Monday, December 10, 2012

Born and Bled (Infinite Dismay)

Born and bred, here
Cattle tread, here
Fucking dead, here

Waltz about with dreams of fruition
Inhibition, the iron fist of “the white man’s” mission
Unholy submission to higher gods, hired gods,
Gods in office buildings with felt-tipped pens,
Apartments in the city.

Teach us, the children of the lord God’s world,
That we are intertwined with the divine,
That there is nothing we have been assigned
But to realise the (capital a) All in the (lower case a) all;
The gigantic beach ball that baby Buddha plays with
On this mysterious beach of sandy stars
Laughing at nothing long into the night.

Drape that flag over your back,
Like you know this land;
You’ve just been shown a plan.

If your perception of a sound mind were presented to you
As the wretchedness of insanity
You would beg for what you now see as craziness…

The mind is not sound;
It makes sounds.
Create with your two big hands;
there are no others.
(Not a call to arms,
just a reminder that you do have two).

Why was I raised as a life supported
by the havoc wreaked by others?
As the programmed un-holiness of routine;
the endless murmurs of dying loops,
spinning and spinning and spinning
and winning and winning and winning.

Like it wasn’t enough to be born into the fall
The Devil must flaunt his incessant triumph in my face
The disgrace of being a shoe, unlaced, defaced
Left encased and ready to be erased;
Cattle bred to fuck, be slaughtered
and perpetuate the projected violence
of the archetypal arm swinging the axe.

The Man at this bloody helm.

And this Man still does not know why he does as he does;
But he does, and so in this manner he will do
Until the Other eye is open.

If I am god, the skies are blue
And you, my brother
You are god, too.

Death Explained

Epic orchestral music begins.  A poignant scene appears on the screen: a child and its mother, in front of a switched off T.V.  The child turns abruptly to Mum.

     Mum, what’s death?
     Well, sweet heart, death is sort of like when you go to sleep at night-time.
     But…why’s that, Mum?
     Well, you’re not really…there.
     That sounds scary!
     But sweetie (she smiles), you don’t actually know that you’re not there.
     Muuu-um!  That sounds even scarier!
     Yes, sweetie, but you’re not scared when you go to sleep.  Are you?
     No, I gueeeess not…
     But Mummy…that’s because I can dream and I know I’m going to wake up.
     Mum is dumbfounded.
     Do you dream when you die, Mummy?
     Mum stutters, Uh…Uh-

The T.V bursts into life, instantly catching the attention of mother and child.

And everyone else.

It reads: News flash: DEATH finally explained.  A greasy anchor appears.

Welcome to the show, folks!  This is Don Donaldson Donnelly with you tonight for a very, very special edition of Cock ‘n Balls.  For all of you zombies watching at home, we have some preeeeetty special breaking news in tonight which our live studio audience is already somewhat privy to.  Some of you might have heard it, but here it is, straight from the horse’s mouth—death has finally been explained!  Uncannily, scientists and thinkers around the world have synchronically discovered a common exposition of what it is to die.  Heavy stuff, folks, but it’s about time that old elephant in the room did a few tricks for us.  But before we get into the nitty-gritty of it all, let’s get a quick taste of our brand new…brand…of infomercials—now completely void of marketing and sales techniques due to a gross decrease in public attention, due, no doubt, to the now-comprehensive understanding of human obliteration from bodily form.

Don sweeps his hand across the screen, but the cut is late and we’re stuck watch a frozen Don, arm outstretched, plastic smile, waiting awkwardly.  His eyes dart rapidly before the belated cut.

Amidst death infomercial: An advertisement; the scene is a train, late at night.  A girl sits opposite a young man.  She suddenly starts coughing and making purging glottal sounds—quite disturbing.  The young man looks uncomfortably across.  Just as he goes to ask if she’s alright she coughs something up; it splatters all over the window of the train.  It looks like semen.  He looks horrified.  She holds her hand to her mouth in embarrassment.  An old woman walking past squints at the splattered window.  “Looks like cum, love.”  There is more of the substance dribbling down the girl’s top.  Black screen with the words “Swallowing—it’s worth it.”  Voice over: “Cockbreath Lozenges: Lodge one today.”

Well wasn’t that something, folks (laughing uncomfortably as he speaks).

So lets move along then and see what famous people whose words we blindly and thoughtlessly respect have to say about today’s breakthrough.

An artsy-looking director sits in a chair, resting his effeminate hands upon his little, neat, triangular goatee.

In a dense American accent, he babbles: “Well, lots of us knew…right?  I mean it was there all along, garnishing our food, pitching our tents.  All we needed was a little buzz, a little love—you know?  It’s not like reality defines death; they’re two sides of the same coconut, you know?  And here we are, the same as before…”

A middle-aged, man-looking lady scientist, cliché lab coat and all, drones away in a sterile laboratory.
“The gardens were the general centrifugal force in this bringing together to ultimate density the ravages of bodily decay and the ensuing condition universally titled, ‘death’.  What was previously thought to be an opposition between the existence of matter and energy, or soul/mind—whatever—has largely proven false,” (looks to televised news anchor, who looks like a confused and indignant child) “…basically, Don, it’s all the same thing…”.

A dumb smile seems to grow outside the bounds of Don’s face as he turns from the scientist to the camera: “Well, folks, you heard it.  Spoken by the best, heeded by the rest.  Don D. Donnelly with you today, our main story today being the profound discovery of the explanation of…well, death.  There it is gentlemen, in a chestnut shell.  Stay tuned for bite-sized updates throughout the show—but for now, over to Cole for the sports update!”

“Well, Don, nothing really seems to matter much anymore because we’ve figured out death and the interconnectedness of all being and process—that pretty much de-signifies the sports, in my humble opinion.  Though I hear there are some folks out there who STILL, HAVEN’T, heard-about-the-explanation-of-death Don!  That really blows, folks.  Those metaphysical crises are quiiiickly becoming oh-so pre-twenty-first century!”  INFOMERCIALS!

Sit-com add: You know, Terry, you get pretty fuckin’ irrational when you drink that wine.  You never listen to me, you’re always fuckin’ angry at somethin’, even if ya don’t think people notice it.  It’s like you’re all raged inside and just waitin’ for some fuckin’ reason to snap.

Jim, you’re being a complete hypocrite.  You’re a cunt, a bloody cunt.  What’s that?  Wine in your hand, too!  And you try to project your repression onto me, like I’m a stranger in the fuckin’ street!

Terry.  I won’t play these games.  Do not manipulate me.



Bitchy blokes cross arms, pigeon chest and look defiant.  Ad for sit-com ends.

Title appears: ‘Science and Religion: Drunk, Stubborn and Similar.’

Boss: Where the bloody hell is he?  Where’s Milroy?  People run about frantically; he address one woman flying past in his first and another in his second question.  Papers are flying through the air.

Milroy appears from behind a towering shelf.  Boss asks him where the fuck he’s been and he says,  ‘In my heeeeaaad, man!  Tryin’a figure out the universe—Shiet!’

Milroy, what the fuck are you on about?  Get back on that fork and MAKE ME MY MONEY!

Two friendly stoners sit on a bench at night, in the darkness, by the beach.


You’re stoned dude.  It’s probably not real.

Black Guy (walking out from the dark):  Iiiiin-correct, son.  The frequencies travel through time and space and when they finally reach that stooooned eardrum of yours they’ll hit tiny little hairs, which then, somehow, chemically absorb the sound waves and translate them into neuronal information, which we perceive as music or speech or what not.  You work in conjunction with that sweet-tasting Mary Jane and create a new reality, a new state of consciousness and thus a new experience of sound; it’s not a false state of mind—unless yo workin’ with standards of reality—but rather a different one with a different experience involved.


So don’t go gettin’ high and…forgettin’ to respect the ways.

They stare blankly; he turns to leave and raises two fingers.


Walks off into suburbia.

(Shaman don’t lie).

I had an idea once.  Reeeeaaal gu’den.  But I got too stoned.


Stoned that fucker to death.

(Maaan, niggas-a deeead; all we gots is whiggaz’n fools).

Maaate, come out front, check out the new wheels!

Friend stumbles out, stares at the same old shit heap he’s been staring at for years.

…What?  This is the same old Laser you’ve always had!

Mate kneels down in excitement, points at the wheels.

Not quite, mate; new wheeeeeels! (Big grin)

A baby was found today covered from head to toe in self-raising flour.  The mother, a heroin addict, was later questioned by police and claimed to have thought the flour would “raise” the child, shifting responsibility from her to the flour.  This, she said, would allow more time to search for smack.  Back to you, Don.

Well, Pete…that is a dilly of a pickle.  (The two men laugh simultaneously, in a similar tone and with similar rhythm—and stop at the same time).

Cut.  End.  Fin.