Monday, 29 June 2009

smoking moon mammals

Smoking Moon Mammals

I do hope you’re an easily glummed off fool. I have no title so this is the best title/non title I had, it’s pretty rubbish really. I mean, for one it’s understood there isn’t life on the Moon, there may have been but no Ugaloo has munched moon dust in a fuck of a long time. The temperature couldn’t sustain a warm or cold-blooded creature, so that’s mammal's out. And so the likelihood that they could have cultivated and packaged their own brand of cigarettes, discovered fire and had the dexteritory to grip one, lung capacity to smoke one, neurological capacity to appreciate one and audacity to continue to smoke them while other moon mammals drop dead, is as likely as viewing the forthcoming miniaturised rice etching collection by Michael J Fox. He’s just not talented in that field.

I could say anything, anything.
You get to feel really insignificant writing this, firstly to be perfectly clear I don’t know if anyone reads this. The world of writing is vast, the sheer amount of blogs, websites and social networks, text messages, books, letters, adverts and forms is monumental. For all I know I’m writing to myself in a therapy to encourage psychosis. Every letter wrapping itself down into a whirlpool of binary voids, oh great.

Woz ere 4 eva
Most people (me included) want themselves to impact on the world, do something meaningful, be remembered, in at least a fondness, for a time. There are a lot of people who have died who have probably felt just the same and no fucker knows who the hell they are. It’s looking pretty rosey.

Well to make an impact in the world, you either have to be:

Rich – Richard Branson

Evil – Anthony Worrel Thomspon

Lucky – the Jackson 4

Very unlucky – Jesus

Be in the right place at the right time – Adolf Hitler

Do the right thing – Emily Pankhurst

Say the right thing – Wordsworth

Say the wrong thing very well – Eric Cantona

Be really good at something – Dirk Diggler

Invent something – Clive Sinclair

Be a big criminal – Gordan Ramsey

Have lots of brains - Will Self

Capture the emotions of many – Sooty

Kills loads - Steven Seegal

So unless you fit into one of the above or you’re inventing your own category. Past your death be grateful if they mention you whilst eating in your favorite café, wearing your unwashed jumper, reading your favorite book inscribed to them by you, with your identical twin. Once those people die, unless they bloody love you so much they’ve created hereditary Chinese whispers, you’re nothing but a moss and slug home gravestone. So if I were you I’d start on that stone-carving course while changing your name into one that strangers who saunter through graveyards would gawp at. Yellow Mc Star or Bum Shun, maybe Qwerty Paperson or Hugo There.

Three in a trillion, five in two?
There’s that chance, you’re on that list, a chance. While making your cut price yet eclectically elaborate meal out of E-numbers you discover the only known cure for immortality and it tastes filthy. That the North Koreans bombs were so overpowered and under programmed you became the 1st westerner in 56 years to have received a present from King Jong Ill. Or that you’re very very stupid and propelled into fame as a freak show act everyone loves to hate, sell off your emotions and die of kebab cancer. Immortality, immortality, maybe bomb.

Wide wet eyes
Looking around you do start to wonder nothing some days. Blurred head, blank walls, blanket sky, blue blanket, sour soundtrack and reflections of a slowly ageing male avoiding eye contact with himself.

Tears don’t flow, they should, but tears never come at the right time. Tears come when you’re riding bikes, on the toilet, cutting, in summer fields, walking into wind and at random times tear ducts fancy making you look like you can’t even control your face.

Knowledge is knowledge
I know maybe more than some but less than most or the other way round. I could have been fed lies and know nothing or have realised that everything I know is rubbish and thus know everything or nothing again. Someone may have told me or I may have read the answer to everything or not. I may never know more than I already do now. I may be ill and from this day on lose more and more until I had the same as the first day on this planet. Or not.

Cut off his thoughts
Romans said all roads lead to Rome. Which paints Rome then being one giant roundabout, or as they called it, a colosseum. Some say roads lead to nowhere, which is wrong, as matter cannot cease to exist anywhere, especially at the exact end of a road. I think all roads lead to other roads, which saunter slowly by clandestine cities and their surrounding scarscapes ploughing up bastard lands.

The untouched is touched up, groped, penetrated, and pumped full, dried out, then left. Everywhere is discovered, documented and owned by the self appointed authority, us. A horse can't dispute his field. A tree can't dispute its roots. A man can dispute his boundaries. Man, in a horsehair wig wafting a wooden hammer, reprieves man. Order, I must have order.

So we do. Force beauty into demolition and call it progress. Progress into what? We make the most hideous structures in the history of the world. What progress involved turning everything into a glassful classless mess? Progress, progress by its name means moving forward, out and up. Alas companies take progress as a literal translation and we're all left to jump onboard the retranslation ladder so we can climb up to look down at what our lives could have been.

Can we kill it, can we eat it, can we use it?
No answer, no point, no consequence, no more.
Beyond yonder was always hazy
We never simulated this…

Minds eye blinks alive to see smoke, dust and dirt rasp the many tired ill lungs in the torn shoddy shelter. Burning up all has cost us, using bombing as consequence didn’t help. You don’t see animals anymore, just us. Filling up a full planet. Angry and fearless, that’s what they tell you you have to be, that’s the model of this age. I wish I’d gone into space, though it’s kinda like death. No foreign world wants us. We’re troublesome and reliant. The human rash we became, the immigrants, not respected, not accepted, a barely acknowledged species, the rats of the universe.

Why weren’t Monkey’s content?

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