The Vultures

We contemplated politics
Passed through Picasso
Jumped blind into our desires.

Spent the day in bed
Quilted with a primitive engage
Then sank into the night.

It was all moving too fast
Two engines colliding head on
No turning, no stopping, no break.

We wobbled on a tight-rope,
Arms flung out, buckling under
The first impressions of love

But as quickly as it came
It went even quicker
Spiralling off into the night.

A flock of vultures swooped down
The moment I saw your morals
Clear like blood on your hands.

Leonard Cohen

I marvel how 'everybody knows' builds up the feeling of a collective consciousness, in such a sardonic manner!

Candle

First,

your naked flame is coated

cold blue,

but in the cave of my hands

you widen.

Your torso smooth

like I remembered.

so white, you illuminate

in dusky night.

Curiously

tilting you to one side…

your liquid form

s

p
i
l
l
s
in the palm

of my cup.

I watch your transparency

harden white.

then peel you

away

from me,

my identity

imprinted on your form.

False Advertisement.

In his retiring manner Bill strolled into class, and expecting to see his creative writing class it came as a surprise when he was greeted with a class full of unrecognisable faces. But instead of attending to his surprise, he nonchalantly brushed it aside by taking a seat in the class to merge with the newbies. His arrival stirred no raised eyebrows since it was still the first week of uni. Various smiles, and hung-over expressions outlined the tables.
    Still set in sleep mode, a disproportionate amount of time was spent with a glazed look over his face. Thoughts drifted to the patchy accounts of the night before and to the content of his fridge, which homed a sorry supply of beer. Inexcusable since he'd taken advantage of coupons which entitled him to a ‘buy one get one free offer’ and every so often his attention would revert back to the class and each time he did, he would be comforted by discussions which made him curiously glad that he had taken a seat in this unknown territory.
    Bill glanced at his neighbour’s module handbook which was entitled Advertising. It went against his believes of consumerism; having enough unwanted clothes, gimmicky buys, and skint related aneurysms to learn that the art of media persuasion was bullshit not to be bought. But he was comforted with statements like ‘Making things that make people happy’, and although blurred with skepticism, the thought of making others happy pinched him with contentment. Maybe if Bill had been feeling cynical he would have thought a degree in Advertising would be sucking Satan’s cock, but he wasn’t and the debate with his inner self justified that he could do good things with advertising.
    The layout of the classroom was such that the students sat in a ‘U shape’, a layout which allowed Bill to get acquainted with the various faces without struggle. None of the faces were particularly striking to Bill, aside from two. One guy had a prehistoric look, like he was missing several genetic links in the evolution stage. And then sat quietly among all the erection killers, there was a girl who sent his imagination into pockets of deep filth.
    After the two hours were up he approached the teacher who had the register, and whether Bill had advertising in mind, the curiosity of the unknown, or the girl, his pen appeared before the sheet, and without little analysis of consequence, his name was added to the list, along with the final thought it's just a ride.

Food Porn

Oh my, look at you.  Utterly inviting with your thickness, and full-fat creaminess on display, you’re certainly no introvert. I crave to open the taste of your sweet unhealthiness like some sinewy-armed hooker, cheaply sexing her body for a bout of smack.

 My nostrils widen, and my eyes burn through you like a tiger honing in on its next prey.  I’m trying to calm the salvia that’s befriending my mouth, tame myself, and cautiously savour this moment, make this moment last for as long as possible. But oh Lordy it’s difficult!  You seduce me, like a taboo creature of darkness, I don’t know how to take you on, do I delicately pick the berries off first, and suckle on them like a Freudian child. Or like a lady of sophistication do I cut a slice, and feed myself with a silver spoon? No that’s not me.  I must act accordingly; you look fun, so I must eat you in a flurry of fun.

I look at your sculptured body in all its calorific glory and glance down at my body, and feel a pang of guilt, but with guilt comes denial and justification and so I tell myself ‘I don’t smoke, I don’t take drugs, and I rarely drink, so let me satisfy my soul with you.’ So with a smile on my face, and a plastic spoon in the hand I take you, I take you to my mouth and my body, and begin to feel  you intoxicate my senses like a beautiful sea of sperm.  

My contentment lies in the consumption of YOU.

The Breathe of Life.

To Fart is to reaffirm existance.

Farting is truth you see. In farting we liberate the deepest secret of our internal workings, the noises and smells of our hidden systems as they continually work to keep us existing on this astonishing earth. When we hear a fart it is not just a flat inexpressive noise, no, it is much more, it is the voice of our stomachs, the language of our intestines, it is their song... a symphonic chorus of joyous farting.

Farting is a language not bound to words. When speaking verbally our meaning is constrained by our own language, we cannot express anything beyond the words which our language gives us. But with farts we are able to experience different levels of meaning, like music. Music speaks to us in a way language cannot, it speaks to our soul without the need of words and we create profound connections with it. Here lies the truth and beauty of farts: They offer us a way of communicating that releases us from the shackles of words, a fart can mean infinite things, love, hate, passion, indifference, comfort...so let it speak.

Farting is a communication of the senses: of sound, and smell, it seduces our olfactory senses to the same degree of a crimson rose in summer. Within our social constructs we are conditioned to believe that the smell of a rose is to smell beauty itself, and to smell a fart is to smell repulsion and disgust, but let us today break down these barriers and proclaim with certainty of mind that “a fart by any other name would smell as sweet!”

Farting is the language for life, as infants, before we take on a verbal language we communicate by means of our passing winds, we fart and we fart and we fart, until the horrid, appalling event takes place in our lives..the chastity of the fart or ‘fart shame’ as it is subversively known as. This is when we are ‘taught’ that farting is a ‘dirty’, ‘sinful’ thing, oh lord, how it makes my soul ache to hear this. It is only later on in death that we return to the truth of our infant lives, when we pass away we still fart, after our heart has desisted its once perpetual beatings we still release them..it is the secret language of the dead...releasing their final breath after the soul has departed...perhaps it is itself the departing ascension of the soul.. 

We can also learn a lot about ones character through their response to farting, for example some people love the smell of their own farts, but not others. How self-adulating! Well to those people, I condemn you, and I hope one day you'll meet a person where you wish to dive under the covers and breathe, breathe deep to inhale the beautiful  smell of their back passage, and then you my dear, will be redeemed from shelfishness.

So, my guidance to you all, in future do not twist your noses away from a fart, no, instead, open your nostrils, open them wide, and breath it all in. In doing so, you are embracing the fart, its beauty, and ultimately...what it is to be human.

I fart, therefore I am.

...

In the silence of unspoken words,
Do your thoughts get louder?

When you’re alone,
Do you want to silence the silent?

When you’re thinking,
Do you do it without thought?

When you write,
Do you think of the trees
By writing on the walls?

Call it a wall of thought.

When you have a mental block,
Do you call it a thought full of
Walls?

No escape,
No thoughts,
Just walls.

The Bird

He had noble hair
And a mustache that spoke experience.
He wore clothes that ruled with smartness
And a smile that spread unforced.
With eyes that harvested both light and truth,
I knew he’d never want me.
So I took his bird in
Vengeance!

[Artwork by Ki Yoong]

Into the Wind

Dance with me
In the pouring,
Roaring wind.

Open your mouth wide open
And swallow its

Swirling

Surging

Energy.

Feel it give a deep, wild,
Blow.