Seismic Nought

What can we do in the end? When our existence has become completely soulless… And the world as we know it doesn’t deserve our perception of it… Where’s the colour?! What can we do? Something, anything? Something real? Love repeated… Remember that thing… how it gleamed… And now, there’s nearly nothing…     Nearly nothing because of what we’re doing… And what we’re letting them do… And there’s no god to save us,  Just our words and power… Power that should be as simple as a flower that welcomes the smeller… But instead we’re being devoured by a scent so sick and seductive it makes us shiver before being swaddled in its shadow… An oxygen and spirit-sucking force that won’t stop slowly eating us until we give up the joke inside of us - the fake rose, the front; all our artificial flavour and fervour - the real desire is deep within and we’ve all felt and feel it like a vast river that connects all our fears and wonders, making us better, stronger, longer, brighter, ...

Union lack…   Put up a flag, desperate to fit… Flags that were used on hideous ships… Where are you Jack? Who is it this time? Can’t help think of the kids that have to fight to survive… Whilst yours flit between different lives, crying inside… Sing them a brutish lullaby,  About a world that never lived… The same lullaby that reverberates through the opera boxes of this creaking pit…  It’s only purpose to keep you as the sick,  The sick who were shown to grin and take it, teeth full of grit; the real victims, now - burn what’s left of their  original pith, never questioning the poker of the shadow bearer’s writ…

Coward kingly with his ketchup It doesn’t matter it’s only fake blood Destroy our thinking, it’s just painful Stop people walking You won’t take our words from us Quell our flavour, our foods too good… Extinguish our fragrance, your smell’s gone rotten Our lightness illegal… Nylon versus cotton?! What’s the matter? Scared to - Look in the mirror? Touch? Weightless, faceless, nothing but duds Weightless, faceless, nothing but duds…

The child looks like a clown because of what you did…   The child’s not scared of clowns now, they’re not scared of anything… Soot on their face and blood on their lips… They’re broken inside, yet we are the sick…

Ship is sinking but no one wants to know Love is thinking, but it’s scared of the glow Submarines where warlords and tech gods go… Ship is sinking but no one wants to know Babies blinking before their whole lives blow… Elders warning, but no one wants to know Death is forming a strange prison of gloat… Ship is sinking but no one wants to know Time is ticking, but we’ve put that on hold Weather’s wilding - some relief from the groans Photos fading, the ocean bottom’s boned… Ship is sinking but no one wants to know Sun is calling but no one wants to hope Rainbows form differently, still no one takes note… Sun is calling but no one wants to hope We’ve bought the idea that humans are a slope… Somebody finally feels good in the smoke; Hand turns the dial higher, but dreams they’ll never know… A whole world that’s sick and tired and inspired - A picture of sad old pirates shrunk in their attire…

  All our lives we’ve been told to keep it low  Keep our dreams out of sight and on hold, and our thoughts dressed up in clothes… Our hopes were like golden blue bows slipping from our frozen poses... Our hopes for any kind of rightness peering out from under our beds of excitement turned to functional poison… And who are we now? The ones that look dead in a beautiful way… we never got to know us but say we’re okay… And there’s so many actual dead, but we feel like we’ve lost a million realities before us… So we say how it’s absurd and grotesque, Shake our heads, and try to expect less… And when the bullet finally flies towards us in slow motion; we question its beauty… the cold silver glow of a car window with the hope a teetering feeling is imbuing…

You can try to make us less soft, less open, less fiery… But you are the ones who are frozen - The ones who won’t make the diary, When everything you claim to be right is distorted and stolen… You can’t stop us from flying towards the light and glowing green and golden… So best just leave us be… you’re the wanderers of this gallery and we’re the centrepiece… Having travelled many galaxies to see you differently, You still look at us with one colouring, through one sheen - But it’s time to evolve or flee… Our wings shield your swords and shine a light but only for those who want to see - And those who want to see have wings like me, And we hold each other carefully… When our eyes meet - catching our dual infinity… Our endless vision reminding us that within our dual lucency, we belong to many cosmic entities…

When do we change? Is it now? Or in ten years time… Is it in 2999? Is this a sign or an unseen shrine? Can we travel lightyears of compassion to finally reach what matters? And join the orchestras of our hearts to form a cacophony of beauty that grows to other planets, admitting how lost we are… Or are we hate first, death burp, old church… Starving billions yet again just to prove a point - Just so we can light a joint and oink - Why must we parade, not permeate?… Escape but stay safe… We could evolve from the inside now, freeing every structure of our being… Procuring our loving spout, rather than drowning in doubt… When will you decide to step into the liquid mirror, joining timelines of past and future - Upon which - being that every-creature; you see through a lensless camera… Can you embody the real virtue and meaning of captured existence, and in doing so outshine death by becoming life itself?…

With the blue face of Picasso, he grabs all the strangely dismembered and distorted deprivations, pressing them like wild flower stencils onto the canvas before him… His sausage fingers rolling up his collaged carnage cigar… placing it to his clay mouth - Looking at the skyscrapers outside his house “I do this for my paradise country…” On a dizzy permutation of this ferocious routine; he realises - nothing fits - “I’m a preacher in my own piss…” But the apple is sweeter because of me… The pear trees are weaker… And at least we lost their weeping wisdom and childish victimisation… remember… “We make the system - ” art is meat, art is mickey… And we’ve shrivelled their fruit to display in exhibitions, give to our children; and to flavour our unique trappings of meat certification…

A smile that postered peace has cracks… Cracks that were covered that start to appear in times of great test, revealing its uncertainty, vulnerability, venom towards the thing that makes it fear… The smile is a signature of submission A stamp of insecurity Because to feel one must think, not temporarily fix, And to truly fix, one must insist on feeling - everything… A smile full of love, wisdom and youth never fails, but is thrown; blasted by veiled vast-disappointments, so that the face that holds it moistens with incredulity… But a smile that has no truth - When it starts to fray; stiffens easily - turns anodyne, bitter, frozen… Until the corpse behind that smile becomes clearer - and dictates death with no mirror… But beware… you can turn away all mirrors Yet in the darkness they will linger, slither, shimmer, hunt you down… There’s no escaping from the silent screams in your head, and eventually this realm of darkness will fully consume you - if you choose to take this pa...

If we’d carefully addressed our nuances We wouldn’t be in this mess… If we’d spoken to the heart rather than the heartless head… If we hadn’t turned this planet into a closed and open hell… Like a giant burning cruise ship full of mere shells, piercing into the earth’s former self… We ignore the trees; the trees that show us magnificence and mystery; destroying their epic lives in a heartbeat… But the trees whisper through connected fungi, working as a team for longevity, with no concept of antipathy… And in dark forests on the sunniest days we still glimpse those rays of true beauty… We still have a responsibility in our vastness to steer this ship of souls in the right direction, in conjunction with nature and all of it’s adaptations… Why stare into one hole in a cave when there are a million different pools and palaces shining through the crystal cracks, all waiting to join as we chip away at a new haven… Imagine what aliens would think then when they came to visit our shimme...

For every viral gun death - a poem… For every slither of hope for a beautiful family or person - a surge in funds for them… For every shitty golden lie by politicians - The fine fresh summer’s morning that makes their stomach turn… For every company complicit in this torture, trying to keep us and them numb - You can’t survive this - and neither can your conscience, whether you know it or not yet… The whole thing will crumble like dried, bloody bubblegum - and art will be watching, like it always does…

Orchestratedly killing children, what kind of child were you? Shoot shoot with no feeling, see how you’ll have no future, sucker… You think that you’ve marred their grave, But the child’s cloud escapes… You’re not even a part of the picture -  Only a void for the paintings that will stay to show how great they are and how sick you were… You’ve got no place, no room, no virtue, So more fool you… You’re not a conductor of any orchestra - You’re just a fraying lace in an old man’s shoe Yet look how young you are - or could have been… I know you’re not one for feeling anything but you’ve got to admit; the deafening din of children’s wailing light and death’s scythe keeping you secretly afraid all night is gonna be hard to remove…

We’re sick of your lies We’re sick of our frame We’re sick of your blame We’re sick of your lack of shame… We’re sick of your hideous, righteous twist We’re sick of your negligent noose We’re waiting for it to trip back on you… We’re waiting for you to tell the truth

The missile finds the child, And they do nothing but walk by… The missile finds the child but they don their disguise… The foetus finds the ground, But there’s no one around At least no one willing to care… The missile finds the child, But we’re more concerned about saying the wrong thing to each other than saying ‘I love you…’ The missile finds the child, but we’re destitute and fear feeling… The missile finds the child, but we’re black water frozen, Our mechanisms broken, Our robots erred; And this whole slave ship design - to crush all of our senses, is ended - expended - All that’s left is a haunted, weeping child that would even forgive you for your horrors, But you would rather die than see your true reflection in those waters…

Never mind… a few more starving civilians that were gunned down to quench their hunger… A few new gas chambers… A few more parasite bombs dissecting the flesh of youngsters… It will all sort itself out soon… A few less teachers… A few less writers and reachers… People that can tell us what life means to us… Never mind…. It’s too late now to turn this around… At least in the interim… Soon there might be another intermission… That’s fine, that will work in my favour… buy me some more time to waver… I can deal with this global assumption that I’m a monster… I can quieten this down, phase this one out… I don’t need collective cohesiveness, understanding and education… I just need a good lawyer, some good half truths, a suit and tie and my foolproof patter…

They say mow the lawn… Sever the sick… They are the poor… We are the rich… They say weed us dandelions… Live within their lines… We say they’re out of time… They say watch it tick… They say tame that topiary… of children’s dismembered dreams We say you’re not meant to be here like this… They don’t like the smell of cut grass biting back - Like they don’t like the smell of blood in the streets - so they say keep it strict - Make sure you’ve choked the weeds with rotten fish, and poisoned seed… They never hold a tight fist, but point a finger, regal, stiff… Our thick fragrant odour, frightens them much deeper… And places a hand where the heart cannot beat… This is why they don’t want us growing in peace, why they don’t want branches climbing their tall seats… Because the alter they tokened is faltering cheaply, so they’re panicking and grabbing at every last leaf, in the strive to not be swallowed by the swamp of their own iniquity…

The weakness of the officer… His barricade frame looming soullessly over the victim as the other officer decided she was too sick to come in… The sadness of the old man arrested for holding a placard containing truths we all should believe in… The weakness of your will to go along with everything now that it’s nothing… But what’s nothing? Is nothing breathing? Is nothing hearing? Is nothing seeing? You can’t be at peace with dissonance… And in order to achieve peace you must wake up to the hell that persists…  Don’t think you can avoid it… Prepare to ask yourself the question; Would you rather live in a cell where they don’t let the sun in, Or be beaten to death for believing in something?

How can you sleep at night when you live to rape and torture children? When your sole focus and purpose is child exploitation?  How can you even breathe? How can you drink fresh water, that doesn’t taste of blood… that doesn’t choke you? When all you believe in is hunting down innocence hydrated from mud pools, pulling it from its bud and burning dreams to a crust, calm in your mask of nonchalance… When the child within and the child you’ve broken - watches you perform these abhorrent acts; how does the child within not shake with terror and repulsion, and every morning that you wake try to destroy you?…  Where are they? There is no child in you… You are bleak, worthless, worse than sadness, not even material; just the drop of a soulless heartbeat in a void that drags on a nazi cigar that will eventually crumble… For now, you will try to butcher fine lands of olive trees and fuck the green… But you won’t succeed, because you are nothing but weakness And the distant baby hearts...

They bomb our toilet dungeon souls   Fireworks for our extinction  A dead child’s hand reaching… They bomb our toilet dungeon souls Quietly but quickly -   For lifetimes kept in dream purgatory, Not allowed to be who we want to be We have to choose… we have to cheat… They bomb our toilet dungeon souls  Dark and deep and bleeding…  Like they always did through screens and language, As if we said something to put us down here, As if we built this casket… But we found the key, a long time ago… To climb the secret walls of this prison… Working constantly in this puzzle below, Dreaming in our dreams… Each time a little more laughter, A little less debasement for banter… Forming intricate shining webs that lead us to the light above, As we finally crawl out like cluster flies into the glowing ether - Their ugly bronze imperiousness means nothing  as we swarm with the Aurora… Pissing down our cherub honey genesis butter…

We’re stronger together, Boy, girl, Man, woman Them, other... Why would you think you’re superior? Why would you think you’re spectacular? Our histories are woven, Whether we like it or not... There’s no time for malice that widens our rot - Because this is where they want you; under their thumb in their cot... But when you speak up, with nothing but the truth– they’re shot... And this is what we’ve got... Act now or flop... No time for comfort in your clan, Measure this wing span... We can still fly out of here if we want... Stop judgements based on immediate response... Or watch each other die, In sweltering springtime, spying through stick masks of spite...

Only until the day, monkeys look us in the eye... Will we dare to jump the branches of time... When we have to move to stay alive, Will we act like sublime strangers Or perhaps tonight... When screens tell us to do something we might, But when they lie and spill we keep our distance inside... We don’t know our patterns Our rivers and torrents... Yet cling to the copper current To the sun’s side of a sixpence... Only until we realise our scope is too significant in size too relinquish, Do we stare into history’s blighted eyes And willingly join both sides, Relishing in the surprise of our random apparentness, Like the rare colours of butterflies in a golden instance...

Make America rape again Treating children like meat The hand on the mouth as they choke The millions of witnesses who cope The massacre well known, numb Worse again but old, Let it hold... No place to call home... Make America rape again Rape for gold, for lead A stolen broken bed, no thread to their reason other than fed... Federal monsters fed like youngsters Yawning with ease... The libraries of histories they choose to seize and sever... Until there’s nothing and no trees Just baron land and bullies and destructive weather... Make America rape again, and again, and again... until the pain becomes pointless and the world lets it be, and brainwashed beserckists sizzle like beef...

Syrupy cinnamon fronts the taste of blood They scoff without dignity Their rich grins devouring the cheap treat As the sun beats down intermittent No real suffering, no starvation of thousands Stand by the gift shop Our saviour wore flip flops Our greenhouse of primacy To not know anything of greed... Or of the penniless preacher who sowed a misconstrued seed

Comfortable with the unspeakable Obnoxious unconfrontational Augmented stolen-perch facial, Agel, with no ‘n’ for nurture, eyes for plundered treasure Your age isn’t elegant Eat the bloody fruit whole with the pips, as old children are murdered, opal fires fixed in feathers...

Shit you out Your broken beliefs Your desire to extinguish the very thing that makes me me... Shit you out Your empty words Your fraying suit Your fear... Shit you out Your insistence to destroy anything that makes us happy and human Shit you out Your dangerous perception that in order to protect a child you must never become one again... Which leads to suppression, self-harm, oppression, augmentation and homogenisation... And when the whole world has shat you out Showed you that they won’t be controlled anymore by your projection... Yes, when you’ve truly fucked your freedom - Who will you turn to? When even your inner child has closed the door on the monster you’ve become... Shit; you’re so out.

Kill journalists < Kill truth-seeking avidity, inquisitiveness, open-mindedness, awareness > Kill children.

Blood-soaked blue sky Smell our vinaigrette of helplessness The honey crying chords of a zillion golden cubs Roots that won’t die Bursting through us Dark crimson walls high Too shame our innards Tear-drenched rain Draining our conscience Pulling us toward the marble migraine Where blinded gerents continue the measured deterrent Of life desperate Keeping hearts from heads And minds from mouths Away from this marble pavement High up top, in cobwebs of restitched tapestry Skeleton beast, less beastly in breathlessness... A surge of sun spurged light in clustered cusps Blows into this lecher To carry our vividness Like pappus in great gusts...

[Dear Planet Zog] Light lies in the skin In the mud, in the smell of a ruin... In the quaint moments shut wanting to open... In a zillion children’s burnt blood decanted from tilted hospital ruins Not in the robots that breed robots for a planet they won’t call Zog (stupid) There’s so much we could be doing but don’t because of how we’re feeling (odd...) Because of what this predictive text wants us writing...(off) Fuck it... I’m not frightened, never have been of being Just frozen – broken – breaking – mending – sending – back to my soul – a child and teacher’s chance to know but not neglect this To flow... and fetch fragments of that bliss we still nurture as it glows, grips, insists...(to wake in some blue moonlit snow and project this) [That’s all I’m not afraid to know now – but go on, skip...]