DEEP SCRATCH

Category: Poetry

Poems, shards, fragments, prose, experiments

  • c60 Buckminsterfullerene’s and 2012 Geodesic Revolutions

    I have a hunch, a Grunch, about Buckminster Fuller’s innovations.

    Lets make a new TTOTT football, based on the Buckminster Fuller “Carbon 60” structure, and featuring a new Hologrammic Language… that’s what I think, or thought just earlier today after work.

    A Football, everybody plays with a football, no? Lets make a TTOTT football and construct a TTOTT team (tribe), place them on a TTOTT field (map) and have them play the kind of games Herman Hesse envisioned for his ‘Glass bead game’, or.. whatever you like. Just play. Let us play.

    The structure of buckminsterfullerene is a truncated (T = 3) icosahedron which resembles a soccer ball of the type made of twenty hexagons and twelve pentagons, with a carbon atom at the vertices of each polygon and a bond along each polygon edge. — http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buckminsterfullerene

  • Two new rants: Where’s Frank and Who Killed Kelly?

    RANT 1:

    “The existence of the secret mind control programme of the CIA and the Army only came to light after Nixon’s resignation in 1974, when a fresh wind of “openness” seemed to flow through the opened windows of the Washington governmental offices. American journalist John Marks requested, using the Freedom of Information Act, several documents on the subject, which would result in Senate Hearings that occurred in 1977. A can of worms had been opened. Were there any references to Puharich in these documents? One of the projects that was part of this programme, BLUEBIRD/ARTICHOKE, ran from 1952 till 1956, roughly coinciding with the period when Puharich was assigned to Edgewood.–Philip Coppens, Beyond the stargate.

    ‘Where’s Frank?”

    1953-56
    A Can of worms or
    A barrel of Cobras or 
    An Oil tanker, full of Killer halibut?

    1953-56, while be-bop blazed
    Inside the heads of a whole new language
    A Bluebird ate an Artichoke in Maryland.

    What devilry possessed the authorities
    To break the first rule of psychic engagement?
    They altered the mind-scape of psychiatric patients
    At Powick 1953-56.
    Sheer coincidence?

    Puharich’s book ‘The Sacred Mushroom’
    Can be found
    In a library quite near to that famous Hospital
    Called Powick, where Elgar found inspiration.
    And where John Rowland Reece, and
    Doctor Ronald Sandison gave LSD,
    And WHO KNOWS? whatever else,
    To inmates, patients, subjects, whatever you like
    To call those people without medical training
    At Tavistock, Harvard, Camp-X? etc.

    Yes, you guessed it,
    You have arrived in my conspiracy
    A number of dots, nodes, junctions in history
    That tie together a bunch of loose laces,
    And not just any old boot,
    These are in fact Wellington Boots,
    With deep Amazon jungle vine, latticed
    Across and around them.
    Here we simply show how similar ideas and practices
    Of a particularly secret and sordid species,
    Were taking place AT THE SAME TIME.

    Yet, in modern historical studies,
    Political, psychiatric, cultural and lingual we find no
    Official record of these things ever taking place
    As a part of a bigger, more Unified, cross-Atlantic
    CONSPIRACY.
    You dig?
    Here, once more, fly agaric 23 presents:
    Beyond 2012 and the Storgate Conspiracy.
    Where’s Frank?

    I’ll get back to my tiresome intellectual pursuits
    That center around uncovering beauty and symmetry
    In language and culture, and sharing.
    Making music, poetry, and fun, for the most part.

    Helping other artists and individuals discover
    Poetry, music and ‘new questions’,
    I’ll get back to ‘art for social change’ after
    I write my piece leading directly into
    ‘The social’,
    Yet operates
    To nullify and ‘void’ the sad atrocities we have seen
    perpetuated by Military Industrial pharmacological
    Complex.

    Church and State departments seem to me
    To have sat around
    Thinking of new ways to trick, torture and steal from
    THE PEOPLE,
    The serfs, the rest of US, not serving
    Them directly or on the pay roll?
    Imprisoning us in State Department Stores
    And Church led psychiatric shops.

    Drug stores and more stores than anyone
    Even Orwell or BILL HICKS could have imagined.
    ALL THIS mockery of the great human potential
    And power for ALL-AROUND-THE-WORLD
    Co-operative collaborative systems!

    Inter-accomadative systems
    Like those defined by the great
    Buckminster Fuller, who, between the years
    1953-56 seemed to be perpetuating LIVINGRY
    And with POETRY.

    And with attention to LANGUAGE. And to STRUCTURE
    Clear and well defined.
    Technical, mathematical, and simplified
    EQUATIONS,
    Bucky mixed all styles of textual communication,
    Combined with his vast Omniverse of
    DESIGN REVOLUTIONS.

    And Bucky was mostly ignored, for the most part
    By the special PSYCHIC-DRUG lords,
    Busy tampering with mind-altering drugs
    In the name of National Security, and the usual
    Illuminati agenda of control, manipulation and
    Masks.

    1953-1956, where’s Frank now?
    What were they up?
    Them same old company tricks?
    We can only guess that the smoke thickens
    Light disappears and Oxygen leaves the room
    “Breath once more, son, and your history”
    The spook said in my ear.

    Don’t ask, don’t mention it,
    “An Iraqi super gun full of sea-monkeys?”
    The round table conferences
    The Wasson trips and Life magazine,
    What year, what year was it now? huh?

    Wiki the decade 1950-1960.
    See what’s up?
    Wiki Powick, wiki Mk-Ultra
    Wiki John Rowland Reece
    And James Jesus Angleton
    Wiki ‘Dr. Timothy Leary’
    And compare your Government employed
    Agents, and those self-employed.

    Would they, could they
    Did they, dey they?
    What else did they do to us, drugs and experiments
    Do you feel it yet? the pressure
    Of having something terrible to describe
    Like torture and scenes of abuse, the worst kinds
    Of atrocities that ‘take away’ what defines humans,
    In my view: the ability to say NO and mean it.

    Maybe I am wrong on all accounts
    Possibly…
    a. There were no LSD experiments at either Powick or in Maryland during the period 1953-56.
    b. There were experiments but with the intention of purely medical and research based experiments, to improve our collective understanding of the unconscious and help humanity and the individual better their communication, or some such ‘positive’ goal.
    c.  The experiments were only conducted using Mescaline and/or other psychoactive drugs, and/or methods such as Electro-shock so no LSD was used.
    d. The secret services were not involved with the naive search for a ‘Truth serum’ and have had no interest in drugging people without their knowledge and observing them for the purposes of ‘intelligence gathering’ in the tradition of the more well known ‘Nazi Doctors’ and their in-human experiments.
    e. I am an LSD casualty myself, and due to encounters with this marvelous medicine have developed an entire historical hallucination based upon a fictional Universe where nobody, not a soul, other than ‘I’ inhabit? None of these ‘things’ I write of are real. I invented them in a drug induced ‘psychic’ break with reality, in the singular.

    And to Camp X-factor we run
    Motor-way’s and ‘fish n’ chip shops’ flash by.
    Alone, a thinker on the street, a self-employed
    Agent dedicated to evolving all-around-the-world
    Humanity,
    And not just one company coffer.

    I want the truth,
    You can keep the serum,
    Where’s Frank?
    I’ll walk the plank scale for this my lovelies
    James Bond dealt the acid, but never ate himself,
    You dig.

    Like Batman’ s psychological warfare belt
    Of drugs and potions,
    1953-1956, come now, tell us, tell us all
    I want to know your tricks and I want
    To learn your trade, mate.
    Is Frank here yet?
    Where’s Frank

    RANT 2:

    Who didn’t murder David Kelly?

    Who who who?
    Somebody tried not to kill David Kelly, who?
    David Kelly killed David Kelly?
    Who didn’t want him dead?
    Who wanted David Kelly ALIVE, and why?
    Who got blood on their hands, and who put
    Blood on the Tele’?

    Who who who?
    An Iraqi weapons trade group?
    Who want’s him dead, who wants him alive?
    Dead or alive, the question remains…
    WHY DID TONY BLAIR OVERSEE FAKE INTELLIGENCE?
    Why did the UK Government send hundreds of soldiers
    To their deaths, based upon ‘sexed up intelligence?”
    Who who who benefits?
    What wouldn’t YOU have put past BUSH and BLAIR?

    If D.K killed himself due to an honor principle
    I would be honored if the other lying bastards behind the
    Intelligence ‘lies’ concerning weapons of mass destruction’
    Did the same thing, like how Bill Hicks might say it
    “Kill Yourself, really” one less moron.
    One less spook motherfucker!

    So far, only David Kelly has done the honorable thing
    Killed himself for what he had been a part of:
    The manufacture of consent, the ‘hoodwinking’
    Of an entire nation, for the purposes of a continued
    TRADE in weapons, poison, germs, guns and steel.

    Tony Blair and his FAITH
    In Lord Hutton, and Lord Hutton’s faith that
    70 years should do it, 70 years should be enough time
    For humanity to forget, WHY, David Kelly killed himself
    or Murdered himself? Murdered himself, huh?

    So, it follows, if Kelly killed himself
    We may look into the complex of factors that
    Pushed him into the act, may we not?
    Journalistic harassment, work pressure,
    An unhealthy diet, psychiatric imbalance?
    Lets not rule out any of these contributing factors
    To his death, based on the ‘suicide’ model.

    Maybe David didn’t eat enough Artichokes?
    What inquiry would find the media corporations
    And Military itself ‘guilty’ of murder?
    Like the JKF inquiry, you don’t think these
    Intelligencers are foolish enough to not have
    THEIR MAN heading the so called inquiry?

    Go back and look at the 911 commission
    The 7/7 inquiry, the IRAQ WAR TRIALS,
    The expenses scandal and, in fact, most Government
    Investigations and inquiry’s, even at the local level,
    The courts have been ‘packed’
    The council ‘stacked’ with
    THEIR men and their women,
    Pretending to ‘represent’ us as some kind of
    Autonomous ‘free agent’ whereas, in fact
    They remain chiefly whipped into order by
    Executive powers, spooks, investors,
    Religious scripture.  

    Who who who?
    Who can break this spell,
    Who can show us the relative truth,
    In such a way that we’ll never forget again,
    The power of motivated individuals to transform
    Humanity through peaceful, non-violent means.
    Who who who?

    Ray Kurzweil, the Dali Lama?
    Madonna, Oprah, Robby Williams
    Who who who?
    Mick Jagger and Paul Mcartney?
    Ken Wilber, Alex Jones?
    Arianna Huffington, Stephen Hawking?
    Who who who, who can lift the great ball of crystal
    Julian Assange?

    Suicide or Murder?
    What’s the difference?
    The question is WHO helped deceive the British people
    Into buying a WAR and supporting a group of serial killers
    In their on-going international ‘shopalypse’ campaign?

    Who killed him, who killed Diana?
    Who poisoned the Russian agent,
    Who set the underground bombs,
    Who befriended Hitler’s buddy
    Who invented the ‘spy’ game?
    What’s their name, rank, and file?

    Who befriended the American spooks?
    And invited them into town, Vatican contacts and all?
    Who who who?

    Who killed senator Wellstone,
    Who set the building seven ‘bomb’
    Who hired Diabold
    Who wanted John Lennon shot?
    Who paid Trent Lott
    Who hired terrorists?
    Who runs a flight school
    Who dealt the ‘promis’ software
    Who flew those planes
    Who builds the weapons, the guns, the poison?
    Who tops the pop charts,
    Who hosts the XX factor.

    Who killed David Kelly, and who forces us to
    Stop thinking about it by releasing ‘papers’ that say
    Keep calm and carry on?
    Ignore the Kellenedy assassination.
    Your missing valuable drinking time.

    Steven James Pratt

  • SHANNANIGUMS WIKI

    Wikispaces

    Wikispaces

    Steven James Pratt

  • YOUTUBE AND THE TALE OF THE TRIBE T.V CHANNEL

    http://www.youtube.com/cp/vjVQa1PpcFMwT_1nJ3VR1zH0HqEV2YQI6ygKDyFuKZ4=

  • Wear this book, declare this verse.

    Turn on this book. Share this joint. Glare this hook and wear this course. Ware this source, open. Deal this book . Aware this book. Snare this book on the reaping hook. Bare this, look. Swear this book, cross your heart. Blare this verse, sing. Spare this curse. PLoughshAre this course. Pair-this-force. What’s fare at the bourse? Declare endorse and share this coarse verse chorus. We’re this book! Wear this corset.

    http://sharethiscourse.wikispaces.com/

    Steven James Pratt

  • SHANNANIGUMS WAVE. feat. Artwork by CHU.





    Steven James Pratt

  • CI for COPENHAGEN INTERPRETATION 2009: What Poetry?

    http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fflyagaric23%2Fshannanigums-wave-book-iii-chapter-xii& Shannanigums Wave Book III Chapter XII by flyagaric23

    “Us clams must stick apart” –Feudal Baron Periwinkle III.

    Aphrodite rose from sea foam in film. Merry Mermaid and love goddess surfinn her scallop chariot through twisted arms of godsoilmen and sludge.

    She has risen to meet the supermajors to balance scales and dance to the finnance seers circe song.

    Gulf scoop. Venus Arise! Awake. Hail Eris! Drink snail wine and toast to King scallop, loops.

    Sail up Botticelli’s shell birth canal, known by cockle, hat and staff, Cruz’ past oily Slick Cheney news. We roe under the sign, past energy task force positions.

    The Galloping Scallop clad man of greek myth. The Knights bejewelled in clam lips and kisses. Rich blue Oil spill or mother of pearl? Like blended parrots and dead plankton, mixed emulsions. Beautiful Miss. Oil Spill?

    Crude awakening to the spill-age. A Collosal squid princess riding old Jakobsschelp to help a Hutch load of old scallops rise out the Seafloor Blues. Deep sea things speak! Lo! Scallops of the ocean down by the great rising Chiefs.

    Take Big Periwinkle into your earshell. Smell the sign, touch the symbol, has it got ridges? Dreams cast to sea to see in a Venus shell in a mother of pearl breast. Dead Plankton in the paint painted on Saints of the swamp.

    And the city sewers flow. Heed the clam of commerce and the cockle-shock shimmy. A shell of transfusion, what sea-shell sign symbol confusion.

    Emerging on a horse covered in Scallops? Yes, Prince Periwinkle gallops-up stream like Salmon. Skullops for one shelling a dollop. Sea wave-wind Mussels flex into fossils. Oh, more yet, invisible smell of oilamp from the limpet.

    The Penis of Mr. Big Periwinkle is swelling, a telling sign of the times. Lets Oil the Oystery of Oil, and stir with a staff, lets foil Big sharks, get shocked, struck coil! Row roe with the Tide Swell batter and salt.

    Swim with the titanic Sementic shift, up out the shell, again, to tell a snail tale of the planetary shaft.

    Son’s of Thunder Juice, Snel, quick up to defend the word. A sea slug with untold feet, runs with you. Hoily Tools of the Big Petrol scoop and scope scheme, wallops the marine scene with unclean oil sheen. Another spellage.

    Ocean deep n’ blue, packed full of shell-rooms, true teachers of petrochem generation X. Drill here. Rise up like foam, Alexthunder Oil the Shah Cockle and the unseen shellhand scoop, arise fortuna.

    Waxy Parrot Snot in the sea banks, how to dress up a death spill? Casting Shells – The wavy lines trace swellmighty calm. His Loch’ Holiness the Buddhaclam Caliph of Pearl of the Santiago Shell mound gate tell us, what fate?

    Great clam emperor of the Mollusca lineage, Big Up your shelf. By nature the sign, 500 Million years of geometry spun, sings in holy brine water, the Duke Periwinkle Clam tissue of ivory Sheen?

    Look down the well. Oily DEA and ivory salt newspaper scalps litter our vessel, truth and beauty from underwater vents, meanwhile oilmen pollute the ocean-Green with sculpted Pipe lines, crime waves of DEA projects, No Oildea how sticky their handshells.

    To the Great Old One’s, please hear us and help a sign-sailor resist a supermajor temptress, blackmailing a redesign.

    Each cell on the Shell glitters and does not glisten. Clamco on our sex organs. Oil spill, pipe-line, spoil, Usury, coercion, interference with the flow.

    Oyster Gods of ancient oceans sculpt the wave and weave pearls for serpents teeth to sew. WWII elixir prohibition, in the name of thy snakeoil potions, Rise, Oh.

    Sea-meat wonders with one hundred eyes that dwell upon Old heraldic shields, Rise up like bubbles and show us your shape. If only Molluscs could grow wings?

    Dutch English American statistics, more scallops? Roam the ocean wide with the Sigil of Galloping shells tells a whale of a trial of a clam, with snapping hinge teeth. Big Blood and loot (bleep) swinging from the Scallops pole, I and Shelly, and our Seal: Koninklijk.

    A Toast to Scallops and the food of Godzilla, and the marvel of Clam propulsion.

    Venus come surfing on a scallop, leading with a shell in hat and staff in hand. Scholar. Mussel Swimming down Saint James’s glory-gate to stealth Oil Cow and coo. Scoop it. And the church Redlips TTOTTAL Informollusc. Sculp. Crude awakening.

    Cockoily and Crude Millions scalloped out of the earth’s. Intimidated pilgrims raise a Church shoal. To the Botticelli Shell-mex, mix, to the – Supermajor – noGods’ and the shall he, Shall he not trotter. Heart of calcite, home of crystal. Toil to swim with the ASA Esso sponsors. Pick a Shell and drink James Juice.

    The sacred periwinkle proportions, now sea gold. Periwinkle Cockle and aragonite Shillyshellying, on land we’re all out of gas? Gaia Scalp flaking, dry rot and sun burn, Crashing oil and Blood in similar waves, Half-mollusc, half man with a vulva Cuthulu cult riding a Periwinkle to shore, to soil on past British Patrolingmen.

    Deep Rejoice – Skol – of the sea leagues 93’000 species of Mollusc, calcium from sea, Saint James Juice “No thankyou.” Oh, resurrecting Periwinkle is forbidden? Greenwash be damned, HOLY Scollop of truth Swim on your way!

    Oh, Mollusc gas around pilgrims Hands. Scooping the word. Praise the Count of cockles who calculates the calcium content. Re-shore em’ that Oystery has Pearls. Barons to protect the crust. Don’t drill, hear! The silver pink flesh remaining of ocean Sheild.

    What pearls lie in the sign. Schaaldrake Unreeled from the Well, winds blowing above the abyss of humanity.

    A clamber of underwater James shimmer “What the devil’s covering you, old directors?” The Hat clamp too. Holy floor, must be peak oil time! Shall we use our gills to push? Praise oceans Brand waves. The fisherman on fire, Oil brigade, fire brigade.

    What Sustenance? Entangled oil pipline artery of earth rot? Well well well, Oil be damned! eyel. The stolen dead plankton. The dead seamen-oil-blood transfusion.

    The Tectonic shifts and shafts. Swallow the shilly-shally sea and go a’ rumaging. A mussel bound wisdom tongue in a Dutch pit. Venus in shell, that feminine Scallop.

    Beware the starfish and oystercatchers and Condi Rice. Our boat enters the earshells of Leviathon. Seers are feeding, so meditate on bivalvia underground and grow new ears. Total germs. Sea worms fight back.

    Please dive off the Euro board and Rejoice for James Juice. Hoily Houses Haunt Oystery sauce. The currents of Oysery in the Musselmen’s. How to Oil the machine and then stir, sir?

    Scallop filtration of nature Mouth pit. Hermaphrodite Samuel of the black-gold waters. Global eyes of the oceanic gleam where Ibskal speak of sea diamonds, pearls and disturb the Calm mud.

    Look Deep, look well , lick the James Juice-oil, drink the poison and ride the snake to the pit of Saint DEA, to planet Exo-Clamboil. Elders send word of hope, inducing Amanita Mollusca.

    Sometides wash nutrients up Ripples of the great allrudy wish-ways prepear’d with proportions of Baron periwinkles dimples. Chevrollop, clamswallop, wham. Big Shh’ galaxy, in silence. And inside the noble clam chamber Mr. Mussel finds shelter from transfusions and Cockledoom on a dinner plate.

    Oh shil, you supermajor logo shystirs. Rumble of waves around scalloped edge – where Venus teleports – to visit ecstatic ten-thousand. And Brand new standards, drink the ocean ink of clam soup. Ingest the Hoily Ocean Extracts from the me-a-ning Well, it’s all for the best.

    Wade through the bauxite, don’t step on our eggshares show foresight. Juice the wellwell markets, be merry, speak into these eggshawls. Schelp, I need some clammy mammy? Muscle and sperm of capitol, testoss and hydrocarbons, Thankyou, the pearls really shine. 500 Million years of Scallop evolution sculpted from chalk with tyme.

    Real Crotch Oil spread and royal Roe Smoothie. The synchro-swimming around the OVA, mixing a schaal alliance. Pink into the black current. Shellfish swim for ecosystem and it’s edges.

    The taste and Zap, filtering compost on sea-bed, the underwater awakening, like Fungus, the Clam infiltrates the swill. Heaven and Hell, the birth of Lucifer von Periwinkle and his Kingdom Oilmen! Lo, the chatter and Swell, the Venus and the Vulva. Marian’s Well. Like a Mermaid’s, always moist.

    Master of devices and of painted Green weeds. Grow. A Pilgrim Artefact slyjacked. Marian! Murmur and maid, with comb and mirror, homeless, Comb exchanged for a clam-pick to pluck Lyre songs. Merry tinkles of shells and deep-blues for heads.

    Oh yeah, to schell the proof to buy the truth. Sea Red and sigil read. Michelle, and her pink mantle. Swimming with our vows to explore the edges of the Sun. Elixir of Baron Periwinkle makes a tasty tipple. A tale maybe a virus. Vile us! With a treacherous hijacked Scallop – snapping – at your toe, out to out brand Oil.

    Way out. Respect the Hoily mollusc of Saint James. These Claims of holy clams clamp down on Baron Periwinkle’s clump, so Dive down and pry benearth. The Venus Mermaiden has risen from the sea to show you her she-sails.

    Steven James Pratt

  • LJ is for LUCIA JOYCE

    WIKI entry:

    Lucia Joyce

    From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

    Jump to: navigation, search

    Lucia Anna Joyce (July 26, 1907 – December 12, 1982), daughter of Irish writer James Joyce and Nora Barnacle, was born in Trieste. Italian was her first language and the language in which she corresponded with her father. She studied ballet while she was a teenager, becoming good enough to train with Isadora Duncan. She started to show signs of mental illness in 1930, around the time she began casually dating Samuel Beckett. Her deteriorating mental state caused him to call off the relationship, and in 1934, Carl Jung took her in as a patient. Soon after, she was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the Burghölzli psychiatric clinic in Zurich. She died aged 75 in St Andrew’s Hospital in Northampton, England. She is buried in Kingsthorpe Cemetery, not far from the grave of Violet Gibson.

    Her mental state, and documentation pertaining thereto, is the subject of a recent study by Carol Shloss, who believes Lucia to have been her father’s muse for Finnegans Wake. The study makes heavy reference to the letters between Lucia Joyce and her father, and became the subject of a copyright misuse suit by the James Joyce estate. On March 25, 2007, this litigation was resolved.[1][2] —http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucia_Joyce

    Book overview

    ‘Whatever spark or gift I possess has been transmitted to Lucia and it has kindled a fire in her brain.’ – James Joyce, 1934.

    Most accounts of James Joyce’s family portray Lucia Joyce as the mad daughter of a man of genius, a difficult burden. But in this important new book, Carol Loeb Schloss reveals a different, more dramatic truth: her father loved Lucia, and they shared a deep creative bond. Lucia was born in a pauper’s hospital and educated haphazardly across Europe as her penniless father pursued his art. She wanted to strike out on her own and in her twenties emerged, to Joyce’s amazement, as a harbinger of expressive modern dance in Paris. He described her then as a wild, beautiful, ‘fantastic being’ whose mind was ‘as clear and as unsparing as the lightning’.

    The family’s only reader of Joyce, she was a child of the imaginative realms her father created, and even after emotional turmoil wrought havoc with her and she was hospitalized in the 1930s, he saw in her a life lived in tandem with his own. Though most of the documents about Lucia have been destroyed, Schloss painstakingly reconstructs the poignant complexities of her life – and with them a vital episode in the early history of psychiatry, for in Joyce’s efforts to help her he sought the help of Europe’s most advanced doctors, including Jung. In Lucia’s world Schloss has also uncovered important material that deepens our understanding of Finnegans Wake, the book that redefined modern literature. – GOOGLE BOOKS REVIEW.

    http://books.google.co.uk/books?id=XCwcUOnFV4UC&lpg=PA112&dq=lucia%20joyce%20northhampton&pg=PA112&output=embed

    Steven James Pratt

  • THE PIG WILL HAVE THE LAST GRUNT. BY ACRILLIC FIGA 2007.

    THE PIG MAY HAVE THE LAST GRUNT. By ACRILLIC FIGA (steve ‘fly agaric 23’ Pratt) 2007.
    Pigasus for Prez’ of Swineland 68-69 & 2012
    pigs in space, pigs in time;
    in the Chinese year of the pig: 2007
    i put my pen to the Tusk

    In soilydarity with lush Miss Piggy,
    Hogzilla, Napoleon, old Major and Pigsey,
    Wilbur, Professor Strangepork, Picasso, Pigasus
    and Porky pig

    The four legged hog that the label
    refers to is innocent of man’s crime.
    treated as Swine, in many lands pig denotes
    bad Authority, uncleanliness,
    consumerism, greed,
    and a BLT
    What intricate conspiracy afoot
    set against the animal kingdom
    against the plant kingdom
    the human barn-yard mind,
    orchestrated by Farmageddon
    what vgetable vendetta?

    Rolling in mud, eating shit
    and their own litter, once in a while,
    parallels modern arms factory
    economic practice.

    If you can stomach a capitalist pig
    don’t snap your wig over cannibalism
    pigs act pretty peaceful
    they don’t make Nukes, deploy troops
    most roll with styl, most roast.

    Pig as profanity! pig police authority,
    pig brother, animal in salts.
     
    The pigs may have the last grunt
    as the year of the pig makes its course.


    —Steve fly agaric. 2007. Edited January 29th, 2012.

    I Talk to the dead pig in the sandwhich: Pigasus for Prez of Swineland 68-69 & 08-09? Pigs in Space, pigs in time; in the Chinese year of the pig in 2007′ i’ll put my pen to the Tusk of taking all pigs to heaven. Napoleon & Old major pigs, Ministry of Pig: 1984! Porky Pigs limbs litter the swine factory floor, Pig as profanity! Pigs as the Police authority, Pig Brother. Animals used as insulting metaphors for humans but Machines, Poisons and sleeping robots rule us? Ass drunk and/or stubborn as a mule like Pigasus parroting the whole dirty Bay of Swine thing, War pigs crawling Begging mercy for their sins – sang Sabbath, But the four legged HOG that the word PIG refers to is INNOCENT of all crimes leagilly piggily crimes! Just a bristly pink critter! There seems an intricate Telepathic Conspiracy afoot against the animal kingdom. And against the Plant Kingdom and supernature, from a human-plants point of view. Orchestrated by humans or machine/Robot/poisoned humans. V’ for Vegetable Vendetta. Other than rolling in mud, eating shit and sometimes their own litter (Which makes an illuminating metaphor for modern Arms factory economic practice, invented by Humans), Pigs seem peaceful and intelligent to me, they don’t make Nukes, deploy troops or go to Church. The Hippopota-muses lament for their HOG kind Treated like Swine, the pig has become the Animal word used in Western Civilization that reflects the characteristics Of Authority, Uncleanliness, consumerism and greed. Greedy PIG! A poet in solidarity with the lush Miss Piggy, Hogzilla Napoleon, Old Major and pigsy, Wilbur, Professor Strangepork, Picasso, Pigasus and Porky – i hereby swear to clear these Swine of their stereotypical image quickly and their Stereotypical place in human history and knotted Language as Stupid dumb and dirty cheap fodder; useful at Christmas time with a little gravy tea to dip my TOE into. Dirty grunting Ugly pigs until Served up With a little Sauce. The pigs will have the last grunt as the year of the pig makes its course. —fly acrillic/fly agaric 23. 2007. taken from world piss: the spore of the words.

    Steven James Pratt

  • FS is for FLY-STYLE: Free writing in 09

    It feels way too long since i just sang. After all, fly should be droppin’ it, and them, like 10 ton chickens out of a hercules, or a few cows off a bridge. Introductions are over, honeymoon is up. Lights on, sound check and all the practice comes back, payback, playback for recording activity. GODISTURBER? what is it, two people compressed into a word? Godisturber, or durber…do you think she heard you? disturbance of the wave, dance of the dust mite, flows might get dusted. No turning back just around, on rotation, a duty, to turn, to change the dials, and cherish hilaritas and fun, tracing smiles for miles a day.

    The face of type under cosmetic review by the doctor, boots polished with ink, tread milling the pressure onto the street – imprints – impressions left, but what is right to write tonight, what is left to sift and lift? escalator and calculator combined to take a square root back to minus one. Disturbance of writing, what is it. Patterm, gramar and speech like jagged rocks in the tongues road. Surprises wrapped around every lampost, posted light and posted time awaiting your every stirring. Steering sentences into places you hope will alight faces, grace the next sentence and free the meaning, with each word and dust mite movement, with each undulation and flow, comes and goes me. Me the other disturber, aiming for anchorage and honest translation of visions, a package for chu, a package of elongated verbage. Age retraced in mind and beauty, retraced thought replaced with a new sporting chance. New free sentences to enhance the dance of particle wave waltz and end. To stop and go on amber and direct traffic into terrific. Speed out of the middle lane and cruise above the assfault altogether. Pulling clouds down and putting new sky up via skype. Sky up and blue in the air, up from the aluminium roads and factory canavas floor into the skylights, the last remaining green belt wrapped around Britain’s naked body. A horse-race of letters, a jockey of jabberwockey, keys two, the stable. We are for balance. Equation and mathematical system. We are measuring courses for Ostriches, by the feather weight. Heart of solid steel, no, of gold.

    http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fflyagaric23%2Fshannanigums-wave-book-iii& Shannanigums Wave Book III Chapter 11 Page 67. by flyagaric23

    A heart of rock-stone? a heart full of blood and pumps, a heart of pulses and waltzes with riddim. Heart and head laid down snug. Head and heart beating, bleeding words that got sentenced. Alphabetty shackled the soul aboard to the jetty, waves mirrored my close shave with sea foam. Phone home and away i went, travelling the telegraph paths, to find sense in this monologue leading to the bog. Cogs and wheels within’ circles, bones of past people’s particulars appear as lentickle-your-ears through lenses of grit. No moaning or more angry man’s madness in word, the way to an angry mad world, the new colour and contour leads the wire forrest freakeys out to new worlds, inhabiting spaces and places that hasty abrupt neophobes fail to adapt to. Your way and paths and roads and noodle highways are the ways, must write them out, write them way out, off -if possible. Write them off and turn them on, drop them out and dial her up, boil a cup of hearts broth, add dust mite and moth to make mothers brew, a glossing tossed in a pan of pun with butter. Splurge and splatter letter after letter after letter and chase the picture, the landscape and the actions, skip the nouns and hijack the verbs.

    Big up the verbs of all walks and ways about them, the turning ones of no fixed address, nomadic tribes folk of letters, the moving semiotic train, the moving bus and car, rust, tracks, carriage to carry out the trip trail, migrating letters and running words, dripping context and wind blown full stops. Null stops going forward to reverse positions and exercise the transition from high view twisting and word rollings out, the build up of pastry and pantry smells, the glue and binding molecules of doe, ray, me, so far the tale has baked itself into phrases melted down through the ages, gloopy goos of the great old ones returning, returning the flavour. The life and death march backward, out of ages into history factory production line, history formed and stamped, shaped and packaged, distributed by time and space, clive and tracy, graggy and laced, spaz and rave, you see the surprise on my face.

    As i lean down to tie my lace i get my finger looped in the ribbon of shoe, my tongue starts talking and before you know it i am being run out my socks, run around the wreakin’ like an etheopian long distancer. My tongue got a hold of my soul and laced up the tale of the toe. So now, a few minutes of passed and i feel gassed amidst the mist of literal twist, mint rust and apple pudding. Sweet snowflake, and pattern to distinguish individual spelling. Water language dropping, back to flows, and more of those. Staple the friendly papyrus to one-another and build book-witch, belonging to Dante and the Witches Sabbath. Blind boy Jimmy Johnson could see that back flows and under-currents swirl the girl and boy like a toy boat in a bath with a fat man. Big waves and particle fizz. Foam and lappings.

    Trappings of the pre-fix, the very and the more, good, bad and rhetoric. Veins upon the trees shirt strike me down dead in the park. I confess nothing. Disturbance and journey to the centre, to keep moving and styling the phone. Phonetic E.T’s going home. But what is to come after the transtime event? or before the end of history? Avoid the void and bless the woid, and balance yourself, on the edge, comfortable and with a smile like Harold Lloyd. What black and white picture show, just alphabet whatcha show, i ask myself whatcha’ showing, a comma, a full sharp. Flat space and spiral earth. Jerky meat box boys in a cupbaord with a monkey must move the mustard seeds from the ape political party chair, sitting on seeds can result in bum tree and pinapple sap head conditions i should not write of in an off handed manner like so. Like so what, i write off the cuff, and on the bluff side of the loon. No delete delete.

    Moving feet are dancing again, dancing barefoot in the mud to strike the MOOD for it to trickle rain. A wetness of image dryed up, wrinkled old alphabetty. Formation dispanded by rubbers and ink-delete pens of mass destruction. Not in more than 12 months have i pumped up my staright backtype to attempt a trapeze poem of sleeze on the fly. How high the moon, how low the vault? Light and sound pulses chatter on top of the surface of any lake you like, waves waves and waves again, never folding waves, always fighting the waves and partying with particles, making light of it all. Shed light on it and hope more of – it all – comes to mind. Kisstory. Misty eared. No rap, but feedbacks. Rap and music. Word-code and air farts seem words apart. Apples turning over adams applecart on linneaus straat. Identifiction and the visscitudes and multiplexy glass looking class-room. Freedom to roam without sentence law. Rhyme and sense for added spice grinders. No fear of the mis-readings of free bleeding of sense data. From a key-build world of distrubance, dance and good solid meal lies, a good soft meal, solid? I sribble for a bad soft meal, a flabby saft salted peanut walk in the park.

    An orchestral doobie in the dark. No excuse for the digression, my passion awaits trial, selector be my witness, the ground has swollen up like a bumble bee banquet on the balls. Relief from the angles, the ground corners and shaved sides of whats SQUARE. No squares aloud. Still scratching to try and match the hue hatcher of legend untold. In the days of wildfires, child-locks and adult safety checking accounts the accountable are unable to numerically factor the figures in line with the diggers who place daggers in the heart and cripple the face muscles with the squints and turn us into glimpses Mick Jagger. Like a saucepun i can’t handle it. Spilling mistakes my steaks. Thrilling the gates open with fling-a-ling songs and a scavengers desire for a trash palace of the linguage centres, behind the middle grounds of normalford manner, more junk talk, and with a squark and a gobble, gutteral punk, literal junk talk of coca cola and antagonisms, jimpsun weed and spleen reconstructive drama.

    Clean slate and dirty jokes chopped like carrots on marble. Table top to bottom drawer there, i saw a paragraph swinging out the margins of blank. A paragraph dressed in camal-flange and chlorinated. Red betwenen the lights, blue between the sheets and green between the teeth. And the doors are open, i was hoping this would come over last summer or before that, with the wine and rose bud days but no. Never till now, till now, the paragraph comes leaping out from beyond the RULE. Drawing the lines and boundaries of space to fill with free fuzz and buzz, flapping and side-strokes, small wriggle movements and darts to all directions, quarkes and get set. Rumble of trumpet cases in the trunk, funk band on the road, setting off, the words setting sail and finding and window of wind-go.

    Faster sharps and flats recursive recorso distrubance. Royal disturbance and slippery foot turns on the oil perturbances scattered in these skits and bits of rhyme glue. A large sprawling array of how i say it. Nothing in particular just stretching our vernacular wires and antenna out to reach Dracula and Cinema veritae’ The real died yonks ago, who invented the real? So the verb plays out up in the backside of the groove the verb echos the future spaces and past places of outer-crash wave, bounce. To polish the stones they abolish and throw them like snowmen and their balls through walls of debt brick and steel, through air glass shafts of crippled overtones and harmonic shake ups.

    To shake the sky into order and put the starts on the musical stave. Unyour wobbling pivot to measure the class of word-sound honour and the family of whynotwhats and whofortonowwhens – the information that binds the jumble of crumbled noun. Music to unite the crowning glory of story and tale to leave and bright silken routes to follow, pick up, and thread into the inklish boots, laced footwear taken me hostage once agin, on a plane to ubuntu, the words pulling from just aroud a blind corner, the sound of the sentence directs the destiny, but to tackle the rhyme with fix-it substances, and sew up the pristine package for friends and etyms, taking control of roll and reuniting it with rock in a solid foundation. My flow has go on it, goo on blow the nose of knowledge out your assets. Finger mouse creeping under the cat glove in the kitchen – seems to be pushing the limits of sensible writing and shows the down side to freedom of thought and speech, a child’s TV show and a Ikea oven glove fused.

    Like a spark plug in the mouth, the lights are tangy tonight. Crevices and dried up entrances to places only a spider could have known have fell into my scripture, visitors from next door, visitors from across the way, the river side has turned into the water-cider in a drunken tantrum of descriptive lenses. From one side the bath looks opel, from the other coral. The mantra of fish might make for a useful wish in a whales bellyfull of tele-tummy touch table tops. Cable cuts and splices, PING. Crossed wires and fancy foundations of frankly – far and away – flipped fakery. All word comes to this and that, eventually the fuel fails to follow the road and the journey comes to a hault, not mine or yours or anybosy elses but the felt tip feels full and bloated, the felt tip of my finger on this bastard keys, wishing they were LP’s. Letting the wind-up speak. Letting the rumble of word speak and spoke the wheels within gyres within disks. Turn.

    http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fsoundcloud.com%2Fflyagaric23%2Fshannanigums-wave-book-iii-chapter-xii& Shannanigums Wave Book III Chapter XII by flyagaric23

    Steven James Pratt