I am a cynical bastard. Natural, mangled, torn and prickly as the forest, yet to many, even my own reckoning, a cynical bastard…yet somewhere close to that cynicism, is a heart as soft as bambi, always eager to dance on his or even her back, in fields of lavender…and its the lupine spirit, wily in fang, haggard in coat, which battles and roars at this softness and anyone near, when it becomes clear that the softness is not valued…and the wolf knows, that the bambi judges all on bambi…so it intervenes, sometimes appears brutish…and is accustomed, naturally prone to look out of everything I am, and hear words from others of my coldness, of my nastiness, of my spite, of my heart as a piece of coal…for the wolf is content to have done his work, which is not to paint me to the world as horrid, but to protect my immense vulnerability, at all costs.. He would rather howl and bite and roar, than see his beloved bambi heart undone to its death…
This wolf spirit, which is the most easy, simple reason to grasp at, to understand why I have the love of brothers and sisters who I will feel until my last breath, men who are to some, rugged brutes, women who are deemed by society as damaged and to be avoided, yet still used for cold self gratification, in some way…and those who venture closer then flee (those weak , hurtful, coward pigfuckers)…yet to me, pondering things more properly…they are of the same spirit, they are real, they can cut through the bullshit, and if their cutting through the fakery is met poorly they can crush and maim, and will…and so why do they love me? These Titans… When I consider I am more bambi than wolf, at best weasel…the fox of the sewers…I like to believe it is partly my heart, but its more the solidarity of spirit, the solidarity of brazen transparency of my Essence, for good and ill, in a world which deals mainly in scripted verbal vomit, in witting deception of all that matters, the Self…a world and nearby society of fakery, of hiding in prescribed duplicity…and those who deal with it as their daily currency of exchange. Then watch the Bachelor and feel anything…They are the farmers and I am the fox in the chicken coop, starving, ravenous, will risk the shotgun to seek what I need, in order to survive…
Its Honesty… not my global fang routine, not my berserk romeo potential…its my honesty. Nothing more, nothing less. In short, they trust me. They know and feel I mean and feel what I say. Which might be awful on occasion, it might be silly, childish idealism, or emotionally driven reactive horror, self righteous ranting, hurtful and in need of an apology…yet for the same reason I adore them all, and hope they feel the same…for to find others with whom we can be sure their investment in us is pure, and their words are meant, nothing spoken calm and half heartedly, good for all time…is a rare, special and precious thing. Something to be hugely valued and always nourished, especially at the worst of times.
Too many fail to analyse the investment of others in themselves, mistaking manipulation and witting or unwitting exchange of insecurities, for kinship…They lose sight and dispense flippantly and callously with the souls who truly love them.
Given I thrive and persist on the basis of feeling more than thought, I am one of these people I write of, who can naively assume warmth and fondness when the reality is that this is seeking something far removed from benign, praying on my weakness and vulnerability, and need to show myself and feel accepted, loved.
Yet such is my steady expression of a broken dam of huge tides of Feeling…of grief, of sadness, of torment…and my appreciation of Feeling, this leads quickly to horror, and so I rarely forge lengthy relations with people who mean me anything but warmth and fondness and solidarity. Unless I feel a pure and deep mutual sense of devotion…Which remains with me for eternity. Less so for others.
I am however, well aware of the jeopardy of persisting with an open heart policy, in a realm and age in which the many are persisting in the very opposite direction on the spectrum of heart and soul. Which serves to cause me to blunder, yet also reveals those with pure well meaning towards me more swiftly. For the more you show, the more you hurt, and the quicker you both find and know others as fiends of the lowest order and see the pure souls revealed in their blindingly brilliant light.
The vast majority of both male and female ‘hippetyhop’ crowd focus far more on how they look, than what they say and how they say it…Especially the women, for they need to look pretty, to aid their cause, such is the still horribly unbalanced state of things of our societies in the West…Yet Keny does none of this, she is 10000000% focused on the message, she has no short skirt, is never obviously feminine obedient to expected, needed sexiness…yet to feel her passion, her heart, her soul, and to then see her eyes in snippets, is more beautiful than any short skirt…
She shows her soul. And to merely be able and strong enough to do that, when most others are doing otherwise, marks her as incredible, a prophet of sorts, a true daughter of Lilith.
The value of a piece of music is found when I close my eyes and listen and feel solely through my ears…something that moves me, deeply. To make me feel my innards reacting…to pine, to desire, to question, to learn, to grow, to hurt…or to demand of my limbs I dance in the garden…
How many people know of this True Artist?
Love begins and ends with Respect. It also requires an honesty which has all too often been muddled, moved to that scripted bullshit which the herded call Reality TV…Do they not understand the mismatch there? Reality and TV?
TV is never, never, fucking never reality, unless shot Gonzo style…(Anything that happens is recorded, no editing, all real)…THAT is Reality TV. Not the fucking Bachelor or My Kitchen whatever…Not Game of Drones…I am sickened by this Society when I find more automated passion in many around me for fake, poorly scripted TV love than anything of their own romantic endeavour. Love is a never a reality TV show.
I can’t stand the fakery. I cringe at all affectation.
Especially when I suspect myself leaning towards such ugliness…
As I find myself sporadically prone.
And I can’t help but pounce…
On myself and others.
For the gratitude I feel for how I hate any of such behaviour worthy of my disgust,
the deepest of which I consider worthy of my fangs bared wild and rabid,
is found in my own meanderings.
I can dominate a scene, many scenes, with my hardly potent, just loud intellect and perpetual supernova of a heart,
yet I am always sensing the energy of every soul present,
towards me, and towards each other…
One of the only times I can consider and sense myself different to this,
is when I sat on a couch,
in front of a crowd of well meaning souls,
and I was poorly…drunkard poorly,
yet determined to read my soul…
for the Sally Elf had asked me,
which I did,
with the focus of my love ,mega trauma and eternal devotion,
a few yards seated in front of me.
This scene mattered more to me than any other present,
baring my essence, inside out,
to a crowd of strangers and smoke…
and to the one who inspired such baring of my everything.
And she cried…
then ran to her friends,
as close comrades praised and doted on me in their own singular ways and asked..
‘Where is she??’
She was to be found…elsewhere.
I’d rather be Wolf,
Id rather be fox,
But I am only human…
And the finest part of my expression of anything in this world I can consider pure and beautiful,
is my ever more gorgeous sense of divinity when I can move close enough,
and they land on me…
Also when prancing in the waves,
proper waves of vigour like I found at Piha,
and the waterfall nearby,
a canopy of branches swaying in the breeze,
the glare of our nearest and dearest star,
as the butterflies fluttered around me,
and I embraced the crisp, fresh water…
and when accepting no other human was present,
I screamed with joy…
I love butterflies more than people,
and it is those people whose hearts echo the butterflies,
who I AM DRAWN TO,
who I wish to nourish,
to show them my own mad moth,
and to hope they feel me as odd kin…
‘analyse their investment in you’…
SHow Me LoVE…
its all that ever matters.
I am a wide open soul,
too far beyond the loving embrace of my tribe,
no longer amused by people finding me as curious,
a playful poetic scribe…