Friday, 27 November 2009
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Suffering - Part's 8, 9, 10
8
When confronted by the dilemma of human squalor,
and the inconstancy of natural happiness,
one is steadily made unbearable.
Little flakes of us,
like snowflakes,
settle down into an image of the human ghost.
What’s left?
A corpse, a memory, a devil.
The mother defiled,
the father murdered,
the children slain.
Having been reduced to the savage,
smarting from the eternal admission,
one crosses the threshold of reflection.
In this supple inflection,
in this harmonious recasting
which transfigures the whole grouping of human deformation,
externally and internally,
we can not fail to find precious confirmation
of what we had already guessed.
That a Cosmic sickness pervades every human head,
every foetus and flower,
and that the apocalyptic horse has become Pope.
9
The social id masturbates its ego
and ejaculates
a darkened history of the black arts and animal sex.
The mad ape looks into the wounds of the Christ crucified,
only to find that in His victory,
the Father was not who we thought He was.
The unfinished transgression
cancelled the subscription to the ape resurrection
killing the quantum cat in a cosmic car accident.
Human evaporation, through Christ’s Trinity
finds itself in His holy urine,
cycling in the eyes of St John,
narcissistically in the water of which,
fell in love with the tears in the eyes of Christ.
The horror seen in his eyes
is in the continuous fall down a black hole
giving a fairytale meaning of torture and starvation,
past Auschwitz and ground zero,
past famine and chain stoking
and in a grandmothers incontinence
as her arse is wiped
by a gum chewing 19 year old care assistant
wanting to get home
to her beer swilling boyfriend
(Both of whom will die).
10
Like a dance stopped in mid career,
love cut short,
or a flower with its head unluckily snapped off,
human squalor is no sherry party.
To keep the dead completely dead,
to keep the bedroom exactly as the departed left it,
ten bottles of sherry will not suffice.
Did Christ know how much He took away with Him when he left?
In our paper mind all reality is in ruins.
But then of course we know perfectly well
He can not be used as a road,
for all those approaching Him this way
will not be approaching Him at all.
World with out end,
is no more than a chuckle in the darkness.
Cancer, cancer, cancer cries the universe,
pour a cup of tea over your head,
shout cancer and die.
It is incredible how much happiness,
even how much gaiety we have after all hope is gone…….
When confronted by the dilemma of human squalor,
and the inconstancy of natural happiness,
one is steadily made unbearable.
Little flakes of us,
like snowflakes,
settle down into an image of the human ghost.
What’s left?
A corpse, a memory, a devil.
The mother defiled,
the father murdered,
the children slain.
Having been reduced to the savage,
smarting from the eternal admission,
one crosses the threshold of reflection.
In this supple inflection,
in this harmonious recasting
which transfigures the whole grouping of human deformation,
externally and internally,
we can not fail to find precious confirmation
of what we had already guessed.
That a Cosmic sickness pervades every human head,
every foetus and flower,
and that the apocalyptic horse has become Pope.
9
The social id masturbates its ego
and ejaculates
a darkened history of the black arts and animal sex.
The mad ape looks into the wounds of the Christ crucified,
only to find that in His victory,
the Father was not who we thought He was.
The unfinished transgression
cancelled the subscription to the ape resurrection
killing the quantum cat in a cosmic car accident.
Human evaporation, through Christ’s Trinity
finds itself in His holy urine,
cycling in the eyes of St John,
narcissistically in the water of which,
fell in love with the tears in the eyes of Christ.
The horror seen in his eyes
is in the continuous fall down a black hole
giving a fairytale meaning of torture and starvation,
past Auschwitz and ground zero,
past famine and chain stoking
and in a grandmothers incontinence
as her arse is wiped
by a gum chewing 19 year old care assistant
wanting to get home
to her beer swilling boyfriend
(Both of whom will die).
10
Like a dance stopped in mid career,
love cut short,
or a flower with its head unluckily snapped off,
human squalor is no sherry party.
To keep the dead completely dead,
to keep the bedroom exactly as the departed left it,
ten bottles of sherry will not suffice.
Did Christ know how much He took away with Him when he left?
In our paper mind all reality is in ruins.
But then of course we know perfectly well
He can not be used as a road,
for all those approaching Him this way
will not be approaching Him at all.
World with out end,
is no more than a chuckle in the darkness.
Cancer, cancer, cancer cries the universe,
pour a cup of tea over your head,
shout cancer and die.
It is incredible how much happiness,
even how much gaiety we have after all hope is gone…….
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
NATALIE JOEL
Natalie was beautiful and brilliant all round – and she was very insightful and knowledgeable.
Natalie had many excellent traits – being young, bright and intelligent, kind and also being a good listener.
We will miss her extremely gentle and caring approach.
Natalie also proved herself as an interesting and creative writer…
Natalie had many excellent traits – being young, bright and intelligent, kind and also being a good listener.
We will miss her extremely gentle and caring approach.
Natalie also proved herself as an interesting and creative writer…
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Friday, 6 November 2009
David Richardson
I am David Richardson and I David Richardson have set myself a goal; to appear 1st on the google image ranking for David Richardson. So here goes, this is a picture or photo of me David Richardson
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Suffering - Parts 6 - 7
6
Monkey in wonderland,
sons of the falling ape,
ones the ate the apple
and spat it out in the face of Christ.
A hundred of them bouncing on a universal bed,
the one that fell off and banged its brain,
is the one we followed
and that’s the one that’s lost.
Tickle a badger and run off down the ward laughing,
wear ping pong balls for eyes in front of your deathly mother,
paint ducks on a asylum wall
and feed them with 5000 loafs of bread and fish,
futility makes us this way,
and we’ve made it this way.
We watch helplessly as a tiny Christ falls to the ground,
a ground unaccepting to Christ’s,
bringing a universal snow.
This makes things cold,
too cold for us,
all it needs is a wind to make it unbearable,
and on the third day
a wind springs up,
that shakes an earthly bell
that swings between life and death,
in the kingdom that has no end.
7
There is something going on,
long and slow like the sea,
ticking in this darkened room
where somebody says something and nobody hears.
The darkened room where a dying World is operated on,
performed by a screaming surgeon,
finding the incomplete,
slicing the cancer in the egg,
the more it screams,
the more he screams
and the more he goes on cutting.
Is there no end to the torture?
Is it credible that such extremities of torture are endless?
The tortures occur,
and either way we’re for it.
He was for it on the cross,
why should we get off.
Peter knew what was coming
and the blood of the lamb loved that monkey to death,
killing his pride and shaming us all.
A grief observed
pissing on our fuck-board palace in Hell forever.
“Come out the trees and look what’s happened.
A monkey with a fucking bad idea.
A beautiful child with a brain that’s stormed.
Love your son and your daughter, and don’t let them drown,
if they do, cut your throat and stab your eyes,
lay your life down and hope your pain was ten times more than theirs“.
Monkey in wonderland,
sons of the falling ape,
ones the ate the apple
and spat it out in the face of Christ.
A hundred of them bouncing on a universal bed,
the one that fell off and banged its brain,
is the one we followed
and that’s the one that’s lost.
Tickle a badger and run off down the ward laughing,
wear ping pong balls for eyes in front of your deathly mother,
paint ducks on a asylum wall
and feed them with 5000 loafs of bread and fish,
futility makes us this way,
and we’ve made it this way.
We watch helplessly as a tiny Christ falls to the ground,
a ground unaccepting to Christ’s,
bringing a universal snow.
This makes things cold,
too cold for us,
all it needs is a wind to make it unbearable,
and on the third day
a wind springs up,
that shakes an earthly bell
that swings between life and death,
in the kingdom that has no end.
7
There is something going on,
long and slow like the sea,
ticking in this darkened room
where somebody says something and nobody hears.
The darkened room where a dying World is operated on,
performed by a screaming surgeon,
finding the incomplete,
slicing the cancer in the egg,
the more it screams,
the more he screams
and the more he goes on cutting.
Is there no end to the torture?
Is it credible that such extremities of torture are endless?
The tortures occur,
and either way we’re for it.
He was for it on the cross,
why should we get off.
Peter knew what was coming
and the blood of the lamb loved that monkey to death,
killing his pride and shaming us all.
A grief observed
pissing on our fuck-board palace in Hell forever.
“Come out the trees and look what’s happened.
A monkey with a fucking bad idea.
A beautiful child with a brain that’s stormed.
Love your son and your daughter, and don’t let them drown,
if they do, cut your throat and stab your eyes,
lay your life down and hope your pain was ten times more than theirs“.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
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