I’ve aged some.
But here it is: the same, cynical, neurotic, questioning, marvelling, laughing, admiring, swallowing beast as before, and the whirr in the pit of stomach.
me sorry i so solipsist. its all i know, man. i empathise though; more than you maybe know, dig?
excuse my punctuation, its what i unnerstand. an i share this unnerstandin, with jou (ik houven) even though, you dont unnerstand. flashes between us is all i ask, a flicker of light is a flicker of light for all that. bit epileppy though, innit…
escoos the contradictions, is my escape route back to petersburg, mang.
it is what it is, and its a tautology. Its all a metaphor for Itself: whats It like? well, its like somethin else. whats that like? its like itself, this somethin else, put it together and build a house, for minds to dwell like rats, whirrin. heart pumpin. (“life is raw, bloody, red and tender” – larry matthews,almost).
i thought i was cynical before, but now!
i thought i was cynical, but yOU?
i thought i had deconstructed the world, but now?!
It’s all philosophy, innit? Do a shit!
Oh yawn , you bean places, did stuff. What fun! Me sooo attached to nonsense, that i can barely follow your line of reasoning without wrastling your face with the moon. i want to split it all apart, run bees down your grooves, party, wham! Zoooiiiik, reasoning bores me, and excites me no end, however did i stomach philosophy? or succeed for that matter? i suppose it was the sleep-ins, the smoke-ins, the walk on parts. i suppose it was the long dreams, interposed w castaneda. O slippery reality! how i would die for you! i have an appetite for chaos. its not repressed anger, tis just the way it grooves here, in this hole i live. Nonsense, void; i hold on it like a little acid friend: brown rock, piece o string, matchbox. little guy. I run from sense, fear in eyes, and yet i find – matter, something purporting to be solid, tryin to twist me interested. doin a lil dance, dancin my neurons into morons, dancin my moron into pureon. or obscureon, on the floor, unable to lift arms above waist height, they stuck down there squirmin round that lower shak-ra.
Maybe if i keep going yoge-arrr, the kundalini serpent will squiggle up to a more noble bit o spinnin chak-arack (O kerouac)- but then why did almightly Bob put that ass in fronta my face? why he make me like that so mo? Bob’s addicted to crack like the rest of us dear, he’s gotta be. how beautiful, and sad. but the sad things always were the most beautiful…….
matter seeks self through thought — thought finds only —
itself. Mind seeks matter through matter
matter finds nothing; no matter.
Solid salad: thats you, matter; a green salad, wiv nuthin’; no lettuce, no tomatoes, nufin’, not a chickpea in sight, just your grainy chickpea soul, in a bead of light, dancing with an atom, reading its mind. All patchouli and cameron diaz, lackin in substance – a fist of sacred dung, and a pretty face, peeled, distractin ya (when did you last check ya little cellphone screen?) and wanting, nervous, and so plush with life that it couldnt possibly be any other way. your capillaries, private, and your aura, a secret. I’m gunna do experimonts woth syke-ick phenomeenons, baby, want 2 join?
What u up ta?
