Cartographers' Crayons

"The heart is heaven
but the mind is hell"
~ Tom Waits

There in the machine; the virtual vertigo; the dizzying heights of self-inflicted revenge where ransoms are paid in comment boxes and ratings and prestige is measured in meters and magnanimous mirages of flattery, name-dropping and wafer-thin facades of syrupy self-effacement

Here in the field of electromagnetic zeros where grass grows in analogue steps and uniforms are avoided in all shape and form; where statues don’t represent any horsemen or heroes but are wrought from melted down awe that is never saluted or paraded before

There where Cartographers map the libido’s landscape while pornographers take the easy road to humanity’s dark depths; dance the chaotic Kabuki cabaret; pixel masks welded to fractal faces; the original moulds lost to market forces and rising damp inflation indicators blink blink blink

Here at the left turn un-stoned where they dance in the moment and howl at the moon; where the passing of days is marked ten out of ten, but never considered as a position of power and the flying of fists are met with clean air and the baring of teeth remain in the realm of the dog

There where hexadecimal witches brew hydrochloric spell checks in cauldrons of silicon for carbon-based nightmares and oxygen thieves; incantations to endless Aristotelian lists and family trees soaked in Sophist karma; edges fuzzy; concepts lateral and hyperlink logic - listen hard and you’ll hear the hum of the processes.

Here where they weave the intricate wall of illuminated manifolds unmarked and unmanned by the eyes of authority and its brother control; a cross-legged carnival of creative calm with tools made of thought and intricate design for the breathtaking pleasure of seeing alone

There in the logic clouds of misunderstanding; sitting bullshit in your teepee of tinsel decorated with dream-catchers a dime a dozen; soothsaying nothing but toothache and tantalising trash; your living room life is no match for the deals that go down on street corners – or at least the peripheral paranoid vision in the corner of your eye.

Here in the fold of all that is warm to the heart that you hold in the palm of your hand; in the crook of your arm where the future slumbers between demand and desire and the primal calling; before the structure that must come with the twisting of tongue and the modulation of air over voice

There in all honesty all tangled and torn; between the tip of your tongue and the ears of corn; ears made of wax and the dishes and plates that litter the floor of your teenage room; honesty moulded from the bones of old lies and the droppings of philosophers and half-remembered snatches of hate street signs

Here where the music of minds entwined; where toes on the precipice with echoes rebounding; with inner smile wide and chest for the opening; here in the moment between now and whenever, between yesterday and tomorrow – here is you heart between thumbprint and pulse.