circle of revolution

Children, listen please,
for your empire is in strife.

Red velvet clones
and clouded judgments on previous bones
stain your streets and cities.

Where is this haze originated from?

It is the dragon
at the end of the tunnel,
huffing and puffing
all night long.

The processes of events so do follow.


When the castle is stormed
in clouds of tears,
I’ll be watching from the tower.

Shoot your arrows at me,
you peasants,
you whores!

Please,
I’m looking for Cupid.

Are you Cupid?
 
Tell me how this works.

If somebody were to provide
the meaning of life
in Ikea manuals,
would we understand it?

Barricaded,
guns and knives made it
into the hearts of popes
who preach coloured words.

Synthesizers of amoebic catalysts absurd,
orgasms running unheard.

Screams running the herd,
people in wreck on a floor
of wooden marble
chewed into curd.

What is this world?

A bunch of clichéd posies
wishing for stereotypes
to unequalise the pornocracy of the norm.

Harlots in red dresses,
sitting in leaders laps.

Money whore
money whore
mummy whore!

Velvet wounds,
high on illegal substance of meanings crude.

Through square veins,
crunch munch
mulch squelch
squeeze ease tease.

Birds and bees, dear,
birds and bees.


Sighing in the moonlight,
you look up to see the shower of arrows.

Pianos and violins
playing slow tunes
as holographic romance will enter your heart.

Your heart is a mobile over a childish god.

He will toy with your emotions
and fill you with hormones;
he pixelates your senses
and tickles your common sense.

He doesn’t want your wings clipped-
and this scares the shit out of you.

Cause you are the circular Tetris block,
you never fit with what is flying.

Not the astroid or the hollow clouds,
not in between the bird and the plane.

Am I insane to think
that you would not gel with your delivering stalk?

You fit in the holes
of champagne bottle corks:
you start so high
then fall and fall.

Six months pass
and you’re at the bottom of the river
that holds the murkiest mud
and water and dead bodies.

You are what flows around carnage;
the ebb and tide
of the devils insides
as twenty thousand men
pass beneath his hides;
I’m not speaking in metaphorical jargon.


So in a nurse suit,
I’ll flash my tits
and spin the revolution.

Can you hear me,
baby Jesus?

Could you turn on your security cameras
and watch me, please?

“Alas,”
you will say,
“This is the speak of my little toe”

God, the little toe
will always hurt the most.

More than the hand,
the stomach,
or the heart.

And so
if it takes so much for you to notice me,
I will fly a million arrows into my heart.

I will besiege my own castle
and inside it,
aim sniper rifles at myself.

I’ll take a match out
and burn my health,
expose my arteries to a glacier in the Antarctic.

Melt myself like a Spartan
falling to the gang beatings
committed by polar bears,
or when inundated at night
by crack fiend hares.

This is what I’ll do for you, god.

What’ll you do for me?


Rotting pizzas
in empty lounge rooms
appear in your speech bubbles.

Fumbling around with cheapish stubbies
and builders neon stripings.

Start the high hats up;
drum machines
and gibberish rhythmically speaking pigeons.

My heart is staining my sleave.

I see your heart
is pinned by bows and ties,
you just need to untie them.

Unite in living with them.

Your shoelaces are untied;
this is the message I’m receiving.

You lie on large lounges,
living lazy lives
not lacking potential.

What is this?

Have you purposely tied
a blindfold round your eyes?

Have you accidentally ended up in disguise?

Did you accidentally press buttons
to cities demise?

Do you march with purpose
like private spies?

Will you knock down gates
and make kings and queens cry?

Cringing at the moon,
late at night.

This royal lycanthropy
is solved by stabbing feeble needles,
meagre injections of supposed evil.

God, are you any of the above?

Please
for our sakes,
tick all boxes.


And I pray
for the children,
that there is some truth in all of this.

But in the end for me,
it all comes down to her.

She is not a polished diamond.

But a clean book of prose
amongst other science fiction
and tacky romance.

And it’s strange
sometimes I’d say,
how girls always seem to lose their way
yet lead me further down the track.

Fact: she is but my life’s chiropractor
cracking bones back into place.

My plastic surgeon
of a certain kind,
with both hands and one foot
lifting up my face.

She is my idol,
what I strive for.

And yet she strives for nothing!

This is an interesting game of Zen chess:
the aim
to lose all your pieces
and place yourself in check.

For some reason
that unties my tongue
and is somewhat reassuring.

Like death insurance;
why would something matter
if you were not matter?

Like white text;
the only person who knows it’s there
is the person who writes in white.

This is an emo
to open their wrists
only to let back in blood.

Backwards forwards
reverse in speak.

Life the of volume the determining.

Spinning revolting.

I am the arrow
I am the arrow in my chest.

I am the worst
of the best
of the best
of the best.

I was born
bullet proof vested,
victualled I take it off.

Like earplugs
now I can hear your voices,
I can hear god cough.

And when he comes down
I will be running.

For he knows that I am the arrow.


The arrow is the opposite of the Bible,
an evil twin aiming for your heart.

Crumpled pastry
on the top of a
well-cooked apple tart.

You cannot finish
what you did not start,
you cannot part
with what you are not a part of.

This a paradox of Roman proportions
with columns and marble rooves
and comb-overs and wine
and fine engravery on pots and pans.

Man
it’s like white is black
like black and blue,
like me and you girl,
me and you.

The paradoxical love
is like a Chihuahua at zero gravity
featuring as the main character
of a crime fiction narrative.

What the fuck?

It just doesn’t make any sense anymore
because down is up
and up is down.

Emptiness is a full cup
and a full cup is just full of air.

And in the middle of this cup
are the waiters floating hair.

The waiter is god,
he really doesn’t care.

Pair shaped and funny
like a computer drunk on honey.

Like wool, cotton and silk
pouring into a small glass and
(after a few thousands alchemy classes
and pairs of dorky glasses)
becoming milk.

This is insane!

This is inane!

This is unbenine!

This is like cogs
in an engine or turbine
of a turtles propellers
or flippers
or webbed feet
swimming fast then falling
to machineries defeat!

This is a constantly lonely feat!

This is!


I see on the top of the hill.

You’re standing there naked
with a bow in your hands.

Dirty and covered in dust
you will pluck an arrow
and carefully place it tight and firm
on the gut strings of a dead animal.

I won’t move
I be weighed down to the floor
by business suits
and ties
and bowties
and vests and jackets.

You say
“This one’s for Orpheus.”

And the arrow is me
I’m about to hit myself head on.

Is this what you call a happy paradox?

I don’t know.

Falling into an abyss
of sugar and snow
where women wear woven capes
in underworlds of superfluous articulation.

You are one of them
standing on the hill.

I accept now
but slowly
I am a dead man crawling.

You are doing the right thing;
I am following the wrong king.

My views are old and wrinkling
like mouldy pumpkins sinking
into the harbour of sand.

I am falling into a void
where trickery is in sync
with my mockery and so
I am left with just a two of hearts.

I am accepting that my heart
is the target of rightfully correct darts.

I can just hope
that when I meet black rivers
and solid coal lovers
the most romantic bunch of tarts
will surround me.

See?

This is optimism
at the level of skyscrapers and floating papers.

Stick the smoking gun against my chest
make it smoke again please.

Place apples in my mouth
aim for them please.

Don’t roast me
and tempt not to rape me please,
I may deserve all of this but I’m on my knees.

Gag and cuff
playing blind mans bluff.

Opium dens open there arms towards me
blue buddas bellies hug me
and Ouroboros snakes
with tails beneath their tongues love me.

Blasphemic artists of philosophical incarcerations
welcome me into their fodder groups
to discuss how you will fall on your knees.

Truth is a large hurricane
described as a breeze.

An untemptation
caused by pegasi with horns
coveting you as floating carpets
to better places where sinners don’t cark it.

Where limousines park
in peaceful swastika situations,
flags of nations spread as ashes
on concrete gravel floors.

I am either a peasant or a whore.

Considered a bed sore
by those who have an intelligence quotient
of a pig with glasses.

Tasks of melding metal to skin
take more bravery
and a little more ability
to avoid taking it on the chin.

Quartets play tunes
which are equivalent to your identical twin.

Yet private lives of flying knives
mean dangerous assumptions are taken
to assume that they are indignant
like a muddy mess
of filthy-yet-full-of-brain witch.

And to all of this
you will ignore every word I say
and still for some worthwhile reason
I am deemed to have to pay.


Flags wrapped around well built beings
naked otherwise.

Every man and girl
every woman and boy
with a fist in the air and a ripening care.

The arrow is flying towards its target
somebody has lost the war.

Every law you trusted
has been broken and busted
and thrown away
into what represents yesterday.

And the people will become papal
which will be written on paper
in form of royal red carpets
and once again the cycle will be resumed.

The arrow will be pulled out
preserved in stone to be fired again.

It is always like this.

What goes up must come down
will always apply to this.

Misbehaviour in people’s eyes
is only the echo of what is rumoured
to be in a hundred dusty history books.

The circle of life.

The circle of revolution.