah status.
I was a major fan of MF Doom. A man who was dragged free of the trauma darkness, by Grimm, and his comrades…and once Doom had levelled out, made music, made himself, he skanked the very people who had thrown him the rope when drowning…
I don’t deep fry friends…I fight for them, fang and claw. For my sense of Tribe is paramount to my existence. Unless you are lying, faking, snitching, when your survival is at stake, life or death…in absence of which, to lie, to pretend, to run to the overseers, is fucking pathetic.
MF GRIMM – SCARS AND MEMORIES
My idea of succeeding is markedly different to the same of the many. I am well aware of this. And don’t wail or whine. I simply seek my own tribe. Always. In everything I express to the world…whether a squeal or a roar, the same mission prevails…I have survived in England, in circumstances which would make Melbourne seem like a playground, through adopting the same routine. Diogenes spent his life arguing, walking the daylight with a lamp seeking an honest man he could never find…I can relate, yet I also seek mischief, and adventure and true romance and anything which moves me in a meaningful manner. Anything less is a waste of my time, of my wakefulness, let alone my forages in the dream realm.
I drink too much, I think too much, I feel too much…yet I prefer too much to too little. I am solely interested in truth tellers…what use is anything less? Truth is love…Love is Truth…I am well aware of my incongruous position vis-a-vis my position in society, in work, in domestic circumstances, yet to play any game, lessens the love and devotion I have of those who know me as myself, always…
Nothing matters if it lacks substance, if it lacks heart and soul. Speak what you mean, do nothing half heartedly, for whatever you express, if you mean it, from your essence, it is good for all time, no matter the grammar, no matter the syntax, no matter the form…for life is poetry, and poetry is life…so I seek poetry, however crude, whether the beckoning of thighs which open on a verandah under the baleful gaze of the full moon and demand I devour the succulence found within, or colliding with a mad jap on the streets during lunchtime, as I place my hands on his car windows after he has close to taken my toes, and thereafter, I have to kick and push his fists away…until his rage is to a slight, but acceptable degree, assuaged…these moments mean something, they make me feel alive. So whether coward or King, whether lothario or sex pest, I seek meaning…substance…recognition of my Now to ME ME ME.,,.
Yes yes! I have lost a friend, then another, and yes, I find both TOTAL BETRAYAL…because I have connexions, bonds, my tribe, of the motherland to compare them with, and…the australian efforts hold flimsy and pathetic and paltry…Now I could change my output, I could play a game, but it aint honest, it aint real, and as much as I value Vautrin…I am more Mitya Karamazov…the fake need to be put down, and if they can play the game better than me, yet not realise I refuse to play the game, and still take value…then…it simply makes me more eager for the chance to cut out their eyes…
When I have shared a piece of myself, I always send…I cannot leave it be, work on it tomorrow, when there is no aim, other than to share a piece of my existence with another, verbatim from heart to soul to spirit. I cannot sleep on words to be shared, let them soak, for I am well aware that I will wake somehow different, and to pick up the chase thereafter will be artificial, connecting one Daniel with the other fraudulent unless represented in the words. And in which case, why bother? No no no…that is never my bent.
The only artist whom has written of a routine I delve into and support wholesomely is Rimbaud. You must watch Total Eclipse. You will enjoy it. Di Caprio is at his most pure, as the enfant terrible of french literature. I have read mainly his letters, for poetry rarely appeals to me, other than a fair few offerings of Bukowski. Rimbaud, teenage prodigy who turned the gallic enterprise of stale, anaemic letters upside down, then pissed all over it, whilst earning as much hatred, jealousy as applause and reverence in the shadows of established writers, was a great fan of disorientating the senses to such a degree that he had no conscious control or perception of what he was…and then looking back on what depths were plumbed when his senses returned. I am often in just such a state when finishing my salute.
I have long lost count of how many times I have awoken, dizzy yet horrified by a slither of memory of a letter began calm and composed, the words I can still see, and then…a step into an abyss of darkness, within which, for I always make the stride, the bucket is sent down the well, and I have but a vague, misty idea of what I have written, likely in such a fashion which could be passed off as sober, yet came from my innards, my essence, unleashed as it were, from the layers of propriety and lucid self restraint which smooth and caress into more pretty or more amusing or perhaps more cunning, everything I express to the world.
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