old lady, drunks, and one particular fox.

you dont always meet the midnight fox spirit

you can tell when you meet them.

they are not afraid of you

chilling in an awkward position nearby,

they drill their intense yellow eyed stare straight through you .

straight through your soul.

with fur as dark as the non-existence separating galaxies.

questioning grin.

examining you.

your existence

your motives.

and questioning

and it’s not intimidating.

it’s like you want to hang around with that wickedness.

…and talk.

just like with a teacher.

but as random their motives are, they disappear unexpectedly.

 

to be left somewhere past midnight in a park….

with an old drunk in relative vicinity and rather adorable old lady walking by

long time no see…influences, schizophrenia(?) and talking to self

while hello dear pen and paper

what now?

what today?

what again?

 

blank stare

blank stars

 

on the road to perdition

on the road for salvation

on the road to nirvana

on the road for ever

 

on

the

road

 

(cheesy) 

even sea won’t declare our family affairs.

 

…how could I forget, the mountains, my secret lover(s).

so long ago and far away.

yet the time and space doesn’t count.

I’m there and they are within.

 

Ray said it out loud.

all of it

earlier, and later on as well.

not only that only time for which most of us know him so well.

(do we?)

but before and after as well.

for visions of cody and other people

 

a strange solitary Catholic mystic

that never met the trout

yet I fantasise of both of them

as strange friends

against the rest of us

the sane mob.

(shame on me)

the unfortunate duo.

 

hiking for nothingness

dharma.

is hidden in watermelon sugar

 

is this haiku?

where is Gary(japhy) to tell me?

 

don’t tell Ginsberg.

just go.

 

I will….

 

but first…

I will stay some time with pen and paper.

for I haven’t seen them for a while.

 

 

junkyard

if I was this place
I’d become something else

but because I am not
there is nothing to be done about it

I walked all that far
to meet the wise man

to learn he was just a scam
lie living in a wasteland

a philosopher that world yet not had seen
with a dump for his home

learnt the harsh truth
that there is no right to reclaim

so now being stranded here
looking for a friendly soul

mystified by will-o’-the-wisps
and the spirits of the lost

I’ve seen what you can call a goal
for it was only a sham

that can not be blamed on anyone
just the trick of my sick eye

for easing the pain
that never was.

if I was this place
I’d become something else

but because I am not
I’ll take my time to leave.

the night I met with James Joyce

it might had been’bout 3am.

the night rain made its attempt to make everything look dramatic.

 

having one of the late night/early morning cigarettes….

James Joyce approached from unpredictable perspective.

 

we talked about some shit….

meaning of life, etc…

 

assumptions vere made,

conclusions decided.

 

after all that….

I believe Bukowski was right….. 

dawn of bizzare

periods of time

filled with pitch-dark void.

 

interrupted by explosions of sudden

randomly…

 

bursting with…

coincidences  beyond reach.

 

meetings as karmic symbols…

& voyages.

 

psychonauts

rose from below the void.

 

to seek and behold the sparks…

between void.

 

 

 

dark mornings

the dark mornings
as silly it sounds
they are there.

the style is grand,
yet secretly spred.

thoughts of a change,
of states and affairs.
silenced the night, as rain poured the thoughts.
of all that does matter and opposed.

once in a time
they come and go.
to buffle and blur,

leaving one confused
yet amazed.

note: I’m sorry fo the clichés, but I couldn’t help myself…..

Of moths, butterflies and moon

There was the time when butterflies were all you could see.
Stretching from east to west, from far to here.
They rule the day, as innocent children chasing up the boogie man.
They flutter around, bursting with colour by every single move of their wings.
Living the day, seizing the life, sunbathing in the wind.
Bringing the smiles for children of flowers.
Laughter for nothing.
Caring not about the death

Fear though my friend, for day is not endless, and butterflies shall die.

One by one in the eye of western sun, they lie down, dying of cold, darkness and exhaustion
No sun to chase
No pleasure to seek.
No laughter to spread.

The dark void of abandoned sky split in half is.
For the moon, cold mimic of life-giving sun carried its way.

And there, cracking from the cocoon, moths have a word to say.

Alone.
Silent.
Grey

They are.

On their quest

Not to spread the laughter.
Not to share the smile.
Not To to bath in the burning sun they fear.

They are on a quest.
On a way.
On a road.

They seek the meaning.
They look for answers.
They seize the moon up at the cold dump sky.

As their sole navigator.
The only light
The barrier of the truth, the source of answers.

Lunatics, those who moths are, for never they can reach the moon.

The lord of the void, the brother of the stars, the cold face of sun.

So the moths die as well just as butterflies did.

Alone.
Silent.
Grey.
On a quest.
On a road.
On a way.

For purpose and answers, they sacrifice their being just as their foolish brothers did for life itself.

You shall be butterfly…just for your own sake.
I was one long time ago.

I’m on my own way now….
To chase the moon….

A thought about mould and life in general.

One of the life beauties of  single living person like me is, that from time to time you meet mold.

Stuff that I didn’t eat long time/forgot about it……bread, fruit…..half-full coffee cup forgot in the sink.
Of course you can meet it  elsewhere in your house…but that kinda doesn’t happen if you have good hygienic habits and this is not story about this kind of mould.

I met one this morning.
In plastic basket of raspberries 2 days old, bought for the (bearded) dragon.

Sitting silently on the kitchen counter.

The thing is, It actually looked like anything else than silent.
It wasn’t about the colour.
It was about the attitude.

Several small colonies of  grey, soft, small furry life-forms.
Divided by a few differences in age development.
Grabbing their deserved place on this world by giving the raspberries hard time…

Some just small furry carpets, some which conquered slightly larger space, some with successfully developed spore stamps…
Ready to multiplicate, to grow, to spread, to seed, to extent, to procreate….to be

And when in case, that current natural habitat ( over ripped, soft fruit, full of sugar) conditions will wear out, resources consumed.
There is the conserved  legacy of that mould.

Spores that didn’t grow, that didn’t shoot out.
That weren’t given chance to seed themselves in dying habitat.

Conserving the life to be recreated into its original extent when the environment becomes at least bit pleasant again.

Consume energy provided by surroundings to rebuild the original structure by reading the instructions in DNA (Lego plan).
To catch (consume) in larger amounts
to capture for longer
To procreate.
To be.
And to procreate.

Which was first?

The egg or the chicken?

And now tell me how we are higher forms of beings.

Of course I’m not talking about individualism

In global
As societies.
Simple organism…

We are, we consume…and if possible in large amounts…until nothing is left to consume.
Everything In range.
To grow.
To reach more
To ensure existence by spreading more, further.
To procreate.
To seed
To be.

And one day, when everything fairly reasonable to consume will be gone, and useless leftovers are around.

The simple Lego reading book is left to rebuild complex structures if conditions will became friendly again.
Red by automatic software.

To be.
To live
To procreate….
To be….

It’s kinda awkward to admit that by end of the day…life is just fucking meaningless joke…that the only thing that prevents you to became mold is some ridiculous number of lines of code.
That makes us related in any way and means to the mould in the same manner as it makes us related to everything else living around ( on this planet in this corner of the universe).

And yes, I threw the basket of raspberries to the bin and had splendid day ( no joking…really….. no sarcasm in that).
It actually quite made my day ….

Falmouth Beatniks

6 hours.
By train.
Trains….if you would like to…..at least 4 changes.
Its always interesting to travel these distancese after insomniac night.
You’re kind of numb all the time.
Good times with books, landscapes ( one suddenly finds out how it came Tolkien created the shire in middle-earth).
And then there you are.
At the end of the country, with quite different weather, where everyone is jolly, bars are open longer, seagulls are dodgy( as always) .
Suddenly, you are with your mates mates, being bohemian (and beatnik), spent like 200 quids, not really remembering how, felling in love with White Russian (lebovsky) taking photos while being drunk of completely and utterly ridiculous nonsense, talking about meaning of life in some alternative space café and not being bothered by rain or reality…
And after 2 and a half days, you are on the train again, trying to remember what all happened, what’s all the stuff you’ve lost, or how much money you’ve spent on what….but by the end, you just couldn’t be asked…..
Oh Falmouth, I fell in love with you…