Welcome to Spontania

Football fans chanting Hare Krsna. Garlic smells wafting through the open window.
A Roman scaffolder strolls through the square. "Keep your eyes wide shut yeah."
The priest Zadok guarding the Covenant Box in Jerusalem, smokes a fat spliff while Absalom's rebellion musters outside.
Soldiers rattle through the streets on horses burning the old lawhouse and looting the banks. Saracen slash, blood bursts in a violent arch of red ooze. "Then Absalom turned to Ahithophel and said "Now that we are here, what do you advise us to do?" Ahithophel answered, "Go and have intercouse with your father's concubines whom he left behind to take care of the palace." So they set up a tent for Absalom on the palace roof, and in the sight of everyone Absalom went in and had intercourse with his fathers concubines."
Far off in the distance by the stream of a river a motley crew of fishermen gather. Iridescent rivulets of crystal water swirls nonchalant with the setting of the orange sun. It is the midst of summer and one of the men has eaten 7 grams of psilocybin mushrooms. Half an hour in waves of veils lifting, rounded surface of dreams... Jesus appears saying "Keep it mild man." An inexplicable attracting force emerges in soft eddies from just above the river. A small buzzing bug lands on a purple flower. Clouds tracing the slow ecstasy of the earth upon his forehead. Sifting arabesques revolve and merge into the ageless simmer-pot of his mind. Paltry wings of light just visible sliding unseen beneath the trees.
The men collect themselves and decide to ride into Spontania. "We must reclaim the Covenant Box from Zadok" announces Tobiah the Ammonite. He is the leader of the band of sage warriors. In his mid-thirties with a tufty brown beard, he has rallied his forces first against the Romans, then the group of spinesucking Christians led by Paul, who were at this time rewriting the scripts of Time, setting up a ghastly process that would lead the world to an Age of spiritual dullness and brutal conformity.
Subtle dynamite muffled on the horizon. The band approach the town from a Western ridge. Catapulting headlong into the wind. Yehudi takes out his violin and weaves a silken thread of dancing dread in the sky creating a distortion in the central temple's energy field. Slicing thru the outskirts of the city they mow down irate Christians with their katanas. As they fly into the temple stilletoed nuns rush to the wings screaming. Zadok draws a bongful of aromatic skunk and jumps from the top of the tower into another reality. The band look on, their mouths stained crimson from the massacre of a hundred Christians.

*I don't know what I was thinking here. I actually quite like Christians and sometimes consider myself one.

"Primal Sauce, man"

Blank unfolding metaphysical pasttime.
Does it matter which coast the words rhyme
their jellyfish with as long as the soaked jeans
skim with ambivalent mould.
Researching the foundations of magical knowledge
I find the quantam link between all cosmic notions
of deathlessness.
I am Consciousness and the undying silence
is mightier than the trill of the quill.
Beyond the vanity of Jerusalem monkeys
St Paul's trip falls sideways
into Gnostic reminiscences.
I was Philip in the desert as he
dreamed of the Magdalen's kiss.
"For the good are not wholly good
nor the wicked wholly wicked,
nor is life merely life,
nor death merely death;
each will return to its primal source."

The High Ole of Gart

Beyond the instant need for gratification.
the veil of desire.
brief contemplation and vision of the Divine...
Silence black on the video screen.
unmoved image,
solid magic...
Sounds of ancient Morocco beamed from modern France
as a coffin dodger wheels past past on his
fifteen-to-one induction device.
Crocodilius crevice,
untoward advances of the knobbly old writer
Mr Burroughs, teacher of pirate revolutions
and the subtleties of addiction.
Uncover the clear stream as it tumbles
from Che's hilltop camp to Havana coffee shops,
brown sugar tipped from the holy eucalyptus tree.
So much bravura and slight temptation.
Wrestling with the armband of sarcophagus fury.
Solemn giants walk thru the dreamlike rotunda of
hanging rainforests, ivy draped on the wise old
tree of knowledge.
Boosh! Left-hand curler sidekick undeniable
wisdom of the pure breast-filled landscape.
Ancient waterfall in the Irish country,
jelly-shoes skirting over sleeping pebbles.
Ah, what morning mist was I born of?
What bohemian duskfall emerging from
the late seventies.
Who stole away an sublime bite of the fruit
before it went mouldy.
Who still sits silently reaching
in every direction, and none,
as the succulent peach of eternity
falls with ease into the universal mudra.

Haiku

no-joint requiem
Savour the eternal wheel
entheogen dreams

are you on fire legs?
have you levitation inside?
"Yes come back later..."