Here is a idle check for the machinations; the linksintertwined; The years between the payoff and the crime The simple mechanism ticking over, marking time between the setup and the invisible sting
They built a monument to the 20th century And while lining their pockets with public money, undermined it all the way; set it up to fail Then throwing their hands up in theatrical dismay Left it derelict to sink away beneath the threshold of awareness
Now while your eyes are distracted by the changing of the guard, they have bought it for a song ‘there’s no business like big business’ through the front company with back links obscured No actors these are the men behind the men
Now we are invited down to the new show in town A shining new entertainment capital openly named to advertise their cleverness To say to those who listen but have no voice “This is how easy it is to fuck the public over”
In the empire of the free they don't sit you down to dinner
After speaking to the sky that damns you as a sinner
you are not asked to give your faith to war and corporate flood
or wave the flag of fabric weaved with fingers dipped in blood
In the empire of the soul, you’ve rearranged the mirrors
To reflect your inner light and burn away the horrors
That the world stacks up and deals to all unwitting players
Who circle round the village square to bet on dragon slayers
Sent out to battle once again with the enemy created
From rags and bones and madman’s dreams and dynasties related
By bloodlines green and handshakes gold and spinal fluid plunder
Through forest rain and oilfield pain and nations torn asunder
In the empire of the hardened heart where surgery is practised
but never shown on live TV for fear it would distract us
from propaganda perpetrated to fill heaven’s holy coffers
and bring us back at Christmas time with discount and special offers
In the empire of the modern world, the burning broken man
Sits alone and weeps into his bowl of Kahlil Gibran
And the tears they gather into empires green and almost overgrown
With Celestial Fish and plotters foul in their bed of salt water sown
And wash the cold genetic shores of tomorrow’s stunted children
With a watermark of emptiness that cannot yet be filled in
With new-age morals and old age woes and stories sent to scare us
With toys and games and lessons learned by lost and aimless parents
In the empire of the killer cats that coil in corners candid
To deliver you from all you earn and all the fish you’ve landed
On the decks of SS Psychosis while trawling for the future
You hang your head to stem the flow from cuts they cannot suture
In the empire of the mind there are no king and queen
And mothers don’t wait up to ask you where the hell you’ve been
you're free to roam beyond the edge of culture's pretty borders
to take a peek or dive right in to personality disorders…
…or so they say on ‘Mental Health Today’ to keep you on the narrow
and lead you back to plough the row you must yet learn to furrow
In the empire of the mind you are free to make your choices
To question everything you’re told by authoritative voices
And as my other self does the business; pushes the keys and fills the tank; I wonder whether perhaps we’d all be insane if it weren’t for the voices in our heads; the black and white beads of silicon reeds that connect our ears to inner eye via leads to the machines in our pockets stitched delivering the goods from creation’s microphone to cathartic limbic zone through traffic bars and subway stars; through mothers’ arms and superstitious charms; voices uplifted to create or destroy our joy; our preconception; our childhood toys by rust consumed.
Perhaps we are all insane and that roaring in our ears is no traffic jam but rather the void calling us to awaken from where we sleep at the wheel of that awful leviathan cliff edge bound.
These thoughts bring heavy weight to the one who pays the bills and bites his nails in financial angst while his limbic self flies free on the wings of the shamans’ wailing through stereophonic filtration and digital delivery from all that is mundane to all that shines – plankton gleam at the corner of the eye, or motes of space dust scattered in the monolithic night sky where the critical mass of the human mind balancing yet on the scales of the join-the-dots fish that traverses the sky in a blaze of contradictions and lunatic fringe.
Heavy weight the standing columns of ancient stones arranged just so to collect rising moon in a cup of cold cobbled corners where tribesmen curled in foetal fear the goddess’ wrath to behold.
Gravity’s wrath at those who would fly on feathered construct and mind unhinged by belief in that which cannot be corralled by the feeble muscular frame on ape descendant madman by the gods declared.
What music here; what drum-beat double and heart-beat heat the reeling stars in trance begat?
This piece is in response to Princess Haiku's call to write a few lines on why we blog; how could I resist?
I began blogging despite myself.
I’d listened to an acquaintance waxing lyrical on about his blog (the blog of an ordinary man), and after reading his posts I wondered at the arrogance and ignorance of this individual who could go so far as to believed that his ‘dear diary’ cataloguing the minutiae of his everyday life in all its paint-stripping banality (and deluded self importance) could possibly be of interest (let alone significance) to that audience that lurks out there in the electronic ether. Suffice to say that the blog was more interesting than the man… but only just.
Of course, the seed now planted, germinated in my own ego and I found myself believing that I could create something more, something interesting; something different.
And from the ego, the alter-ego Pisces Iscariot was born and The Far Queue was spawned.
The name Pisces Iscariot is the title of a Smashing Pumpkins album; a name which I felt would accurately portray the character of my inner self:
Pisces - my star sign and all the creative and melancholy lunacy that comes with it
Iscariot – perfect surname for one who has betrayed all of the religious beliefs he was brought up to propagate.
Of course, the ‘The Far Queue’ is nothing more than a bad pun – a perfect vehicle for the acerbic nature of Pisces’ thoughts.
Ultimately, the act of having to come up with regular posts to keep the Queue moving has been a huge benefit to both my writing skills and my state of mind; often helping to clarify my own world view or simply purging my pent up frustration at the insane nature of the post Post-Modern world.
To me the basic premise of blogging is a lie – the individual presenting the self to the world is compelled to lie (even if only slightly) – for the perception of self can only be from behind the curtain of the face, and the human desire to be liked (if not loved) will almost certainly present that self in the best possible light (as perceived by that self).
When blogging incognito (under a pseudo-self), we are presented with a zen-like contradiction – the self presented, although a lie, is true to the pseudo-self and need fear no reprisals from, or offence to, friends and colleague of the self for opinions given.
Thus, the idealised Pisces Iscariot, although the essence of my self, and while a more honest being than my self, is not in fact a true representation of my self as seen by those who know me as a living breathing human being.
Blogging, for me then, is an exercise in freedom, but as with all freedom, care must be taken not to allow that freedom to corrupt.
Why is it that we are expected to admire these creatures and to believe that they act on some calling; some higher vocation.
They’re just fucking teachers after all.
As an adult I have been under the misapprehension that teachers are there to guide and aid our children through their essential learning years.
As a parent, the progress of my sons through the education system has repeatedly brought home to me the fact that the profession has not changed since the days when I was at school; day when physical pain was legally brought to bear on those who strayed from the path.
I am forced to remember their tyranny, their absolutes and their condescension to pass on the facts and figures so jealously guarded; so important to the smooth running of the system.
Yet they portray themselves to concerned parents as noble and selfless creatures; like policemen; nurses and firemen; as keepers of the keys to the future.
Ultimately they appear oblivious to the content of their syllabus; begrudgingly propagating the lies of the past; the rules that may not be broken; that must be obeyed in order to progress beyond the slugs that our children so obviously are; the ill mannered and badly parented slime on the heel of the system that gives so freely of itself to lift them up from their spoilt little pit. These hollow teacher creatures feel obliged to perform their calling; stooping to educate - but not to enlighten.
And while disenfranchised of their right to inflict physical pain on palm, knuckle or buttock, they venture yet to inflict torturous worms of belittlement and sarcastic betrayal of all that matters: the value of self confidence borne of innocence and crushed under bitter regret by those who profess to know better.
It is a realisation that must eventually come to everyone who professesses "I am not a racist": the realisation that the demon still lurks at the core, and that to pronounce the words does not automatically undo the conditioning. Further work is needed to extricate the self from those deep furrows ploughed by our upbringing; work that can only be performed internally...
...once more my blogger friend Gregra&gar has compressed the coal of nighttime wondering into a diamond of rare insight… take time to wander across to It must be the Vapors to admire this gem.
And as the Earth rose like blue and white flower over the Moon’s horizon, the Sangoma lay in her bed and called on her ancestors to take her to them. Scraps of red white and blue fabric, fine sculptures in aluminium, littered the Moon’s dusty surface like summer’s left over toys in a child’s sand pit, mere clues to the plundering activities of the occupants of the nearby planet – evidence not yet visible on her serene face. The Sangoma could feel her body in a way she’d never felt it before. Every muscle, every organ hung within the envelope of her tingling skin, solid and real, like the bones within her divining bag, each separated and significant. And on the moon’s outward face, the face never seen by his radiant mother, his demons crouched in cold darkness, whispering their bodily desires - their shame – bragging of past conquests and touching themselves for comfort. And the demons glanced up from their dusty exile, like gargoyles from another time, as the Sangoma’s last breath passed them, glittering molecules of pure thought, accelerating away to infinite light amongst the whirling stars of her ancestors.
Some of you may have noticed the blue link in the sidebar encouraging you to ‘buy this book’. The Aeon Calling was written a few years ago; before I formed this crooked line that constitutes The Far Queue. It was my third attempt at a novel and ended up as amalgam of autobiographic events and pure fantasy. While my portrayals of the various places are not particularly descriptive, I had hoped to be able to evoke the spirit of the places as seen through the eyes of a self involved and obsessed lover – for the Aeon Calling is primarily a love story. The characters too, although sketchy for the most part (once more belying self involvement on the part of the protagonist Alex Brown) hopefully portray some of the essence of the my personal archetypes – racist South African killers, Glaswegian neds or the monkey on your back. The dark thread of the Tarot that runs through the story is perhaps a manifestation of my mother's deep superstitious fears and the profound effect her dramatic 'rebirth' as a evangelical christian had on my family. (an event that is almost certainly the root of my own atheism.) The autobiographical elements in this story amount to the possibility that Alex Brown could have been someone who grew up in the same place as I did and endured similar formative events and experiences - the story is however, nothing like my own
Perhaps you may be tempted to get your hands on The Aeon Calling, and hopefully you will find something in it that will keep you attention for longer than the next American Idol. I would welcome any comments/critism/psychoanalysis from anyone who has read the Aeon Calling
