One day you'll die

Last week I got some obscure Turkish psychedelic music on vinyl. This is what sold it to me: "16 schizoid slices of arabesque funk rock from the silver-tongued chameleon of the electric anatolia pop movement". How could I refuse? Anyway the artist is called Ersen. Here are the lyrics from the song 'Gafil gezme saskin'.

"Don't wander heedless, bewildered
One day you'll die
If you own the whole world
so what, it doesn't matter
You'll get tongue-tied
even if you had a tongue
like a nightingale
So what, it doesn't matter
So what, it doesn't matter"

The end of a fallen empire.
My pen can do no wrong.
We wipe the fragile tears
from morning's casual blade.
Go through this mirror again.
Rise again to the other side.
There is no other side.
Nowhere to fall.
Nowhere to rise to either.
Untied within.
We sit with naked hearts
trying to grasp at the...
golden pear of misfortune I said.
It is obvious.
There are no more secrets.
She can see right though.

Song for Romy

Romy the polyrhythmic cinnamon beauty,
her butterfly flies throughout the day
and rides a bangled carpet thru the night.
Omflower tattoo a leading light
thru the heaving quayside mass.
Walking along Bridge Street,
both immortally stoned,
attuned to those sublime frequencies...
She sits in her bohemian quarters
-one of the Saved
-listening to Buena Vista and Jack Johnson.
Organic rhythms permeate this golden life...
thinking Moroccan thoughts
she walks the sacred streets,
natural opium radiating
as she bounds along
following that country road,
Jesus clouds all the way back
to West Virginia.

Abstrakt #272

Like it says at the top, An Experiment With Words...

Honey voice recedes from my hand into looped oblivion.
Experimental anarchy decidedly scattered amongst the stars.
Wretching lung dispatches lower
sequence of primordial dinner valley.
Echo of strange phantoms whirling voraciously
toward the greasy dynamo.
Eclipse of ideas and strategic vineleaf.
Catterwauling roadkill dancing twice, three times on the TV.
Jotting down the pillow surplus,
code of apocalypse and featurelength destruction.
Dust hangs in the air.
Shifting columns of fervent sunlight
unveil the secret Atman fantasies.
Gelica bells chiming the Pratchett worlds
of carpet universities.

You Are Alive!

Aeon Flux

To unleash sublime hipgnosis on the page,
recording again the metamorphosis of this soul,
the unchanging hindu Parmenidian Brahman beyond the veil of maya,
or the Heraclitean Buddha nature in constant flux.
A combination of the two...
It is a different river I bask in
as each moment flows by
-and a different I
-but the same Divine Sea
that has been rearranged infinitely over the aeons.
This soft body and all my possessions will one day return to dust,
but here I sit amongst myriad galaxies,
a miracle, perpetuating the human species.
For the moment, I am alive.
I am alive for this Moment!

A Clash of Cultures

Continuing culture war on the streets of Mill Road, Cambridge. After the council cleaned off some decent street art an artist commented writing "Don't be a jobsworth", which the council later shortened to "Do a job"(!) Made me smile to see the unusual communication between two different worlds.

The Steppenwolf

No, not the band who sung 'Born to be Wild' in Easy Rider. The book, by Herman Hesse. Here's an excerpt. I like his transcendental description of art.

"And these men, for whom life has no repose, live at times in their rare moments of happiness with such strength and indescribable beauty, the spray of their moment's happiness is flung so high and dazzlingly over the wide sea of suffering, that the light of it, spreading its radiance, touches others too with its enchantment. Thus, like a precious, fleeting foam over the sea of suffering arise all those works of art, in which a single individual lifts himself for an hour so high above his personal destiny that his happiness shines like a star and appears to all those who see it as something eternal and as their own dream of happiness."