Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Post Digital Daydream (For John Trudell)

post digital daydream (for John Trudell)

I pulled these words into chunks last night, today i intended to post them, but paused after hearing that the great activist poet John Trudell had passed. On second thoughts i should post these chunks as is, mistakes and all, and dedicate them to John. Peace.

remote like far away
or under control
a human eye
foreground back

ground
skynet caught moon
with the hand
firefly glow
pupil

glass marble yellow
rockpool potted squid
post digi
stuffed wheat ego

wear he go
into pavement
grey lid dustbins
wet steel blue electric
faded digital prints

the crash the war
the crash the war
and over until value
depleted in the minds of
the people
boring
perhaps zen will catch on?

more than boring
horrific to my mind
the masses blood lust
the chicken hawks and
pro killers in remote hawks
made boring by firegusting
incomprehensible
new media

reducing war to a fight
for a games system
a memes system console
viral flash bang know how
is king
for today
king needs consoling

tomorrow the
toffee banana squid
returns to dazzle tank to
wowwow those projections
in your pink face
sucking

sweets glazed soft cracked
azure tango blackcurrent
dancing in airspace
airstrikes of colour
kapow

rainbow boom bop
over the top sherbert
with lemon grind
pouring out gun barrels

cheescake sauce
dripping from missile cases
oozing like lava into hungry
mouths of suited hoglizards
licking cold white metal
shells with their fat
pink tongues

tanks full of strawberry
jam explode
pushing soldiers out the hatch
laughing as they land with a soft
rolled jammy jacket of strawberry
lamb cushion

bullets: stop the metal
start sponge bullets
gel in turquoize
see-through layers
back-forground
in between look

waterfall of digital empires
business driven into the floor
outlived over and over
which tribe do you choose today
collective maddness

spreading viral shadows
empty just after reading
gone like a thief in the night
someday found
drowned in the torrent
a washed up novelty
again giant

handgranades full of petals
rockets made from marshmallow
bullets of flompystuff
tough to sweeten the killings
in the name of mad profits
spongecake headed politicians?

for arms tradespeople
those who profit from wars
bombing killing and pain
parasites and the leading
urnaium tipped

edge of modern
capitalism
"go get them contracts boys
suck a cock
do not question me
we need a new war
every week you scumbags"

lights dim with thought darkly
cloud and lightning
tongues snap like snakes
poison darts fly
curses black magic and
prayer congeal

metal and explosives
fling apart things that rip
flesh and bone no
discretion of age sex race
social status
killing kills all in vicinity

land mine your own mind
step on a bomb and blow
your stupid fucking brain
to smithereens
bits and bytes in synapses
beyond words and pictures
the pain
to explain the game again and again

seeing the planet
whole agiain like
holiday postcard images
always and without concrete
steel and glass cities
beyond the digital castle door
into the crypt
into the crypt
under the floor

see through the mess we made
and out the surf tunnel
full of waste
grasping plastic tesco bags

cola cans and mcdonals litter
out the surf
grasping for the sun
flying out again post
digital

fully knietworked and
unique and trained for change
constant one and only
after 2030

survival and innovation
ability to share pathways
calm with improbability
heal by using awe of possibility
choices
room for a thousand
narrative voices

to negotiate an agreement
obviously beneficial
to all parties
food clothing shelter
seat in global
village
local super nature kids

the scene goes black grey
cold water on gunmetal
street lights bounce from glasses
to gun briefcase car and keyring
keen blue laser beams shoot
camera pans backwards
outwards

the cityscape loud with sirens
fire in the sky
rats in the street teeth white
boots polished snapping
arms and legs of homeless folk

and up higher into the sky
we see small missiles
leave an arch in the cold air
off toward the middle east
we follow the bomb

like a chanpange cork
the missile charges high
above europe
christmissile time
the target tracked by
drones built nearby

by university graduates who
love skrillex
locked into jinglehellfire
reins down on the rooftops
thousands immediately
die of incineration
thousands more blown
apart

sights once viewed
non erasable
human waste
wasted by some sick
warmachine
trick shop of horrors

who makes this made up stuff up
and do real killing stuff
the propagandist puppet
front mask moment has come
acrillic figa ink on the run

statues made from body parts
in bronze gold and silver
real portrale of casualties
at the public expense

now birds of paradise
burst from their crafted ears
in slow motion
flapping against the dying sunlight

each bird
exhibits beauty of feather
eye beak and breast
a quality-street box of disco
feather colours

not a joke but a
disruption of the
plain old
truth illusions

angry men and fussy women
in support of a war machine
fueled by hatred
misguided weapons
to bomb sanity
to pieces
man machine mind
war-headed bastards

after thousands of years
of fighting
many still remain
locked in violent battle
Godfather and Mario
Puzzo

revenge over again
retaliation
retribution and
inability to figure out
another way

the scicilian ways
like the last wild panda bear
fighting to the death
over bamboo shoots
and chess

and Dyonysis
networked with natures' god
plugged into
ayahuasca-twitter?

to hum a lullaby
we all need to hear that
calling calling cali

a call to imagination
unity city to city
camp to camp
shoulder shoulder
joining arms
inspire with tales to
tell again

the dog that
saved a baby girl from fire
a horse that caught
a falling princess
the bee that stung a
kings nose

dawn nears
lights flicker the webticms over
splutters a hurricane of
ads spy operations and
brainwashing gear
any heads left are tuned out

inner-space where
neuro engineers coagulate
for the rights to remain
unpredictable

maybelogic genes
memes and equations
tricky with such unpredictable
dot dot dot

here lies the
illusion of some truth
seeping from a gas grenade
consciousness like
chasing willow the whisp

a village gone
now virtual existence only
in camera footage of destruction
blown apart into pieces
meaning mangled
gone

among the dead bodies
the ancestors crawl too
in dingy caves on hands and knees
just to catch a rat to feed
a dying mother and father
a dying culture awaits on

the otherside of the glazed red
mountain five days treck
back with only a few
rats and some dog meat

the camera cuts to a family
huddled in a cave
smoke in the distance signals
the death cult is close

death cult in the air
on the ground and in the water
death cult the destroyer of
worlds the ultra mangler of meaning
missguded vile masters
of war

may you rot with the
bodies of your victims
the share holders and super rich
wealthy war sports personalities
and hench men
those who forget to teach
the way it used to be
and what we can do to claim
something back
not least culture
here we stand
at the end of digital
rot and roll

fly agaric 23
a name to signify
a species of fungus
beneath a tree in 2023

revision of timewave zero
end of moores law again
end of silicon based chips
end of 3D and parallel fish-tech
post digital wasteland
re-ezdit

what you thought
fungus grow on deathbeds
signifying the shitty cycle

fuck your war
fuck our war
fuck my war
fuck the war

warships sail toward
each other shooting
hand painted
greetings in socks

missiles hurtle toward
local islands droping
seeds and nutrients to help
stabalize any inbalance
due to previous mishandling

2015 years too late
human violence to each other
must decompose like
funghi all around

barbacued fast
on your plate
does it trouble you to
watch all friends and family
die slowly

to turn the imagination
sideways on mass killings
compared to doctors
killing patients with wrong
prescriptions drugs
the terrorists are
your best mates but
statistics always were a
motherfucker

the drama and cop gun
kung fu of terror pricks
plots foiled and deployed
on screen or in street
bang boom of it
the drama rules
of the rough knuckleheaded
grey seas of popular
unquestioning sleeping dicks

nightmare of history
over a-fucking-gain
are you kidding me
inside my head are you
serious again fuck me

here in this writing
to capture reader
with a stagnant ballbag of
outmoded blog

no image or gif
flipping past
skim the fat
the fact floats or sinks
shake em' out now

half caught in a TV show
half conversation
not all fully here but
somewhat outside
waking life

floating about social
media messages
recalled in mind
imaginary responses to
half remembered
broken paragraphs

splintered glasses and
icicle shards in purple wax
honey mead and feathers
fusion earth blue to
heart red the beat
blast of comfort my hand
here

pulse of nobody
a strangers rhythm
7 billion strong kidd
pull down the digital
curtains of thy vanity
soil and water
leaf and flower pull through
dreamers tarmac road
cone perception now
puuuussshhhhh

white and orange cones
misdirect mind missiles
in the wrong directions
strike back

with violent force
"teach them lesson
they will never forget"
scorpion thinks

fighting without fighting
overlooked too advanced
over the lumphead of a lumphead

the cold war game of
military build up
to feed the financiers and
backers over and over
and over again
too complicated for X-Factor goons

when will they ever learn
when shall we rise up
when will i stop writing this shit
when...

old stones
berries brews and
starlight twinkle dazzle
crinkle of fern
frosted hands cup the juice
no word scripture or orders
follow the inner path
drink

back to claymo worlds
back to imagine
trained to give benefit of doubt
yet going further
the joke
the fucking joke

to stay cheerful
grateful and think up
funny stuff is a weapon
without boundaries

like a suicide bomber
without explosives
but vegan sausages strapped
around his chest

a rucksack full of
baps and
boom 72 vegan delights
flipped script like a
hotdog

crass to some
slightly amusing to others
a tiny nuke hidden
up David Cameron's asshole
going off

blood shit
and tory guts gushing
need an army of pool
attendants to clean this mess
after they speak
the vomit of war
fill oceans

to pretend to not see
the bait of the shootings
and timing of the escalation
like a hooded man
driving a nuclear submarine
into a city dock at full speed
shit's seriously
rudderlessly
outof control
man
stop!

which
as i was saying
can be a good thing
23 percent chaos
enough to play with
remain sane and
dedicated
questioning and
willing to always accept
new data

like a scientist
unphased by the giant dickheads
crunch of hitech corporations
they will crumble into
nano dustweiners
when the dusk settles

metals and
vegetables are naturally
abundant and will abide
the boredom sets in
and the majority using
innovation and quick
feedback response
may begin to take back
the crappy crown

let me begin
with....




































Steve Fly 33.

Monday, November 16, 2015

Somebody Blew Up France

Somebody Blew Up France

Thoughts on the Paris Terror Attacks, inspired by Amiri Baraka. With luck, leading one to question.


"We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning.”--Jean Baudrillard, Simulcra and Simulation.



...who would want such a thing

to start fires in a world ablaze?

revenge for the prez' bombing Syr!a, a bomber said

indiscriminate killing on the streets

in restaurants and music clubs

how low a blow can go


who snatch away freedom

who behead on daytime TV and recruit on twitter

who want to destroy multi-cultures

who?



Is!s the TV god preach

some mad Arabs bent on 

suicide crack, they say

and who is !sis and why




revenge they say and

revenge...they say 

eye for an !sis and we all blinded, i echo

the horror of grenades and bullets of

who made them who trade them

who train them 

who



like an unpublished Le Carre' plot

and a cheap Hollywood shootem' shot 

strategic targets maximise the sick spectacle 

who run the ops

who trust the cops

who blew 'emselves up

who encouraged them

who benefits

who fits the profile?

who



who can man the forgiveness trench?

who pray for more bombs 

and risk killing more kids and mums?

who making doe off Iraq! o!l drums

who shake hands on TV and be war chums

who talk of a holy war

'God is being repaired, as CĂ©line said.



who knew the identity of the killers before they killed

who mopped up the blood that spilled

who get thrills from security dr!lls

who made the bomb threats early that day

who got pictures of bombers remains

who remains at large

who wants to keep your mind in chains



who wants to destabilise Europe

who wants to unite tribes and desovere!gn!ze

who seen terror with they're own eyes

who did it and who tell it in biggest lies

who be merciless in destroying the bogeyman

who killed B!n Laden who shot the gunman

who



who made the fake passport, who paid?

who sold the vehicle

who had meetings about Par!s attack in Par!s last week

who planned a secur!ty dr!ll for Friday 13th, eeeeek!

who design the flags?

who



who benefit at the climate talks

who think money walk and bullshit talk TV

who sold and who bought that theatre

who picked at the eagles of death metal

who picked the France Germany football match

who cancelled the election

who gets excited by death with an erection

who got caught with guns at the border

who make chaos, who unmake order

who



...the sound of an owl or vulture screaming

in my ear, in the dark night wind, it calls:

the all seeing security service

the political vulture capitalists

fanatical religious misleaders

all faithful unquestioning followers 

the gentle homeless in the streets 

the skint student, still, smoking weed

who the trouble with?


Assad Putin Cameron Hollande

 Obama Osbourne Osama

Netanyahu
don't forget to tell your mama'

who

C!A Thor with his hammer

some mad ill god or dark lost demon

NATO MI5 Mossad  

mars, or whoever operate death stars

militant clergyman, the DGS!

who rules war rules?



will there be support for Le Pen? 

Isis Dulles Hoover and Hitler’s men

Cheney Rumsfeld Bush Blair Saddam

curses upon the spoilers of human decorum

But. Stop. Hold on man.

without forgiveness what on earth are these

mere words good for, um?



who profit from WW2

9/11 and 7/7 who who who

who wanna’ be starting WW3

not you i hope

and indeed not me

--ste


“This is what terrorism is occupied with as well: making real, palpable violence surface in opposition to the invisible violence of security.” ― Jean BaudrillardSimulacra and Simulation

(Dedicated to all the innocent victims of violent crime and psychological torture, perpetrated by trigger happy militias and invisible government killing machines, everywhere. Hat tip to the late great Amiri Baraka)


Thursday, September 10, 2015

Shenannigums stuck between urban and rural dreams

Shenannigums licks his wound and paddles out to surf another wave, the blue sky above and darker deeper blue to green below. You know, i get with the flow out here bobbing about like drift wood, a current here, breeze there, waves crashing once in a while, a fish or seabird glance at my eyes, i stare back blinking, all the while wondering what its like back on the shore today. 

In the store today, buying milk, bread and butter, on my way now looking for meaning in the gutter, among the salty potato chip bags and cheap lager cans, snooze-papers, scratch cards and fag packs. Rubbish the whole lot of it, advertisements none the less, and the pigeon cares not for reading. Carbon fuels burn all around, wheels spin and lights flash, some make good of the journey, the image and the possibilities for change in the direction of omnidirectional changes.

Slumped under a pine tree, pine top roots music comes and goes, as the mind blows, and thoughts fix into my bow, to know where they go. No sight to show the ebbing paths of electrical pulses, darting about my ear, yet i see the leaf, behind belief, doubt leaves: branching outwards like corral or crystal tendrils. So alive and so invincible dressed in green, to know what i mean is to have seen the sheen of the runner bean, and felt it at the spleen to the eyelash.

Reverse the car into space, roll it all the way back to the factory and disassemble the engine, the chassis, dashboard, upholstery (to uphold this story) wheels and windscreen wipers, lights and body. Siphen all fuels, liquids and oils, gather the grease and rubbers, the glass, metal, microchips and leather. Now, drive your mind onto a busy motorway intersection point, imagine all the vehicles reversing into similar states of deconstructed ingredients. Look around the world. Do same with a bicycle, and a pair of shoes. Welcome to the garage of my soul, my karma.

On a beach under the starlight, each grain of sand a star and each neurone one more. Contemplating 10 to the power of 18, red-shift, and some cosmological principle or other, meansigns and why words? seabirds, each a plane, a mother father brother sister, flying in delta formation, each knows their place in the pyramid seemingly without looking, flapping gracefully, oriented by sun, moon, stars, horizon and complex brain to body feedback mechanisms. Sun’s on beaches, bums on couches, get up with it, if your tide, cut some slack, get back to wire you wants, be long.

Jumped a taxi to the nightspot, bright as day, outdoor heating lamps, 200 foot screens, blade running scared of nonhumans or non humane humans, over half robotic, predictable, running programs, drink, fuck fight. Still, i had a good night, kept these feedback loops in my head, locked away until today, here, to write but not say yet. These words have no voice. Wait there, let me just roll another cigarette. Night life seems more like a night death, with all this wine breath and light life, half-life decay of culture, up the nose, down the throat into the cosmological complex. And the singer screams ‘booze, babes, gold and money, do you see the lights, do think its funny?’

The forrest canopy animates a diamond dance of fishes as i pass. Each leaf in the best place to get a little photosynthesis going, but not cover up the others. Remarkable, i note in my book. Green now going yellow and speckles of black grow stronger, a full blown autumn leaf catches my eye, which slips down the trunk, across each caramel ripple and chocolate crevasse, landing with a slight bounce in some purple flowers gathered on the forrest floor. A cream and orange butterfly expertly parks on the largest petal. Nobody else around but a thousand eyes on me. The process together boggles my crown point jailed mind, to break out into the invisible channels these lifeforms inhabit, wow.

Standing at the bus stop counting cigarette ends, versus chewing gum, in a six meter radius. The bus map and its plastic covering do not mix well, the graffiti turns roads and destinations and the timetable into a milky way. Layers of exhaust fumes and road dirt skirt the lizard green metal frame of the shelter, families huddle together in the wet wind, like those forrest critters but dressed in synthetic hides and alternate furs (probably manufactured on the other side of the world by slave-labeavers.)

The pristine silver spikes on the park bench rise up when the sun goes down to deter park dwelling critters. The domesticated primates no longer hunt but stagger, living on a dagger, edge, and just there past the hedge, a hog dances in the muck, and if only the man-o-stagger would look, walk the duck and follow the only path out toward the pastures, beyond the reach of the pastors, to learn to become ones own masters, masters of reality engineering, via the ecological matrix. Word tricks and utopian dreams, splitting hears at the seems, as it seams to bee in the hive-land. 

Steve Fly 33.