Kicked in spaces,..

On the verge of things that won't speak or explain. The creeping gnaw of expectant need. Hacked down by cynicism and forget. She's crossing boundaries. She's forging passes. MB

David the magnificent

“.. Colleges being nothing but grooming schools for the middleclass non-identity which usually finds its perfect expression on the outskirts of the campus in rows of well-to-do houses with lawns and television sets is each living room with everybody looking at the same thing and thinking the same thing at the same time while the Japhies of the world go prowling in the wilderness to hear the voice crying in the wilderness, to find the ecstasy of the stars, to find the dark mysterious secret of the origin of faceless wonderless crapulous civilization…See the whole thing is a world full of rucksack wanderers, Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures.”  The world according to Japhy. Dharma Bums by jack Kerouac.

David the Chimpanzee RIP. You are a legend hero magnificent God

The epitome of shit.. ( The Dragana chronicles)

Sucking eastern wounds- feeling.
Death doctors dealing.
She slides in, taking foot and hold and grasps of  skin. Contact.
I'm drowning.
Her need a constant squealing.
Bruised depths need shielding.

My boundaries need squaring.

Odd knots  and shadowed tangles that shoe horn me through the day.

Levelled off .

She gravels in clutching old cuts of flaps in hackled skin.

Churned til I am leathered and bristled by the contact.

The Molten feed-ism; her shriek blasting need-ism.

I am turned slave.Her load a pricely tax .

The heavy feed; that I should tote what you won't carry?
Sucking on my seed-dream?.

No Ms! I won't be your wasted vassal state.

MB

Downstairs neighbours, equally empty, equally to be loved, equally a coming Buddha.. ( All things happen outside Diss)

Woke up safe/sad to leave. Ride to the station, early morning  pret. No veggie brioches, just waiting sun, and a low rise on majestic stone. Window watching  a homeless  man rolling his first cigarette of the day, stretched out, languidly at ease as if in his very own bedroom,  double thickness duvet,  mat-like  beneath him .A dark haired Buddha, strewn and possessed.

No veggie brioches, had to contend with bacon.

Nondescript hotel, plush levels, carpeted floors,  corporate  sign boards lighting the way,  pretend-friendlies with proclaiming hearts , the mass-welcoming of Dr X. We are all the same. Me and the five dwarves- five men and me, all shades of old world and brown crinkly skin. The one with the stiletto moustache, who fought in Sadam's army; the quiet African and  the geriatric imp-twins, white haired nostrils and ears,  riotous, emphatic out-liers,. All but one-  the new friend who carried my colours  while I battled  the potbellied trainer/intruder; he  and his  " weak women and strong men". Nobody blinked  till I spoke. Female Challenger charging his white bellied certainty as it hung over his belt; mock bearded privilege stretching  all the way to his power point. This is 2018 for God sake! After, when it was over, after the heat had been shed and the blood had been spilt, reflected on, fed back and rated; new friend took me to the bus stop, called me a tourist, and  put me on the no 10. Oxford street, where on certain days  experience means more than flimsy shoes, and those experiences lead to a sun trap  by the sea; except it wasn't sea, it was swans and ice-creams wrapped   in bright smiles and peddleboats; and an enthusiastic engineering German, who said he like the way I read; kerouac on a suit case, or was it the way I sat?. " I need something like that" he said. I suggested Hot Yoga..But clocks  rang, all the way to the top of the park, past the woman of the stripped top and  brown wedged shoes, the  very one  I'd seen  earlier on in the day in a city of how many millions? This was more than speed and lights and suitcase pulling, even as I made it to  the track and gave my dinner away, all the while  waiting for a little magic train that  was losing it's  way. MB

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eminem/ machine gun kelly beef.

I-phoned again

In 1903 EM Forster wrote this:

" I want to see you not through the Machine,” said Kuno. “I want to speak to you not through the wearisome Machine.”

“Oh, hush!” said his mother, vaguely shocked. “You mustn”t say anything against the Machine.”

“Why not?”

“One mustn”t.”

“You talk as if a god had made the Machine,” cried the other. “I believe that you pray to it when you are unhappy. Men made it, do not forget that. Great men, but men. The Machine is much, but it is not everything. I see something like you in this plate, but I do not see you. I hear something like you through this telephone, but I do not hear you.”

"...Few travelled in these days, for, thanks to the advance of science, the earth was exactly alike all over. Rapid intercourse, from which the previous civilization had hoped so much, had ended by defeating itself. What was the good of going to Peking when it was just like Shrewsbury? Why return to Shrewsbury when it would all be like Peking? Men seldom moved their bodies; all unrest was concentrated in the soul.....Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled, and here was his reward. Truly the garment had seemed heavenly at first, shot with colours of culture, sewn with the threads of self-denial. And heavenly it had been so long as man could shed it at will and live by the essence that is his soul, and the essence, equally divine, that is his body...Cannot you see, cannot all you lecturers see, that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives is the Machine? We created the Machine, to do our will, but we cannot make it do our will now. It has robbed us of the sense of space and of the sense of touch, it has blurred every human relation and narrowed down love to a carnal act, it has paralyzed our bodies and our wills, and now it compels us to worship it. The Machine develops - but not on our lies. The Machine proceeds - but not to our goal. We only exist as the blood corpuscles that course through its arteries, and if it could work without us, it would let us die.” The machine stops by EM Forster.