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Notes On Logic

Location: Warwick, United Kingdom

San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. And that, I think, was the handle-that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting-on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.~HST

Saturday, July 29, 2006


If the fever left me do you think I would find
The feelings I've meant or the friends who are mine
Or the knowledge I' m to ruin what's dear.
Of this destiny should I bother to feel it's fear?
This arrogant eternity taught my disillusioned mind
That without her passion my future's a crime.

The Devil in the Detail

Tuesday morning rubbish stoned
Feelin' sober dog chewed bone
Underneath the self same sky
Bloodied need crawlin and cry
Virginal vestment establishment fire
Trivial caressment funeral pyre
Living unblessed abandoned still
Gin soaked dealing given clean bill
Shredded papers and false ID
Heathens live and let devils be

MM's 2nd Dream

I took my gun to work today
Mean't to be show 'n' display
But fingers slipped and blown away
Floored bodies I'm s'posed to say
Didn't see nowt I blinked you see

Must've been some psycho nut
Violent mad murderous but
If you ask nicely he'll pique out his rut
Blow off yer head and fuck your foot
Saw it in a movie the pigs killed him...cut

Green Water and the White Rabbit

Rubber duck swanning turbulent wave
Bubbles are popping sandlewood haze
Verticals dripping lacklustred brine
Theoretical cleanliness soak alkaline
Blistering skinpeel core temperature rise
Boil unwanted visitors hope remains survive
Plastic bag breathing non-swimmers dive
Still frozen pastels occupant died

My Government Is My Country

Well I wake up in the morning and all I see is tears
My country hates my brother it communicates in fear
An unquestioned paranoia and jingoistic cheers
I forgot it would not stop they've been killing us for years

The bombs they kept on droppin' just about blew my mind
I knew I'd gotten lucky I was hit on by the girl behind
Her head went all over the place and her eas I could not find
It does not really matter cos we'll all be dead in time

All the running made me thirsty so I went to get a drink
But all I found was appletise so I poured it down the sink
All the bubblin' sinful fruit it's enough to make ya think
That I had it coming since y'all got weird kinks

A man from milit'ry came an' asked me what I got
I'd a pin badge saying all zionists must be shot
So he tied me up slung me down and beat me in his truck
Said God he hates a terrorist an' I was sent to hell to rot

Rocco'z Modun Lyf

Life is just too boring there isn't anything to do
Sliced bread has been found and soup has been proved

Life is too valuable you pay for your needs
Gotta swipe water and overdraft breathe


Indifferent dismayed
Hurtful sub - chime Hamas
Carpet flying fun
Grind being able
Run Run Run
Valediction gorgeous
Co-operate with all
Query no truth turtle flied

Helpful Needless
Controlled denied
Awful floating Hell
People green and blue
Beated and defeaten


Palestine apple tree vineyard
Cabbage tape in subliminal
Enterprise of ever seeking young
Discarded Babylon tubes of toothpaste
Cartwheel right and cheesy noxious fool

Discombobulation telephonic plasticine
Foxtrot baubles and curdled dreams
Tulip'd windy mills satanic bog
Trendy working classless steel
Nineteen eight for palmtop

Hate hate hate chocolate
Pus cheesecake and doves
Contractually obligated goon
Monkey's bunkum calculates
Cold cigarettes and gold

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Magic Dust

I went to bed this morning ideas filling up my brain
I could not sleep though I felt weak and altogether lame
The world it is so ugly I've lost all sense and rhyme
I didn't know it fucks ya so this magic dust in lines

All afternoon I'm leaden and lost in the surreal
My insides itch I don't know which reality is real
I've fallen in with vampires and they won't let me leave
If I keep low perhaps they'll go and I won't have to plead

Six o'clock the next morning I still can't get no sleep
I can't live without another shout of magic dust relief
Need a heavy lifter so things can get straightened out
But no cash to pay it all went one way I lost in up my snout

I thought I was Napoleon the gendarme of the gaol
I beat Scott, Hillary; Armstrong, Ali; and Ahab to the whale
I'm the inspiration for Adam and Michelangelo's perfect muse
The King of rock, Doc hip-hop and the Godfather of the blues

It seems I was deluded and snuffling in the shit
All alone I can't go home I need another hit
I think I might be Hitler or even more diseased
It's time to go out in the snow I may be a while - please!

Some Kind of Change

If I could be gardener Adam I'd rather break my ribs
than get caught by the landlord and evicted for tellin' fibs
If I had been Eve I'd wear snakeskin cowboy boots
and avoid all the issues with serpentine cahoots

If I had been Jesus I'd teach carpentry in Rome
knocking out the crosses watching heretics get stoned
Maybe if I was ableI'd stay up all night long
listen out for movement or sing myself a song

I wish I was Columbus I'd sail the other way
find myself a little island and there'd be no USA
Sell myself a rocket and ride it round the globe
clean up all the savages and claim it as my own

If I was the missing link I'd chew off both my thumbs
clamber up the nearest tree and have difficulty flinging dung
I ain't got no special reason to feel this kinda pain
I just imagine that it would be some kind of change


They're gonna hang my picture up on a wooden stage
They're gonna frame my picture I tell ya I wasn't to blame
They're gonna cut up my picture to size with a guillotine
They're gonna tear down my picture and my reputable name
They're gonna show off my picture they might just show it to you
They're gonna hang my picture I'll be dead by the afternoon

The Dissent of Man

Well I wake up in the morning and it's cold inside my head
My feeling they might be hiding or it could be that they're dead
Confounded by the spectres who think they know the truth
I don't think they're real how can they tell me what to do

Wel I scrape my feet to work cos I'll always need more food
Make sure the jacket's straight or I might be miscontrued
Remember to follow orders and hope I'm dressed like you
I did ask to be in this brigade so how come I have to be like you

Well I disobeyed these orders and the fancies of my peers
With thei belief too superficial and all silver lined with fear
They ask me whay I don't like them and I just sneer and snide
I didn't know how to tell them that they had already died

Well that paragon of virtue and absolute correctitude
Manager said this morning she's dismayed at my attitude
I only said that I couldn't care and that Jesus was abused
I don't know the answers and I can see you don't have a clue

Well she asked me why I don't fit here a problem inside my head
I said that it wasn't me but everyone else is brain dead
I asked her where she got her thoughts from and how it was she knew
I didn't know she thought that I had something to prove

Well they asked me to leave and then showed me to the door
I ain't scared of nothing now seeing as I've gotten poor
I wonder if it would be different if they did it all my way
I didn't know that how they like it so long as you do as they say

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Vibealite Summer Sensation 4

Tucked away at the back of the arena, as if ashamed, hidden in the dark and barely visible through the pulsating, sweaty mass I make out a squat barrel of an older middle-aged lady stuffed into a worn out earth-tone cardigan. She drops onto a chair and sits exuding furtiveness like some wizened fearful goblin; a self-conscious obese Golem seemingly desperate to further fade into the prevalent gloom. Her look of fear is only exacerbated by the pack of hounds baying and snapping at her feet. The pack strain forward and paw at her, desperate to lock their jaw around one of her brightly coloured baubles. In front of these goddamn animals she has no choice, not if she wants to get out of here alive, but to hand out her happy balls of air.
I blink and the moment shifts. She is still sat there, now smiling a grin of determined bemusement and handing out balloons to whoever gets too close. It works; each grasping paw, as it receives a ball of laughter, loses interest in the lady and turns away, fixated with a new toy, to disappear into the ether. I struggle to make sense of this tableau, it strikes me as perverse in the extreme that this safe normal societal-pillar type is handing swollen prophylactics to every reveller that passes.
Somewhere out under the stars there is a twisted Ents-mogul cackling to his self at the surreal masterstroke of double booking the W.I. and the Freaks Ball. His mind’s eye trained on the hilarious weirdness of a conservative pusher doling out chemicals as if they were confectionary. A knowing smile spread across his face at the thought of all the ravers chipping in to the ‘Institute Weekend in Bournemouth Fund’. Bless the good ladies of the WI; spreading happiness, colour and laughter wherever they go.

I will never be able to understand that special brand of small-mindedness that has people in thrall to rules and convinces them of their own superiority just because they lack the imagination to think for themselves. It is such a shame that a body is wasted in slavish devotion to another’s diktats; sad that the world is populated with the type of clueless lackey that takes rules as an absolute expression of all possibility.
Tonight’s prize-winning jobsworth is the officious underling before me. A behemoth of a man, some sub species of Homo sapiens with an unfortunate genetic malfunction that leaves him with mental capacities in inverse proportion to size. The sort of person I’d like to settle a dispute with over a game of chess, though I suspect he would rather just beat me, then sit on me, until I stop breathing or the pigs arrive for a piece of the action.
As I approach the oversized muscle on the door, the stillness of the night and the clutch of sombrely attired pallbearers lend to the feeling of walking into somebody’s funeral; a sense of foreboding that only deepens when I notice the black suited bouncer has a noose trailing from his neck. My drunken gait and appeasing smile freeze when he suddenly turns and shouts "I’ll fucking shoot you if you give me any shit" Looks like my funeral then. Seems appeasement is going to get me as far as it did Chamberlain. I know this game, all these lunks think the same I doubt they have the wit to be individual. He is only here for the money and a bit of assault, if he can get away with it. He demands to see my phone; Shit! He wants to mug me. Still it beats getting shot.
I swallow the fear and give him the phone. If need be a spot of breaking and entering can always be conducted. I’ve never seen the place I would be that can keep me the out side of the door. A quick shove from behind and the Charlie sweeps me in. Oh sweet, sweet Beatrice (I even have my mobile back in hand) you shall indeed lead me to salvation, to the promised land – or at least a willing spiral into self destruction (the same thing?). The meathead didn’t even search me. Ha! The fool. I have all my extremities, no new injuries and everything I had packed for the trip – it all seems too good to be true.

In the cool, quiet air outside, like someone else breathing for you, a mood of saity and simplicity descends. Spins a silky cocoon around your soul, at once invigorating and calming, and teases the frenetic beats in the chest back from the precipice.
From behind, the heave of pheromone and a hot wall of sticky second-hand air rolls and flows down the steps before me and over the gauntlet of collapsed ravers – a curious blend of solitary pale-eyes locked deep into some personal experience with bog or God or whatever and small twisted knots of hairy-calves, soaking Scouse builders and professional cleaners with white gloves - all too far gone and tangled up in chemical conversation to escape. Sex and Satan on the air slide me closer and push me toward this obstacle course of higher consciousness.
Paranoia jars through me - the same sensation as when you nearly die and then don’t in the same instant – I fear falling into the sea of wasted people convinced I will sink to the bottom and never be free again, torn to pieces by teeth and claws in the swamp of gluttony and destruction. As I teeter on the edge and doom is certain, I throw myself headlong like a graceless albatross, eyes closed and lips muttering incantations to save myself from spiralling down into the sea of hollow bodies. I land with a crack that rings around me bouncing off walls and reverberating in my ears, deafening, dizzying. Relief and pain twist and waltz, stinging red pain and glowing warm pleasure; I must be fine I can feel how much it hurts. I want to celebrate my continuing existence, dance, chatter shit and be generally exuberant – walk the line and chase dragons.
I look around and find myself in a dark forest, the right road wholly lost and gone. All alone save for the omniscience of Gsüs, who could do nothing for me. There was a time, when I was younger, that we were briefly introduced. I was preoccupied with a serious collecting habit and knew He would not care for a sinner as me. Though I know of him I don’t have any belief in Him – no-one can possibly be that sober. Nothing and no-one could save me at these depths. I’m frightened and alone in the echoing vastness of the dark, cloaked in fog, unable to see anything clearly.
With the paranoia gripping and self pity taking hold I see myself being peeled and stripped, layer after layer tossed into a hot pan, fried into shrivelled greasy caramel. The oily stench slips through the air, the dirty smell of rancid fat and overwhelming sweetness makes the bile rise. Both delicious and disturbing the smell lures me forward and I heave and spatter red vomit, lurid raspberry coulis, at my feet.

Three of us huddle together into a hidden corner of the courtyard, sheltered from the storm and the peeping toms of the press; who I am dimly aware of strobe-ing round spotlighting innocents – frozen startled rabbits – in the headlights of their picture box. They desperately hawk around for an angle, a lead, a pound of flesh for their tawdry home movies, choreographed for wannabes and homeboys to get outraged and jack off at the sights of lithe nubile hedonists romping and orgiastic, doped up and made to perform for the hidden eye – Hardcore films!
We three lost in the desert of higher wisdom hide from the voyeurs glare and gaze longingly at our bubbles of air. Drooling in our frenzy we devour the balloons, champing and hyperventilating – breathing hard to recover from the flurry of expended energy. Leaning back on the cold stone and giggling, at some unspoken yet shared joke, the world beyond us three drops away into oblivion.
Faces and features melt and twist, fire rises from nowhere crackles and licks, a mane of malevolence around tortured demonic visages. The burning faces close in cackling or screaming, I cannot tell, wild eyes flecked with red, black cavernous maws gaping towards me, to chew me up like the balloons. I’m sinking into oblivion away from the rest of the world.

It is disorientatingly bright, I can hardly walk – just crawl. It feels like indoors, but too cold. I can’t make out any walls or ceiling but my knees clicking and red raw are testament to the solidity of the terra firma. My nostrils are haunted by an unnatural smell, a sterile almost odourless aura of low temperature.
As visions swim and blur, all primary colours and fluorescent psychedelic stylings, I fix my gaze upon a central enduring square of sapphire. A grand voice possessed of divinity booms out "Can I help?" slowly, a helpless, frail, cracked whisper "I want smoke" and two red triangles float across into view. I grab for the precious jewels – the only objects with any definition, the sole remaining solidity in all about me. With scarlet and sapphire in hand I turn to look about for others. It occurs to me that maybe I have to piece the world back together colour at a time. As I turn I bounce off of something...someone?...another person!...wha...so I’m not in heaven – hell is other people.
The person swims into focus and I realise he is looking at me like the last Freak at the ball, I toast him with the bottle now in my hand. Swallow and the bitter junipers sear through my frazzled mind, unblocking connections that had calcified and furred over like kettle filament. Synapses fire and senses stimulated to life. I notice I am shivering stood in wet clothes, straggling rat-tails of hair dangling across my face, staggering and shattered in a supermarket. I catch my reflection in a refrigerator full of Coke, a dead man looks back...what day is it?...when did I last sleep...wash...or even eat for that matter?
I notice little packets stuck all over my tee-shirt, so I sidle closer to the cola to get a better look and see that pinned to my clothes is the most pig-baitingly, head-fuckingly heinous collection of narcotics. What possessed me to do that!! A spliff here and there, LSD tabs sewn on and a plethora of packets of powders and pills stapled through the corner, dangle from the shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Mind meltingly good fun’. I probably wanted to remember that for some reason, I wonder what I did last night. Now, what did I do with my phone, if the shirt is all that is left then I have a serious collection to finish.

19-23/06 MM

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Fear & Loathing 1

I’m too fucked on grass and gin to write anything but gibberish. Whipped into a paranoid frenzy by Mr Bond stealthily taking over the world and an eerie silence throughout the house. The only thing stopping me from an outburst of the full-blown heebie-jeebies is the constant supply of Gin and a nerve jangling riff in homage to these Dead Letters; The twisted pointless ramblings of a dope fiend, high on his own persecution complex.
Get yourself a bolt action sniper rifle, sit at one end of the bridge and blow the square headed fuckers off this coil; they’d do it to me. You see, I understand them, you’ve got to get in there and finish them off while you still can. No one puts their neck before yours, if you’re both that twisted and tied up with the fear, who knows where it ends! I’m sat here looking engrossed – it pays to look involved, rather than fidgety or murderous, but straining all my senses on what they’re doing. You never know when a situation will arise; when by some hideous tendency everything becomes sinister, and it is each freak for himself.
The Gin is working, just levelling off and blurring nicely. My brain has become a sponge, half filled with water. To much Gin and you become too bitter – Gin Nightmares – and the sponge dries out, that’s when you need more grass; like pouring porridge into your head, the sponge soaks up all the liquid and you are left with a hard flaky mess full of cottage or yoghurt.
This Gin bites sooner than you’d think; a ghak in the back of the throat – ahh! But cigarettes!! Yes! Beautiful Nicotine. I shall stagger outside, after finding some more clothes, and shoes, then get cold and cancer.
Outside was nothing but bad vibes. A great vacuum cleaner hummed somewhere out there, sucking up the poor souls too far gone to make it to the safety of indoors. It then crashed into the garden somewhere sniffing round like housewife’s Mechanical Hound. Mired in this paranoia, I fled indoors and continued to smoke out the window. Only to be joined by Nigger, a massive, delinquent feline.

Eeny Meeny Miny Mo

In The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Huck refers to Jim, the eloping black slave, as a nigger. During a live broadcast Ron Atkinson referred to Patrick Viera, the then Arsenal footballer, as a nigger. Mark Twain, the author of Huckleberry Finn, is considered a genius of his craft; Finn is one of the greatest examples of American literature and versatility of the English language. Ron Atkinson is a footballing luminary. One of these men was publicly vilified as a racist and hounded from his job. They both called a black man a nigger, and are by no means the only ones, so what makes one man a racist and the other not?

"Nigger" is not, or at least should not, be solely offensive, no word can be. To be beyond use, banned, or so controversial as to be un-useable in daily conversation is an impossibility for any word. Even those dirty little vulgarities, the ones that have little old ladies furiously scribbling to Points of View, bemoaning declining moral standards and calling for the canonisation of Mary Whitehouse, have a relevance. Every phrase has a meaning; no word is left undefined by dictionaries. All a word is is a string of sounds that evoke a common image, difficulty only arises when this image or understanding is not shared by all parties.
Privilege and discrimination should not occur in relation to usage of words. Even Orwell in his most feverish of sleeps could not concoct a two-tier or hierarchically dependent dictionary. He may have killed off ‘superfluous’ verbiage in an attempt to create a convergence of thought and meaning, but he did not dream of a world in which certain words could be used by some and not by others. With certain genres of music one can regularly find the use, by black artists, of ‘nigger’, both in the descriptive and derogatory sense. Therefore, the word and even its usage is not inherently of a racist nature; a black person cannot hate black people (can they?)
If a Negro can refer to another as a nigger, mean harm by it, and not be labelled a racist then the same applies to a white mans similar use of the phrase. By saying nigger one cannot be exposing oneself as racist; the charge will have to be adjudged by other means, beyond the scope of this article.

Understanding is the key to this issue, by which I mean, each person’s knowledge of a word. The significance, definition, context and history of the word in question are what comprise an individual understanding. The respective roles of white and black peoples in the history and cultural development of ‘nigger’, no doubt creates the taboo surrounding its usage. The oppressed have thrown off the shackles of history and have claimed as their own the discriminations of the past. It has become an act of subversion, a reversal of roles. And the white man, so ashamed of his past actions, he rejects any talk that may reflect this history within him. So white men cannot derogatorily use ‘nigger’ because of the social context within which the word arose, whereas black people can, and probably should, use it in the spirit of satire.

Mark Twain was culturally sensitive, understood the weight of history and the subtlety of meaning with ‘nigger’. In Huckleberry Finn, ‘nigger’ was used in a literary sense. Firstly, Twain was derogatory towards a fictitious man, no real feelings were hurt. Second, and most importantly, the context in which Jim is referred to as a ‘nigger’ is when he most definitely was a Nigger. While Jim was enslaved and whenever they were in "sivilisation", Huck was at pains to act in accordance with social mores. Away from the corrupting influences of society, when they could relate one-to-one, Huck always saw Jim as a Negro; the distinction between nigger and Negro being one between un-human and fellow man, enslaved and free. Huck, and therefore by extension Twain saw blacks as his equal but understood that ‘polite society’ did not, so he had to be disingenuous, to protect both his own standing and to keep Jim free.

Ron Atkinson, on the other hand, does not seem to have this literary defence. To call a man "a lazy nigger" is a deliberate insult, and as I have already discussed, for historical reasons this usage is far beyond a fellow of his heritage.

As Mark Twain illustrates, all vulgarities can be used, by any person, so long as they are used in the correct context. So long as one is sensitive to the historical usage, dictionary definition and any stigmas associated with a word, and the intention is to deliberately evoke these images or connotations then one can and should use all words with impunity. It is necessary to constantly explore our vocabulary; our language is capable of such depth of meaning, boundless subtlety and cultural allusions, it would be a huge loss to all of us to mark certain words as inappropriate.
Revel in the English language’s capacity for self expression, but do so knowledgably and responsibly.

8-9/04/06 MM

Homo Differentia.

"If everybody looked the same, we’d get tired of looking at each other", and if everybody desired the same would we desire another’s. If everyone were the same would we get bored of each other? How different would the world be if we were all the same, with the same wants and needs.
If we all want the same thing, would that thing exist in great enough quantity for us all? What do we do if there is not? What relationships would we form to help secure the object of our desire? Like eagles, would we hunt alone and only support our individual self? Or as wolves, tribal, territorial, would we work together for the benefit of the group, opposing all competitors? Even co-operate, like ants, and join forces to provide for all. In short, do we satisfy our wants through being solitary and selfish or social and subsidising?
This thing that we all want, should it be secured to ensure a consistent supply for humanity? How far can we justify our actions in providing for this want? Do ends justify the means, do you decide based upon the greater good? Should the sating be free, like with air, or costly, as with water? Do those in abundance have a moral obligation to provide for those deprived? Do those without have the right to take from those with more than enough? How much is enough and who decides – how?
If everyone was the same could we govern each other? Would we want to? The general will would exactly match the individual will, so single rulers – who we never want to change- would be most efficient. Would this be dictatorship or democracy? What possible want of debate, discussion, consultation and compromise could there be, the single ruler already knows what everyman thinks. How to protect us from ourselves? Could crime and punishment exist? For we should not want laws, not if we all hold the same values.
Do your answers change if you substitute the ‘wants’ for ‘needs’? Where exactly is the distinction between the two? What if you want something you need (like feeling thirst), or need something you want (a new car, because your old one broke)? Is the definition flexible, is one man’s want another man’s need? Or is a need simply that without which you cannot survive?
We are all the same, in as much as we are all individual examples of our generality. I am myself, but also a Homo Sapiens, possessed of the same great wisdom and discernment as you. Contrary to Groove Armada’s assertion, above, we do all look the same, but we have not, and never will, tire of looking at each other. Our vanity both protects us from this and convinces us of our own singularity.

MM 27/3/06

The Value of Money

"Only when the last tree has withered, and the last fish caught, and the last river poisoned, will we realise we cannot eat money."1 An obvious statement but no less true for it. Yet the way we carry on and obsess about money it seems that we all need to be reminded. Money is not real, it is not a tangible good and has no intrinsic value. Even if you have a $20 bill no-one is under any obligation to give you anything for it. Money in itself is useless, you cannot do anything with it (except shred it and use it to line your hamster cage) like build a shelter, eat it or defend yourself with it. In refugee camps dollar bills are not handed out, food and tents are. What would be the point in money? If everyone is short of food and shelter, there is no individual with a surplus to sell to another. Why swap food for money when you don’t have enough food for yourself? You could have a millions dollars but if there is no food then you are not going to eat, because nobody will sell you food, at least not for money. In effect the transaction would be one of selling a person their survival and they pay for it with your death. The only logical transaction would be to swap one thing you can eat for something else that can be eaten; basically a demonstration of personal preference or desire. However this creates a chain, rather like when buying a house. I have water and he has bread, that I want, but he wants cheese. Therefore, to buy the bread I have to find an intermediary who will give me cheese in return for my water. In microcosm, this illustrates how money gains its value.
One of the ways money becomes valued is through a great degree of transferability. People will only accept as payment something they either want or know they can use to get what they want. If every skill set is represented within a community, and every member of that society all accept a given unit as a method of measurement, then it becomes possible to transfer goods between those people. Rather than worry about finding someone to swap my water for cheese with, I hand over money and let the bread man source his own cheese. He is happy to accept my money because he knows someone else will accept it off him.
Before this, though, money needs to be stable and safe. I need my money to be worth the same today that it was worth yesterday. Nothing is more liable to harm peoples trust in a measurement than to find that every time it is checked a different answer is found, especially if that answer is getting smaller and smaller. I may as well hold my assets in milk or some other similarly degenerative form.
Money is purely a measurement of wealth, not wealth in itself. Its continuing existence owes itself to convention. People will only accept money when they can use it and if they trust it. Money does not have to be currency, it can be anything – think again about time as money. Remember any value money has is a very human one, one of social interaction, communication, belief and hope. We created money to serve us.
MM 19-22/03/06

Friday, February 24, 2006

Insomnia & Narcolepsy

The skeletons have left the cupboard and are roaming the room with naked bloodlust. I watch them skulk about me, from the corner of my eye. They keep an unacknowledged distance, yet my compulsion to have them stay on the edge of my vision is strong. As they glow with an ethereal solidity; borne of a tortured soul; I know not to gaze headlong upon them. I need not look at them for they shall dim, shift and disappear into curls of smoke. They are not feasting on me. I am being stalked but not as prey, not tonight; my time shall come. To me these consumptive denizens, merely the grease-spots of anothers holocaust, are tocsins of the soul; An unnecessary harbinger, as any who wore my skin in that moment would have seen, sensed, suspected the future with all the inevitability of sleep.

Entranced by the yellowing walls, lined with ancient newspaper, curled with the sweet fetid musk of rot and unsated desire. A foul acrid stench of neglect and and embittered servility seeps into me. Filtered into my blood from the air I breath. I am trapped as the room assails me. Drunk on the oppressive air a specter envelops me. Animus of numbness and scarlet, intoxication and krovvy. The divine flash of light on shiv. The warm solicitousness of flesh. A slit and a slick. New life pour forth. Oh! Freedom, release, ecstasy! I shudder, cold, back to the moment. Aware how fate curtates my impotent execution, I gulp the air around me desparate for exoneration. I screw my eyes, as if in prayer, and gleen a further taste of iron. It oxidises on my breath and scabs my lips. I moisten my mute orifice but am only stung by my brackish slaver.

This continued haunting of the bones drives me forth, from moment to moment, until the final exigent time arrives. I dream only of sleep, during my constant vigil. The ruby, velvety drapes glisten and run down the wall before me. My breath echoes back at me through the dimness. I become aware of the crepuscular movements of the hidden figures toward me. They no longer pay no heed. With each breath they stealth closer, gently encircling me, as commensurately the air condenses in my lungs. The stuffiness of the air, the cowled figures and my tiredness confine me to acquiesence. As the darkness cocoons me I can sense the silent presence over me, dispassionate and irresolute as time. A sudden coruscation before me blinds my perspective. In almost the same moment, I become aware that before me a motionless figure lies, surrounded by malnourished, perverse Cappuchins. His waxy pallor swirls with the crimson, reminding me of peppermint sweets; and now I know I can sleep.

MM 02/06

The President Said

I saw the president standing there,
His eyes set and glazen with fear,
Said defend the realm: The enemy's near.
The fight will be long and the cost will be dear.
We need police to spy and doors to lock,
New borders to terrorists, we can block.
Be wary and vigilant, the threat is still real,
For our freedoms and rights and children they'll steal.

I saw the president crying wolf,
Of the fear, that this nation had engulfed.
He said I'd better be ready, that this was the hour
To defend our lives from plane gobbling towers.
He made tell of at least six hundred
bombs, plots and hells asundered.
We must justly defend our right to silence,
to come in peace delivered with violence.
Defeat those we claim that defy
With secret prisons and invisible try-
All's the better to punish these fiends,
The end comes to justify the means.

I saw the president who said he was proud:
To lead this fine nation blessed from the clouds
To the safe promised land upon the mount,
To be free from evil is the paramount.
He rang me with steel and barbed wire walls
He watched all my actions and heard all my calls
He said for such measures he truly was sorry,
It was just to protect me from terrorist polity.
And now, my temples throb with fight and scare,
For bearded sheikhs in cavernous lairs.

MM 02/06

Blood & Sand

Silver cloud reflection of lakes;
Gliding along, boating away, forever
Stilled, then this day would not end
Time; soars and spirals sinking eternally.

Scuttled mist hanging wide, ships sail
On the snide heave, froward the rocks beneath.
Electric black of night, surround
By aural cacophony of the shore

Splintered, cracked, blasted and strewn,
Circled round and hallowed for evermore;
Faded fable of fishers fortuned;
Still battered, scheming, as blood on the sand.

MM 02/06

I Didn't Know

He told me but I didn't know
I saw it but he didn't show
I listened but didn't hear
A tall tale glistened with fear.

I knew but never discussed
I worried tho appeared non-plussed
I slept, it never did sleep,
The dark fear at which I weep

I left it but no-body found
I smelt it but never did hound
I heard it but didn't ask more
It had to be done, to even the score.

I locked up but kept the key
I hid it and they believe me
I was caught but still I escape
Revenge served cold but warmed on the plate.

MM 02/06


These dark satanic mills of yore,
Have towered and furthered in floor.
Reflecting back a golden aura,
Teetering tops the tickle Brahma.
The orgasmic, plastic view
Has fractured all to few
And like homing pigeons, trapped in war;
The huddled masses; they do draw,
Crushing spirits thrice and more.
Scattered winds of the poor,
Unite against this heathen steeple,
Return what's mine to the people.

Point the finger, apportion blame,
Kill the bastards who made you lame.
My father sold your soul for spoil
Of armadas, sand and oil.
Fool's gold, empire and real politick,
Filthier even than president Nix
The wool was pulled, the masses stupor'd
With faith in heart as love from Cupid.
As round the towers planes had flown,
dropped from top, this reason shown
Why King Kong came fixed to rule
Are we really so many fools.

MM 02/06
Inspired by W. Blake

The Lonesome 5-9

I work all day to soothe the might,
For mediocre pay, so I can't sleep at night.
I'm up at dawn and never see dusk.
Doubleworkplus to sate their lust.
Work hard, get promoted, have faith; trust.

MM 02/06

An Honest Word.

I saw my idols crawling next to me,
I looked up at them, they fade away.
Their self-destruction was a mystery,
I've got to listen to what they say.

Then my Father tried to pick me up
as I was sitting down on the ground.
A self inflation of hs importance;
I could not gaze on his crown.

Then my Brother tried to lift me up,
as I was crossing over Cocytas.
A borne impression of his mind, made up,
But he didn't seem to even care.

And it doesn't matter
that my eyes are lying,
They don't have im-motion.
Don't want to be social
Cant fake it so they hate me
But I know there's nothing can do.

Then my Mother cried; deliverance,
As I was sinking down underground.
For the moment saw her eyes well up,
but I couldn't make out a sound.

Then the Soldiers tried to kick me back,
'Cos I was sitting up on the chair.
The mass delusion of our times; fabled,
so even now the truth ain't bare.

When my soul had almost given up
'Cos I couldn't weigh up a pound.
The left discussions of the whys came up
But I couldn't shake the profound.

Well there's no real feeling,
so there's no point writing,
And there's no more thinking,
'Cos there's no right opinion.
Can you tell me what I'm supposed to do.

MM 01/06
Apologies to Jack White