(In response to "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg)

I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by sanity,
seen bold new visionaries resign themselves to clinical long-haul deaths,
drug-numbed to their own suffering, and everyone else’s;
seen raving revolutionaries give up, retire to minimalist Swedish-designed armchairs,
and never move again;
seen the horizon dim and draw ever closer,
and the tenacious lunatics with the wanderlust to stray beyond
become fewer and further between.

There are uglier destructive forces than madness:
Consider cognitive rehabilitation.
Consider absolutely nothing immeasurable.
Consider utter rationality.

Ritalin, lithium, risperidone, duloxatine. [I thought I heard a man speaking in tongues,
then I realised he was simply reading out loud from a pharmaceutical directory.]
Imagine a generation of loan brokers and loss adjustors;
Hicks gone these past seventeen years and Leary still alive;
sharks floating in formaldehyde;
all true human significance lost in pretentious symbols,
and repetition
and repetition
and repetition,
and no one raging.
No one raging for real.

Where are Plato’s maniacs now?
Where are their lunatic songs?
I hear only the steady, rational tapping of the accountants’ calculators,
occasionally, some lost and lonely *** crying out for one more shot,
and the PA system calling the next patient through, the doctor will see you now,
or asking would the owner of a light blue Honda Civic please move their vehicle,
as it’s blocking in a black Lexus full of lawyers with an ambulance to chase.

Is there really nowhere between here
and the bellow and buzz, the shiver and shriek of the asylum?
Someplace between this sterile, static, silent, windowless room
and the fizzing frenzy of the electroconvulsion suite,
there must be somewhere we might have paused and breathed and set up shop,
where we could have been happy – if we’d wanted to be –
and no more or less sane than we chose.

Dr Thompson saw it coming: the dawn of this new Age of Equilibrium.
He knew that football season was over, for good this time, and made his ballistic decision
to go stalk peacocks and hound Nixon through the Kingdom Hereafter,
assuring us, ‘Relax – This won’t hurt’.
He was right.

Safe and stable and sanitized, we can no longer follow your desperate, ***** verse.
Straitjacketed by reason, we perceive our world only in terms
of quantum and co-efficiency, of the logical and logistical,
of what can be conjured in the duration of the average commercial break,
of what can be computed to at least two decimal places.

We are the chemically castrated.
We are lobotomised by mutual consent.
We are the perfect ones: regular and moderate and so healthy, so functional.
We are the white strobing smiles of the toothpaste ads,
the poster children for good mental hygiene,
the footsoldiers of no more conflict.

We have lost our skill for the alchemy
that once distilled genius from the seething crucible of lunacy.
We medicate those whose vision would otherwise put our own to shame,
leave them as myopic and blinkered as the rest of us,
the breadth and depth and distance of their sight no longer a worry to anyone.

Give us back our madmen: we need them.
Give us back our crazed anthems, our burning shrouds, our leprous one-man-bands.
Give us back the fire and the filth and the fornication that kept us howling through
those endlessly polluted nights of Windscale and Watergate, McCarthy and motorcades, Hanoi and Hiroshima.

Please.  Give us back our madmen.
I have seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by sanity.

---

A man near the 10 cities
Was mad and bound in chains
He could break all of his bonds
But never his sin's stains

The Gerasenes was home to him
But he was still outcast
He cut himself with stones
He had a madman's caste

No one would come near him
For fear he'd take their life
He was stong & terrible
But naked and in strife
Due to his insanity
The stones became a knife

Jesus must have known
This man was in great need
He decided to travel there
So that prisoner could be freed

Seeing him the Madman ran
To confront Him there
The demons in him knew their time
Was up... and they despaired

"Please let us go" they said aloud
"Into the heard of swine!
Please do not send us far away
For it is not our time!"

"What is your name?" Jesus asked
And this was very wise
They could never lie to Him...
"LEGION!" They replied

"We are very many..."
And that was truth back then
A legion of footsoldiers
Was at least 4000 men

So Jesus sent them to the pigs
And there they entered in
The swine ran into water
And, of course, they could not swim

The people of the region
Were told by the swineherds
Of all that had just happened
They ran and spread the word

They went up to Jesus
And found the man reclined
Sitting clothed & normal
He was in his right mind!

"Please leave our coasts!" They shouted
"We want no trouble here!"
They were all excited
And some were in great fear

"Please allow me to come with you!"
No wish to be alone...
The now-normal madman
Was then told to return home.



Is Jesus' arm now shortened?
Or can He Heal and Save?
Can he make deliverance
For those now so depraved?

If that man named "Legion"
Could be healed at last
Perhaps you could be also
No matter what your past!

Ask him to deliver you
You can make a start
He can come to help and Save
And finally heal your heart!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/25/2016

Dragon-Man watched in horror as Vibrate readied her soldiers for war.
Such a force of arms was so formidable Dragon-Man had not seen before.
Suddenly Vibrate sniffed the air and said, I smell the hired gun of Dragon-Power.
Bring him to me alive so I can show him the destruction that is ours.
Dragon-Man prepared to teleport and Dialect grabbed his arm saying, We have to draw them out.
Here come with me, I can set up a perimeter and this is the best route.
They went through the forest, and Dragon-Man was holding his sore arm.
Hoping that Dialect was correct, and that his plan would prevent more harm.
Suddenly Dialect turned and said, Give me your Abyss Sword, it talks to her essence.
We can use it to send Vibrate an unforgivable and unforgettable message.
Dragon-Man stuck the Abyss Sword in the ground, and suddenly they could see through Vibrate’s eyes.
Dragon-Man was shocked at the pure evil coming from Vibrate’s life-force, she wanted only demise.

This is our last stand, Dialect murmured, and Dragon-Man urged, So we should go back to the others.
Dialect nodded and said, We must tell the Covenantial Project because he is Vibrate’s brother.
That thing has a sibling?! Dragon-Man asked in horror, They were a part of the Infinite Order
They were all in charge of the Manifest Blades, which were the Abyss, Templar, and Trifecta Swords.
Tyrus Animus reigned over all as the Chieftain Caesar of the Project Overlord.
The Covenantial Project was supposed to **** Vibrate but he failed so the Abyss Sword rejected him.
The Order broke up, because then the Covenantial Project was unworthy to fight Vibrate then.
Vibrate escaped, and Tyrus Animus told the Covenantial Project there was one way to redeem.
There must be a Federation formed with the Dragon-Power to battle Vibrate’s schemes.
Then the Abyss Sword went down to the Earth and the Dragon-Power examined its contents.
And used the Midas Template to make the Federation Weapons with their last disembodiment.
Dragon-Man was shocked, because this was the origin of the Federation.
But he dare not ask how Vibrate was related to Shark-Devil and Drozen.
Dialect took the Abyss Sword out of the ground and said, You are a part of this Order now.
Because you were not just chosen to be the Alliance Project to take Vibrate’s place, you were endowed.
So kneel before a former Faceless Tongue, and accept your incoming destiny first.
Dragon-Man accepted this sword with gratitude, knowing he would save this universe.

Vibrate angrily shook her head and said, Someone is tampering with my sight in my head.
Whoever is so insolent to use tricks to do this, I want him and his world dead.
Dragon-Man took the Abyss Sword, touched it and got back to Message and the rest.
He stood there gasping, as the Intellic Armor covered his being right through to his chest.
The Abyss Sword also transformed, and had a javelin, blade, and fireweapon capability.
It was just the sort of instrument to play Vibrate’s demise and do it readily.
Where is the Chietain Caesar, Dragon-Man asked, and Message asked, We don’t even know he exists.
But if he does we would badly need him for a fight on a godforsaken rock like this.
The Covenantial Project lowered his head, knowing he failed where Dragon-Man had prevailed.
But as a fellow member of Project Overlord, he had to help Dragon-Man in this tale.
Suddenly Dialect said, I hear something, it is the voice of evil that creeps in the shadows.
Message shouted to the Federation behind her, Brave manpeople, get ready for battle!
The Federation readied its Mechanisms for firing on who would dare invade.
The Covenantial Project and the Alliance Project each stepped forward with their blade.
The Covenantial Project wielded the Doctrinian Scythe that was ready made.
Suddenly Vibrate appeared to him in the midst and said, I was brought here by your bloodthirst.
And The Covenantial Project you cannot beat me, because you are cursed.
The Alliance Project shouted, Come down and fight us, or else hold your peace.
Vibrate walked in front of The Alliance Project and said, I have always wanted to see a Project deceased.
Suddenly her footsoldiers arrived, but they were shot down by the Federation Missiles.
Message looked grim in the face, and when Dialect raised his hand it became a crystal.
She raised the Celestial Blade Saber and Winged Fire-Lance to cut it off, as Dialect let out a cry.
He sank to his knees and Vibrate called out, I told you that who was in my head would have to die.
The Alliance Project switched his Abyss Sword to Javelin Mode, and threw it into Vibrate’s eye.
The crystals on Dialect’s hand broke, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
But the Battle of Paldon was upon them, one that they might not be able to leave.

The wise know where a hero stands--
upon the shoulders of another man.
Or a woman. Truth be told,
there’s more to legends than what we’re sold.
There’s a legion behind every famous one:
Footsoldiers, workers, slogging from sun to sun.
They build the movement that changes history--
collective action—not Him; it’s We.
Or the art, or invention, of ground-breaking power,
from a  “genius” who above us does tower.
His inspiration is the work of others,
connected souls-- sisters and brothers.
Each weaves a strand of the magic thread.
From hundreds of others the genius is fed.
He finishes work with skillful design,
then sometimes falsely claims “it’s mine.”

Death, O’ you all consuming notion:
Idea; intractable, implacable void.
As you are I see not clearly yet
I see a life made up of the stuff of myth.
With the narrow thinking of a man—
Achaean footsoldiers marching to glory—
I ponder your immensity, think
Not too clearly for the sake of sanity,
Because in fact I can think no more clearly.

For your sake, I say, I have wandered.
I have traveled dust and roads that stretch lifetimes
And that capture moments fleeting in
From great dusty horizons beyond the brink.
The dust, I think, I speak of last,
The road I speak of first.
Yet in no particular order is life
So constrained; nor, by consequence, is death.

Yet O’, to you, I give my all,
My heart, my fear, anguish and pain, I give all to you,
If only to supplicate you at the knees, say
“I am not ready yet, do not rip up the void.”
Yet O’, do you laugh, and you do,
And a pity it is that I be at your knees,
For you are a wand’ring, indiscriminate beast,
And you take life as you may please.

Raise an auspicious eye to the venerable shape.
His head is there, but hollow eyes
Do make up the void of his sight.
And a sinister look is there.
Raise an auspicious eye to the undark’ned mirror;
The eyes show a deep glist’ning light,
From deepest and remotest corners,
Where life is not that way.

spare me the art form to leave it unto women!
spare me! make prone to ride a horse,
shoot an arrow from a bow, and weild a sword,
don't make me, this! make only women bound
to it, akin to the pashtun, leave me sacred, bound,
to care to the billionth remark as a plumber might,
and yes, revisionist as all might be,
                 for isn't there a fear
that with reincarnartion there
came only come a set number of
Noah compatiorts?
       how are we to esteem, or
indeed redeem the said quota?
who to say failure: without a battlefield?!
  to what altar?! i ask, to what altar?
a couch and a ******* t.v. altar?
you be god or mere boredom?!
      a death in war be a spark,
and above that a flit,
and above that a flame....
    and that means should a congregation
partake in the passed wisdom:
all but one are excused..
   but pray! leave me with an oath
an ancient greek might have said:
that these women bring nothing
but turmoil... and that they should
be left, best cleaving to
    a moment's adrift, care toward
symposium of a wave...
i was never born to be ***...
       and i never will be...
shame...
mind you: i was never born an ethnicity
of vermin... and that's salt,
that's really salt, whether there's a wound
or there isn't one...
have your Knightsbridge and
24 carat plating encrusting copper... have it!
     i'll fall asleep, and have my war
contra crux.
          because, i dare believe,
i have no ethnic boundary,
or a care to remember...
                           that if i had any...
i was never rat, or metaphor...
so i am prone to faking it...
demoralising its significance...
      for a cause i am afraid to ask a: what for?
once there was a tale that a nobleman owned
a horse... and he was the most esteemed
cladden of the sort...
later came the footsoldiers and their banners...
and lastly: i can't believe i just woke up;
i am bound to daydream the past,
and heaving perfect standards of modern technology,
i am with limbs, bound to be without any...
i can't even be bound to a prison to
try to escape it...
                  why did i begin to write poetry,
with poetic populism afright, and the safety card to send
men to war.. if they remain: only half literate...
       i really need gills to breath in this
air... it's too sulphuric: not when my ethnicity
be compared to rats... not again, not another german
scheisseladen in tongue of anglo-saxon...
   if that's how it going to be...
please give me the gift.... cos i sheisse ain't
about to look at the magazines of vogue like
a human, anymore!
you call this human? i call this lesser than animal,
o.k.?! dogs and cats get better treatment
in the west than i... i might as well endorse
a jihad... just to wake certain peoples up.

Schoenberg's verklärte nacht, op. 4
for starting the night off...
reminiscence of the past four nights spent
in the silo of isolation:
thinking about Engels and Marx and
that theory about alienation -
such nights with fire and classical music
on the shift...
but i am doing a personalised understudy
in Polish Cinema from the Communist
Era... and i'm finding a great deal
i will not write essays about or pay
for an actual undergraduate degree:
it would have to be a post-graduate thesis
proposal for an educational body
say a university about the study of Polish Cinema
in the context of that time period
as a comparative tool to not exactly...
but exactly that... deconstruct modern cinema
in the English speaking world...
if i am a pink haired oily skinned
overweight leftist or leftoid or an ardent
Communist-**** ******* left opposition
in that the Devil is Left
and God is Right...
                        but i can be a proper deconstructionist
follow the paths of deconstructionalism
via the model of post-modernism
but only from the ashes and context of
being: as the British working class love
to make the distinction about foreigners
and then the Pakistani foreigners themselves
about new immigrants esp European
immigrants: BORN & BRED ENGLISH
BRITISH...
like that old slogan...

but that other slogan: BLUT UND BODEN...
well: where is your land?!
where?!

modern English speaking world cinema is
in need of right wing deconstructionist
post-modernists critiques...
which have to be learned from the left leaning
loony crowd in the English speaking world
that does not exist in other parts of the world
simply because those parts of the world
were rather strict and serious about the left
even Germany was
but then Germany took the other route toward
Marxism and England will have to too
experience its own version of Marxism...
given that i asked the question:
who was more critical, authentically concerned,
with the terrible living conditions
of the working people in Manchester...
child slavery in England was a real thing...
England might have shone the light
to the rest of the world:
but internally it has always been a Dickensian
pogrom
a fowl place of orc and elves... and dwarfs...
this is not a Christian nation no more
than Poland was upon its conversion...
then defending the last pagan stronghold of Europe
that was Lithuania:
like Christianity reached Kievan Rus sooner
than and the enclave of Litwa: Litwa...
the last heart of Europe before the cancerous
experiment on humanity
like the Parting of the Red Sea = the Holocaust...
in terms of wonder
how God can inflict such wonders telepathically
no longer through the winds the seas and speaking
through fire: but as the lord of hosts
able to do what... Apocalypse does in the X-Men
universe and consumes Prof Xavier's consciousness
like a spin-off on the Marvel universe:
the baddy wins in the second movie
while dying in the first...

see: cinema in the west doesn't do much with human
nature: just the crushing of human imaginings
where there are more images than words
being consumed:
like this inner circle craving of the Elites in Eyes
Wide Shut to insert a paganism
to defeat the crushing Christianity of Judaism
and not Christianity out of Paganism...
or a Christianity out of Hinduism:
since we are talking geneology: time...
not all religions emerged at once...
same is to say not all people emerged all at once...
therefore who is to talk about the environment
and the green Antarctica...

Harlequin *******... sharing words sharing
images...
clearly... i felt like a *** slave...
                                   a little toy and then to bring
to mind: why wake up with negative thoughts...
but i was waking up at 6pm and not 6am
with negative spinning vertigo thoughts
like looking into glass and with enough
night being able to see a mirror... some terrific
horror beginning this night
with a spider gently, silently dropping down from
the ceiling of the hut...
at least not in front of my nose but near enough
for me to see and instead of a frightened aghasp
a cross-eyed examination suggested
that i should just blow it away: swing it away
like those flowers: out of nouns: you blow the seeds
away like parachutes
why didn't **** Germany just bomb London
why not send in: en masse:
their best lovers, poets, philosphers, thieves,
the crimminals! why didn't **** Germany
just bomb other cities like Manchester
and Industrial Heart of the Empire
while simultaneously not drop crimminal
paratroopers into London or on the outskirts...
crimminals... like what the Russians are doing
but anally... crimminals as... footsoldiers?!
you ******* kidding me?!
no no!
you drop crimminals into enemy lines...
just like what a lot of countries are doing in England
but there's no single country:
no wait... that's not what's happening:
dialectical materialism spectacles...
the rest of the world is dumping workers
into the drip feed of society for uber and deliveroo
asians...
those kamikaze antics of their knowledge of Roman
Roads is like... rules of the roads in Rome itself...
bogus...

ah... class... in England... if it's not about money
then it must be about interest...
and there's this overseeing scrutiny about
work ethic, work pride,
yes... work pride... something concerning
work and nobility:
long gone are the days of nobility and feudalism
and monarchy:
pride and nobility: pride is a version:
subdued by nobility...
one can be a petty security guard in a hut
in one of the most spectacular places
on earth to witness the plethora of humanity
at night: Elephant and Castle...
lunatics and the open asylum and oh so many stars...

my company is asking for my social media
pages... they want to make an audit...
i think i've been captured on camera doing
something right... and they want to see my social media
profile... i'm a bit shy: it's a bit like losing your virginity
for the first time: to allow the virtual world
to collide with the real world:
i'm afraid of being sacked...
not that i wouldn't react to it with so much desperation
as to fly to Istambul and become
a missing person...
and like those modern people who...
i can't get past Schoenberg past the 6th or 7th minute...
like those people who have music curated
to them Moloch of Metallica adoration music
and producer and musician somewhere an artist:
oh i adored Metallica's master of puppets...
but i spent the first two weeks just listening to Battery
before listening to the rest of the album...
by god! that's me!
i can't listen past Schoenberg's 6th or 7th minute:
there's just so much and it works like a tide
when you let yourself go
and listen to the entire 30 minutes:
this is CLASS in England...
intellect...                     concern for humanity: soothing it
by distracting it with one's own solipsistic interest...
oh: if they want to audit my internet presence...
they'll be in for a surprise...

but English cinema is rarely existential and
so much phantoms to please...
it's sad that foreigners adopted:
but who invents the tools doesn't necessarily
have a say
concerning how those tools are to be used... right?
there's no inventor of cinema:
the objective... who gets to dictate the subjective
from the creation of the tool...
i see a hammer but no nail?
tool or weapon?
hammer and nail as a weapon become a torture emblem
of Christ and Pinhead in the hellraiser universe...
nail on its own... perhaps a toothpick...
so the hammer and the sickle
would! oh oh oh!
i want to redraw the flag of **** Germany!
apologies to the Asians!
i need south Korean now!
it's a flag!
drop the ******* the red white and black
that the Arabs are now borrowing
with a tinge of green in writing...
i have a flag!

                  BLACK...
                            wit­h a WHITE: HAMMER
   and SCYTHE!
                              or... maybe not a hammer...
but the hammer... yes... a black flag with a white
hammer and a scythe...
we don't need no clock of the ******* now:
we have the star of david clock turning...
tick... tock... tick... tock...           tick... tock...
i see a mat to sit on and read an open book.
two horns: tick tock... tick tock...
                                 i see my comrades ahead:
Jackie Spoonfularrow...
                              she's there... mermaids in her
**** juices...
                     tick-tock...

卐    (anti-clockwise or clock-wise...
             focus on the Rorschach...
         is this symbol orientated around a clockwise
dynamic... or an anti-clockwise dynamic?
can't say much for clocks and O...
            so that's the symbol of time performed so isolated
so much like the Birth of Christianity
from the ******* of Rome!
        i know that for me... this is... anti-clockwise...
but see... the germans chose the clockwise *******...
i'm chosing.... the anti-clockwise *******
and it will be just white on black...
in the corner like the five stars of China
and the hammer and the scythe... elsewhere...

something needs to happen spiritually!
artistically! voluntarily!
by the grace of god...

    ****... clock is stuck... hardly the crossroads... ***
of **** sites...
        i wanted to venture to show you the tick-tock
of the clock... clockwise starter quater to, then noon...
but that html codecie is only burning a flag...

thus a clock running on empty where
the second hand just quivers, limply...
trying to move forward but then having a dead man's
reflex response: tug-tod...    tug-tod... tugging at
the angel of death imploring him:
am i awake in heaven or in hell or again?!

can't replicate the html dictates of this page...

p.s. i made a faux pas: there is a mistake in here...
i know it...
      the Nazis did choose the anti-clockwise
*******: but they fell because you can't
choose an anti-clockwise *******
to go back in time... huh?! no anti-clockwise
just counter-clockwise?
wait wait...

yes a clockwise ******* imply going back
is healthy?! like a counter-clockwise *******
going forward in time:
******* to O                                 maybe it all fell
apart because their chose a counter-clockwise
******* to go back in time and unearthed...
what they unearthed: God's disgruntlement
with his People
concerning their overstayed welcome
in Poland: so that currently: Poland can prosper
and be envied by journalists in England
and i'm not even there
because my grandfather was a Communist
Party member and there was no room for people
like me back there: some country
like Chamberlain's Czech Republic Antarctica;

Człowiek z marmuru: man of marble: Wajda...
or Dostoyevsky's Idiot and my Anti-Idiot combined...
Decalogue: I, III, X... oh and VII for Linda's performance.