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Ushered in an upper echelon

atop a pyramid built amidst fire and haze,

I emerge older, fatter, gladder,

bladder lackened,

plugged in the system,

a sensible cubicle, a fixed rubics cube.

The meme gene and its screen between us,

we are moulded and told

1 plus 1 is two,

two plus two is five dimes -how it chimes on the hour you spent

swiping ka-ching on that Mercedes Benze

to validate a quote of status quo,

I have stripped bare, for much less than this.

24 hour solitary confinement,

silent solipsistic bliss,

a heist on the hive, zeitgeist for the wise,

deciding the colour of  my child’s eyes,

his measure of

disposition, ammunition, superstition.

A premonition of the demolition of human condition,

as I sing along to another pop song.

What fortune’s fate is at stake

when this thick and heavy gloss across a host of different ghosts

does glow.

Here in your peripheral vision,

a collision of untold souls

each a piece laced in belief racing to speak a story of eons ago,

the one of a small grace note in this unfinished symphony

in which I am prophet and plot,

the root of the eye in a heart,

the whole in your neck at the base of your spine,

born of proverbial, perennial, umbilical cords cut by the blade of my scythe.

This fabric weaved by a myriad of minds wired with buttons,

I push them.

Spoken Word at http://jakarta.urbanesia.com/events/the-zeitgeist-global-media-festival

Fiction Perpetuates Fact

1949 ; George Orwell published his dystopian novel 1984, in which the world is split into three totalitarian regimes, Oceania, Eurasia & Eastasia. The state of life is under constant government surveillance (Big Brother is watching you), public mind control & perpetual war. 60 years later the FDA has approved the VeriChip, an implantable computer chip which is inserted under the skin. Under the pretext of being used for medicinial reasons, these chips can also be tracked down. Siri, records and releases your data to Apple every time you use her. Steve is no longer around to defend her honour.

1955 ; John Wyndham wrote a post-apocalyptic novel of a pre-industrial, fundamentalist Christian society that survived a “Tribulation” where genetic invariance is considered blasphemous. Although not directly stated, the Tribulation is implied to have been caused by a nuclear holocaust. (the mutations & description of sailors suffering symptoms consistent with radiation sickness). The Fukushima disaster is a year old.

 

 

Charlie & Alice

Alice is the fairytale, her skin pinned together with principals, her insolence subtle and savvy, her gestures like how gemulai & selam berselam flow off your tongue. A mother to the country, the product of a Catholic school, a microscope to the world.

Charlie is amphetamines in lace, only dropping without distraction, Jupiter and brilliant, the Artic and the Amazon, simultaneously, autonomously, erroneously. She plays it like a video game, she plays it loud and fast, she plays it in the sun with her pockets full of pills. So much love to give, not enough to get. Charlie is a.d.d. with o.c.d. and every imaginable tangent yet.

Alice lives in an infinite amount of worlds, a thick white notebook strapped in her shoulder holster. Stuffed with so many pages, like a bride throwing confetti. All the different doors to all her different worlds, all her sensories dance a waltz at her fingertips, all her binaries weave intricacies. Always tapping her fingers, she taps over the inky bumps and dents of her pages. She taps at the doors with her fingertips, she whispers softly to the wood. Rubbing velvet on her face, grains & cream on her thighs, her fingerprints against each other, ba da da, ba da da.

Charlie’s street is the main stage, center stage, in the spotlight. Life is weird, life is fucked up, she wants it like that. Life passes by like stills in a movie, like wooden boards with painted scenery, projectors flashing photographs. Trails of trains choo choo chooing on tracks of rolled jades, Charlie, the Jack of all trades, the local Ace of Spades. Young eyes, she’ll live to tell the tale twice.

Alice loved Charlie right off, from the word go, she was on. Turned on, on top, on it, to ride it, to win it. Charlie had this rage, Alice cooled her down. Alice was the breeze that blew into the car, on to Charlie’s face. Charlie rolled fast, Alice knew the trick to distilling life. Alice opened up her book, she spread her pages wide and said, come inside Charlie. I know you like to explore. Put your lips between my pages and whisper to come in. Charlie rapped out poems on the pages, Alice tapped out rhythms on her spine, on the lower part of Charlie’s back, where the skin was warmed by summer sun.

The paper started getting wet, the ink began to stain, the book began soaking through, the pages began to rain.
You’ve whispered on the gates of Ceylon, on this Sacred Island you shall find Serendipity and a gateway to the Gods. Charlie came in, she slid through her skin and into the lines upon lines, the lines of Ceylon. Here you will find Ninety Thousand Verses of Dharma, Artha, Kama and Moksha. Here you will dance with the Holy Queen Anula, and dine with the Righteous Crown of Pandya. Charlie danced and she dined, she licked her plate clean, I need a rest, six pages left, pump the bass, sing the ref, I’ve lost my breath.

Charlie was amphetamines, never dropping when it was hot. Like the deserts of the Middle East, to the left a little, a little to the south, closer to the beast. She found Monrovia, Liberia and here the rains caused hysteria. Delirious with heat and wet, alacrious with skipping steps, Charlie battled with Prince Johnson in the Congo town, she tied him up, she rode him down, right onto the ivory coast. Victorious and proud, she’d made the Mysterious bow, on their bended knees, Charlie was amphetamines, never dropping when it was hot.

Alice shut her book, stop your rapping and your rhyming, the temperature is climbing, stop your whispering and entering, these secrets are blistering, the temperature is rising. Alice swayed her hips and her hands moved like the waves of the ocean, she slowed down her motions and pursed her lips, kiss me here, gentle, gently, kiss me here. I’ll show you many more worlds, lose you in a maze of 360 degree turns, that’s the helix, that’s the ellipse, this is all in spacetime, here in my pseudosphere. Can you feel my skin burn, can you feel this cosmological constant pushing out my lips, that grip, at the tips, with the whips, at their clits?

Charlie played it loud and fast, Charlie played it like a video game, Charlie’s fingers flicked through the ink, the tips, of the lips, with the whips, on the clit. Charlie was the Amazon, Charlic was the Arctic, Charlie had her Valkyrian, with her pages open at the slit, she explored every inch, she dipped her fingertip in, she stirred the black and white text, the rest of her sex was seeping black ink. Her pages turned in sync, her pages were wrecked, her book was vexed, it was sopping wet. Monsoon rains from her thighs spreading stains of black ink, Alice’s pages and pages of brides with confetti, all thrown in sync, all in the rain.