Uncle WoeDin’s wisdom

Filed under:Creative Writing,UnRecovery — 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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Tale of two ships

Filed under:Creative Writing,UnRecovery — 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:Creative Writing,UnRecovery — 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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Last Brexit to Europe

Filed under:Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on June 30, 2016 @ 11:10 am

Last Brexit to Europe.

Article 50, act of completion?
The act of a Boris Johnson on the Eurostar.
It is only a J Arthur Rank.
Just a spectacle?
Onanism Interruptus.
Brief Encounter never consummated.
Repressed English,
poor communication
Crossed mobile lines.
Worse than the phoning Kafka’s Castle from the pub.
Why Major had a problem with such a minor literature.
Shout louder at a foreigner so that they understand you.
Cameron started it,
sent the train into the tunnel
(Some novel about Heathcliff’s burnt hovel).
Hit on the head with a pig iron,
the train driver is comatose
on moonshine
a media tonic of manipulated
resentment.
What fore?

Sifting the remains of Sheffield in the day?
Selling out the history of industry
to low waged
Joy Divison service industry?
Even Stevens?
Regrexit.
Boris’ turn to finish it off.
Sloppy seconds at the workhouse.
Couldn’t commit.
Zipped up his Lord of the Flies.
Caught halfHitchcocked with Vertigo.
Hanging off a railway bridge,
never got to The Chunnel from St Pancreas,
Only got around about 50%.

Who’s going to sign Article 50?
Train’s stuck on an Ouboros.
Serco line, send it to district 13?.
Pull the emergency brake,
Or bring it in to the station.
Will it be the May Queen
taking it into the tunnel?
Illegal aliens to be processed?
Someone needs to tell herr,
deep space blacks hawking down there,
fleeing war children refugees fleeing
999km deep down
in that kind of tunnel space
No-one will hear her scream.

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Schizo Analysis from Deep Space 9 Millimetre: The Brexit Report

Filed under:Creative Writing — posted by Schizostroller on June 29, 2016 @ 7:37 am

In the wake of the result of Brexit

and the purloined responsibility for austerity

and the crisis.

I found myself wondering,

a quickly drying up pondering on,

a thought related to a shibboleth,

merely as vast as La Manche.

Channelling ideas via the representation of

the ferry of light

the local distribution hub

bringing grumbling truckers thoughts, and tourist dreams

from Europe, twice a day,

who are just passing through the ground air space

as they drive on into England

first facing the incinerator,

the Glade air anti-freshener.

In the port that is the reason

for the locality of my hearth being

currently in the edgelands

of a local interzone, a non-place,

where musings like these,

influenced by the genii loci like that

come up with this:

With regards the British saying

referring to the veracity of a statement,

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

Is Lacan Catholic?

Or was he a huge knot?

 

Guattari was a

smelly, shaggy dog.

As I, a schizo,
sit here analysing the unreason
from Deep Space 9 millimetre,

The gatekeeper at the end
of a wormhole connecting to

the time warp and woof woof of life.
Is New heaven a safe space,
for theoretical refugees?
At least there’s a last exit to Dieppe
For when the huge Brits get too close.

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image: detail of installation by Bronwyn Lace