Everywhere. Earth's the Australia of the solar system, at least. Place of the exiled criminals, rejects from a grounded higher order.
"I remember nothing now on purpose/all the little murders in our midst." That's from a '93 song o' mine called "Alone on the Range."
"Who is not Light Itself/performs the murder/of everything/while we eat." That's from a poem of crazy-wise Adept Adi Da's.
NoAge sax and violins, please.
Oops, I had to slay more normal accursed insane beings with my laser mind-will today. Loud toxic hubristic weeds torched. Quiet treachery, humble as Valiumized scorpions. All dissolved in my default life-lover's smile. Forgive 'em, daddy-o, they dunno nuttin'. . .O they were sweet souls till you found out what they fucking believed.
Internal Iraq of the splintered infidels.
Shake it up, baby, twist and shout.
Maybe I imagined those 500 yrs., some mind experiment gone horrifically awry in some forgotten laboratory.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Quick, a hard graveyard fuck in this horror satire, the only accurate genre for the viciously stubborn mass consensus hallucination, god bless amnesia.
>>>
If three major gradations of crazy are really all there are: 1. crazy psycho 2. crazy "normal" 3. crazy wisdom (which seems to connect poetic/absurdist pop entertainment and mad love to transcendent spiritual praxis, the common thread being instincts for edges of optimal creative integrity -- and LOVE), then mayhaps I can posit something similar in a Gnostic vein for "criminality."
Crime, prime, grime, lime, mime, spare me a dime.
So you have: 1. street dangerous criminal 2. normal adaptation to a criminal regime 3. said criminal regime 4. the outsider in conscientious revolt.
4 criminal gradations, 3 kinds of crazy. 1. rapist-burglar-killer 2. complicit servants of psycho-societal-economic-official rapist-burglar-killer state. 3. sanctioned sanitized rapist-burglar-killer state (the ratiocinations of mind-rape, life-theft, meat-body murder policies) 4. thorough lover
Only one kind of crazy, one kind of criminal is really ruled by LOVE.
Crazy wise outsider on the inside. Back in Australia the Aborigine manages to be crazy wise insider on the outside; crazy wise outsider on the inside.
Upside-down, inside-out, inversions.
When such a one is tagged "criminal" by a criminal regime, it is political, like Pilate vis-a-vis Jesus, in either historical or allegorical context, which overlap anyway.
This is how the cognitive rapist-burglar-murderer State manages to paint saints and sages and artists with the same brush as applies to your garden-variety physical rapist-burglar-murderer -- a threat to society.
Or even more insidiously, lip-service neutralizing the influence of said saints, sages, artists by the entrenched hardcore hypocrisy of postmodern real politik.
Criminal overlords of a criminal society criminalizing conscience as on a par with rape-theft-murder.
"Normal" is tiejacking errorists as deadly as hijacking terrorists.
Lovers rule the invisible world which leaks into the visible world when time craves infinity.
The casual “partners-in-crime” search signal, runs deeper than is commonly perceived.
Tightly trimmed tight wet pussy is the hi-criminal male’s outside revolt, not only vulvic velvet vortex cumming uncontrollably in the midnite hour, but the deep contemplation of rogue saints in heat – “O GOD!” suddenly thorough in the ecstatic instant vast.
Time stops thunder-bolt swift.
Crème de la criminal’s her gushing memento at the still point of white hot splashing her womb with tomorrow.
Her adoration cleanses the Kosmos of believers.
Thus raves prismatic criminal Bane Savage, ancient, ageless, lupine on the insolent streets of Golemopolis, axial axiomatic outsider, one-man invisible college.
Then again, Lord Shiva, ultimate criminal male inside-outsider, destroyer-liberator, implodes a permanent hard-on scepter for writhing wild Goddess Shakti universal, infinity’s firm grace toward the urgent impulses of time.
And the deeper our own love-desire, the more we resemble the archetypes.
Tantric or libertine, the love dance must inform the heart of the Warful Peaceior.
WPs aim to extinguish Moloch’s furnace, for the “Suppose they gave a war and nobody came?” lineage, making Machiavellian live meat annihilation and maiming impossible to countenance.
But this can only happen from the inside-out. The world shoves outside-in, the spirit shoves back inside-out and rises.
Dream ninjas extinguish the old torches for tyranny.
Dreamscape as prismatic hyperserial.
Tyrannosaurus Politicus wakes up one morning and can’t remember what red meat it used to crave nor why it ever came to be, while the crowd points through the glass at the dazed live Unnatural History Museum exhibit.
Astral claws in the reptilian brain stems of key codgers is the first campaign.
Then the internal shouts that stun the privilege of usurpational abstractions into rehumanized submission.
“Bow down before the one you serve/you’re gonna get what you deserve/Head like a hole/black as your soul/I’d rather die than give you control” addressed to “God Money” in Nine Inch Nails’ classic “Head Like a Hole.”
Razor rainbow spectrum of crazy criminal classes, plectrum strummed in the key of smithereens.
Crazy criminality all the way up and down life’s highways and biways takes a little getting used to, but if you shrug it off, remember it the next time your reason and mythic allegiances UTTERLY fail you.
If their maker-thrust operating switches are off, what does anybody know about anything?
Well some switch on their ultracool probes, that instant glimmer of the golden braid of the strands of crazy criminality.
Maybe that old ejaculation “Criminey!” or however the hell it’s spelled, stems from some unconscious folk wisdom vis-à-vis the Gnostic 4-layer criminal tossed salad of our humanoid world. Remember when “he ejaculated” meant a talking exclamation? Now it’s pearl drops keep fallin’ on her face. . .but that doesn’t mean her eyes aren’t full of grace. . .
Kremlin, gremlins, trembling, liminal.
We seek refuge from our absurdly multiplicitous tri- and quadrilevel craziness and criminality in the perpetual rebirth of cool. As soon as a “cool hunter” is so designated, h/she misses the mark, “sins” in the aura brand packs of simulation.
‘Cause the heart of cool beats secrets, echoing Gibson.
Enigmatic insignias incandescing the marrow of being, mute meaning’s chilled fire.
Eden’s divine animal Eve/Lilith finds salvation in my kundalini serpentine fuckbolt penetration.
Mega-decibel interdimensional sexing hurricane blows the religio-political-muddlecrass censors to oblivion.
Fuck bombs in the blood of the trivializing death machine.
Puppeteer fist up the ass of the necktie shitbird club, money god’s narrowest sphincteroid cul-de-sac.
Now, muddling official state crime boyz, repeat after me.
Everything is changing – NOW.
Reality’s myriad multi-avataric splendors outshine the sawdust chuckles of impotent death and dismemberment mongers.
Those muted death-rattle shrieks are the sounds of Word-made-flesh shattering the lo-criminal occupation-by-suits of the prison toilet room of the ineffable Shrine of Being.
Archon policy focus thus noted, is hardly sufficient for actual humans. We can’t all fit in the shitbirds’ war latrine.
The liminal hi-criminal, then, revolutionary lover-outsider, is in a threshold paradox position.
Because you’re mine, I walk the line – and the sentence subversion.
In this perpetual beginning, IS this Word.
The mission of the crème de la criminals anagrams to clean mired miracles.
Divinity’s the seemingly two-, but actually one-sided Mobius strip of this vale of tears.
Mired has the weight of consensus; miracles bear the everyday innate Light of Truth. Adi Da wrote: “This is the other world.” Wittgenstein wrote: “That the world is, is the mystical.”
So in the face of the ongoing crime of violent half-assedness at the level of rule and historicity, the conscientious outsiders, the crème de la criminals are called by demigod language to clean mired miracles.
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