Receiving ugly reflections,
in cracked mirrors of CORPORATE overlay
they are me…I make nor seek any excuse,
that is me….
and I Cannot contest the ‘informal’ addition to my rap-sheet of ‘objectively inappropriate’…
I am drawn too easily, weakly, into puerile adversarial combat with words alone from afar, and despise myself quickly for it, as not only do I become the lame too easy and too pointless to mock, as a manically sensitive creature, more wannabe butterfly by Sun, demented moth by moon…seeking and finding my trapped between species like rainbows in caves, yet every rainbow still sends me to cave…
the more I engage,
the more I become them…
Blueprint and his tribe help to centre me, like thunder in human music poet form…
It should be more a beautiful experience to find myself feeling a benign happiness to have a butterfly flutter around me and land on my knee.
And rather than focus on how far from my own tribe this suggests of me,
I should be painting that happiness found in words and poetry and maybe,
that will help more than all my ranting and raving of global affairs,
to inspire even one to look upon butterflies with calm and beautiful marvel…makes my drunk heart swoon…
I feel more now that handshake with Blueprint, when drunk on cognac, hooded wannabe lad, yet seeking him out, after the concert with Slug and Ant, back home in Brighton. When the music stopped, rounds of raucous demand for more, I hunted Blueprint down, who was surrounded by a cackle of short skirts and lipstick painted upon wanton lips, his gaze met mine and he made waves through the competing lady tides, to narrow down existence to him and me. I gave him a rhyme I had written, thanking him for coming to my town…and he shook my hand heartily, his eyes were so intense and pure, mine muddled, but he made and left his mark deeper.
Even when focused loosely on a boring theme, these poets cannot help but come to life on a decent beat and emerge as potent as planetary deities spitting rhymes at each other over the rings linking Saturnian moons…Illogic has form for this>
He is pure spawn of the wilderness///
He stops the manufactured compass spinning.
becomes and consumes the world around me standing still,
as he rages like flashfloods and supernovas.
And always makes sad sense…
They delve far deeper than my topsoil can bear without sadness…yet like staring at a fight on the streets or a hideous accident…I cannot help but become transfixed, and fight not against my connection to words and zeal consuming responsive to earlier emissions from some more primal than prone to prance>>>