2003-2006- MY REFLECTIONS FOR THE PAST 3 YEARS

three years on, and i find myself trapped in a rampaged room,
surrounded by fast food icons, cough mixtures, empty pill packets and ziplock bags.
my mind is caught in a reel, in a loop of images and words
and mental films that replay old faces in new patterns with the timelessness of conflict and false gods and lost idols.
the virus had choked off the channels, leaving me to feed on memories and reflections buried deep within this mass,
mess of flesh and life.
en entire living dead world borne from the first draft in a garden to its concluding endlessness in the draft that is to be.

left to my own devises, i reshape my history into a thing that devours and recreates itself in the wake of forgotten lives.
left to my own devices, i bring myself, like she said i would, to the top of the mountain, away from those who long to touch my cloak.
left alone by the circumstances of my choice, i am departed from the apparitional crowd,
inventing words for desired zombies, declaring to the royalhood of nothing.

altered again, i visit prostitutes to find salvation but find only another quivering human being in a mismanaged world.
i visit mismanaged worlds of my mind before and after all this,
and find only numbers, and madness, and the overwhelming myth of my life.
i find the degenerated and venerated skeleton of the dead intellectual, sprawled on the sanctuary floor,
amid the volumes upon volumes of books and pop culture paraphernalia,
only to find no discs, no data,
no completion to the words bound between many colored covers.

there are other books birth'd and becoming in my mind;
with vague connotations of otherworlds, intelligence, alien consciousness, primal beasts,
names that should not be names,
lovecraftian clones and dsytopian cities. armageddon, armaggedon.
hence i return. the weight of these books,
like prophecies left to seed and grow untimely with the rest of the world.
I behold all this within and still cannot find the key.
not from satellites and tv, music shops or libraries,
back end alleys and gagnster houses, opium dens and junkie medicine halls.
has it been three years since i was sick on that ancient land?
is that why i'm sick now? in the days to come,
will i meet the same ghost of the old man and his son in my living sleep and greet him as my alter-father,
my creator who is me?

will the elder then speak of the futures that i see, beyond this machine, automated life and tell me of its potential?
will my maker come to me as a ghost bearing gifts of choice and magiciandom?
will i abandon the songs of hope and dive straight into the artaudic mythic dream dreamt of by countless madmen and artists?
what then of money?
of balances of powers?
of the devils we master and the hells we convene with?
there are black sticks and blackglass before me, the room asmoke with incense. a bottle of unopened wine from the october events, stands like a watchtower towards the looming year ahead. empty video rental packets litter the table with thoughts of chinese triad movies and japanese suicicde love stories.
stories about stories within stories.
i see butane gas canisters aquamarine air fresheners and dettol disinfectant sprays line up on the wooden writing table on my left;
ready to burn and neutralize the sense of smell and its defiant lover memory.
they try to hear me, from beyond the door but cannot understand the silence of the whirring fan and the moving mind.
the tv is dead, the headphones are dead.
the hifi is off, the player isnt playing.
i smell old dish cloths on my hands, i feel an active numbness in my hands.
there is a blue wall behind me plastered with icons, the quest, the beat, the sequence, the crossword of existence, the history of art, the making of eve, the mother and the child. the alien being. the wired brain, map of risk and jeoprady, four cold faces on black, russian-christian art.
st michael.
macdonalds.
then, a map of the key voices.
the key names.
the key spaces inside.
now caught in this anniversary death storm of creation and life and metamorphose.
i see christ, hung on the cold computer, the plastic metal pipe organs horns rising against the grey.
i see fallen idols and misaimed machines.
i see halogen, morpheus, turned away, the buddha asleep face down on the red box next to the grey castle of old england.
below that plateau lies the mouontain of NBLR, my temple -altar.
rising high upon the black box of media and wires and information, disemnchanted, misinformed or otherwise.
one plateau below lay the yin and the yang, cast in marble, eternal budhha toll of the bell.
brought back from that ancient land, which i visited three years ago.
my doppleganger had appeared there once, showing itself to the mother-shaman.
in of the lost books inside, i speak of that day when the mother shaman told me this, and about the other things.
like the warnings she gave me about the screaming star.
the grey angel.
but the angels hath spread her wings and shall not scream as she is prophecised to scream. i had wirtten one end of the story but the tale of the beast isnt complete. there are hills which i have visited, set high against the sky and low into its foot, where i had met men whom have heard my voice in the night.
my dead skin peels from the soles of my feet, a twisted metaphore for the shores and distance i have walked within. "why do yu keep walking?" she had once said. i couldnt answer her, and still cannot.
we are all searching.
we all keep on searching.
"what do you seek?" her white skin flakes off her arm and falls like silent snow.
her cold powdered sand skin heals the wounds and sores on my legs.
this santcuary is a sacred burial ground.
of lost and preposterous memories, of lifetimes and years and living.
here where the graves are alives, dead authors speak t hrough living books.
the bible itself, one metaphysical world incorporated into this portal of portals.
alongside it, future minds blueprint the future and other worlds while dead mystics recreate their visions and proposals and miracle esoterica. books of magic find a life on their own along side historical counterculture texts.

the forever poet remains a mystery in this cluttered den/library.
the incidental intellectual lies dead among its marxists misgivings , its mcluhanesque quaints, the foucaultian ambition, the seer, John.
the red bed burns under the weight of a yellow dictionary next to half empty cigarette packets.
a strange cold wave rises alongside my face and head as part of me had spoken sacred names. i have scratched against the skin walls of these other realms and all of them are a reflection of me.
i cover the timeline of my many lives with the other tomes that shape other realities.
i let the music rest in the bosom of silence,
i let the shaman roam in his coma sleep,
i let the loneliness of the author subside as i end his night on favoured numbers.
i let the river saul run.