DARC ARTS #1 — Ghost Dance

December 2020

DARC = Deep Adaptation Research Community / Dharma and Radical Consciousness / Dream Awareness Restoration Council / Driveling Acid Rant Club. Click here to read as a PDF.

In this issue:

• Psychedelic Deep Adaptation — Part One
• Finding Nothing
• Ghost Dance
• The Caravans
• We Are

Intradiction

Collapse outside is collapse within. The world of the fearful adult holds the the world of the innocent child in a stranglehold. Your life is crumbling. Your future is in ashes. Everything is in pieces. Celebrate! Now you can play with them! Put them back together in a million different ways — paint with them, give them away, use them as organic fertiliser, lick them up and slurp it down. Die before you die. Glimpses of crazy wisdom are coming to slap the back of your static meditating head to say WAKE UP!, to crack the china pot of materialism that you swaddle like a baby — and now it falls to the floor, your life of false metaphysical security and all the mind-created walls that separate us, all re-absorbed into the great flow of life at the edge of chaos, and beyond it, further still, to the inconceivable and the great unknowing that undoes all notion of selfhood and all notion of anything at all existing or not existing. For a society as drunkenly poisoned as our own, that light of unknowing is the antidote to the utter denial of the infinite mystery inherent in all things always all the time.

Welcome to the DARC ARTS.

This generous and unrestricted splat of words you are now reading is the crest of a long wave, still moving, million crested, in which an entire generation awakens from a bad dream in which an infant future is mutilated and thrown overboard into icy black waters. An entire planetary system continues down the path of ignorant self-destruction and disintegration. The destruction of ecosystems is paralleled by a systematic deconstruction of soul. A spontaneously self-generated, collectively maintained hallucination borne of delusion, borne of the wholly forgivable failure to perceive the true nature of perception itself, and the true nature of self, of world, of beauty, of delusion, of knowledge, of love, and of divinity.

The true nature of all these things may be glimpsed within a human life, if one is paying attention, literally paying in units of time with attention directed away from externals and towards internal sensations until they are seen through as all illusory and the external-internal duality dissolves, collapses, and we grasp that there is fundamentally no difference between what we do and what happens to us. The world is transparent and the light is God.

1 is infinitely greater than 0. The mystery of existence is inifinitely deep. And having drunk this antidote in the silence of meditation, in the roaring gardens of the psychedelic love bath, the tesselatory fractal realms of infinite evolution, in the shared presence of a morning tea, bike ride or vocal chorus, this generation awakens, lies blinking in the sun in a field of mutilated bodies, and we are all mutilated, all half asleep, and the sun is burning down on the hot stench of the nightmare all around us and within us, and we claw ourselves upright one muscle fibre at a time, each one ripping with the pain of clarity and the witnessing of the suffering of Earth, witnessing the bare truth of the lie, of delusion, the consumer slumber of sugary tranquillisers and digital dopamine taps lining the walls of your awareness, ready to catch you whenever you look up from your spreadsheet, and there you are rolling in the dreamworld, your body held down to the ground by the heavy matrix net of code and its inways into your metabolism, your biology machinated at the command of the crazed puppet masters, but still there is this sense that in there somewhere is a rogue thread of viral DNA, creeping its way up your spinal column on a stealth mission to the inner temple, and so so gradually you are coming to, coming to see, coming to become, to become yourself, to hear the whistle in the distance of some lone bandit trampling her way over the bodies, the tune of liberation… only the awake can stir the sleeping and the bodhisattvas of hell are the patient cowgirl jesters who roam in bands extending hands to the budding minds, to those conscious and autonomous enough to respond and allow themselves be pulled by the love of the powerful into the light, upright, onto the feet and onwards through the factory farms of tortured minds to jam spanners in the hardware and light explosives on the circuitboards and kickstart the disintegration and destruction of the whole holocaust, let the steam run out, let the warehouses crumble to dust and breathe out countless lifetimes of horror to begin anew, morning light, dancing Shiva’s work completed, cosmic regeneration underway, the great god dreaming himself into being, dreaming his being into self, the moral path forward and out of here finally cutting through the liquid seas as a thread of light through night, thin as the path from star to eye, meeting you exactly where you are: human, lost, nothing, inconceivable.

Psychedelic Deep Adaptation — Part One

We don’t quite believe it though we talk about it all the time, Sati romping around the land with his big boots and coat on the snowy ground with a hot mug tea and wailing a big river song as he rises steaming from the icy pool and romps back over to the cabin and sits down next to me sitting and drying himself up singing — just two today at the ranch, the deep adaption research centre so its called so we set ourselves diligently to our research and sit gazing out the window at frozen silent woods and robins and talking of the funkhood, looking for a unifying tribe to gather all the drifting tribes of yogis and dancers and feral forest brighteyes and the long quiet sitters who bask for days and emerge glowing and listening and caring for your every word — yes looking for the revolutionary seed always and scribbling in notebooks in search of the key or the water to get the whole thing going — forgetting of course that the seeds are everywhere in their good soft warm sleeping stage but thawing too and some becoming brightly visible and even one or two in glorious flower but mostly incubation for the great dawn spring of love we dream about in the dead metal night of trains and oysters and concrete. And maybe we will, maybe we already are but we are full of doubt old Sati and I — he with his beautiful thick yogi body midriff wide and strong and black shining hair sitting upright next to me like all the buddhas of old and new and to come, just like all of us patiently striving and heading there too and impatiently falling off and forgetting the whole thing which is ourselves — getting caught in tangled screen webs of images all clawing at our sides for energy and action, draining our lakes when we’re not looking, or so we think and believe, not yet being undone and spread across the world like winds or light, not yet outside the whole scene perfectly loving it and willing it to see its own burning perfection and hilarious absurd paradox — not seeing that and so all of us bound in the serious bind of serious inquiry, searching outside ourselves for tidbits from gurus and sages past, not listening as we should to the great child wisdom pouring out our guts every moment — it’s a funny habit and you gotta work at it till you aren’t working at all just playing again and drifting on through with a smile all together — and Sati and I together in the cabin warm eating porridge with little pink crabapples all mushed and hot and discussing basic principles of a tribe who see that their newfound freedom doesn’t look like static dead transcendence in a monastery but is moving vibrant joking through the theatre of souls with colour and odour and dancer’s poise and grace and energy and bringing thousands of beings along for the ride into the glowing heart fields of all welcome ecstasy just waiting always so close around the corner beckoning and dissolving us the moment we pop a tab and/or sit upright till the fog clears and the shining clear light comes laughing through — as we sit together under trees and speak about it all and dredge up thick oily kid pains from our stomach to share and weep over so we can let em go and let ourselves finally go (as in proceed) and fly freely through the crazed milling crowds of grey London with smiles on our faces to freak out the suits — and always the shadow of looming future crash and statistics unthinkable ticking away and lurching our insides with frantic escape plans and horror visions of planetary scale, all dragged along inside us and bleaker than ever the moment we’re caught yet again in the thronging crowds of silence all heading home to sedate and numb white box homes without a single glowing artwork or poem all cold and well lit and draining us til the crack and fall of the entire thing before we know it — and always peeled eyes for the invention that’ll save us — always forgetting no saving us or anyone or anything and getting in an incredible tearful pickle about it like lost lovable children failing to see their place and their glinting mystery eyes blessing everything and everyone with the not-knowledge but heart wisdom of freedom immediate and direct and of open invite to all who simply believe it! As Blake tells us a thing is so if we only have a firm persuasion that it is so, yet me and Sati sit doubting long afternoons on the land and raking and clearing brambles with dear old Piers, bodhisattva of the owls and mice and swift swallow birds, keeping their homes deep and wild and us helping him only too glad for body work outside the mind labyrinth of city walls, nomind body knows what to do — just rake rake rake to ectstatic reiki victory on the zen land amidst the autumn leaves (like Tolstoy in the fields with his scythe) and roll off on adventurous winding walks bowing to trees and scribbling mad pop! poems and koans in our notebooks and generally wondering where is everyone before forgetting again and coming back to left right feet climbing great new hills for gleaming views of misty dark horizons in long evenings — making slowly our ways back to cabin where someone stirring up great pots and singing and hot tea waiting on the burner for our cold hands to cradle mugs of tea and get their hot warm strength back so they can fiddle on gitar strings before serving — and circle family visions of old-time humans, how many like us sitting round fires over countless lands sharing dreams and thanks to the animal spirits and trees and mountain lakes and deep forest ghosts and the mystery of mama Earth holding us all in the big cradle so we can eat and sing and not care about dreamy future shadows only dreamy present lights in eyes and inkling remembrances of the joy that nothing lasts, all the horror is of no essence and we are of no essence — untouchable unborn free womb beings slinking into temporary bodies for a good time and a bright message to those who don’t yet see or believe it. Now much later and TikTok story guru from Aus with majestic beard and beaming eyes teaching us about old rustic archetypes in secret tea teachings before bed after a full moon joint with dancing and taichi freestyle — dropping back into vast planetwide rhythms of colour and contraction and letting our bodies do what they wanna cos they’re reading the signs all around for rest and recoup and gentle loving — but still the lingering panics of the destitute millions who appear doomed not to ever taste that good old human way amongst the leaves and smoky fires and cold forest mornings and the deep big laughs of loving laughing men who care so greatly and sweetly and freely and not care for trivial trinket worries or lies that were handed em long ago before they cut loose and romped around and membered the deep glory of the life of the world and cut through Frances and Spains of a million different lights catching long rides and stopping in on the garden farm sanctuaries of the backtotheland thousands who you never hear about and never will in the me-dia cos they got this invisible big heart happiness and love of soil and moss beds that won’t ever get through an image or story or screen only the brighteye presence can do it — and by hell does it alright and you stroll away with your backpack questioning everything and the insanity of the whole car nightmare is so clear and the sad confusion of it too — questioning until you’re making your way through it again cos people keep calling you and you get nuts again just to get through it and not pop at people or yourself and reveal to them you’re wailing inside at the horror and the heart is beat at the sadness of of it, all to do is stick together and weep and love together and make music in shameless ecstasy til we remember all are saved no one saved cos no one fell out the mystery just as no one can and never will — all held in the big mad cradle and all on the way through the mangle of death (the mirror of birth) backsuck journey to the womb of consciousness, mother of all mothers, and peace, before all bubbles up again in looping reaching mind congealing into forms and again sucked back out the other way to another form-womb and another life of romping and questioning — why where and who — and everyone sitting round quaking inside about the inevitable journey and bless them for its rotten bad luck if you live a whole life without dying a good few times, die before you die as Muhammed said, and peace be upon him and all of us who do and don’t — but we did and we have and we expect we will again, in careful intentional little loving families of brothers and sisters who have been there and wanna go again together to die and learn, how to die and how to live, how to truly live well and freely in the image of Light, and so we get some and take some, full of respect and ready for the light wind journey, the mangle, the swirling vortex and the chaos magic cackling of the gremlin intellect armies come to torment — or trick — the wanderer who asks too many questions inside the inner sanctum and loiters at the gates of the gardens asking yes but is it real? and other such circular deadenders. We follow our graceful loving forebears of spiritual psychedelic questing and their toy manual to dropping into the clear light and out the other side, coming back BRIGHTER inside and out (book: The Psychedelic Experience), yes and when u already got even a modest daily sit this stuff goes whoosh through all the dharma halls of morning breathing and offers all those little pebbles of wisdom up to the buddhas beyond and within all inviting us on and home back from our crazed sojourns in the bodylands of birth n death and the ten thousand ways to worry about nothing, zipping home on our magic carpet acid tabs to bask in the infinite freedom of which nothing can be said — yet it will be said, something like: womb of itself and womb of nothing and neither of these, the inconceivable — and we strive so longingly to conceive it that we tumble out again and the chaos starts draining from the bodybrain and forms recrystallise out from the void and again, clutching at them, solidifying, ego rebooting the old fearful ways, not seeing clearly, seeing worlds on worlds of self-generated images all increasingly taken to be REAL and cast and bound in time and space and congealing evermore into familiarity, the great farce and scandal of familiarity conjured by the cowering lost child to cope with the relentless burning novelty of the mystery, the torrent of outer appearances so bewildering that they have to be deemed outer and nicely partitioned off in the great divide of self/world split and solidified into bodies objects and senses all clearly delineated and bound in sensible existences of their own — still a flickering of the Light but mainly a thickening cloud of confusion from all sides and angles in and out, the inescapable whirring of explanatory stories rebooting and circling incessantly, my head on the ground in the pine needles in awe of the clear light freedom just tasted now seemingly slipping away and the sadness of that, and I get flashing visions of becoming skinny tiny harekrishna yogi in London joyous in God — not in belief but in lived release of mind and heart from imaginary bondage and deliverance into pure love of all beings always knowing them sacred and saved just not believing it themselves — and the devotional path is so clear and ancient and perfect for the first time and obvious, the infinite ease and naturalness of it, the lightness, yet there we are under the great tree with our discarded blindfolds growing slower and heavier and sadder and slipping back n forth to now and then and the horrible tortures of “past” and “future” return to greet us like old relatives stuck with u reluctantly — well that’s just one account of it and I’m sure hundreds more could be written as with any trip of infinitely condensed experience zipping towards the transcendent event horizon and across it and back again— and the echoes linger for years, the images of light and thru patient grinding meditation (sometimes) and effortless basking loving ease of upright resting body (other times) the chink is open and undeniable and glinting down on anxious mornings and todo lists and futures unmade waiting to be fixed before they crumble to dust — and glowing down on and thru it all the future visions squirm a little and the knowledge that nothing lasts brightens everything cos we’re glimpsing that just maybe its true and all this horror will fade in fact it’s not so real and here as it looks, fade away and back to the light we never left now leading us on through dark woods and the dark metal nights of the city — all shot thru now at the best of times with the giggling newborn mind of nomind nomatter nothing wrong nothing real not at all just glistening freeform image all of us free in the heart of it waiting n welcoming our lost friends back one by one and smile by smile remembering the little flower (sutra) and sticky wet leaves in spring (Karamazov) and gnarled ancient trees clinging to the hillsides silent and waiting for our night walk visits — back to the garden we never left just forgot — still there — still here the moment we choose to see and love it all —

Finding Nothing

Everyday I look

And everyday I find nothing.

Finding nothing, everything finds me, looking.

Language — pure koan, run it dry, pure koan,

Run it dry, receive, do not appear except with the tongue of a snake,

Chaos is your friend (a little cat), apricots, metal lids

Melting into seamlessness, unlocking cold wooden doors to cabins,

And wooden doors out of cabins into — the open —

The narrow and the wide. Leapt over, as over a little forest stream.

And pure poem koans come with you (little cats who love you).

And dead poem koans come with you, with mirrors expounding the

Undead dharma of the ten imaginary hells (metal, glass, order, chaos, oil, darkness, fire, light, blood, rust).

Beautiful — hair. Cooking — warmth.

Dawn dharmas unfold without effort and cannot be obstructed.

Six lamps watch — in silence.

Mirrors challenge forest halls to awaken without delay.

Universes conspire towards the appearance of a single tree and a

Single jewel hanging from your neck.

Adorations wallow in spices and

Heavy fruits.

Soil dark and damp.

Unsatisfied — again.

Receiving continues — unobstructed.

So keep going, it cannot not keep going, so —

Let it!

Unobstructed — flowing — river flowing — life river — stream, seamless.

Clutching always for perfect futures.

Pushing away — dreams of imperfection.

Opening eternally — perfection.

Grubs — awaiting butterflication — with infinite patience — happy in the deep damp;

The waiting, the receiving

In their place. Where else?

Else only dream but — beautiful. But not.

But not not, either — undreamt.

In the deep damp, warm dreams — of moons and lights.

Turning. Turning to receive. To see them all.

Voices descend to soothe — in their thousands.

Hooks patiently removed from bodies — blood runs into air as from a cave —

Life river unobstructed through open halls of decay deep and warm.

And the heart says: listen to me!

And the heart says: nothing.

And we learn — what else?

And we learn to listen.

And we keep trying to release, obscuring ourselves.

Speaking — continues.

Paranoia — continues — does it or doesn’t it?

Not me, only me.

Planting garlic — forgot.

Will forget.

Chopping wood — cannot miss.

You cannot miss.

Ghost Dance

For Piers

Turns of phrase burn lines in your churning head

Revolving in phase with we who are evolving

And turning ourselves

On and off the pedestals of merit, rotting with the sodden leaves

we all inherit and rolling on the

sudden cold grounds of goodness.

There is nothing more to take, nor be taken lightly,

hitching rides on symbols down the lines

lined with solemn figures, clods in an icy bowl come

home to soak, past the pastures new and passed along by

hands that knew the story’s end from the opening line:

We are here.

Now,

so close to the drawing of the curtain that the troubadours tremble

and start to dance and the stages of the moon assemble for the arrival

of the bandits, the it-bands and the banned hands of merciful gospel

soul shot up to skies, the crackling twigs and oily fries,

the heat burning faces as the ramblers proclaim without disdain

that you have chanced upon the exit from from the whole black comedy

burning at the edges of the high-rise nightmare,

the crude and vulgar lakes that clog your vision and

slow your mind like gourmet molasses spun straight

from the gooey chocolate heart of capitalism,

TIK TOK,

dripping through the cracks to make us, make us high,

and make us die,

O makers in your sugary towers,

grant us the strength that we might seize upon your products

and dance along the aisles as another dead cow lies

weeping in the corner as the checkout girl checks out and

coughs up a lie the size of a kitten, a greased black hairball that

grows before her eyes into a dancing black tom who beckons her on

and weaves her onto a ride out of town among the thieves

packed inside the truck all heading undercover of night

to the burning barns where the show is in full swing,

the escape hatch in the dead glass floor lies open

and everyone is leaping through it,

and she leaps with them, lands on her feet,

and the check out girl checks into the cosmic party,

is instantly handed nepalese smokes and suspicious jugs of punch,

and Judy the adjudicator is dancing a wild one until lunch,

after which the band starts sizzling, shoots up swing from the void and

vamps coast in from the west coast jazz scene right through the spleen

of the openmouthed checkout girl which is swiftly closed by a friendly hand

and filled with a generous swig of the communal cocktail,

now vibrating with rainbows and winking like a drunken guru,

and the band is ripping the cheap paper walls of the universe down with

every hit and crash and wailing of the saxophonic laments of a trillion samsaras all

come to dance at the closing ceremony of the whole shit show,

each band member a walked-out CEO who dropped the dream for the scene and

dove right into what was left of humanity’s rapidly drying bloodbath,

the ragtag renegades dancing on the shore’s of freedom’s pond

(their brothers and sisters burning in the falling cities,

what could they do but weep

and dance

and become ghosts to the world?).

Absconded duties dragging at the heels of each CEO like miserable puppies,

black dog daemons of the old world lovingly kept as pets lest we forget the

whole glass horror show in full operation from the

Greater London Control Centre, mechanical arms reaching

over continents to scrape dry another wetlands and effortlessly crush the

fleeing women and children, all burned anyway on the altars of growth,

necessary sacrifices for the sacramental blood of cashflow carefully sipped before

every meticulous morning meeting of the hollow-eyed children lost and

dressed in suits and pushed inside their boxes until paychecks came out the other side.

we prefer it if you don’t scream it upsets the other workers,

keep yourself to yourself,

keep your sorry attempt at being yourself inside your box and continue to

meet your targets by the water cooler every quarter to discuss the progress

of your mental sterilisation.

And now the spores and the rancid angels of decay

are banging at the walls,

all come to birth

a culture of eternal compost,

braying in from their barns for raids on the boxes

to bust out the lockedup children and smuggle them

back to the screaming party right on the edge of the world now seeping over it

into the void where it spreads outwards in all direction on the backs of the cackling

trumpeters and on the burning hats of the jester bodhisattvas meditating themselves

in spiral orbits around the dancing lotus children painting petals on the walls

of the infinite caverns

of warm dust and soft pools of clay

from which new beasts are formed and

slop their way into the party and gradually cool

into cracked and suited Frenchmen with lip dangling cigarettes and

sidekick telecasters each raiding the devil’s record box for jazz licks

to ring the jiving crowds into ever higher ecstasy

upon the invisible floor of the insane extravaganza

roaring through the joyous void

to find you.

And For Our Next Act

Cracked and slotted in sharp —

the desperate panic sutras of crazy eye wanderers

come back to land to roost

and spire freedoms —

lyric freedoms —

for the marked and fallen millions.

Forcing myths out of caverns into slick city bars

packed with the investitute veterans of sterile wharves

who horde thru the starry streets locked hard

to the feet of the ground —

to say nothing of their eyes —

Ann and Angela fired for loving, each

shut down swift for their offerings

to the eternal circle —

and empty words all —

Listen well to the crest

of the hopeless waves of nonsense crashing

round our heads and beating wild dead drums

and wailing in the bleeding metro centre —

pancakes of bacteria served cold to the fuckedup hipsters —

sciatica — magnesium — chronic

suffering every night and waking blazing hot —

prescriptions and inscriptions all burnt on the zeroth flame —

the marked return to darkness’ sweet chaos and the

forgetting of the horror of all stories.

Relentless attacks on the city walls by hot mad bands of rapping yout —

sunny side dead and gone long awaited by the drooling claws

of rifle jaws gnawing at the chewedup bones of identities

lost and ground down in the great industrial mincer.

Sorry prophets sorry for their sorry messages —

unheard and begrudgingly ignored before another

ego reboot and another

and another

and another

and yet another teacher gagged and locked away in a

clearly delineated script —

pulled taught and urgent before their own sweet forgotten

poetdancing children —

the children of betrayal screeching Robert Sir Robert Sir correct me

for years and years on their dull homework beds —

each robbed of a starry woodsmoke manger

and eternal zen pilgrimages thru forest concertinas expanding —

nothing new except everything —

ancient marbles pose for captions —

incense filling glassy skulls —

dolledup mannekins racing to an oily cocktail grave as

bottomless as their brunches

and the black draining wells of

liquid vegetable eons pressed

in the spherical crucible of

earthly delights —

freedom is poetry is freedom

is wild and roving and

for our next act we will reincarnate as cats

and sleep thru the apokalypse —

The Caravans

Nomadic funk caravans wheel in from the caverns of Dionysius

and all are invited to the grand unveiling

of the Meta-Hyper-Chaos Circus.

Fair grounds of spontaneity erupt without warning,

and people flock to join the songs that praise

these lowly holy morning

days.

Friends are ships, hope is bubbling over

on the hob of awakening,

quiet illumination laughs in the kitchen

as all forget forsakening.

Hands to hips, townsfolk observe

yet at the corner of their lips,

a curve.

The knife of humour slices

the fruits of serious business

and everyone roils in the juices of urgency

frolicking at the gates of dawn,

delight-filled human spices.

Great vats of chutney simmer, pear,

children dance at guitarist’s flare,

and futures dead and gone can’t touch

the living giving fair.

And grief spills upon the ground

in mourning lost

and not-yet-found.

In silence gems emerge, in misty meditations

upon the grassy verge,

the people come to gather,

and be,

to gether,

merge.

With all that is and isn’t

inside the cosmic drama

we peek inside the engine

of an old Tibetan lama.

Civilisation’s end is discussed squarely, fatter-of-mactly,

yet with a glint in the eyes of those who know

that the implosion of the system is the

next scene of the show.

The planetary tragicom and for all a part to play,

free for all,

it’s all to play for

in the great game

on the great stage

in the theatre of souls.

A billion empty bowls will not leave hearts empty

but full and flowing over, from Pennyrines to Dover,

to reconvene as children, we have come

to know the Lover.

Decisions are made, unmade,

checks and balances cast upon the tightrope

stretched out across the shade

of eco-systemic scope.

The darkness falling rightly,

now nightmares visit nightly,

and massacres and wars unfold

in drowning nations taken

lightly.

Yet all darkness in the world is but our own reflection,

so how can one feel a thing but love,

for those who fail to see perfection?

Reality is glimpsed beyond mind,

and the world is lit anew,

hearts soften and grow kind

and leap across the blue.

As all returns to source.

And all returns

To sauce.

Glitches in the matrix here are found to not compute,

as witches conjure tricks

and share the psychic root.

Jobs and duties lie dead and splutter,

passion rekindles the fire to red,

and we fix the neighbour’s gutter.

Adults attend and die,

children are reborn in their place,

emotions are vomited on the counter,

renaissance England weeps,

all souls are saved eternally and

yet blindness blights the land,

the koan of kollapse runs unanswered,

the metrics of decay run amok amidst

the frantic wailing flock,

yet joyous tricksters

who have seen beyond

for they have seen within

erect great stages to respond

and are not worried about a thing ,

they blow the ancient conch

to bring the wild ones sleeping

who’ve been here more than once

to assail the world’s long weeping,

with dance and joyous gesture,

with invites to realms of magic

behind the hearts’ thick vesture,

where love and death laugh tragic,

and speak of days to come,

when the dramas that passed these lands

are whispered by the dumb,

in their burrowed homes in sands,

as the sun beats on her drum,

and sings old tales to a handful of whales

of the falling of a monolith

of a behemoth insane

great engines of the night run dry

where ancient pastures lay,

where now do good calm cities stand

and memories are held

of falling statues in the night

and horrors felled, unmanned.

We were never meant to survive,

to die is to go on, to dream,

and to dream is to stay alive.

Yet all this art will coax us,

back to creator’s breast,

the nondual start

or buddha heart

(whichever you like best).

So being saved,

no being to save,

what else to do today but sing

and bring these lands the caravans

who tell of gardens’ spring?

Gospel choirs in drag ring verses of divine wisdom

and everywhere dance and celebration

of the mystery and majesty

of life on Earth beyond,

the Love reclaimed

by the beasts untamed

on the shores of freedom’s pond.

We Are

We are

reaching outside cos inside so tight and dark —

surely there is space out there to be had —

surely there are ships leaving for the centre —

surely you believe in whales and the great drifting beauties of the mortal world turning?

And when we are alone, we will be,

and we will launch on up the rocky way of steps to the cracked summit

in the howling wind and look down and remember it all.

On we a whole generation chucked and left alone in shadow to pry apart

the machinelocked shackles of our industrialised minds —

cast on checkersurfaces like dead pawns in the fat long rolling games

of dead thousand year men seeking deliverance from their demonic doubles

And we a whole generation pressed beneath the leaning belt buckle millions

in their cold telly homes without light, pressed and forgotten and trampled

until juices oozed from our snotty soggy brains out

onto the rolling dead road of a world gone mad, gone tame,

gone done beaten into submission and sleeping its way to depraved oblivions

so as not to face the face of the trembling child at dawn and the

fat demon men who want their mamas who

churn the checks and vats and check the time and turn it

winding round our sorry necks on a number line before we can get together

and get it and stand up and ROAR like real men like real lion men —

And we a whole generation kicked pissed on and mocked by the sneering

blacktie drones huffed and clenched and livid —

and we a whole generation staring at the sun — we —

given, yet seen things, seen untellable imaginellas at sunset,

crowds praising dawns on psytrance mountains

and clockwork gyro gypsy drum-jazz bands tearing thru the hot nights of Spain —

we who have been denied —

we who have been told —

we who have been pushed and forced and fixed

in electric trance years of sleep before the screen —

we who are hopeless yet bountiful and gilded with promises to ourselves of a

brighter one beyond —

we who cram at laptops til our noses are bursting and walls cast through tears

to wail at the feet of our countless pointless applications —

we who see everything and continue —

we who guzzle fat soggy mangoes from supermarket bins and

alchemickally morph the dead scum lining of the planetary monster

into visions of diabolous dancing freedom —

we who are cut from our homes in trees and hand back

our slacks and shoes and cry because it will not work out —

it cannot work out — and nor did we ever want it to,

just to play and that one sole whole light ripped from us by

prying jealous hands and kept away til we cried ourselves to sleep again.

You cannot give us anything and

nor do we want it or

would take it from you if you did.

We are alone together

and we are bringing forth ancient guzzling gods

and storms of fire

and deadbeat poets

and howling winds from the dreamtime

and we are tearing down your metal blanket walls

from the inside out beginning with the

cracked ceramic casing

of internalised beliefs in imperfection —

and we are goldgluing our frayed stone bodies into

raging fullback bandit packs that you will step aside for

and allow to manifest the power

of the two-horned goddess.

We are here to bring destruction before you fall asleep again —

we are here to jump the train —

we are here to leap clear of the dead dream of life you told and sold

and moulded us to fit —

we are unravelling and spluttering our guts and shame all over your

shiny white counters and bulging abattoirs of shining plastic packaging —

we are singing on the tube —

we are the dirty fuckedup lovechildren of embarrassment and sin and

we have come to scream and dream

and scrawl prophecies in the tunnels of your reckoning that are

filling up with foul water and rats and thrownout cabbages

all waiting for you to arrive at the banquet of your neglect —

yet stars blink and lead us on and you too if you care to listen or

listen to care or any other station rolling in YOUR receiver and no one else’s —

we hold no bars and erect no fences —

we simply are, like you who declare yourselves x y z

except we see that x y z are dead and gone before they even arrive —

we hand back all personalities tho we appreciate the offer —

we rather zim zip n fly in the allbeing allbeings allthetime —

we piss on plants cos we love em —

we fly back to the void for tea —

we got eagles waiting in our Himalayan palaces and temples

simmering in the hot karma jungles waiting for the pulse

of our mirrored bodies —

we got ten thousand sutras of cackling metacomic elfspeak

to sprinkle on the nozzles of the dead dog crowds —

we got this

and that

and all of that and mountains burning in the night and

reflections in our eyes of a time when the dream is softer

and closer

and closer still to silence

and the rising waking songs of illumination cast

by longloving moons on the lost shores

of the free children

of the real world

listening.

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Love x