Nine, Oh'Nine, Oh' Nine, Oh'Nine, Oh'Nine

 

Plato

Plato's Bed

Ground
The Bog of Mankind
I see the human shell
Sinking into the humus of historical context
Absorbing even the Classical Greek edicts about how 'drapery should reveal the form'
The drapery index lost
Sinking into the matrix
Into which also the body,
Decomposed but still somehow sensate
Is also in the process
Of being organically digested
And it is Plato's Forms:
No Space
No Time
Laying hard
Beneath the covers

Collective Thoughts

Thoughts on collective thoughts:

Void
the momentary experience
not void
but simultaneous
expansion and contraction
timelessness
everywhere
nowhere
utter dislocation
merging
without borders
cosmic embrace
nighttime
IMMENSE
distance
sucked back in
for the first
nay millionth time

an immediate sense

of deep memory
a finial wakening
the gaze
so stunning
the voice
so beautiful
the ground
liquid traces
of me
and you

Covenant

Covenant

Bruise colored flowers

stain the darkening wood

where once

the edible house stood

and shadowed children

upon the wife

while the maid servant

watched roses

on the edge of rancid

kiss the fattening goose

and promised closure

to the witches plight

that waits in the oven

of a fatherless night.

Spare Is, as, Spare Does.

You let it drop to me.

You spoke of my confessions...

what about yours?

Is it the case that

you and I share the same tendency

to cover our tracks?

One born of preterit hope...

that what cannot be seen,

may not exist...

An ultimate presence and absence

co-mingled in matrixial night,

of the darkest matter?

You mentioned the horrors of war,

seductive cover-ups...

the fashion to obscure the lies

and the drapery

of existence failed.

Your grief,

Nuremberg,

your fathers standards...

splinters in your soul...

a trail of sorrows,

the lagrima mundi...

of your entire life.

Now the splinters emerge

and come to term,

not the first time,

but again as specter

in the form of paintings

as elegant and minimal

as any judgmental

and discriminating Papa

might expect

from his exquisitely

talented and beautiful

daughter,

the daughter

whom

awakens

amongst the ravage

of horror

and human misery

bound in ecstasy.

And under the cover of cosmic night

you do your Papa proud,

your Papa is undone.

Meanwhile the sheets are set

and the forms

remain clean,

aquiline fine,

with all the glimmer

and spareness

one should want

of a woman desired

yet chaste.

Look Papa!

All of it is there!

Your daughter has

suggested everything,

while revealing nothing!

She has done it

beautifully,

tastefully,

delicately,

amid your past

and presence

which lay

concealed

by her growing power,

her frightful bower,

of intimacy and secrecy.

Papa is there a groom

whom shall marry this bride?

Or a seed

that shall be spilled upon her?

My Lady,

To you

I will reveal

only what is comfortable

for you to bare.

I will spare all

or spare nothing.

Spare is

as spare does,

So shall I be spare

for the sake of thee.

You are my ground,

the point of my discharge

vessel of electric overload,

virgin ground,

And to you it is charged

to remain pure

and to remain active

even after the light passes through,

and the carnal blood is spilled.


My lady

I implore you

The sky is alive

for the ground to receive.

The New World Order Is As Old As The Illuminati' Myth

I wrote this over a year ago when I realized that we were all staring down the barrel of a shotgun we were forced to purchase so that it could be trained upon us. The time to reprint this has come. Today the criminals have engineered the take-down of GE, not because it is failing, but because the cyber-cash-hosts have sent their hedge-men to tear it up and leave it in scraps so that it can be repurchased cheap and reconstituted into the wealth of the new order. And not a soul is squeaking, not a soul.

Each one of us will need to swim or sink...
And Those whom are sucking,
must cease their gloat.
Stop eating the boat...
'cause the bloat wont float.

And the dead don't vote
And the dead don't vote

When excess is rote
better climb like a goat
For the Dow Jone's quote
is gonna sink in the moat.


And the dead don't vote
And the dead don't vote

What we're seeing
is the result of what we've been wondering about for
....YEARS...
How can these schmucks drive a new car?
when they don't make enuf,
far less save enuf,
to drive
a donkey cart?

Well the answer is,
they do it with money
on loan
from the schmucks of
Cyber-Cash...
the greedy idiots at the banks,
who engineer this stuff,
and whom have made such a web of stupidity,
that it could take down everything...
especially now that the little weiners
are just quivering in the corners
like the rats they are,
trying not to lose big,
while simultaneously
trying not to fix things,
because they can't pay the bill,
and creative finance can be stretched only so far.

And the dead don't vote
And the dead don't vote

Everybody's gonna pay...
and pay and pay.
And those who will pay the most,
will not be the holy-ghosts
nor the cyber-cash-hosts,
but the responsible few
who didn't over-eat at the banquet,
and who have resourcefully saved their assets,
only to have them robbed
by the pawn-shop
who will pay the pawnee
to go out and
rob some more,
so that they can continue
on their spree of
over-consumption,
until we are all consumed.

And the dead don't vote
And the dead don't vote

LA LA LA

The Illuminati Welcome You
To The New World Order

And the dead don't vote
And the dead don't vote

PATTERNS OF MATTER

PATTERNS OF MATTER

Every moment, every day, we are, in fact, replaced. Cell by cell our constitution is renewed as part of a normal biological process. The atom and molecules that compose our brains right now, are completely different than those that comprised them just a short time ago. The neurons in our brains which persist for a relatively long period of time, are not the neurons we had a mere month before.

So I am a completely different set of stuff than I was one month ago. But I still appear and feel remarkably, the same. My matter has changed, yet my pattern persists. Just as the water rushing past the rocks in a stream consists of completely new molecules each nano-second, it’s pattern persists for hours or years. And all we can ask is who are we? Are we matter? Or are we pattern?

You, I, we, us, neigh life itself and all the universe is in constant flux, shifting every moment, matter forever renewed, yet forever aging. We are patterns of matter and energy persisting through time. And if we could upload our patterns, and replicate our matter; Could we copy ourselves? And if we could copy ourselves, Would our copies be indistinguishable from our originals? Perhaps; but our copies would not be our originals. They would be replicas living a separate life, as a separate system, that was remarkably like our system. Our originals and replicas would be different bodies in different spaces encountering different events, engendering new chance. They would be us, yet we would not be not be them. Something is always the same, yet something is always different. Flux.

Heraclitus, 2500 years past, knew that the fundamental fact of nature is change. It is not being, but becoming that is the sole actuality and eternal destiny for all energy and things. Everything is, and is not simultaneously. All phenomenon are in a state of continuous transition from existence to nonexistence and back. As things are, nothing remains. He stated: 'you cannot step into the same river twice for fresh waters are ever flowing in upon you '.

So what is life if reality is merely a succession of transitory states? No matter is permanent, and all things come into being and pass away through strife. This is the universal principal, according to Heraclitus: ...'it is the Thunderbolt that steers all things'. The power of transmutation is the logos of God, the cosmic double. And the world which is the same for all, no one of gods or men has made, but is now and ever shall be eternal change. Energy, not matter, is permanent. And energy is not a thing, but a process. It transforms one substance into another without ever becoming that substance itself.

What persists is pattern, which rests, by changing. Even though nature loves to hide, we remain patterns of matter, patterns of substance, and patterns of energy itself. The senses are poor witness as only wisdom can judge. Just as thought is common to all; mind is matter too. And as the one is made up of all things, all things issue from the one.