Three art works - Untitled ~ 28. 03. 18 ~

                                                            Untitled ~ 28. 03. 18 ~ (Δ)                                                             
           

                                                         Untitled ~ 28. 03. 18 ~ (Δ)
                                                         

                                                            Untitled ~ 28. 03. 18 ~ (Β)

Dapchi schoolgirls

Dapchi

One failed to convert, two died in captivity, three fell into the river, but by a miracle more than a hundred girls were delivered like sacks of rice in the centre of town. There is rejoicing, but there is still pain and concern for the many others who remain missing. Some people only want to hear of success, but the world is different. There will be more murder and damnation before it is all over.

Morning time

Morning time

Strata of grey waves subside into lightening. It is from my fortress, a place of security that I observe the universe, a lover’s best with love, with no love. I hear the restless city re-aligning itself, absolving itself. Industry proceeds unabated, details stripped to their core then revamped with the latest technologies. The past caned into oblivion, facts morphed into history. The throb of propaganda pulses through the termini. Trucks strain under their cargo, used to be horses, they are no longer in bondage round here.Wild horses still roam Southern Africa where the two-toed vaDoma lives.Those genes crossed oceans.

It is the mind that requires redemption, the body is past repair. There are too many people chafing at the bit, too few with the courage to face the intangible. Our hour is infinite, but there is no known inoculation against rustle, hustle, and bigotry.

War solves all problems. Oh what lovely wars we had, the more they were the merrier - now only fools and depressives fight in that way. New military developments entail looking at screens and pressing buttons. Contemporary warfare, often demands less bravery than crossing the road. Much ignorance and prejudice lie between the ears. The poisoner does not mention destroyed cultures and ways of life, he decrees sickness a panacea. Embarrassed smiles, shuffling feet, shrugged shoulders. Well everyone colonized, didn't they? Sins visit the sons of the fathers.

Afterward

Afterwards

previous principles do not apply  

strangeness frames everything

clandestine forums claim precedent

Those who were once deemed wise,

angle their faces to a point where the sun might rise.

They frown at innovation,

we bend to a God who is no longer an imaginary idea
floating through outer or inner space,
she is a gatekeeper of finances, a promoter of desires.

Now that we are able to ask the question,

science is prevaricating,

lulling us into a stupor of clumpy over-simplification

to protect the interests of anonymous donors.

We neglect to re-bore.

A precarious bridge spans diplomacy to law,

any two points can be connected by a line,

the shortest is not necessarily the straightest.

Theorem based loyalists privilege simplicity over bent,

for others, there is an abrupt hiatus in hope.

To carry the can for the fool was the ambition of many

and now the most probable outcome.
There is an abrupt dissipation of hope in the face of impending doom.

Informed people say, no survivor will be brought to book.

All post hoc efforts will revolve around self-preservation,

there will be no benefit, only misery.

Tears will not soften the blows,

laughter may be considered a sign of madness,

it might even provoke jealousy, or in the best case, execution.

Morning time (Uncut & Uncorrected)

Morning time

(Uncut & Uncorrected)

A stratum of grey waves recedes into lightening.
It is from my bastion that I observe the universe,
a place of safety, a lover’s best with love, with no love.
I hear the busy city purging itself, re-aligning itself.
Barbarian industry has no limits,
the least detail will be stripped to its basis and reworked with late technologies.
The past is caned into Oblivion, facts become a thing of the past.
The throb of propaganda pulses through the terminus.
Lorries strain under their cargo, used to be horses,
they are no longer in bondage round here.
There are wild horses in southern Africa,
the home of my ancestors,
two toe tribes,
just like brother Ned had. He was ashamed of his “deformity”
no one told him that his feet were African feet from the tribe of vaDoma.
Those genes crossed two oceans.

It is the mind that requires freedom,
the body is already past redemption, known for its idiosyncrasies, its intrigues.  
No solution has yet been thought out.
There are too many people chafing at the bit,
too few with creativity enough to be able to rapple with the problems,
to be their equal, to gain submissions and falls against these intangible devilish opponents.
Our time is eternal if you count the pre and post life periods if you can call them that.

Rustle, hustle, and intolerance.
A war would solve all our problems,
oh what lovely wars we had, the more the merrier -
now only fools and depressives fight like that.
The latest developments entail looking at a screen and pushing a button.
That is to say, less bravery required than crossing the road.
Much lies between the ears of the ignorant and prejudiced, ´
an illness deemed to be a panacea by their chief propagandists.
For the conquest of continents (sounds unbearably pompous)  
the destruction of populations and ways of life there is little to say.
Embarrassed smiles, shrugged shoulders,
everyone was colonized or was a colonizer at some point.
The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons.

Morning time

corrected

Strata of grey waves subside into lightening. It is from my fortress, a place of security that I observe the universe, a lover’s best with love, with no love. I hear the restless city re-aligning itself, absolving itself. Industry proceeds unabated. Details stripped to their core then revamped with the latest technologies. The past caned into oblivion, facts morph into history. The throb of propaganda pulses through the termini. Lorries strain under their cargo, used to be horses, they are no longer in bondage round here.

Wild horses still roam Southern Africa where the two-toed vaDoma lives. Brother Ned felt shame for his “deformity” no one realized that his feet were African. Those genes crossed oceans.

It is the mind that requires freedom, the body is past redemption. There are too many people chafing at the bit, too few with the courage to face the intangible. Our hour is infinite, but there is no known inoculation against rustle, hustle, and bigotry.

War solves all problems. Oh what lovely wars we had, the more they were the merrier - now only fools and depressives fight in that way. New military developments entail looking at screens and pressing buttons. Contemporary warfare, often demands less bravery than crossing the road. Much ignorance and prejudice lie between the ears. The poisoner does not mention destroyed cultures and ways of life, he decrees sickness a panacea. Embarrassed smiles, shuffling feet, shrugged shoulders. Well everyone colonized, didn't they? Sins visit the sons of the fathers.

Your money and your life ~ (Uncut and uncorrected)

Your money and your life

(Uncut and uncorrected)

Forced between the sheets,

no relevance to the past,

no one was requiring this,

it was voluntary, would lead to tears, perhaps death,

now they whisper sweet nothings, smile,

avoid prolonged eye contact. The bug on the wall had seen it before. Sniggered.

Like some mythological heroes, a few minutes of prep, then off to the horizontal,

the bag of tricks displayed, marveled, praised, big catch - oh yeh.

Who caught whom?

Who caught what?

A few hours later, war is in the air.

Expectations crack, and into the freezing waters call the first boulders of the mass.

He thought, "I would come here more often if I could", but his bravery was low,
self-esteem wallowing in deep phoniness.
Surely we can reinstate old values and concepts thought he.
But he was wrong, That was not possible.
There was no turning back now, we were over the hump,
to retreat would not be possible.

Only perhaps total annihilation, and a tentative restart.
Who would want that? It happened at least once before,
it leads to ages of darkness and ignorance.
So rowing out across our little lives, gaining blisters and scurvy,
we try to make a justification for all this nonsense existence has become

Quick contact, quick fuck, fuck off, your money and your life.

28. 01. 2018

~ Muzzled hounds ~

Of all the advertisements seen, those that imbue a sense of impending doom and deep remorse are the most preferred by the ruling class. Lovers respect rules designed to control and destroy them. It is not surprising that initial lovers' enthusiasm and optimism quickly metamorphose into feelings of helplessness. Societal norms muzzle playful, ravaging hounds. Phantoms and terrorizing forces command, particularly within the courtyard of the mind. She deceives herself into thinking that her freedoms are real. Bravery makes not a jot of a difference. Attempts at self-development emerge as feeble kicks against metaphorical vaults. Character templates engineer the architecture of mind and soul. Noone, or let us say very few have access to the self. External pre-formed precepts control personal plains and prairies, deep oceans, the inner universe. Born free are we, then immediately in prison cast, subject to the limitations of our forefathers, peers, and fears.

Now listen here, all ye unbelievers, there will be no freedom this side of eternity, hope has been extinguished. There are very few consolations left. He drinks an alcohol-free beer, quotes nameless teachers -  mass hysteria whoopers who desire to see their little teams succeed. Fortunes paid to see men and women put leather or plastic into nets. Negligees no longer used to seduce and navigate to the highest, just to obfuscate instinct. Hooligans drunk in very un-maenad like ways. Practiced “good behavior” disintegrates. True self, shown in all its gory ugliness describes a society that is losing its way. Now, as the moments that lead to the inevitable diminish, we realize just how much time we have wasted. The gift is gifted. Awakenings come too late, and the petty "isms" pale at the prospect of the bleak house that we all must enter and occupy, forever.

Cinderallas one and all are we. Crazed are the profit makers for they shall crucify the innocent, and burn the have-nots at the heavenly, plastic, stake. There are no paths out of this labyrinth. Some try to organize laughable schemes to dupe the needy and innocent (up to the very last minute) into spending all their savings, in the hope that … that, well all’s well for she who spends, well all she’s got, and a little more to break the camel’s back, and get her out of house and home, onto the street, where she will be without rights. A once shining example of “success”.