LAOS. cont

I suppose we're all looking for something more, thats why we're here right? Because our bones are creaking back home

Art doesnt mean anything out here, and rightly so. It's avoided industry and those high class parties where everyone smiles too much but doesn't really mean anything they say, the mountains have a silence that escapes all of that. I feel like I'd love to spend a few years out here ridding myself of that snake skin. 

It's about dedication to things, it's not about wasting your time away in nightclubs without a real purpose. Of course we all enjoy feeling loosey goosey after a few jack & cokes but there is more at hand than that. This view takes perseverance and single mindedness, I have the road tough and the hours hard but the payoff with a feeling of accomplishment that simply cannot be replaced by the standard that a congenital life throws at us, that the mainstream advertises us. It is an insular life devoid of Anything but a shallow hope for future orgasms. 

"fuck living a sick day life" 

The homestay laid bare my bones and rendered me speechless, dumbfounded that I was on the other side of the world deep in a forest by the great Mekong river in Laos and I was being shown kindness pure & gracious. 

We walked through mud huts & passed village showers, all to be shown incredible hospitality by the locals, who wore smiling faces and let their kids run free amongst us, grabbing our arms and stopping in awe when we turned around. 

It's hard to describe exactly how it felt but it was somewhere between helpless & enlightened.

 I'm still digging at the core of it all, trying to work out what it means to be a part of the great human race, trying to elucidate the feelings that beg and end in silence and which make my belly feel full of sadness & happiness at the same time. I tried my best to make eye contact with the children, hoping to find something in their views that gave me an idea about the grain of it all. 

I found nothing but pleasant eyes & forever beautiful personalities, saying curious words under breaths to their friends. life changing is too shallow a word, it feels too shallow to be deserved of such an uprooting event as that. 

it made me feel alive, it gave me a new perspective which I found through the trees and in the view of a sunset on the river. I could see the stars in glorious technicolor and we all stood staring like we'd never seen anything like that before, like we'd truly forgotten they existed. 

I smiled alot and wanted the sky to eat me up, when Seb said "you can see the arms of the milky way" and stretched his arm across the trail of thin lines he could see. I simply nodded and felt my eyes pop to see better, my insides all warm & dancing with the taste of beautiful food & strangers gifts. 

You understand religion in a different light in these settings where you can very much sense the origins of them all, when the lights cut out at 9pm it was genuinely terrifying how dark it was and how imposing the surroundings became all of a sudden, the blackest night I've ever seen. 

You can imagine them creating gods around a campfire, singing long into the flames as the black encapsulated every movement. 

In that minute I perfectly understood God. 

or what it takes for man to create it. 

I was scared, but I lead a privileged life, not just in the sense of my education but my sensibilities, theyre hammered into place through an upper class upbringing and no money worries as a kid, I just had to focus on being nice. 

It was only when the storm came raging home as an adolescent that I began to suffer, and it's been a rollercoaster ever since.

My skull is trying to escape from my head. 

These days I ain't nothing but an old life

representation of the past, tense. 

we've all grown apart and into ourselves and maybe one day the chain will be strength but for now we're all just living. 

I've fortified my gates whilst you exploded outwards, least that's what the Owl says but he's only got eyes for image. I've become a long coat wearer, pulling it round my shoulders for that alleyway stepping permanent now

Flicking through virtual polaroids comparing your present with the past that lives & breathes forever in my veins, cut off like like cauterised i've moulded memories into worlds that I carry on my shoulders.

But i'm a ring wearer, shuffling cards to trick some smiling face into fucking up so I can fuck the corpse. I ain't ambivalent, just instead i'm always bitter. 

Because i've got something to prove to every dawn that sheds its skin on the day

I've got knives to stick in stomachs of the permanently displayed

I've got crowds to kill with silence that echoes in moments like this.

Hopeless romanticist can't handle shit like fuck I'm a mess at this.

Because of footsteps falling over into graves

Because of lives lost to semblance trembling always just a little too late

Because of broken fingers scratching at the treasure of a face, perpetual digger shits it at the thought of ever being misplaced.

So i'll stand on street corners flicking ash from fingers burning bridges

An illustrious river carpet death

A shoebox bomb from your favourite fresh airmax crepes

I'm nothing but a snake who's lost is legs running from the fires of constant creeping death. 

I see now that you've changed, I hope I have too. 

I hope the sun grows new roots and plants new shoots because i'm struggling to escape addiction to the memories of you and I need to know you're not the same person lest I folly follow you forever 'til those days disintegrate like old film, stop turning my insides black & blue.

Just tell me you're not the same, tell me you've changed your name to rid yourself of it.

Tell me you choked the life fingers gripping round the very thought of it

tell me you gutted us alive and burned the bodies in a ditch

just tell me my life does not match the vision under those eyelids. 

Because any attempt at imagining our hearts beat in the same rhythm means I could sync with you, but every mile walked in those shoes would mean only progress in the tightening of a noose

Tell me you'd seen me die in a thousand different ways

Burning up too close to the sun to plummet slovenly south of heaven, resplendent in decay.

Just tell me you thought I was dead.

Merry Christmas Mum

Vile plumage. 

"….the “innovation pessimism” of certain bourgeois economists is a reflection of this: rather than seeing the slowdown in innovation as a temporary phenomenon arising from the limits of the current social relations – i.e. private ownership of the means of production – society’s lack of technological progress is painted as the inevitable result of having reached a certain level of development, of having “picked all the low-hanging fruit”. But this innovation slowdown is only “inevitable” within the confines of capitalism, which, having reached a certain level in the development of the productive forces, is no longer able to utilise these very same forces that it has created."

Lay stoned on the first night back, happy right to the eyeballs that I'm back here. What keeps spinning is the phrase 'we adapt. We change. We grow'

There is no void, we simply go with the tide all permanent like  and battle each obstacle as it pops up. go with yourself. 

A pinical of inner peace descents, I must move and accept the open Dawn no matter how invisible the promise of future payment is, we must accept the sun is hot and walk on through the desert. She has burned me deep, so far down it feels like the very thing that generates my ever changing flesh was a product of hers. So when it broke I sat hemorrhaging her voice, spasming wildly from shock. My machine had no continuity anymore. 

But my future has changed, it is the straight edge of a colourful letter on a desolate wall. ascending back to grace, my house is falling down but my home is safe.  we adapt, we change we grow. 

i'll miss you. 

The Church of Satan owes me money. 

-

Jorge Louis Borges. 

Two English Poems 

1934.

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
      corner; I have outlived the night.
   Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
      laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
      things unlikely and desirable.

Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
      of things half given away, half withheld,
      of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
      that way, I tell you.

  The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
      and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
      with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
      bitter ashes.  The things my hungry heart
      has no use for.
   The big wave brought you.

Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily
      and incessantly beautiful.  We talked and you
      have forgotten the words.

 The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street
      of my city.

 Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
      make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
      these are the illustrious toys you have left me.

I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find
      them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and
      to the few stray stars of the dawn.
   Your dark rich life ... 

 I must get at you, somehow; I put away those 
      illustrious toys you have left me, I want your
      hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely,
      mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II

 What can I hold you with?
   I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
      moon of the jagged suburbs.
   I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
      long and long at the lonely moon.

 I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
      that living men have honoured in bronze:
      my father's father killed in the frontier of
      Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
      bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in
      the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather
      --just twentyfour-- heading a charge of
      three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
      vanished horses.

   I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, 
      whatever manliness or humour my life.
   I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never
      been loyal.
   I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
      somehow --the central heart that deals not
      in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
      untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
   I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
      sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
      yourself, authentic and surprising news of 
      yourself.
   I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
      hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you 
      with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.