🚀 go-pugleaf

Who is to say when the world will end our words have been from the volcano, 
the matrix of day & night, words of light, world within world within world 
without end, unnameable the end, I am your child from the wilderness dressed 
for the feast.

On you my descendants I let fall the glory that here there is no fall we 
have arisen as you must for here is the handful of dust.

She who adorns my lust is immanent on her brow, we mime but feet must tread 
our words, share your nightmares with me she calls as through fires & smoke 
of broom we crawl, aye she�ll fetch me home again.

NWP: 2003-10-18

I no longer think of the disturbance without but of the disturbance within, 
the disequilibrium, factual evidence in which all our miracle truths fade 
into insignificance.

I am a social being writing a thesis on the social behaviour of household 
cats, this vast study has not yet proved futile for cats have their norms 
just as humans do.

Hiroshima fall
ancient imperial to
blight & suicide

Bleep, bleep Robot Star,
lonely blue skies lonelier
still lonely blue eyes.

After the pleasure, the orgasmic sea, bodies get up, getting dressed is what 
they say to the slow day approaching it with the querulous look of possible 
freedom.

Sacred Sofia of Byzantium, whore after the fall of Babylon & still long 
before you abide, this is the shore of bedlam, here we know all before the 
fall, if that is the reason for our being, will my small prayers save me, 
where once Europa was your throne, now disequilibrium.

The Pagan

When the stars are invisible & the moon declines the blue, yet I know where 
they are from any moment between dawn & twilight even when the earth casts 
no shadow to the light coming down.

I carve flint arrow heads, three pronged, the long stem ending like a 
pendulum, these we bury with our dead, or in the scooped tree set ablaze & 
adrift to the isles.

We come in our coracles to those briar tangled edges where the charred 
vessel in sedge glistens with bones & gulls call from the alder. What is our 
purpose, women, men, children, none but to awe the mounds of Ithcus.

Our cosmology is subtle, we are initiated at birth with nature & a lifetime 
is seen as three phases of transformation.

When we roamed the maimed at birth were left exposed, old & ailing were also 
abandoned but with provision & aid could fare or were given medicines to 
ease their passing.

Now the sick have more medicines & we more illnesses & poisons.

The children play at war & invasions, they don�t get it from us, except from 
theatre, but from observation of animal behaviour ( not yet literate to our 
customs ) & household cats, who do not cherish them, we too prefer the cats.

There are threats in our groups, people go crazy & start wanting to hunt 
elephants.

We do not encourage the children to hunt but to observe other creatures 
behaviour cautiously & with respect & to cultivate their own with respect 
but children seem possessed with some blood lust & don�t distinguish much in 
gender at play or work, they have only the names they call themselves, as 
they have not yet been given names except to play with.

Perhaps as our wise swine herdsman, who keeps our swine, honourable 
creatures but not a good mix, even as we adults women & men can be, 
nevertheless the swine herdsman must have his sausages.

We constantly regroup, which has been good because we still share in open 
meet our dream experience, usually nightmare because of the confusion we 
experience unless we think a dream has augury & prophecy, we also publicly 
fornicate at these meets as well.

These can sometimes be almost daily events, some develop increased ritual 
rites & want to practise them & regroup & others want to stay & stay but 
cant always.

There is an an annual great meet where we all converge for up to a month if 
we can afford it.

Accounts reach me of certain parties leaving from these great meets for 
their destinations & fighting bitterly amongst themselves & other parties, 
the old days have gone forever, I fear.

We count the day between the old year & the new as our birth of 
consciousness that links us with cosmic consciousness, we call it the day of 
the divine child.

The moon adorns our stars we are only born to be.

There are many rituals I am indifferent to for instance where they slaughter 
herds of wild ass & women, men & children stand naked to drink & be drenched 
in their blood.

They are tolerated as harmless & necessary to the participants on their 
level of spiritual development. I have my doubts & regard them as 
degenerate.

The world is a very uncertain place, whole peoples wiped out by 
catastrophes, who is to say when it will end but may you stay forever young.

Some creatures domesticate easily & so cultivated do not often return to 
their forebears.

Some people want to roam again & this has been a cause of plague.

We are not free even the creatures are freer than us.

Even our dead in the other skies shake their head.

Life is struggle, we think there are consequences to our actions but 
sometimes there are none.

Even prophecies derived from our poems by adapts can remain obscure & hidden 
from view.

It is the decree of the fates that we must struggle or fade.

I wonder if our purpose is not to breed, transmit the message & pass on our 
purpose of life served.

Our women folk say we are all siblings but we are too headstrong & not to be
despondent.

Dreams & ideas are the substance of memory, a great poem is written within & 
without time, the elements of past present & future as we perceive them in 
three dimensional space & time are netted, transported, transformed into 
another dimension of becoming.

I don�t know whether death is solid or ephemeral, life is both & 
unpredictable, consciousness paradoxical, variation on a theme that is more.

A fivefold seasonal year with a seven fold planetary system calendared by 
the lunar stations, a deification of bio rhythms shimmering like a new born 
babe with the light that has entered its dream space inside the volcano.

We mourn our dead in their absence, it is with us always, so close in fact 
birth seems like a sacrifice.

We lean upon the day & fall upon the night. Black is zero one is white.

When we bring a deity down we do so in a collection, the Shamis, glowing 
faces, emulate sympathetically to engender transference & bestowing.

In my poems I speak on behalf of my words becoming, but our future, such as 
it is, is not our descendant�s yet when the world ends my words will be 
flame: decomposition in the equilibrium, decomposition in the 
disequilibrium.

But how did the source that was the volcano blow, that has metamorphosed us 
here, mirrored in this labyrinth, a trove of canopied bowers within, the 
desert without.

Sometimes an experience is too much to cope, what can we do, we can�t just 
say stop the world I want to get off, though it�s been tried, usually we 
just have to face the music. This is a poem passed on by an ancestor but it 
came to me:
The hedgehog gets the scorpion,
The fox, the snake in the desert dawn.
A volcano gives birth to an oasis.
The Lakes of Triton turn to salt plains:
Diaspora to the sands & the seas

Firstly, it means I now know not to go anywhere near Seven Hills train 
station that evening in case I bump into a bunch of aromatherapists with 
wands.

Secondly, it offers the perfect opportunity for me to write a column 
wreaking revenge on my pagan neighbours who once hung a wind chime made of 
animal bones on the fence and keep double-parking in the turning circle at 
the bottom of the street.

I really can't abide anyone who claims to be a pagan.

This goes double for "witches", "wiccans" or anyone who spells "magic" with 
a "k". Mostly this is because I grew up in Canberra which, along with public 
servants and lesbians, has a disproportionately high number of smug hippies 
who seem to regard recycling as an act of religious piety (come to think of 
it, the three things frequently overlap).

Pagans infested my university, were constantly pulling out ouija boards at 
parties and could often be found in the bush near my home, dripping candle 
wax on one another and swapping Tori Amos albums.

If you've ever seen someone with a "Magick Happens" bumper sticker and 
wished you had the power to make them disappear, permanently, then you have 
some idea where I'm coming from.

Since that time I have come to the conclusion that pagans are evil - not 
because they get in touch with the devil or warp the minds of the young or 
are responsible for more bad heavy metal art than anyone else, but because 
they have such appalling taste.

I mean, sure, get in touch with the Great Spirit, run through the woods and 
kill a goat. But do you have to do it while wearing crushed velvet harem 
pants, Robin Hood shoes, pentagram jewellery and a purple satin cape?

If any further proof were needed that paganism should be banned on aesthetic 
grounds alone then look no further than the celebrity pagan Fiona Horne.

When not reliving the glory days of Def FX or selling spells enabling women 
to find a husband, Horne is updating her website with pouty, 
Vaseline-smeared photos of herself decked out in animal print dresses, 
purple nail polish, matching lipstick and Celtic arm band tattoos.

Clearly there is no spell for helping you better cope with the fact that 
it's no longer the early 1990s.

Pagans seem to be everywhere these days.

Head to any weekend market and I guarantee there'll be someone under a 
tie-dye marquee playing whale songs and claiming the Great Spirit of Nature 
can be harnessed with only lavender candles and a lump of quartz.

It's on days like these I wonder how the term "witch hunt" ever got a bad 
name.

There was a time in my life, when I was 19 or so, that I could acquire beer 
with great ease despite the legal drinking age being 21. I knew several 
adults who were always happy to supply it for me as long as I could pay for 
it. The problem with drinking when you're underage is that you get drunk and 
then have nothing to do, since you still can't get served in bars. This 
often leads to drunken mischief.

Among my small circle of friends at the time, lawn jobs were the chosen form 
of late-night entertainment. For those of you who don't know what a lawn job 
is, a lawn job consists of driving on someone's lawn with your car, 
hopefully leaving an indelible impression in their grass. The lawn job is 
not as popular as it used to be, since if you were to try it today you'd 
probably get shot.

Anyway, some of my friends and I did this so often that lawn-jobbing became 
an art form. In particular, I had a friend named Kerry who drove a Pinto and 
was always ready to wreck some lawns. (Yes, this was the same Kerry who 
threw pizza into Shelley's car back in Unspeakably Stupid Story #6.) As the 
plain old run-over-someone's-lawn-and-take-off routine began to dull, we 
began seeking further thrills, running over small shrubbery and even 
lawn-jobbing flower beds. Sometimes we would even do one on our friend 
Mike's house, just to let him know we dropped by. After all, it was on the 
way.

One night, we peaked.

It was a Saturday, and we were drunk and bored as usual. We wanted to go 
beyond the routine lawn job and prove that there were bigger thrills to be 
had. I don't remember who came up with the idea, but as we were scoping out 
a local subdivision, we found a nice challenge: Three houses in a row looked 
very lawn-jobbable, but were sitting at different elevations, with about a 
two-foot dropoff from one house to the next. We figured out that by starting 
out at the highest house, we could achieve a Triple Lawn Job and enjoy a 
"jump" between each one as well. Kerry's Pinto performed this triple lawn 
job to perfection, with the two of us screaming with laughter at each jump 
and thump, and leaving deep scars in each lawn. That was when we should have 
stopped.

But we were still bored as we pulled into the parking lot of a local church. 
Now, I had always wanted to lawn-job a church, but there was a problem with 
churches: They rarely had lawns. This one was no exception, and as we turned 
around in the parking lot, there was nothing there but a couple traffic 
islands with flower beds in them. We decided to lawn job one of the flower 
beds.

Kerry carefully pulled the Pinto up the curb and into the flower bed with 
the two left wheels. Unfortunately, the soil in the flower bed was 
exceedingly soft. We got stuck immediately. We were unable to push the Pinto 
out no matter what we tried. There was a house right next to the church, 
where the preacher lived. Surely the sound of a revving Pinto at 2:00 am 
should wake him, but so far, nothing. We were too drunk for panic, but we 
needed a tow.

And so it was that Kerry and I set out on foot towards my house, with Mike's 
house on the way. Once we got to Mike's, Kerry found their garage door 
unlocked, snuck in, and grabbed a tow rope he had recalled being there. Once 
we got to my house, I snuck upstairs and grabbed the keys to my dad's truck, 
which, fortunately, he didn't park in the garage. We headed back to the 
scene in the pickup. Still no preacher, or anyone, in sight, as if a Pinto 
parked half in and half out of a flower bed was normal for a church parking 
lot. We quickly pulled out the Pinto and got out of there.

We never lawn-jobbed again, unless you count the time Greg was backing out 
of Mike's driveway after a drunken party, and not only knocked down but ran 
over Mike's mailbox, crushing the box itself with a tire going right over 
its middle. He replaced it later with a better one, which still stands to 
this day.






-- 

www.rainbowsendfarm.info

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