A slo-mo whirlwind keeps her spinning like a paper top ‘cross the linguistic landscape. When the inner wind slows to a stop, the crumpled post-post-post-post-post Post-it postings are all that remain as she vanishes to Brazil.

 

>>> 

 

Eve Body V hungers for the apple of her eye on the mean streets of the capital. The physical-soulsexual-spiritual starveling is all of a piece. The gnawing glow in her eyes enthralls and repels Adam Apple simultaneously. He wonders what mutation waits in the wake of their imminent midnight carnal meltdown. Here comes your 19^th carnal meltdown. Word made flesh is a thousand suns. Then groceries feed the furnace of her stark redemption.

 

>>> 

 

The gnarly pedagogues don’t care about developmental post- as much as sub-, infra-, inter-, pre-, trans-, anti-. Human. Collapsibility seems the benchmark. Alien biology. Insects or Zen masters. They really only refer to the latter when they exhaust lattices of mantises. Basically, the post- differentials emerge from a sub-. Humanities do not emerge from an approximation of the fully human. Only the thin gruel of ratiocination lacing archaic mythos. That glancing knee-jerk vague aside to the Zen master needs to be the correctional axis of a more thorough intelligence –- intelligence, not intellectuality.

 

>>> 

 

I don’t think anyone is around that knows I’ve been slipstreaming time-space continua since medieval times –- five hundred years long enough to notice medievality has never left us. The gooey mythic glue of religion. The crude redundancy of historicity. The zealous fragmentary irrelevance of it all. O yes certainly various rituals serve the function of confession of one’s powerlessness before the Kosmic wheel –- and unfortunately even before the grimly violent machinations of state, extremist cults, and lone wolf fuckheads. But it’s a big loser club at the end of the day. BFD.

 

All my love-desires the heft and glorious radiance of pond scum.

 

Still a young cherry grrrl is being teleported to my open door.

 

For her orgasmic moans still fuel the triumph of dreams.

 

I’m old-school. Gender-bending doesn’t interest me that much, tho’ to each his/her/its own. Any theatrical charge associated with soulsexuality is not a head trip to me, or even primarily neuro-kink –- it’s transcendental thunder. Might be romantic love, might be sublime indifference. Yeah, transcendental is another word “out of fashion,” academically. I surmise it is considered a hyperrationalized illusion. Yet, as noted, the same postmodern academic will make the catch-all aside to the Zen master. That clearing is transcendence –- full instantaneity of awareness is transcendence. Shhhh, don’t tell anybody. I guess it’s the ridiculous incestuousness of knowledge clubs that keeps everybody so cleverly stupid.

 

H Cherry BombShell is the poise on the curling wave of the world soul’s evolutionary cumquake.

 

I dust home plate in the field of dreams. Fountains of desire erupt from cross-patch assemblages, aggregates of habitual being in periodic transformation.

 

When everybody kept dying off over the centuries, the poignantly exquisite women in particular, I tended to alternate between onanism and asceticism, some judiciously obscure no-man’s-land for the almost immortal loner.

 

Yet the cherry blossom blooms anew now. Parallel worldling, shifting assemblage point, reality grid.

 

Out of that twilight tunnel a fresh mandarin orange sky. Low-slung stark trees on the horizon. A mirage glimmer of a secret sea. And the shimmering presentiment of Cherry baby.

 

H Cherry is starring in her first life love feature film –- quasi-documentary of the budding libidinal hyperreal.

 

>>> 

 

In The Planet of the Apes, ruler was an orangutan, scientists were chimpanzees, military were gorillas. In a particular Terran time-space stream, circa 2000-2008, the last richly schizoid empire was ruled by an alpha chimpanzee whose policies were of the chimp run amok ilk, such as resulted in the gonads and nose being ripped off a friendly fella who’d come to visit his good chimp in a bad chimp animal park neighborhood –- the more horror wreaked, the more obscenely emphatic was the alpha humanoid chimp’s crypto-fascist chest thumping.

 

This fine country was run by a pack of demented chimpanzees. The next spate of presidential candidates were required to produce proof of true human species membership, beyond any massively deceptive resemblances. The alpha chump chimp in question, tho’ banally humanoid, was on record as 80% round-O-mouthed gutturalizing saber-rattling chimp in his repertoire of facial expressions. Talk about bizarre animal magnetism. A “winner” with a killer chimp grin and a jackass’s character. Later he broke his neck attempting a loop-de-loop in a shopping cart.

 

But that was yesterday, and yesterday’s gone.

 

>>> 

 

How does one avoid sociopathic actions in the face of the relentless banalization of existence on all fronts? All fronts, fuck even the good vibe “Consciousness” crowd. Yogic or shamanic muscularity seems no guarantee against flaccid use of language, nor Zen instantaneity. And even linguistic rigor takes an ironic twist in the land of Uber-rational differentiations, noting the map is not the territory but spending most of one’s discourse on the fucking map nonetheless. Developmental or obstructionistic? Scaffolding maybe. Mastering a new skill set for fresh flux. Postmodern theory flexes certain differential muscles, but tends to objectify integrality, when it can only (and yes, it is still desirable) be golden genuine through that self-same subjective quantum heart-field the new-agers tend to banalize. Banality and bad timing is the root of all evil.

 

>>> 

 

After five hundred years of time-space slipstreaming quasi-immortality, I still will find God resurrected in Cherry baby’s lubricious vulva, thirsty throat, swooning ass.

 

Poignant and cherished is the sound of her voice through the wires, heart melting, pussy moistening, fresh in body and soul –- maybe mind too. I pray to God of Love to secure my humble headquarters and bring this pure beloved to my side.

 

A true prophet finds a maggot pack of fuzzy infidels all farting under the roofs of their brand name religious addictions.

 

The yawning true prophet swings his holy scimitar at phantoms, for the relentlessly simulacral is already dead.

 

I actually appreciate Islamic emotional intensity –- if not the deadly faux pas of literalism, the disease from which all merely mythic religions suffer, Christianity and Islam most high profile. Since Buddhism is not predicated on the innate flimsicality of belief, it is of an inherently more mature ilk. As is the neglected Sufi lineage re Islam, actually, and the more enigmatic displays of esoteric Christianity. Catch the originary impulse but advance rhetorical integrity, metaphoric muscle over pinheaded literalism.

 

Best fuck of my life was a Moroccan Muslim. Well, since the psychotropic marathons of a fab other era.

 

The emotional revolt against the cancer of global corporate capitalism –- the current satanic overlord of Westernization –- is actually more authentic than glossing on the dehumanization of culture and environment that is the vampiric specialty of global capitalism unhinged from healthy market values, local integrity, actual production of wealth. The Enron implosion is endemic to megacorporate sociopathology, digital paper la-la-land, destroying everything in its path. Be sure to vote for that again and again, yokels.

 

This just in, again: “conservative” suits are inherently hubristic lunatics. It’s the necktie thing again, cuts off the flow of blood to the brain.

 

This just in: There is no such thing as a conservative. There are economic liberals vis-à-vis political liberals, string-pulling marketeers and believers in governmental responsibilities. And if the residual detritus of conservative means religiosity, then that is un-American, retro-monarchical, pre-invention of the American experiment with its division between church and state.

 

The movie Rent had a line: “The opposite of war isn’t peace, it’s creation.” Which put me in mind of Valery: “Peace is perhaps that state of things in which the natural hostility between men is manifested in creation, rather than destruction as in war.”

 

So much weighs on the differentiated meaning of a single word.

 

>>> 

 

Seeds of meaning grow in the desert of Mind. No-man’s-land. Badlands. Red desert. Barren alien landscape. Desert of the real. Site of melting clocks. Stark originary bedrock. Mars on Earth. Human clones needing only mineral salts might live here. Eliot’s Wasteland was an emptiness of the soul ‘midst urban modernity. It might be the aftermath, the literal symbol of megacorporate strip-mining in all of its forms, its relentless marrow-sucking of real wealth, real people, real eco-systems, real local economies so that one percent can live in a lavish bubble while the rest of the world goes to hell in a handbasket. Or just a rugged red habitat for small hardy creatures.

 

One wonders what bacteria live here, these earliest examples of cooperative existence so senior to humans, in ethics and ancientry.

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