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Friday, November 30, 2012


shit in my yard and get your anus torn open to bleed forever

Driving home, feeling my heart in pain, sorrow, sadness. I contemplate, gin or scotch?

I feel strong. I feel solid. I am alone. 

Sailing through the darkness drifting my beast of an auto, old, not perfect, in need of a little work, me, sliding through traffic, not of it. Mainstream can suck my dick. I just might put a condom on first. Mainstream is so waisted on cheese and glam I shudder what holds it up. Like a soufflĂ© will it deflate soon?

In pain I feel. From pain I grow. Change does not happen on sunny easy days. I want change. I want becoming. 

I feel relaxed. I feel solid. I am surrounded by animals that are my family. There is love in my home. 

Family is what. Did I really choose them and they me? Or was it as random as blood spatters from a bar room brawl?

The moon shines through the thin clouds as a lone Goose honks in the night sky, looking for a safe place.

Safe is an illusion. Cheeky fucking pasty glamorous turd makers trashing our only home. Safe is an illusion of rationalizing and paving over the soil burying one fear for the narcotic of your choice. 

Rationalizing glamorous thin people starving from the soul petulant in pathetic attempts at grandeur and importance.

Fuck you shit sucking people you died before you were born. God is dead. Upon this hubris of self important wanting we are the virus killing off our host.

Driving home I feel a pain in my chest. We could be more than we are. Our egos lost sight of the sacred lost sight of the significant lost sight of the reason we are here. 

To grow and change and become aware of the creation in all of us the oneness of everything the God in us all. Dogs and cats and Snakes and spiders are all the same. The garden of Eden my ass. Knowledge is nothing with out understanding and as victims we are the same slaves that Jesus looked upon and tried to help. 

It is up to each person to choose. Run from or embrace life, pain and joy. With out the night there is no sunrise and sunset and no appreciation for the warmth of Love.

Friday, November 23, 2012



To be forgiven
You have to forgive first

To move on
You have to let go
To let go you have to
Love yourself

Unconditional love is what we all want
To get it
We have to
Have to be it
Do be
Be unconditional
In loving yourself

Only when you let go of self loathing
Can you love
And be loved



plastic flowers

an insatiable person
a wounded soul
seeks validation
from others
food for vanity
seeking strength from others

feeding on lust
desire and want
to know

am I wanted
because i don't want me
i am afraid of me
if others say
i want you
maybe i will too

no matter how much
no matter that many
no matter that one
a special one 
daily feeds favors
and affirms your beauty
when you are lost
you never will find

you never will find
if not peaceful from within first

are your kind
plastic yard sale flowers
trying to hide in the garden of life

seeking validation
from others
food for vanity

am i not beautiful

no - your soul is dead
seek your soul to find
your radiance
i can not find you
you must find your
your own way

Sunday, November 18, 2012


about a live blog writing written writ

write wrote writ right wright rote
a verse a song a said saying spoken
in the minds playground

query mind dream scape recall logs
context movies poems stories
told seen watched written

domain equals Ireland

sweaters wool home made stew dew ocean fog cloud mist brew ale brown whiskey sound of damp ground smell coffee peat bog smell wet wood creating leather dampness felt in the bones melodies wafting across landscape of the absurd dream random stone work standing stone desolate farm equipment somewhere cowbell  silence wind in the moor

spirit soul poet romance longing always longing eternal mists of veiled worlds close yet far fairies goblins a troll or two mermaids harpies and maidens with curly long hair and ruddy cheeks impish suggestions in the eyes the landscape says all this

narrow lanes to inlets straight over the moor roads in mists drips windscreen grey the souls of ancestors who are familiar that I never knew

ireland calls me

dreams wool sweaters and stories in human pathos rich wood dark from oil and soap low rooms long and narrow fire smoke and laughter murmurs in the corner how many working blades here

whiskey and wool oatmeal porridge and stew strong cheese and bread

ireland calls me

wandering in my dreams the ancestors leave notes to find my way home


to the mist 

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