Yet the Grundrisse alone provides ample evidence that the earlier theory of alienation and the later economic critique are part and parcel of the same program. These notebooks, written in 1857–8, well after Marx’s purported break with his early “humanistic” theory of alienation, contain numerous references to that self-same theory, discussing again the alienation of labor from its products and act of production, from the natural world, from self and others, from species life, but this time as the emergent result of the capitalist mode of production. Further, the essential link between the historically specific critique of that mode and the existential alienation that it produces is intended even in the early writings. The very first statement in the section on alienated labor in the Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts is quite clear in this regard. Which is to say that
All points of friction are in sapphire, that Stars ache, Crocodile or pig or scorpion. That’s why my self-driving car doesn’t stop, Making the plant grow with a mysterious green energy. That’s why I am I am no longer Waiting for evening To cave my head in with a baseball bat. Been there, etc. Night scene, a moth of oars. And now you’re the sea floor, with beautiful plumy gray/purple weeds. My question is really NOT about the reality of the real world. Red flames Are all that is. Cooda wooda shooda shit Tears on drumskins. Further tweaks to the model will yield. This just feels like it’s for Annette. Which is to say that When the apocalypse happens Someone somewhere at some point Is gonna have to drink bong water.
With all this in earshot, the second part of this paper will investigate music of extremely extended duration, specifically focusing on two examples: Jem Finer’s 1000-year composition Longplayer and John Cage’s Organ2 /As Slow as Possible, a work whose current performance is scheduled to last for 639 years. The development of spent nuclear fuel repositories such as that of Onkalo in Finland also requires careful planning at scales that dwarf the human lifespan. Think about it. Ultrasound is used to inspect welds, establish the uniformity and quality of poured concrete, and monitor metal fatigue. The sound is not threatening. Actually, it is quite soothing. There is little movement here, save sound waves cycling against each other. Over time a shift occurs and a throbbing tone pronounces itself, mimicking the machine pulses still faintly heard. We read that this hypnotic sound is an audio portrait of an old church now abandoned. The congregation must assemble elsewhere, for its place of worship rests in a zone of exclusion. AION features three other sites that lie within the compass of this zone: ‘Auditorium’, ‘Swimming Pool’, ‘Gymnasium’. Yet gravity is an extremely difficult fact: Kindellan’s sprung model swings backwards and forwards through the tragi-comic double-act and settles nowhere. Yet Kindellan’s pendulum isn’t out, but only stumbling after Crangle’s ‘song-o’; herded over tricksy ground, rising and falling. To do the best we can is to mouth our way through it. If the present half-page does not allow for comment of the serious kind this poetry asks, then it might allow for a number of points of co-ordination useful to further maps. (And did your mother never tell you not to speak with your mouth full? And did you, even so?!)
‘Sibilant, I ascend to any nest’
In any case, the last poem Tom sent Martin Corless-Smith (maybe his last poem?) “Previs”, film-makers’ jargon for previsualization, mocking up scenes in advance of the actual production. He had permission to bring it out as a chapbook, and maybe he will, but what the hell.
i was about to speak to me art was in its shopfront making artisanal empathy register today politicians kept happening upon events aberrant in real world
posed for drone’s eye view travellers obnoxious to motive powers spoil air for nothing implants destroy conscience nothing cares about seasons
fire uneconomical for ants secretly told by a corpse probably as space too full for time at mercy of signs embedded in frame
bare turtles in cowshed act only on order of drones speed acquisition of stealth seek phones to fulfill wider persistent surveillance requirements removed from atom’s clutches
you are invisible go visible same colour as ground died on let dead vote my home my enemy panopticon stares back
weather events happen without emotion splice mocapped opacities follow screams into future complete sites of ammunition i is half here a heavier god
You could also call it geospatial intelligence gathering. It’s reading the landscape (a word you can take in any sense). I do take photographs — that is, I take other people’s photographs. I take photographs from the network. But they’re not really photographs. The wind is an agent who plays, and the music belongs to the spirits of ancestors. But if I want to give ‘full ontological weight’ to speculative cyclone imaginaries, to what they might be ... All day and night the wind played ancestor music. He heard the spirit waves being rolled in by the sea water creatures. The earth murmured, the underground serpent, living in the underground river that was kilometers wide, responded with hostile growls. The old man went on to laugh the more. Then he mentioned tee shirts. ‘This is living country!’ is what any Aboriginal person from around Broome will tell you if they are anti-gas or anti-fracking. Reminding us of a character in Cyclonopedia, Dr. Hamid Parsani, increasingly preoccupied with oil as the rotting corpse of the Sun, and as the ‘lubricant’ of historical and political narratives: Once oil reaches its destination, the crusading war machines, whose first disposition is to be dynamic, will fuel up and assemble themselves with the oil and its derivatives. As the machines of the western enlightenment consume oil either by burning the blob or fattening up on the blob, the smuggled war machines start to activate and are chemically unbound. The nervous system and the chemistry of war machines smuggled through oil infuse with the western machines feasting on oil unnoticed, as petroleum has already dissolved or refinedly emulsified them in itself, as its chemical elements or its essential derivatives. Which is why Alvanson’s holes, as it turns out, are pink. Pink magnolias, NYPL, NYBG, cherry blossoms in DC more pink ... a fleshed out nipple, a bleeding heart, little girls’ pink velvet ribbons, pink spaces, pink sweater set, Christos’ [sic] pink, pink blush, or the lack of need for blush cotton candy Pink poodles or pink cats pink cover of Laches the most perfect shade of pink lipstick pink cd holders pink pearl necklace pink pearl earrings pink camisole pink highlighter pink Christmas lights and pink flowers — peonies, tulips, Christmas Cactus in bloom in my room, pinkish lilac, pink hydrangea, pink rose of sharons, rare pink poppies, carpet roses, spinning in pink flowers ... begonia, spider flowers, cosmos, sweet peas, toad ax, moonwort, petunias, phlox!, butterfly flower, sun moss, wax pink lilies, caprifoliaceae, pink wisteria, malvaceae, oyster plant in pink, floxglove [sic], caryophyllaceae, heather, theaceae, magnolias, chinese crab apple ash by my eyes, Pink torrent. Oh, and speaking of bong water, apparently someone built a giant drug catapult on the Mexico-US border. However, the ultimate work to be produced along these lines is the three-way performance Black, the total colour-throne, one of several interlocking batteries from which a polyhedral assault is aimed at the martial functions. Within the same world, the token of love’s legalisation is extracted from a turd. Which references a recent popular media story, wherein a woman unwittingly swallowed her engagement ring, which had been deposited secretly into her ice cream by her boyfriend. It is within this world, which we inhabit, that corpses are forged to fill ‘duplicated pet graveyards’; it is a world thick with strategic ‘numismatics / and parapsychology’, where ‘removing and ironing skin’ is a naturalised phase of the hygienic order. It is within this world that this story of Nikola Tesla is told: ‘Tesla had many pigeons he fed and cared for, but one, he was particularly fond of. He described it as being a beautiful female bird, pure white with light gray tips on its wings. One night [in 1922] the bird flew into Tesla’s room at Hotel St. Regis, and he perceived that she was attempting to tell him she was dying. Tesla said a light came from her eyes more intense than he had ever produced by the most powerful lamps. The bird then died and Tesla said that at that same moment, something went out of his life and he knew his work was finished.’ So I’m off to San Diego now, to buy a house. There’s something about sitting in your studio
in the middle of the Pacific Ocean geographically speaking further away from any other land mass than any other location on Planet Earth drinking 100% organic Kona coffee picked just last week by your almost friend but most certainly acquaintance Isaac and roasted only yesterday morning that makes you feel like you can do whatever you want with your life that the choices are yours to make and the object of your study if you think of this creative space you play in as an object can be the philosophical rendering of a theoretical premise on duration [the timelessness of moving–remixing] Drinking 100% just roasted yesterday Kona coffee while the rain is pouring out of the mountain and smashing into my picture window suggests Nature’s own avant-garde movement trying to bust in and destroy everything that came before it Meanwhile musing on the writings of Alfred North Whitehead somehow led me to the performance art of David Antin who I have also been reading lately not that we all want to make meaning out of objects but for those who do want to make meaning out of objects ‘ ... again and again like a koan and stay long enough for that which is a kind of duration’ Not that walking is bad for you actually it’s very good if you really want to get into it then I suggest you buy a fitbit or whatever if you go over 10,000 steps you’re staying in good shape literally you are sculpting your cardiovascular skeletal musculature into much better shape ...
Which is to tell you what you already know, that cyborg “sex” restores some of the lovely replicative baroque of ferns and invertebrates. OK? It’s orange, after all. So she walked into a bar, held up her right arm and said, “Today is Gwendolyn Brooks’ birthday.” In another piece he used a darning egg, moving it lengthwise along the strings while trilling, as I recall, on the keyboard; this produced a glissando of harmonics. Then she spent a year hallucinating birds. Everyone else was also busy hallucinating their own animals. One man saw lizards everywhere he went, doing pushups in the sun. I can do it, she repeats. I can do anything. But the moose made the house feel crowded, polite as he tried to be. But now I’ve proven that my ovary has its own brain. OK?
oneitd, crine mend zin
oneitd, crine mend zin
spone mmence (mams numeral)
rews)ploof) emble blems
Thus, the use of Whitehead’s metaphysical system for this fundamental project on Marx is neither gratuitous nor arbitrary; it is, I will show, the most adequate articulation of a metaphysical vision which provides the deep connection between the ontological and economic spheres. It will help to expose aspects of the critique hitherto suppressed, neglected, or misread, it will explicate and provide the solid foundations necessary to ground the ontological statements made by Marx throughout his writings, it will link these to the critique of political economy, and it will allow the critique to reach effectively into the present reality of capitalism and into the projective envisionment of a socialist future. Therefore, implicit in my work here will be a suggestion that process philosophy, if it is to remain honest to its own claims, is, or should be, economically, politically, and what amounts to the same thing, socially radical. Yet in the middle distance could be discerned what seemed a vast crater full to overflow, a mound of teeming specks heaving and twisting in the gloom. Breath, breath, breath, breath, breath. If only Winnicott had gone further with that aside about the baby’s first perception of breath, median between inner and outer, its role as the point at which the defences are down. In this case, the world is a train carriage on the Glasgow Subway, a closed circuit, as illustrated by the map which appears at the start of the poem. The registers are various; ‘a bit of Mahler’s Seventh’: ‘dah dum, da dum dah dee, / dah dah dah DAH da dah’. The ‘da’ obliquely signals the Father of the Church. The poem is dedicated to ‘sufferers of psychosomatic asthma’ (‘you know whoo / correction / you know whwo’). It was around this time that Stillwell began to consider the intense possibility that one of these dream witches had interfered with her own destiny on Earth. With serendipity out of the question, she asked the Mu elders for permission to approach the Nago’s temple. According to Stillwell, what transpired after her encounter with the Nago simply, wow: ‘As I looked down at my hands, they became translucent, and I saw, inscribed into impossible geometries on the dream cave’s wall beyond, an arrangement of ten circles, a number of smaller circles, and a series of interconnecting lines. This was my first encounter with what came to be called the Numogram.’ Stillwell’s faith in the unremitting diagrammatic exactness of the Numogram led her to think that it had the capacity to arise from any alphanumeric culture in history. She would excitedly tell me things like, ‘Here, the real city acts as a transmitter, the ice-dust, mist and most importantly, the Antarctic light, constitute interference to the transmitted signal,’ and
and ‘their genitals in plaster deck the halls like powerdrills.’ What is instead on offer in the vending orbit, here, the jargon of vocalized pathologies, is the special arrangement of product, but the product contains further elements of product, and further inside the seeds we pass through the hydrocarbon filaments of stuffed bunny cakes and the cancerous ions of batteryoperated dodecahedron calf implants (I mean your calf, not baby cows); its location is an expression of ideology; even as it dissolves and shows its synthetic muscle at the edges,
So no, “This is not a metaphor / a poem is just a good place to put your convictions.” One, for example, involves going to Emily Dickinson’s old house and rubbing dirt from her yard all over my body. It was just generally amazing. The most memorable line, maybe, was: “Jesus didn’t need balance / He had nails.” In the Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of View, then, we find that “Heidegger, a German musician in London, was fantastically deformed, but a clever and intelligent person with whom aristocrats liked to associate for the sake of conversation. Once it occurred to him at a drinking party to claim to a lord that he had the ugliest face in London. The lord reflected and then made a wager that he would present a face still more ugly. He then sent for a drunken woman, at whose appearance the whole party burst into laughter and shouted: “Heidegger, you have lost the wager!” “Not so fast,” he replied, “let the woman wear my wig and let me wear her headdress; then we shall see.” As this took place, everybody fell to laughing, to the point of suffocation, because the woman looked like a very presentable gentleman, and the fellow looked like a witch. This shows that in order to call anyone beautiful, or at least bearably pretty, one must not judge absolutely, but always only relatively. It also shows that no one ought to call a fellow ugly just because he is not handsome.” Although it seems simply to be a humorous detour that makes the disgusting enjoyable in Lessing’s sense, this anecdote teaches two things with dialectical rigor: first, a woman strikes us as uglier than an ugly man even when she is actually less ugly; second, a man can win the prize for ugliness only when he switches sexual signifiers and “look[s] like a witch.” The adjectives “beautiful” and “ugly” are therefore in a very precise sense to be applied only relatively: relative, namely, to sexual difference. To be legitimate, “ugly” always and continuously requires this quasi-transcendental reference to the disgusting “old woman” regardless of whether we are dealing with a “real” woman or a disguised man: this, we may say, is the lex Heidegger.
Aesthetics, you ode for reality! Give back the people you took
Now I imitate Dickinson from memory
Engels, the beautiful walrus (“On the 14th of March, at a quarter to three in the afternoon ...”)
Beckett feeding ice-cream to a three-legged dog
If you bring neoliberalism into this, I will shoot [illegible]. I will use the robot Bertolt Brecht to travel back in time
Implausible that the revolutionary bucolic should fall to me, the bearer of gratuitous hayfever
So I drink municipal menthol. I grow more sad
Then he said, “After this Motel a separate part of the Zone of the Reduced Ones begins. A separate Sector, as you will see. You will still find some Reduced — or too Continent — Ones there, it is true, but in them the error has found an explanation and a consciousness: it is raised in some way to the dignity of religion, because, as it will be easy for you to understand, to give greatness to one part of reality it had to agree to sacrifice that of another ...” He got up, left the Motel behind him, set out for the highway, with its road markers, its center barrier, its sidewalks, its dividing lines, now solid now broken, painted white; its emergency stations; its elegant bridges over sordid, decrepit muddy canals ... gradually as we approached the border, with its barrier and police-like construction, the air grew darker and darker. Like a night that falls suddenly, with the quickness of a summer storm. Everything was swallowed up by the darkness, and it was done barely in time to see the sign-post: the usual I.W.I.P., followed this time by the inscription: ‘Autonomous Sector of the Reasoners: Irrational and Rational’. The rails of the barrier were lifted in the densest darkness, by the light of sinister batteries, the Demons enclosed in their fierce novices’ silence ... [The canto ends. What follows are 13 illustrated pages — including one of Gramsci’s grave marker — entitled “Faded Iconography (for a ‘Photographic poem’)”] In such myths, the gods are often doing what humans do. Enki brings order to the earth and arranges for its cultivation; he pours water into the beds of the Tigris and Euphrates, he stocks them with fish, setting up laws for the sea (the Persian Gulf) and the wind; he creates cereals, he opens “the holy furrows,”, he entrusts the plow and yoke to the god of canals and ditches, the pickax and the brickmold to Kabta, the god of bricks; he lays foundations of houses, stables, sheepfolds, fills the valley with animals. Which is why every two weeks a child in the US dies from furniture, appliances or TVs tipping over, according to the Consumer Product Safety Commission. With that in mind, listen to Stuart reading a footnote to the book, which begins “In the air above the abyss…” What’ll you hear? A voice, a silence, static, and The Lark Ascending played triple-speed nine octaves up like rain on a steel dumpster, so yes,
this world we love and keep our love in keeps tearing our hands to shreds, while a magick eye plays tricks under the ongoing mossy cloud-mass, exhilarating triangles and timpani softly in silt air, in the blanketed nowhere of now, aka
Moloch’s “cloud” done up as a chase sequence involving a mysterious booming sound, a side-scrolling pig’s head, and a lucky number seven, and featuring an extended cameo by the brain structure primarily responsible for coordinating stress response in humans and other animals. Oh no! Oh no! My transmissions have been hacked. It is in this way, not sure what corpse or shade I sit in, that I walk the aisles ... I scout the worm ... my skin stretched as paper over the head, the grass false or real, virtual, organic, socially made, evolve, dissolve, revolve, go glitch; in the stifling courtyard enclosed, in the city a cell, with infinite free drinks, the packs of produce, a body in a bed, the weight of stone rocked to nuclear, collapsing into pollen, minute detail of the body gesture danced or forced, reeling, held distended. Inside, stones, clocks, fires, rivers, screaming pigs, the singing dead, ein guter mensch, a series of lines and pages in various potential or actual manifestations and angles. The sea, intelligence agencies, bodies, odes, elegies, comedy, tragedy, totality. All Christmas trees made of skulls. Speaking of Luciano Cilio’s Dialoghi Del Presente,
the ice has a pulp heart, or is it vice versa,
which is somewhere maybe embedded in the grey walls —
I rake em with my nails; scream and claw the swarming particles OUT
I’m murmuring again, rhyming like a fiend. Please,
they say, please: the doubleback blues.
Then she was driving the pickup backwards downhill.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Anne Fairchild Pomeroy, Process, Dialectics, and the Critique of Capitalism; Ian Heames, Sonnets, Dec 016; Tom Raworth, “High Dependency”, “Kids on Patios”, “Sea Level”, “Chaise Per Se”, in Average Cabin; JBR; Jonty Tiplady, “Heroin”, in Haribo Ozymandias: A Serial Adventure, Season 3; Lendl Barcelos, “The Nuclear Sonic: Listening to Millennial Matter”, in Aesthetics After Finitude (eds. Baylee Brits, Prudence Gibson and Amy Ireland); Laura Kilbride, and Ovid, Metamorphoses, quoted in Kilbride’s “Mouthing Wild Ascending Lisp”, in Sara Crangle / Timothy Thornton / The Cambridge Reading Series / Friday 22 October 2010 / Judith E. Wilson Drama Studio / Faculty of English / University of Cambridge, at Plantarchy/Cambridge Reading Series; JBR; Martin Corless-Smith, and Tom Raworth, “Previs”, quoted in Corless-Smith’s “In Memoriam: Tom Raworth, by Martin Corless-Smith”, at Tarpaulin Sky, Feb 017; Mishka Henner, quoted in Robert Shore, “Mishka Henner: Art as Geospatial Intelligence Gathering”, in Mishka Henner, Texts 2010-2015; Stephen Muecke, “Picture that Cyclone”, in Aesthetics After Finitude (eds. Baylee Brits, Prudence Gibson and Amy Ireland); JBR; Tessa Laird, and Kristen Alvanson, ‘Incongnitum hactenus’, in Reza Negarestani, Cyclonopedia, quoted in Laird’s “Pink Data: Tiamaterialism and the Female Gnosis of Desire”, in Aesthetics After Finitude (eds. Baylee Brits, Prudence Gibson and Amy Ireland); JBR, but see Cambridge Reading Series; JBR; Mark Amerika, “Source Material Everywhere: The Alfred North Whitehead Remix”, at Culture Machine 10 (hat tip Rupert Loydell); JBR; Entropy, 16 Feb 017; John Cage, re Henry Cowell, quoted in Christopher Morley, “Nasher’s ‘Soundings’ offers rare performance of uniquely corrupted composition and instrument”, at Dallas News, 16 Feb 017; JBR; Arminé Iknadossian, quoted in Terry Wolverton, “Dis•Articulations 2017: Fevered Writing: February”, at Entropy, 16 Feb 017; JBR; P Inman, Ocker; Anne Fairchild Pomeroy, Process, Dialectics, and the Critique of Capitalism; Tom Leonard, “Moving On”, in Cut Welfare! Save the Warfare State! •CRS IX•26.11.10• •TOM LEONARD•KESTON SUTHERLAND•, at Plantarchy/Cambridge Reading Series; Luke Roberts, “On Tom Leonard”, in Cut Welfare! Save the Warfare State! •CRS IX•26.11.10• •TOM LEONARD•KESTON SUTHERLAND•, at Plantarchy/Cambridge Reading Series; Chaim Horowitz “‘The Krakatoan Chimera’”, in Aesthetics After Finitude (eds. Baylee Brits, Prudence Gibson and Amy Ireland); Amy Ireland, “Noise: An Ontology of the Avant-garde”, in Aesthetics After Finitude (eds. Baylee Brits, Prudence Gibson and Amy Ireland); JBR; Sibyl Moholy-Nagy, either quoting or paraphrasing FT Marinetti, quoted in Amy Ireland’s “Noise: An Ontology of the Avant-garde”, in Aesthetics After Finitude (eds. Baylee Brits, Prudence Gibson and Amy Ireland); Keston Sutherland, “10/11/10”, in Cut Welfare! Save the Warfare State! •CRS IX•26.11.10• •TOM LEONARD•KESTON SUTHERLAND•, at Plantarchy/Cambridge Reading Series; Ryan Dobran, “On Keston Sutherland”, in Cut Welfare! Save the Warfare State! •CRS IX•26.11.10• •TOM LEONARD•KESTON SUTHERLAND•, at Plantarchy/Cambridge Reading Series; JBR; Ryan Dobran, “On Keston Sutherland”, in Cut Welfare! Save the Warfare State! •CRS IX•26.11.10• •TOM LEONARD•KESTON SUTHERLAND•, at Plantarchy/Cambridge Reading Series; Sibyl Moholy-Nagy, either quoting or paraphrasing FT Marinetti, quoted in Amy Ireland’s “Noise: An Ontology of the Avant-garde”, in Aesthetics After Finitude (eds. Baylee Brits, Prudence Gibson and Amy Ireland); JBR; Jessica Bebenek, CA Conrad, and Anon, in Anon’s “Event recap: Occult Poetics -- a reading with Ariana Reines, CA Conrad, and Jessica Bebenek”, at Librarie Drawn and Quarterly Bookstore, 15 Feb 017; Winfried Menninghaus, Disgust: The Theory and History of a Strong Sensation (trs. Howard Eiland and Joel Golb); Robert Creeley, “America”; Luke Roberts, To My Contemporaries, quoted in David Grundy, “Luke Roberts, TO MY CONTEMPORARIES”, at Streams of Expression, 31 Jan 016 (“On the 14th ... afternoon ...” is the first line of “Frederick Engels’ Speech at the Grave of Karl Marx Highgate Cemetery, London. March 17, 1883”, at Marxists.org; “Stay-shun!” is from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure); Christina Chalmers, quoted in blurb for her Willingness, at Materials; JBR; Pier Paolo Pasolini, The Divine Mimesis (tr. Thomas Erling Peterson); JBR; Clarence J Glacken, Traces on the Rhodian Shore: Nature and Culture in Western Thought from Ancient Times to the End of the Eighteenth Century; JBR; “Secure It!”, at IKEA; JBR; blurb for Stuart Calton, Wimpy & André, at Materials; JBR; blurb for Stuart Calton, Wimpy & André, at Materials; JBR; Naomi Weber, quoted in blurb for her Very Lonely Animals, at Materials; JBR; Peter Gizzi, quoted in blurb for his Marigold and Cable: A Garland for the New Year, at Materials; JBR; Allen Ginsberg, quoted in blurb for Kenneth Irby, Army Poems, at Materials; blurb for Danny Hayward, Pragmatic Sanction, at Materials; JBR; Rosa Van Hensbergen, quoted in blurb for her Lights out to Love in HD, and the blurb itself, at Materials; blurb for Tom Allen, Watch-Fires Materials blurb for Luke Roberts, Keep All Your Friends, at Materials; JBR; blurb for A Comradeship of Heroes from Around the World, at Materials; JBR; Alice Notley, “Two Poems from CULTURE OF ONE”, in ALICE NOTLEY / REITHA PATTISON / CAMBRIDGE READING SERIES / 18 FEBRUARY 2011, at Plantarchy/Cambridge Reading Series]
Heaven nearer than a breath awayI want to be swept away, lost in love for you; my love won't be undone, is nearer than one breath away... Heaven is hugging us!
The boy who came back from Heaven is just one breath away, nearer than hands and feet, closer than breathing, nearer than my own skin.
I have found thee nearer than the farther, farther than the near. A permanent museum may be built. Aught else is measured by how many breaths we take.
The Inaudible Life of an Angel
Only fearful dogs can hear the inaudible sound of fear. Extreme noises reinforce the fear.
Hear the warning tone, hear them whining, soon to break into full-on cries.
I'm not crazy, live in constant fear of missing a crucial sound, the loud noise of thunder.
Just be sure that you approach me with calm energy and leadership, as you would a child.
A chant pushes up like a hushed inhale murmuring from a hesitant corner.
A good chant focuses the energy of the crowd on an important issue like a laser.
You chant at the audience and they chant back; from our faith and hope springs a love.
When I plug into my source, the chanting comes like electricity.
I want everyone to feel like they belong, acquire a mob mentality and start chanting.
There's only love, no judgement, an eerie peacefulness. It's like a moth to a flame, earthstars in orbit,
you see the only thing keeping you out of love. Doubts about chanting are like buttermilk froth.
I chant like a team that wins nothing at all.
He has worn many disguises
He came as Satan, scoffing, a seductive secret demon, a gambler ready for high stakes but the world wasn't having it. The dogs knew him, though they couldn't hear him, and Heaven is not a canine concept.
He came as anger, as grief, abstract emotions to be sucked into the mind and lodged there, unbalancing each day until we sought asylum in the safe spaces of Hell.
He came as a lover, as a fellow shopper, a womaniser and clown, a secondhand car salesman, a financial adviser and a friendly doctor advising a period of rest.
Girl kept on singing, to herself, to others, an angel amongst the debris sure of her own immortality, wrapped in the shadows of her unfolded wings, betraying her secret life.
Girl skipping away
Despite my skipping away I wasn't quite sure why I'd come back
Despite my skipping away there is nothing left to show
Despite my skipping away I have forgotten my intentions
Despite my skipping away people are getting older
Despite my skipping away something is missing
Despite my skipping away there are no satisfactory answers
Despite my skipping away it has to be important
Despite my skipping away I hoped the parachute would open
Despite my skipping away you have to face the facts
Despite my skipping away you are too immersed in the search
Despite my skipping away it is becoming pretty clear
Despite my skipping away I don't need your help any more