Monday, May 01, 2006

moons and sapsindigenous dediciouselleviate the aggravateapologies 100 thousand foldperchance i will not sleep tonight, let not my eyes decrythe wedding vows
i am mali am nul
nullified discussions bring terrorising depression
heed transgressional conversations and you know there are no forgiving alms or hands of celebrations...
feed love with loving kindness, and do not flounder lost in a tiny pond of murder, and not a ocean of either fear or hopes, or this opposite to that opposite, when all colours disappear, all twisted agreements are reducing fogginess...
feel life with unbinding joy and freedom in thought and please no more arguements and twisted accusations of forgetting we each have our prejudices and mine are others, beginning to break us like fallen words lost in mazes...
from our own grieving uchal met kuan yin, with his hand on her waist and her hand stroking his hair...
karmic needs for absolutions as they bring doubts in thought and actions turn crazily when there is only a little path to take and all possibilities ringing from our cries...
i went to another, she would not open her door, i stood by a graveyard waiting and playing a last song, as the song will be written tomorrow, as was wrote a danger, my eyes floundering i found no one and all is silent tonight...
there was a wedding song there, and here there was a killing, there was a child, and there is a child now and still will be...
there was a maid who found a lost object and there was a missing number at a missing, smiling, greeting in these last few days...
there was a man dressed in black wearing a beard and a wide brimmed hat, clasping a baby...
there was an invitation to a party, there was a discussion in the gardens about good men dying...
and theere still will be...

Thursday, March 16, 2006

it is snowing outside...well, it snows and then it stops...if anyone ever read this i would probably wish they didn't.

Why is everything bringing back to a memory of some persons and incidents i would rather forget. I want to leave, I am in debt.

I want to find her, but without revealing her name and asking questions with a time I can not even call a missed opportunity. I think all of her madnesses are congragating into one madness.

One woamn, just a girl perhaps, did not see me, or talked silently to someone else, and touched her hand to her scarf, 'we wear pruple because'...because? would i ever wear any colour because, i don't know what colours are anymore, and i feel like crying. twice in a day in fact because of memories recent and old.

I can't write about her, because, there is a control, i make every mistake in the middle of every mistake. SHe will not come back again. I don't know if there should be a guilt and a worry for her, if she is breaking, like i break, screaming as i feel like i am about to die in the bath. Always ran to scream in the bath and it wasn't a war cry. MY hands feel as though they are floating, and i have neither you talk to in my confusion. I will have to repeat this twice. Tract, that was a word that comes to mind, but has an entire meaning that i do not know about.

I even have a guilt for her.

And this should be some occurance that should leave me happy, but has;

already left me.

Chance will not complete this. Plans will not become when my heart gets knocked about by a sudden inteference of noise.

I have to get on with 'appointments' and 'debts' tomorrow, and perhaps all of this will work out. And a stack of money left in an empty house.

I have kicked the television over, I have thrown my laundry basket around. I have smashed a plate on the floor.

I can't read anything, there is ONE book i need to find

and I can't.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

First Part Of New Diary

I am Izanagi, looking for Inanumi, a new name, for Izanami...Let me explain...

I am walking through a version on Earth of what they call Hades...

"Swim the ocean of Fear" she told me, or did the Moon Goddess, or the divine pink light which, in representation of charms, I had painted a pink haired girl, dressed in light green, sitting amongst moss and heather, one strand of her hair flowing into a pink pool, just less than a year ago...an evening before this, crawling through cupboards in my cell, I rediscovered this picture, and with one hand rays of pink light were brought across from the back of her head, into a blue and white sky...

I am Izanagi, looking perpetually since my teenage years for a 'sister', the one they call Izanami...

That night, the voice filtered through, on a radio whence, my first conversation had been with, an uncover (undercover) representative of 'inner peace and soul intelligence', a politcal engenda, for in these times, paranoia is the height, and to be 'too Adom in' is my fault, for I did not answer the questions and worries presented before me that night, but replied...'I am tired, Goodnight'...and words I throw too easily in from the back of my soulheart, the words 'I love you'...became a second part of the conversation, which was there waiting but not heard

......the voice filtered through, deeper and more beautiful than any voice I had come to hear before, at first quietly;

"Hide Thyself"

And then more warnings...Cover yourself...and my pleadings and confusion from an overload of information, my pathetic arguements...

"You know I love you"


I am Izanagi...I am leaving to find Izanami


After this...the arrival of threatens...at my home people, accompanied by the police, to take me away and lock me up further...I advised them as best I could...they went to talk privately outside my door;

'This one is eccentric'

They heard my laughter, and walked back into the kitchen, I stood at the table...;

'Well, you know what artists are like.'

I wonder if they had noticed, my wallhangings? the rose pink, purple, mauve, light blue painting of Doves, from one eruption of good feeling and correct hand, to an invasion around me in these cells of the towerblock, darker, unsteady, half done, half greiving, half forgetting, doubting...and the images of another Izanami, or Inanumi...whether they understood, that she is real?The joining of heartache and snow, in a cavern inside the grain of a tree, the difference in body souls, the different faces of self...

I am on a new medication...I will be visited every day, in this time wasted Hades, where, as it rains, no-one realises there is mourning...and my body effort, soul energy will wasted through a silence as I walk, without fear...but with thrown down spears upon my head, spears like words, or not even words, parried pieces of hatred...I shall remain strong...
'I shall remain strong'...I am not strong, I am weak, but in weakness strength exists.

'Do you carry a knife?'

asked the doctor...

'No, but I would like to kill dirty men.'

..................

'No,' I laugh...'I carry a banana'...I walk from room to room, being three rooms in all and a walkway where I check the red light flashing...and play emotion numbed by strong weakness and these pills that echo a reflect that my heart is affected by each knock, each dropping of objects, from upper floors, from non talking rooms, smashed not drummed...I speak different words from a different mouth, a different environment if x equals dimensions and timescales turning in three...

I can never sleep on your woman's side, for years you have suffered and thought...once there was an excuse of protection, a room with blue and orange sheets for windows...

'I have to sleep in the middle!!'

The other night, I heard rumours from the cell upstairs, threatening, when I go to read one of The Books, he smashes and drums the floor, my mind jumps to the knife...

'Please drop the knife!' cries a girl, as I walk to the door, walking these rooms with knives in my hands...It falls to the floor...I pick it up and hack lines like an ancient Irish/Gaelic alphabet of magic into a piece of timber...if I were to recompense towards any tribe or family, there being many, then I can only do so through the gift of inspiration, a renumeration...(tears are falling through my eyes each, this morning, and with thoughts of others whom risk their lives for God, i think, and last night, hearing a plane and pain, I imagined, that some of them had come home...)

I had slept with a knife by my bed in the blackout...'you have put a knife on my blue and yellow, in mourning...'
...the lion woman growls into my ear, as I lean my head on a blanket, a light shines in my brain a shift from right to left, to sleep by the knife...a sphinx, a sphinx, i imagine...

When the doctor and the workers were here, I did not feel fear but picked up the Book, read randomly...I read that I had been given a wife and am now due for Heaven, no longer a Hell, how I would like to explain this version of my Heaven to these doctors, but they do not leave...

Invisibilty, where theory equals Love for two and siding with one...'Everything in history has an eytmological speculation that all myths and historical meetings revolve around the Hebrew, and theory is these wives are not his, the one whom has a bigger knife than I'...

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

As Rabi'a says:

In love, nothing exists between breast and Breast.
Speech is born out of longing,
True description from the real taste.
The one who tastes, knows;
The one who explains, lies.
How can you describe the true form of Something
In whose presence you are blotted out?
And in whose being you still exist?
And who lives as a sign for your journey?

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Inexplicable/Confusion/Worry/Love

TV sp---

You can gosit in the shower room, relax fall legs disappearing and too whole into pills waiting
to be eaten, chewed (as you now eat, it was called an overdose, pills haunting trangressions in the spill of a corner mapping minds round, but too life and begin to move hand to down, inner compass and maps in flying) specifically a word unsure a wastage of BIG money
droppers from where they drop there...their money as they forget my I.Q is all spit out and
they clog clogclog but are wise enough to be miserable of how also their legs drop...
You can think about a broken conversation inthe garage,as you wonder you are dropping
in confusion, and cheap paint brush hairs, stuck in a lack of concentration on you WHITER
WHITER?? you're feeling of lacking I.Q magic live lives afraid that this voice was run over
bowls of flakes, flaky discussions around four cubicles, a relief the one below is empty, as
you speak love or joke? angry angry...//...worried worried...worried worried=//=angryangry,
mess everywhere like minds with no legs can care of the mess, and should my peace offering be
to TALK and question in this arrival of a mind-envelope of something I could call love or
misery, envelope of love would have mixed dialect, if you would 'spend' me eme (earth to moon to earth) eme, your
'time'? with me...or spend me like i shouldn't want heard

And gradually you are losing out but winning by making your own babies..me eme me, and the
you which as you you you knew is all yous, but not ax,

In this experiment the value of a in the function f(x)=ax sits inbetween 0 and 1, including 1

not exactly the One we are (so they
can eSP- somewhere else...kind words)...and think how no rent oror no money can run
pushchairs through the streets come springtime...you are losing those drops of alms,
charms...throwing SP-embracing arms, or a wicked charm, or foolishness me eme me...an excuse

when names are not names and illness pervades in grades, a shade of clearness would be
appreciated, but I try to sleep early...

Time is I would have been a with wifel and studio by now and tomorrow and never was I a good
painter, when I wandered with cans rather than canvas, all the thrown strangers (as I
remember one, a gush of fountain, hilarious overintake of tequila from the mouth of a like a
giant cupid, in one square in one city, tell you that some time, everwhether...) I was too
indebted and afraid to make ugly and seemer less; of lack of skill...

Of lack of skill, I will

Be arrested in March for burying seas of sunflowers and marigolds and feather debt (for
Father's collection of an Ostrich egg, brought all the way back from I never knew,
what climbing trees would do)...planting them on the motorway...

Lone Or in my soon to be new, little garden by the windows I will blow smoke out of in the
summer, and watch just one or two cars instead of the hungry rush...

Do not waste paper, throwing my sketches for the Bin...(the Art of 'peaceful' Warfare)

Do not be angry
of
my
lack of
skill

And every other that's going on...

Monday, February 06, 2006

Last Tide Of The Roaring Stampede



-I can't see many flowers...

-Throw these...

Forget Revenge, that's what he said, everything goes if you read me in regret, Understand,

If Tao's spin on a map of the world, know in your heart you find white, learn that your body cannot always follow your soul, make it one,

If you need to guard yourself, throw this continuation of Love,

The Army is defunct...

The Army, the Army,

When all things join, this war will end in your mind,

Three, free, free things,

As you say 'things' are words,

Words are ever flowing, you would stand for days in the street unmoving but flowing,

Begin, your letter, your parts are scattered,

Army, please, find forgiveness.

-Inspired, I remember the stampede, Inspired I remember the stampede. History is on my back.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Mirrors and Envelopes

When A Story comes to mind, I believe it has to be written in the fastest time possible...I apologise for this whole selection of first drafts, bad sketching, you'll read on and find out why it's hard to be alone and hard not to be, this whole blog here, being:

A First Draft...

(I would appreciate no 'copying' as I have the originals...and wouldn't it make you feel sick?)

Mirrors And Envelopes Drawn On The Floor

Copyrighted