Even those closest to me consider me a cynical bastard…
When I talk of those closest to me, I mean a handful.
And close is used to indicate that they know me to my core…and can bear me.
they know I am beastly,
intelligent to a point…where my primal weasel emerges and trounces on Reason and any sense of common Decency.
I like to think that is more a positive hint of my wilderness ever open and exposed,
that it makes me endearing,
but I can chuckle balefully,
when concluding with all seriousness,
that this is playful thinking.
For my beastliness is only of value to those closest when my fangs are bared for mutual Righteous Cause.
for something beyond my own blinkered of unaspected Jupiter passions and 12th house stelium fanaticism.
My cynicism may not be healthy, but it is natural,
to be expected,
of any mind which considers everything beyond the scripted mundane,
and cringes, if not fangs towards,
the all too common exchange of vapid pleasantries,
virtual ‘likes’ pat on the back compliments drawn from digital scripts…
And tries to make sense,
unaware its rooted in the absurd magic of the realm of fantasy and mystery…
so can never quite connect with anything existing outside of this long ago accepted primal chaos swinging between survival and the same intensity seeking further meaning when survival needs are in respite.
blame or refer to my 12th House,
My SUn, Mercury and Mars crowding the bar,
dreams, magic, mystery.
anything beyond the automated labours of life which humanity,
despite the advances in some areas,
has not just reverted to,
but embraced and prescribed as progress.
Anything of the obvious herd led by shepherd appalls this collision of planetary alliance and intensification…
I cant stand any day feeling like yesterday.
any conversation which doesnt move me in head or heart.
Back to the cynical weasel reflection I find in others…
Yes I challenge,
I rant and rave and rage against the label baubles of revolution and progressive,
which many I like tend towards,
barely concealing my howl of contempt when they explain their latest tattoo,
and its easier for them to condemn me as an annoyance,
as a fascist,
as a blinkered pseudo intellectual who is so blind I cant see my own shackles of arrogance…
Yet this is more a deflation of my own respect,
ALl they see.
is my inability to pretend,
and call it everything but this.
They dont want to listen to Lodeck,
for he speaks from somewhere of pure, not prescribed or written for a carefully planned for audience ‘poetry’.
And I am affected by such a chap,
basic instincts to skin a mammoth of my caveman heart
For my idea of that beautiful word and ideal…poetry,
when it means something,
comes from somewhere wild and unbridled.
it is not worked upon, day after day,
with an acolyte paying steady homage.
Its a meteorite strike,
a flash flood,
and will never happen again.
I understand why writing when designed for a wide audience needs to be edited,
any perceived creases smoothed,
anything considered potentially too obviously barbed,
cut and chopped to meet a set of established norms.
I can still enjoy the results of which,
calm movement of the mind,
but I seek what makes me feel as alive as the thunder.
And to find this in written form is rare and precious.
It is the splattering of blood from a knife cutting a heart.
it is the first giant wave of a tsunami hitting the land.
Its Her Moon in the 5th House which guides my moth wings flapping open and honest and awful. Which rarely notices my intense glare, but when she does, She smiles.