Out of line breaks

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by Schizostroller on May 16, 2017 @ 8:14 am

Five thousand no man is
an island salad dressing and grilled
velocirapture stake.

Making a meal out
of evangelist accelerationism

…and other more secular spirit
of capitalism elective
affinities. End times, end times, bro.

They usually hunt in packs.

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End Times

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by Schizostroller on May 4, 2017 @ 11:10 am

The trouble with the vikings
and Ragnarok
is they didn’t have the protestant ethic
and spirit of capitalism.
With their heroes all dead
there’s no chance of a franchise.
Not exactly Fast and the Furious is it?

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To the Max Vapour

Filed under:Uncategorized — posted by Schizostroller on March 7, 2017 @ 8:36 pm

I keep thinking about
how the protestants’ ethic
and how they keep giving him moral

arguments.

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Uncle WoeDin’s wisdom

Filed under:Anti-Recovery,Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on February 14, 2017 @ 1:16 pm

Only a fool sends their best protection spells to their ‘church’.
Ask Uncle WoeDiN how he preserved his claim to wisdom.
The Beat told us how they knew your best friends name,
And Joy Division told you how she lost control again.
But no matter how much you share on Facebook,
There is always Virginia Woolf’s privacy.
RIP.

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The possibilities of dialogue with a belief puddle

Filed under:Rants — posted by Schizostroller on November 27, 2016 @ 2:24 pm

It was Oscar Wilde who said he is tolerant of everything apart from intolerance.

And then there are people who have a self-perception of a form of liberalism, but one that has failed to do a Copernican Revolution of self-understanding in that they claim to be open-minded but in fact the phrase that describes their self-understanding should be closer to:

“They are fine with all kinds of belief as long as it is their own”

I have a real problem with people like this especially in the realm of language. Say with the word ‘belief’ there is a set of all the possible meanings, ie for this signifier the set contains all possible signified (of course the signifier could also be a phrase such as ‘human nature’ or ‘adult’ or ‘grown-up’). A person like the above has a closed set within this larger set that is quite fixed and unable to perceive the possibility of existence of forms of meaning and knowledge outside this more fixed set. If i am aware of not only the existence of larger permutations of the word, but also for me my understanding of ‘belief’ with regards my own behaviour exists outside theirs AND moreover whilst I am aware of their use of ‘belief’ I am highly aware it does not pertain to my own self-understanding,then whilst I am have a conversation with this person using other words I am highly conscious that I cannot use the word ‘belief’ myself (it does not apply the other way around as I understand theirs) as it will immediately lead to misunderstanding.

If then this closed set of the word ‘belief’ of this other includes, as in the saying above, a strong unchallengeable faith, can I never retain my argument on ‘belief’ with this person if I accidentally use it, albeit as I understand it, because the person will be convinced, due to their ‘belief’, that I have used it in the way they use it, not my own. And furthermore due to the type of use of ‘belief’ they understand they will be even less likely to see my perspective than before I used the word.

In fact any conversation with such people will take a form of aphasic behaviour where I would have to constantly skirt the use of the word otherwise all possibility of recognition is lost.

If this other use of ‘belief’ includes a CS Lewis type of tyranny of conscience, due to the necessary intensity of unmet needs that stem from this impossibility of recognition, even as applied to their own sense of selves (how can such a closed linguistic set ever speak for the greater non-linguistic whole of their being?) even whilst this faith thinks it has a truth-claim to salvation, almost an ideological Bernean Schlemiel, then does it pose a threat to the existence of all other meaning and knowledge and identity? A total eclipse of the self. I am thinking of Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia here.

I also find myself thinking in this case of the Star Trek Next Generation episode 23 ‘Skin of Evil’ with the narcissistically childish but omnipowerful black pool of goo rather than Tarkovsky’s use of a type of Last Universal Common Ancestor sea in Solaris, a Douglas Adams puddle thinking version of such a larger sea of potential being.

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Tale of two ships

Filed under:Anti-Recovery,Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on November 23, 2016 @ 1:20 pm

The cruel authoritarian pilot of the ship of fools unloaded his cargo into the next town, and as he did so, he sighed, ‘Glad to be rid of that lot, unsufferable, all of them’.

A ship with black sails heading for Athens sailed past, overhearing the pilot on the Ship of Fools, the pilot of this ship, the Ship of Theseus, cried out, ‘it’s still a ship of fools not matter which fools are on it’.

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Facing backwards, viewing the world turned upside down

Filed under:Anti-Recovery,Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on @ 11:33 am

It’s dawn, the morning star is in the sky and she is looking down at us. And whilst I may be hanging upside down from the Ogham tree right now, like Henry Miller listening to the world awake, but it’s ok, I have an ogham’s razor in my pocket and can cut myself down whenever I need to. Like ET I can use a speak and spell to phone home.

Like Odysseus I may be strapped to the mast, but I am a rhizomatic nodal Odysseus with the other Odyssean oarsmen and women out there with there stax of wax and their wild frontiers.

Like Merlin, like the Angel of History, I am living life backwards moving from Oedipus to Wodin and gaining an eye (the Morrigan still have the Other).

But I am tired, world weary, and whilst I may still be strapped to the mast, the helm is in my garden, the ship of Theseus is being dismantled, the pagan gods are doing some gardening with it. There is a heavy metal bird bath there, so the birds may come refresh with some Dewey in this winter, there is a bird house with seeds amongst the jasmine.

Once I reach 50 I won’t have to grow up. And I shall cut myself down. In our late middle ages, we shall have 2020 vision.

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Inertia The Rhinoceros (A Wyrding Juice Seance for my Luv)

Filed under:Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on September 8, 2016 @ 8:00 am

I was a high plains drifter.
I who found her, Inertia,
the Rhinoceros
as I cuddled her in my dreams,
enjoying her great savannah,
the occasional Red Ox-size Pecker bird, nit picking and whispering in her ear.

And I fell in love with her.

She was Queen of the Questioning Whim Sea.
The Solar Is.
Otherwise known as the Quym See
Space Station Deep Space 9mm.
And I heard her call.
Whilst trading at the Stone of Gold.
One and jism dreams of genie
She was a Tease Maid of Gold.
And as with most Dr Rye know’s noses,
horns of plenty,
she was mostly Lake Placid.
But she was also quick to anger
with a murderous rage
and would become Queen Boo Jah Dick Aaarrggh,
Queen of the Eye See Nee,
Over seer of, I, the Knight of the Holy Muff
leading me to have to fight off the local Cor! Moron Ants.
But I don’t use any Mortal Kombat finishing moves.
Reluctant to cut their heads off.
I already have too many Leg Ends cumming for me.

Temporarily abandoning my major work
to the pseudo Dionysius autonomous Inter Zone,
the books are left to gril.
I became ‘that’s so itchy and scratchy muffin’.
In such times I, Yo! Jimbo!
had to teach the cowering locals
to paint the town Red.
Telling tall ship tales about who the Real enemy was
And how to defend themselves against it,
with the help of the 13 Roaming Ronin of the Circe Line.

But one question remained.
The song that remaindered the same.
Why The Blind Stagg?
I have no idea.
Married as I,
Pan Theon, the Horny Hunter, Dying Is He Us, Lunar tick, am
to Ariadne of the Quym Sea, Queen of the labyrinth,
Of the Pan Optic Con of the Parrot chasm.
A shibboleth at the Whisky a Go Go.
Being Ash Wednesday Trays-R-Us.
Cross (See you next Tyr Ant’s day) in a dress.
Welcoming people to the World of Work
at the World of Imperial Leather.
Pinhead cowards, jumping around, fleeing the House Of Pain.
The Pied Piper of Hamlyn at the Gates of Dusk Til Dawn,
poisoning the Knucker’s Well in Lymington.
Window lickers, cumming for the Big Mad Daddy.
I, the Woe Seer who ran DiN, both berserker and seydr,
all-father werewolf and ergi,
sitting here supping Elder Vodka,
now that I am cramped.
A slippery nipple
at Sam Faze La Haines.
Happy Birthday.
Big Youth, with Alistair Cowley scars.
It’s not how old’s your arse?
Not the cuckold brides nor the prop as a bar.
Skip to the Lou, my darling.

Oh, Thee See Us?
Jumping bulls at Knossos.
God damned transparent man!
She can see right through you.

Ghouls! Like a high voltage bullet.
Like persistent repetition of zombie phases.
Cumming for me.
Take good care of your self.
Know your history or you’ll be
Perseus instantly and repeatedly asking this old lycanthrope where I am coming from,
when I howl at the moon, as Narcissus fishes for it in the pond. The old fool.
Should have listened to Deadalus. Keep on going down.
Psycho Sexy. Not a lot of people go down stairs (so they say).
And then we will head North.
Saudade.

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A voice amongst many that thinks it is the only one

Filed under:Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on September 3, 2016 @ 4:01 pm

I have a voice. One of many.
But this one says of me that she has never heard anyone moan about people so much in her life.
I reply that I have never heard anyone moan so much about people moaning in my life.
When life is shit we moan.
We can moan about ourselves, things, events, or other people.
Moaning about other people moaning is what is left for those who haven’t been allowed to do any of the former.
Moaning is a lifesaver.
I think she is a hypocrite and a bigot.
She doesn’t understand the contradiction and thinks it is only ever all these other people moaning.
As such there is little I can do about her making me responsible for her misery.
I sit there and read Hegel.

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King Mob and Queen Mab

Filed under:Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on August 28, 2016 @ 11:55 am

“Do you pray to King Mob and Queen Mab?” She asked.
I laughed at the little bird, mockingly.

You don’t pray to King Mob or Queen Mab, I replied.
If you do they will only mock you.
Call on them by all means, and they may come,
with wolves and Pharisees,
trolls in chariots and whippersnappers
biting the heels of the aristocracy.
They’re a collective noun.
Like ‘working class hero’.
The lords of mischief and misrule,
making a clean sweep
on Saturnalia.
Every day a Saturnalia.

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image: detail of installation by Bronwyn Lace