outsideinroads

Life games, music, magic and all the rest. Adventures of the fringe of the fringe amongst the.. "People's Republic of Brighton and Hove"


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Flicker between worlds

fantasy-island-wallpaper

Stop. Breathe. Feel the world

Tumble down in the wail cadence

at the start of Erasure’s Sometimes.

 

Take a pace forward. You

know that iridesce

is a flicker between worlds,

overlay elements,

myth potential.

The ones you work with live

There, perhaps, in between worlds to

here, like this role in reverse.

 

The lands there appear differentiated too,

a stack of

 

 

 

which flickers, alike, different, to this space

and always has.

 

Yet things are different there, the same. When

spaces integrate I have

seen entities expanded over entire sky,

encountered beings up close in a

myriad of forms, sung to the dark

 and beautiful abstract mask spirits who cluster

around leaves and trees. Been encouraged in

process, shit and vomit by serious,

giggling gnomes. Felt >bzzz< wings against my

legs, learnt strategies, developed relationships,

friendships,

developed strength, and felt myself give it to them.

 

The question of reality is a misnomer.

The Otherworld does not exist

on the same plane as this

Space. Is this imagination? Pretend?

Dimensional? It doesn’t matter.

The shifts made through

interaction                              (between this non matter and)

matter.

The potentials created, envisaged,

the layers, those layers of being, life.

 

It is time to call the worlds together.

This is the

Battle. The only war that matters,

to paraphrase Diane. And yes,

it is the power of our imaginations, and

the power of working with their elements

as whirling, existent, experiencing in their own right,

which brings us to

strengths and possibilities

we did not know we had. The chance

for real change I can perceive

lies in aligning to these realms,

Honouring these spaces,

spirits, energies, that we have always

sensed. Seeing where they take us,

and where we may go with them.

 

What next? That daoist/BDSM symbol still appearing,

                        maybe, recently,

on surprise church windows in Africa,

back in the roundhouse in Wales.

 

Do you want to come

along? There’s a bridge to build

on this quest

and it’s not made of stones, but

wonderment, curiosity, stories.

Discoveries, energies, balances.

Space, Love, care, observation, listening,

communing,

communicating,

space.

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Parp (untitled)

The shadow, so enormous.

You know how so, as big as the light, as…

exactly.

It skitters and cuts at every vessel in you.

It tugs at your heart and spits acid in your stomach.

You know it.

The tactile and tacit pleasure

it seems is found

by those ones

in the stamping on, sidelining, eliminating

of the paths of “others”..

of

weaker others. Our complicity.

The rot at the heart of capitalism,

at the heart of these motions in nothing we

call lives.

You’re no good, what’s the use?

We pull out corners, we seethe..

We, those who find ourselves here,

we watch and move and still

we breathe and watch

and watch and breathe

and aim to let it go, we

cover our heads in wing like blankets

and sing “kill the rich! kill the rich!”

We tentacle up our faces with our

hands, we hide in the shadows,

we take refuge in the everynothing,

we yearn and weep and howl,

and the individual stories,

individual deaths

are always so much bigger

or the same, the same

and billions of atoms,

billions of stars…

I want to say “Here we are kids,

this is it.” I want to say

“Chin up, it just happened”

But No, or maybe a bit

a purge

I see you, leaving, I see you,

growing, I retch, I spit. I hear

the sound.

Party til you’re dead lads,

it’s only just begun.

But a puff of smoke,

this phantasm!

A parody of itself.. I..

don’t know how to fight,
I don’t know how to play my part in the

bursting vessels, flowing vessels,

this pipes pipes pipes,

This outwards, inwards deep deep hum,

This arena of such unbridled joy

and such hot hot empty desire,

Violence. I don’t know

How

So

I

call

on

you

again……

and

laugh.

See how we get on with that.

I love you.


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Luna Hoof Heart

The moon afloat a perfect pitted sphere

 

Yearning, a / this yearning indescribable

          constantly contracting/releasing       

 

and you, us, adventure, it is

and this amorphous cabal, our hearts pulsating joy

pain

 

new life, new life

 

Indifferent, indescribable, imaginal

 

liminal fantasy, not spell,

 

told a game, we spun, spin, outwards, we

Nuclear fusion reactors, we

strange meat adaptors

we suffering, growing, growing, shrinking…

To ~

To just for once find a way to

tell you

but what? My notion that

this work, this

hurt us?

This

a process, which is Love

If you trust it it can happen

It can

flow, better

you with it

If you trust it hurts less, like still a heavy flutter sting…

Do I trust it?

 

Who are these beings? Is it a bet?

That stupid? That funny?

 

Are you ?

 

What is the dimensionality of imaginary space?

Does the moon hold specific indifference for Kesh?

Does he know how I love him?

Energy, energy

particle flitters between hands

It’s all

 

An explosion of hearts, stars, an explosion in US.

 

I want you to know it is still dragging on me, but love is the thing that heals it.

 

The giraffe is the moon. You are liminal starlight

 

I know you when you

Wings like rooks,

Hanging amorphous nothing space

Gentle light, endless power ripped from me, shaking

all over

simple words, trust, guiding hand in the dark.

 

I hate to see my friends suffer.

Were we ready for this? It happened.

 

still just broken winged birds learning to fly, forever

Interdimensional space travel

is our game, the Hove Space Programme

is our name.

Make a weapon, use it.

 

We grow, we love, we be

Love is a many splendid thing

 

The process is twists and turns

It lies, it has to…

it does not exist

Can there be such a thing

as cosmic friendzoning?

 

Sure can feel like it sometimes

 

(, softly, softly) I don’t suspect so...

 

I remembered what a world without love was like

I didn’t like it

Love, the web

Love, the mycelium

chatter, pulses, courses

Love the rip cord: yearning, being, tugging,

tidal

Love, the everything, the nothing of it all

Love


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Galaxy smash combinations

LIchen bark

For the Athens gang. Ross Kemp on.

Athens all sunshine and storms and tankies and tankards and tanktops and rebetika dances and St James’ Infirmary as the height of humans and gentleness and splendid yabbering and splatters of the same kind of BE QUIET THEY ARE PAYING MORE DOWNSTAIRS nonsense you get at home and ACAB and the best cheese pies and food in general. Oh and if you go to the end of the end of the line on the tram there’s a bunch of kids who wish they were in made in chelsea listening to that kind of minor key autotune power pop that makes me want to slit even vein or probably just walk away softly, which we did.

Elsewhere turf war graffiti. Golden Dawn is it? Anti fascist slogans. Symbols are so changeable. Fuck The Police. Glimmers of old worlds that remain above and below. Mountains peeking from the city surroundings. Make new bustle. Art Art Art. Destroy Smash Forever . No. It’s hard to say. A sense of resilience that seems unstoppable. A fragility. An impermanence. More hospitality blooming in one person than you might know existed in the universe if you had not come to this part of the world.

Passion flower tendrils pull world view magnetism, smash together lego block galaxies. A sense of getting this version of communism as intended by the people I know and others in a way I never had before. Magic as in a shift in every breath. Moment. Photon. Silence. Lego men visitations. No need to definite our questions of who or what. //Intention to keep any centralisation for the benefit of people and not for policing and punishment and that kind of power. A constant discussion on policing by the state, organisations, cops one meets in daily situations, each other, inside ourselves. The possibility of developing ways of living without any of that. Living better and for each other and ourselves. Not new ideas but seem newly thrown bandicoot like. A new PsychedelicAnarchoCommunism. Is it? Lol. Interesting debates with others encountered. Talk of violence/not violence. Not known. Worlds are the same and not the same. Listening. We are all confused and learning. Cosmic (and terrestrial) dafties. Destructive Writing. Breakdown professional focus. Tidy tidy mind focus. Sellable focus. Order best, their order focus. No Whitewashing. Gallery spaces. Worlds. Slowly building to cosmic bouzouki. Yes, proper cosmic.

No there isn’t a conclusion. It continues in here and out there. I myself feel a love for everyone I went with and encountered and played, debated with on that trip. Even the one person who was quite the sleazebag cop himself. Ha! But no, I digress – more things to destroy to make way – patriarchy and old men who consider the world and everything in it theirs to dictate and not a dance with those they encounter.

LOVE.

I myself intend to enter into such days long dialogue raptures at more frequent intervals with good and willing humans and to celebrate these moments when they come along. With those again, with others. Special fragments. Life.


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Head Cracks: Digression from Tories May 2015

A version of this features in Immediate Responses.

Such indescribable head cracks in a sea of threatened violence, actual violence, early promise. Couldn’t know where to begin – the threat of established FINISH THE JOB, the pocket humans trapped in the model village with all care taken
from them
lilt sway, we grew up with expectations from the state. Even in our world we somehow believed that it served us. I guess because in some reality sense it did. We were whelped from its clean safety. Small organisms observed at length and dealt with in the mafia sense. The level of organisation is mind blowing. The seagulls don’t know about it. Clever one climbs aboard a train, takes a ride to another town. They can’t know who built the train. To them is it a natural force, like a metal built wind? Do we behave much the same? Things work, more or less, and we use them. We seem to tend to forget the stories we are told which are too much, if we are told them at all. Our empire being built as it is on such suffering and death at a distance. Children in the DRC. Unknown children.

Digression. I would be sad and angry. It is brilliantly impossible to be sad or angry walking up the road to meet my baby in the sunshine with Pata Pata by Miriam Makeba whirling through me. I had no idea. The sun is still out and the trees are a universe of life force in each new stretching leaf. People are sad and look untrusting but are so beautiful. The last few days have. I do quake with what is coming. I am not convinced that there is anything left for us in this semblance of state and democracy. If I am honest I am not as prepared as I would like to be. I am still often a territorial creature although I have become less proud about admitting it and seem to see it more. We may have to leave, but I am not willing to stay here and leave people behind. People who need help we don’t know how to provide without a state. Worse with a state in the way. Perhaps we must learn. Besides at some point that is more or less all of us.

I won’t think about blood. Imagine if we governed ourselves for what we needed. This is full anarchy and always was, it’s just that the sometimes benevolent despots took over, like people always say they will. Their true colours show. It’s already happened and that is. I wonder where to turn next. I wonder at all the discussion and organising that is already taking place. I feel we must rely more on ourselves now and learn to look after each other. Stop fooling ourselves that they will take care of us. And I feel that we will. There is hope and it is inside us. People live. A friend of mine is in a hospice with cancer, she is only just 32. Errors. I think of her and I think of Miriam Makeba. I think of my mother. I think of love. Of the flitter flutter of moments that seem to tie into patterns out.

Open

nowhere

endless

dust

spaces.

Cracks let light in. There is a strength in us that I may only just be beginning to tap into. A care in the flap of the wings of geese.