Driver, Can You Follow that Bird?!? or, When Jay Skips Blue and Goes Plaid

So I’m on my way to nyc, it’s a long bus ride, so much time to kill and ponder the state of all things. Business or pleasure you ask? Well, Love takes me, Love pleases me, and there are deals being made with supradimensional deities that are created to fill the empty space that we’re originally restricted to accept as a Truth of a dark fairy tale pertaining to a collective Ego aimed at jacking itself off while swallowing itself head to toe. These rambles a la thorns in bloom are to ensure an understanding that,  I felt the need to expresss the wild yin-yang black hole flavored vortex that looms over us in sinister mirth. With ol’ Donnie Dumpypants, who I am quite convinced is legitimately a carrier of a maggot brain mental deficiency (like eat-crayons-dipped-in-his-own-shit special), swiftly enacting the plan to revert our country back to pre-civil rights times (which is an abbreviated explanation), I face a kind of hopeless anxiety which looks to snowball into an overwhelming force of frightening flabber-aghastery. I think he’s on pace to neuter the concept of hyperbole, as already some of his moves are lazily lifted straight from popular dystopian literatures and exceeding perceivable levels of shit that could happen, but c’mon, no way the pieces lined up with Jupiter in retrograde and Venus’ orbital reverse which, if you read up on such alternative facts in the Doomsday manuals that “teach” the masses how to reign and be reigned over; this is the goal. The brazeness is so extreme it’s almost admirable. The amount of authentic hate that accompanies me everyday is physically sickening, and as someone who despises having such hate towards any one or many persons, it’s a forced bath in a tub of bloody stool.

But then we got membership to the most rad of familial communities. Goodpeople, Gratepeople, like all yous and even sometimes me, we are players in the glory of yellow skies and the bluest of sunshines. We seek out the, at times, hidden flower fields and thank the bees and invite their critter bros and jazzcats juggling yo-yo ma’s and papa’s doing dizzy dosios for making the days and nights splendiferess to know. We take Love back from the soulless exploitations in assembly-blined hollow traditions that perpetuate the insane whirlpool the foes engage in various types of effort to keep us corralled into and convince us all to be docile and accept this juggernaut of evil as breaking through the current is impossible and a danger to our well-being. Well I, for one, feel like I am a pretty good swimmer, and since this hate has got a gorilla-glue grip, why not process it into the fuel necessary to wreck the fuck out of that monstrous structure these gluttonous hedonists of all things excrement are trying to imprison all the decent, kind, and truly Grateful for the amusement park experience that is being a sentient meatstick on a freggin sweet rock hurling through a ginormagangtuan universe all while knowing we’re cosmically sexy compositions of itty-bitty atomic legos that grabbed Flux by the horns and made it to a place where many figured out that Love is at the heart of being in harmony with the Web of Life and it can transcend the limited boundaries of the prototype beta version that was never intended to be permanent, but be a decent and wonderous enough puzzled maze to get through, all while taking time to stop and ask the roses, “what’s that perfume you got goin, because it’s rocking my world?”

So, what does this garbley rant of flowery verbosity supposed to mean? As anything I pen, whatever you can get or take from it. But my own crux of the biscuit, my shooting star of an aposrophe, is some of these impending nights will be darker than others and some days we’ll serious wonder if the sun is still there.? But then other nights will compose stellar mosaics with the joy and laughter from dancing like the king’s veteran jester, able to blend the fool’s ridicule with knowledge of timing to impress; and other days we’ll know the sun is just a star and it shines because that’s just enough.

 

 

Alrighty then.

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A Note From the Author…

Dear friends, foes, and those who shall not be named…the time has come to retire Blissful Lunacy to the infinite shelf of dust-collectors. It’s been a bare-back ride of so many sorts. Some laughs, some cries, more-times than naught we were left to wonder just what the fuck was said. I have no answers for you. In fact, truth be told, I think I have more questions for those who have dipped their eyeball-ink into my whirlpool of insanity. Seriously, what were you thinking?

The corner of the rug is pulled up. The dirt-stash excels in its sweep unto the dark under-ever. Sometimes you think you have control over what kind of art is represented in creation. To be clear, I didn’t have such a confidence in my posts. It was a Rosetta-way-too-Stoned-chisel offering of an explanation behind the skin’s mask. Believe it or not, I frequently had no control over what was presented.

So….

In order to turn that page, licked finger-tips or not, a new collection is in the making.

Lizards and gentle-slits, I welcome your apathetic concerns to

photosynesthesia.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

 

Fare thee well, and Gods’ speed.   – J

– He’s gone.

How’s Your Bowling Arm?

 

 

Ruins of a Temple’s Tattoo

 

 

 

Exactly what, pardon my inquiry, do you want from life?

 

Worn texts, mostly past and rarely present, offer this

 

and chisel that unto stone, once thought immovable,

 

now known to bow to the mercy of the polisher’s own sense

 

 

of what our collective mirrors suggest in reflect.

 

 

I love, but so many of us let me down

 

when it comes to me-seeks and implore, I do,

 

to take a sponge to the films we think we’re the stars,

 

never once do you stop, and breathe

 

 

for the simple sake of seeing life whisk[Eh] away

 

along a winter’s skirt sashay.

 

I’m only asking for a pause, a break, a poet’s honest mistake

 

to think that they’re the only set of glazed marbles

 

 

desperately pleading for shooting stars.

 

A false sense of meaninglessness, amongst

 

the atomic scale of physical purpose,

 

bumping uglies into view,

 

 

 

Warrant out for vagabond electrons…

 

ask nicely, and I’ll throw all sorts of books at you.

 

 

 

 

 

– J’s not here, man

 

“Where you’ve nothing else construct ceremonies out of hte air and breathe upon them.”

 

Empty-Tapped Gasp

 

 

Someone once meant to tell me, I, peacefully

 

offer a jovial effort behind the lines of an aggressive Western Dignity.

 

Not in terms of moral taste and loosely far from anything holy,

 

popular judgment a preconditioned confrontation with arbitrary physical recognition,

 

since I-don’t-know-when mirrors were baptized as sacrosanct.

 

Cautiously associate attributes to heroic icons,

 

no one assumes you need a cape to make a difference,

 

 

with absolute angelic purpose behind-the-scenes

 

with feathers reigning-in the rest of sponged-in

 

fluff unlocked through the pulse you just had to

 

discover behind the clouds’ sex-change to cotton-swabs:

 

 

Obviously, I’ve seen enough within the brain-tease

 

on countless picnics nestled before once-familiar pillars

 

standing past care or conception of present humanity,

 

monumentous invocations of our past brethren’s memories;

 

 

Foot-step fossils found missing religious declarations.

 

Former undisclosed feats of condensed 4,000 year-old absolutes.

 

 

 

 

Gorge upon the gathered lack of thought

 

swelled for the juice you crave in fruitless nothingness.

 

Victory turns with the lunar darkside,

 

every second-guess drips in holy excess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

J’s Not Here, Man.

 

 

 

Just You Wait and Tickle-Spree

 

Letting Jimmy’s Oars Rest a Bit

 

Swimming through a New Moon’s ripple-less pool

 

against crashing wave after wave of jittery octopus spit,

 

when you claw out the eyes of a blind man without sense

 

leaving Braille clues in the sand:

 

 

jesterish ambiguities tapping into every seventh senses

 

for the sake of fashioning fishhooks into random wrinkles,

 

laying traps for your thoughts lying in wait

 

to guide you out of a tempest-swept nest of bubble-some piranha feed,

 

 

tapping into an elder form of twilight with staff-in-hand.

 

Lightning strikes in the likeness of Amazon webs

 

tied to original intentions toward Albuquerque and the like,

 

and dead-ends of adventurous outliers aren’t so dead after all.

 

 

 

 

Never-mind the pick-up of the currents’ precursors to waterfalls,

 

both arms hyper-extend beyond coiled earthly offerings.

 

Tips of the magician’s primary instruments set to skim

 

across a thinning orchestra of simulated skin.

 

 

A composer dressed and tressed in the finest offerings

 

his heady endorsements have sought to lay before,

 

him, intriguingly claustrophobic due to the forest’s trees

 

in attention to resemble the mindlessness of soldiers’ needs

 

 

to please someone or something conditioned to be above,

 

but never beyond, the place your two feet stand at attention.

 

Stirring up pride from a drunken slumber ever so comically

 

mocking the chemical congruity of cemented stumbles.

 

 

 

 

Half-hearted attempts to map exhales against the backdrop

 

of winter’s vacuous mirage in consumption of and from

 

a superficial grasp at nothingness.

 

Like a handshake with falling water,

 

 

not what you’re able to contain,

 

but the resulting sensation when liquid erodes

 

a troubled shake or two of head-meant-for-brain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

– J n@

 

I Once Embraced the Spirit of the Moth, and I’m Still Here to Confuse You Furthur

 

In the Butterfly Garage, the Wings Choose You

 

 

I don’t know how else to break it,

 

sometimes moral shapes from eyes-and-ear-enough unjustified

 

just cut-out lines with leeches in mind, carry-on a parasitic thirst

 

for any sort from stardust dandruff lined upright

 

 

in a molten stew of happenstance-language

 

abundant with deep crimsons always ensured they make

 

their mess-of-hues seem like they’re bleeding out,

 

slightly false-alarmed instances, mind you,

 

 

accompanied by a correlative shout in favor

 

of life, “Geschtonkenflapped!”; once sewn-shut-like nervousness, apologetic

 

 

spiritually subordinate Jesus…to winning battles we recuperate from conditioned blueprint.

 

Background ghost-motifs forward thinking in supporting cast, embarrassing

 

to the now-No-One’s , archaic figments of past’s promises, mutated structureless phantasms…

 

no wonder They pick up guns when elbows meet at the walls.

 

 

Gotta realize you can fold and unfold the porous layer of superficial axes.

 

 

Ghosts of thinner skin and stubborn eyes dance every morning and

 

peak through the afternoon; often a mock of random laundry sorts.

 

Why not then, good moods contort muscular revelations,

 

residual tooth cabaret, wry and grinding flirtatiously,

 

all the while one soul’s hollow indifference prepares to ossify;

 

a protective shell flaunting menace in the moonlight,

 

preserving an objective flux each persona must weigh alongside calculated relevance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

– J