World Piss (Shenanigums Wave) at Google Books

Steve Fly 33.

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.