Give me a D.J!
Give me an M
Give me an A
Give me an N
Give me an T
Give me an I
Give me an S
MANTIS! Yeah....
It's the return of the Mantis,
From out of your dreams,
Scratching and cutting up the beats, so it seems...
This is no D.M.T. trip, (oh no)
This is deep scratch and fly lyrics straight off the lip. (trippa trip trip trippa trip trick-nology.
Flip it Mantis...
Pray. Who's ready to eat?
After nearly two decades under development, Deep Scratch is here/over there. The interplay of audio and text and image as I first envisioned it in the early 2000s. The audio side of this equation has been lacking due to various reasons, including limited access to instruments, equipment and recording facilities. New generative a.i., tools (Udio) have allowed me to produce music to precisely fit the narrative I have constructed in the novel Deep Scratch. A collaborative, self-replicating magical code that generates audio from text. This year, Udio made science fiction into fact.
After constructing over 160 separate pieces of music, I mixed the Deep Scratch tunes together into 4 separate mixes, or audio chapters. Over 3 hours of original music that only exists here, a kind of science “sonic” fiction. Cuts selected from the Deep Scratch Universe, that reflect the sounds, styles and arrangements of classic DJ mixtapes and beat tapes from the mid to late 1990’s, and early naughties.
(A third book in the Deep Scratch Universe will be released sometime during late summer 2024, further contextualizing and organizing the multimedia multiverses.)
Thanks to everybody at my patreon page, who has stuck with me over the last 6-7 years as I’ve been going on and on about this Deep Scratch Universe, without truly launching any Deep Scratch Audio. Now, the soundtrack to the novel is established via a new series of DJ mixes (all add free).
flai mix chapter one
FLAI MIX CHAPTER TWO
FLAI MIX CHAPTER THREE
FLAI MIX CHAPTER FOUR
The fourth chapter features raps, of which I’m conscious sound nothing like my own voice, and/or rap cadence or delivery. These are my own words, taken from my book of collected poems (to be published) spanning 2004 – 2024. As a fan of hip hop, rap and hip hop DJ styles and productions, mixtapes and live eclectic DJ sets, I’d like to give a shout out to all the artists, MCs and producers, that some of these tracks sound like (to my ear). That’s besides the thousands of artists and musicians who came before, those who innovated, originated and recorded the music: blues, jazz, soul, funk, gospel, rock and roll, folk, bluegrass, film music, classical music, vocal harmony music, world music, from the 20s through to the 2020s. All the music within the data sets or set (?) that the generative AI has been trained on.
Support your local independent musicians and music venues whenever possible. Respect your artistic ancestors and their struggles and sacrifices made to bring original art into the world. Try to keep in mind that generative A.I. does not sample the music in the conventional sense of that concept, although the process is a kind of sampling, these sounds are made from granulated probability functions, if I understand the process correctly. I hope the turntablist, scratch and juggle and cut-up approach of the eclectic DJ adds a new context to the use of generative AI, a part of the evolution of the art of the DJ and their place in between producer artist and audience. Perhaps better defined as curator, or boss of their own label or catalog of recordings, to be mixed and remixed, blended or released as an album or single. Also consider that all my music using collaborative AI did not use any artist names. Any likeness to artists living or dead is purely probabilistic coincidance.
In no particular order, thanks to: Sample Hooligans: Coldcut and the original 90s Ninja Tune artists, DJs and turntable journeymen. To Mo-Wax records, and the Psychonauts, and their DJ sets and productions. To the Bristol massive, purple penguin records, Massive Attack Soundsystem, Portishead, DJ Andy Smith (the only turntable artist included in a successful UK band), Melankolic records, Cup Of Tea records, and all that dub infused instrumental jazz tinged hip hop, Grand Central records in Manchester, Dorado records and artists, Warp records and artists, Aphex Twin, Square Pusher, Big Dada records, Acid Jazz records, Jazzman records, BBE records, 4th And Broadway Records, Two Lone Swordsmen, Sabres Of Paradise, Black Dog, Future Sounds Of London, DJ Krush music, DJ Shadow music, Invisible Scratch Pickle mix tapes, The Beat Junkies, Lauryn Hill, The X-ecutioners, Ohm records, Amoeba Record shop, Soulsides Crew, The Pharcyde, 3rd Eye Foundation, Hieroglyphics Crew, Del The Funky Homosapien, MF Doom, Wu Tang, De La Soul, Tribe Called Quest, Bill Laswell Productions, Spectre, Lord Finesse, Rakim, Pharoah Monch, LEX records, Kool Keith, Public Enemy, Mr. Liff, Future Primitive Sound, DJ Z-Trip, The Nomadic Massive, We Funk, Funkmaster Flex MixTapes, The Roots Crew, Black Thought, El-P, Company Flow, Saul Williams, New Flesh, Juice Aleem, Rodney P, Scratch Pervert DJs, Jazz Fudge Records, DJ Vadim, Part 2, Invisible Spies, Channel One, Lee Scratch Perry, Ultimate Dilemma, Bentley Rhythm Ace, Roots Manuva, Courtney Pine, Talkin’ Jazz, Charlie Dark, UNKLE, Steve Task and Bear, Stump Juice Wolverhampton, The Steering Wheel Birmingham, Fabric, Cargo, Luke Vibert, DJ Food, DJ Spooky, J Swinscoe, Rockers Hi-Fi, Different Drummer records, Tempest Records, The Plastic Factory records, Swordfish Records, Eddie Otchere, Source Distribution, J Saul Kane, DJ Moneyshot, DJ Yoda, The Jazz Stage Glastonbury, DJ Cheb I Sabbah, Funki Porcini. And those I missed out.
For nearly 3 decades I’ve supported all of the above artists by way of buying their records, tickets to shows and speaking highly of them, turning on other DJs and audiences to their music. This does not necessarily give me any more of a license to use generative a.i., with a clear conscience, but…I’ve paid dues and can trace my evolution toward this moment via my 2 decade Deep Scratch experiment.
The next step in the on-going process is to plan for some traditional analogue music recording sessions with musicians and vocalists and videographers, to take back control from the generative AI, bringing it back to the human community of creative beings. Easier said than done, and requiring resources and planning and work. This process hammers home the point that AI can be used to bring human beings together, not divide.
—Steve Fly
Amsterdam.
https://deepscratch.net
https://www.patreon.com/stevefly
All Original music, made and mixed by Steve Fly Agaric 23. Part/slice of the Deep Scratch Omniverse.
In some sense, with this new study in mind, telepathy between flies and humans is now closer to becoming a practical technology than between humans and any other species? I’ve a story about telepathic communications with a fly in DSR.
–SJP
The brain of the Drosophila larva has an order of magnitude more neurons, an even greater scale more synapses, and a complex brain organization. This insect brain connectome will be a lasting resource, providing a basis for a multitude of theoretical and experimental follow-up studies.
A synapse-by-synapse map of a brain
The team also found that 41% of the brain neurons form ‘recurrent loops’, providing feedback to their upstream partners. These shortcuts and loops resemble state-of-the-art artificial neural networks that are being used in artificial-intelligence research. “It’s interesting that the computer-science field is converging onto what evolution has discovered,” says Cardona.
—Gigantic Map Of Fly Brain Is A First….
Dedicated to my mother Della Pratt, on her 75th Birthday. I love you.
“Dao, the process, seems more nitty-gritty and tangible since I acquired an apartment with a panoramic vista of Monterey Bay and the surrounding hills. The view never seems quite the same twice. Waves, sun, fogs, seasons, dogs, dolphins, moons, planets, stars — all seem flowing, as if every kind of evolution, cosmic to biological, parades before me. More and more I lose contact with “me” and flow with all else that flows..the Dao-process.”–Robert Anton Wilson, Thought Of The Month 2002.
I want to dive into the hot and holy waters of spirituality to see where my thoughts take me if I ask myself, what does Steve Fly believe? (2.4k Words, approx. 3-4 min. read)
Off the top, I’d define my own position or my goal when communicating on these matters as Multi-model agnosticism, a term lifted from Robert Anton Wilson, roughly translated to mean, suspension of disbelief coupled with a passion for new synthesis and pluralism.
I feel I do not have to believe in a permanent supernatural force to enter into alternate modes of consciousness, associated with spirituality, religion. That said, I try to remain humble to the fact that some discipline and devotional practice can cause states of consciousness radically different from what my own limited experience can produce. Scepticism mixed with a playful willingness to engage with alternate realities is a personal balance you must strike, one man’s play is another man’s absolute reality. On a general level the ability for each of us to navigate the thermo-plastic reality around us is critical for our sanity and survival, narratives that we tell ourselves and others limit or expand our perceptions of spirit.
In soundbites I could say, give me religion without priestcraft, give me my own church in the form of my body and our planet, give me scripture in the language of RNA-DNA transcription and Python code, give us all the Gods and in all the things, give me parables poetry and true story. Be aware of throwing the baby out with the holy water. Every culture, tradition, ritual, religion, book, method and language is a portal of discovery for YOU to interpret and to grow from. With a mantra on repeat such as “the map is not the territory,” the dangers of taking anything too literally is lessened, together with fear of the word of god.
Any psychonaut who conducted a little post-research into parallel experiences will come to discover Shamanism. For me, personally speaking, I thought I’d found my spiritual home when I first read about wild rituals that include entheogenic substances, ecstatic dancing, singing, chanting and trans-dimensional trips with insect animal-plant entities! Hell yeah, where do I join up? I was a naive teenager and perhaps fit the stereotypical middle-class white kid who discovered acid and went on to believe he was an urban shaman because he could float down to the 24-hour petrol station and buy a pack of large Rizzla papers at 4.00 A.M.
As the years passed I continued my study of Shamanism-lite, today I remain in awe of indigenous and aboriginal traditions that survived today, in the face of growing adversity in part due to disaster capitalism munching on their homeland and spirit allies. To make a fanciful analogy, imagine if Vatican City were situated deep in the Amazon jungle and only a handful of priests lived there. Imagine loggers and fossil fuel prospectors moving in, threatening to destroy their holy Churches (trees) and violent threats on their life if they do not comply by moving, or selling out. Imagine the major religious institutions being under such a threat as indigenous Shamanism, while at the same time secular society relegates Shamanism to snowflake culture, off with the fairies and the druggies.
I’ll consider these different views while at the same time shouting loud from the rooftops: entheogens consumed in the correct set and setting, make up a part of my spiritual practice based on past spiritual experiences. My spiritual philosophy is best defined and demonstrated in nature, a process evidenced by the evolutionary epistemological synthesis between Toads, Toadstools (Fly Agaric) and flies. See Fly Agaric, Flies And Toads: A New Hypothesis by Georgio Samorini 1999.
My challenge to you and to other religions and spiritual practitioners is to try and match these facts of processes observable in nature with scripture. Botanical and epistemological processes observable in nature, I would argue, are holy scripture composed in the complex undecipherable chemical-geometrical language of RNA-DNA synthesis, cell replication, photosynthesis and symbiosis. Nobody “said or wrote” anything.
Spirit entities like those encountered in plant based Shamanic traditions are entangled with our human RNA DNA brain-body nervous system, somewhat trapped in our symbolic language, held hostage by the individual ego and sense of self. I’m guessing here. Shamans meet with, are devoured by, wrestle and dance with all manner of entities, a phantasmagoria of animal insect-plant/fungus hybrids, winged serpents, toads, birds of prey, buffalo, bats, bees, flies, reindeer. I find it interesting and poignant that rarely are humans encountered in Shamanic vision quests, I deduce this stays in the domain of the anthropomorphic traditions where the schlong is more or less what makes an entity divine or not.
I can think of a number of western parallels to this problem of language and identity, such as the Korzybski, Sapir Whorf Hypothesis: the language you use can transform your apprehension of the cosmos (also lifted from R.A.W) Benjamin Whorf, coincidently, studied Hopi languages extensively, concluding that they have a unique apprehension of the cosmos due to a unique use of Syntax. By extension of this idea, you can follow this principle and imagine how different cultures using different language and syntax experience the cosmos (to mean everything) very differently. By extension of extension, now consider Marshall McLuhan and how the medium of the message transforms the message utterly.
The implications and findings from comparative studies of religion, in contrast to Shamanic traditions, are worthy of consideration and to me brings up another challenge to those who adhere to a single true religious faith, in what language does God speak to you?
Experimenting with polytheism may also bring clarity to the questions of Shaman to a Western mind, rather than deny and negate subjective experiences based on some absolute, I’d suggest yet again that a playful willingness to experiment with belief, temporarily. Here I might also point you to Magick and Acting as two such existing playful examples. Take notes and keep a diary, write out your thoughts if you can, I find this process helps me to order and clarify my own thoughts and consider how to share them with others.
Another distinguishing feature can be found in sacraments, how they’re consumed, with what intention and what is the Sacrament chemically made of, what may it mean symbolically. I conclude that the three major religions forbid any entheogen or psychoactive compound, rather using alcoholic wines and placebo (the eucharist wafer) to mimic ingesting flesh of the gods. Shamanic traditions on the other hand, openly and explicitly ingest and worship Peyote, Ayahuasca, Iboga and a variety of Magic Mushrooms. Evidence suggests humans and proto-humans have been getting high long before the one and only true religions were established before over-confident individuals claimed contact with the divine or stated their absolute knowledge of man, god and universe. In other words, I’ll tolerate your limited knowledge of spirituality, if you’ll tolerate mine.
One interpretation linked with the end of the Mayan Long-Count Calendar and prophecy that I like, involves the tribe (humanity) rediscovering entheogens (Magic Mushrooms) and regrouping to lead the regenesis of planet earth, which mimics the general goal of the current climate crisis movement. Through deeper connections with the planet, new maps and models and metaphors can be formed, to help assist in the regenerative process, to give the planet, flora and fauna what they need to continue doing what they do: grow naturally abundant. Psychedelics (entheogens) are critical tools for nurturing intelligence and harmony, attention to detail and the ability to cultivate compassion/empathy.
To be blunt, I see a lot of fake shit out there today, a lot of disease and ignorance. Many are lost, have been lost for a long time, some have ignored the signposts and repeated warnings, choosing to walk into the wall over and over again. You cannot recover from death, and that’s where we are heading, some sooner due to stronger ignorance. Like moths flying into a light bulb over and over again every night, not listening or caring or being willing to learn can lead to physical Death. Sometimes I feel a deeper connection with animals, plants and insects than I do with humans, especially the greedy racist xenophobic homophobic violence-prone, loud-mouthed liars and predators. Critical decisions personal and collective lie ahead, we all have work to do, billions of people need help, billions. A new world is possible, shine your light. I refuse to look away but I also refuse to pass without comment.
Yes, to me this fits the description of a global spiritual emergency and a global material emergency. Thoughts and prayers as currently practised are not working for the large population of earth. Perhaps modify our thinking and prayer so it includes indigenous and aboriginal teachings. Nurturing common ground with the Thoughts and Prayers across faiths and lead the way into deeper thoughts and deeper prayer rather than blow off the cliche’ used to mask detail. Join in thought and prayer on the regular, innovate to lead by example. Where do your thoughts go?
I am currently an apprentice Shaman of the urban poet, drummer, DJ variety. These practises or art forms make up my spiritual practice, or you could say my religion, my means to connect with non-human entities, such as my muses. If I had to choose a pre-existing spiritual tradition that hits all the bases of my interests, I’d pick Shamanism, drums, music, long poetic chants, sacred sacraments and dancing, yep.
Shamanic practice has some overlap with the original illegal rave scene in the UK and the birth of most forms of electronic music and the spontaneous gatherings of urban tribes worldwide. Seeking connection through ecstasy, there’s a kinship with ancient ancestors who share similar desires for dancing, exultation, healing, ecstasy plus a yearning to reconnect and regenerate mother earth. Terence Mckenna was on the periphery of this movement and was present in the mix that led to new tribal sound systems throughout the 1990s and into the naughties.
Mirrored by what happened in the 1960s, the 90’s birthed a new generation of apprentice Shaman, stumbling along the bardo’s seeking truth through art and beauty through harmony and dance, surrounded by neoliberal disaster capitalism and climate degeneration. Groups of fledgeling urban Shaman formed and splintered off into a thousand paths, some went into PR, marketing, advertising, super clubs and the global dance music business. Like what transpired in the late ’80s to produce Silicon Valley, Shamanic skills deployed and sold to the worldwide computer industry and the emerging telecommunications industry.
A smaller but significant tribe took other routes, continued to innovate art and music and words with respect, integrity and passion. The temple is not for sale and Shamanism is not for sale, religion and art share a lot in common, it’s the price that distinguishes the difference here, how much for the temple and paid in what kind, blood/gold/bitcoin?
Today it’s clear to me that religious or secular ideology that does not accept the fact we are all brothers and sisters rooted and sprouted from the same RNA-DNA transcript (individually expressed through our unique body sense and experience of time) are antiquated, heading for extinction like dinosaurs. Yet another distinguishing feature of indigenous spiritual practice is the shared tradition of the gathering. The idea/story/song that tells of a tribal gathering event, a gathering of humans during a global emergency (take your pick) to reconnect with mother earth listen to her advice and pass it on to ALL the people.
Some powerful thoughts and prayers are required, fierce blessings, no doubt. Perhaps entheogens play a part here if we can listen and interpret what we hear with selfless reverence. Keep in mind the power of story to transform humanity very quickly using hyper-connected media, sometimes producing a new piece of common ground with diverse peoples worldwide.
I guess that if six highly experienced Amazonian Shaman came up with a practical solution, such as a recipe for a new medicine or vaccine tomorrow, mainstream medicine and culture would not take it seriously. However, if the recipe was detailed in a documentary format with a soundtrack by DJ Shadow, guest narrators Samuel Jackson, Jamies Oliver, Gordon Ramsey and Jack Back, with a global release scheduled on Netflix, these facts can get fleshed out and reach the minds of the people, maybe leading to a new sub-genre of experimental films made with experimental techniques.
Story and narrative are powerful beyond measure. Song and music and dance and costume are even more powerful when bootstrapped, use forces don’t fight them. Have fun, challenge the gods to a duel, stand your ground, play, take down a King or Prime Minister, be a cruel dispassionate God who tortures his characters, play with paradox and explore the dark recesses of your creative mind, reach for forbidden fruit and eat it, take another. Within story world you are alike Kukulkan (Quetzalcoatl: The Winged Serpent) a roving spirit of intelligence, free to fly anywhere and anytime, free to write what you like and add a serpent’s bite, you have two wings, one tragedy the other comedy and a tale that reaches the furthest galaxies. Consider the Shamanic overtones to the animated series: Midnight Gospel, for example.
I consider the process of building a proposal and plan for a documentary, part of my spiritual practice and shamanic apprenticeship. Singing matter, dancing matter, healing matter, moving images, rooted in plants/insects/animals and flora, the tale of the gathering of the tribes.
“May the best story win”–Terence Mckenna.
Helpful Links:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hopi_time_controversy
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Midnight_Gospel
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shamanism:_Archaic_Techniques_of_Ecstasy
http://machinedrugs.com/mckenna-machines
“This is why the shaman is the remote ancestor of the poet and artist. Our need to feel part of the world seems to demand that we express ourselves through creative activity. The ultimate wellsprings of this creativity are hidden in the mystery of language. Shamanic ecstasy is an act of surrender that authenticates both the individual self and that which is surrendered to, the mystery of being. Because our maps of reality are determined by our present circumstances, we tend to lose awareness of the larger patterns of time and space. Only by gaining access to the Transcendent Other can those patterns of time and space and our role in them be glimpsed.”–Terence McKenna, Food of the Gods: The Search for the Original Tree of Knowledge.
Let it flow let it flow let it flow
Something about opening up
And spilt ink
Johnson Farage Trump Three Wanketeers
About psychology and votes
The glint in your eye
The wind in your hair
The sun bouncing about you
So many things, so little time to…
Back to breathing living survival
Back to the word, the global village
Back to the world
Colour does matter
Johnson Farage Trump Three Wanketeers
Identity, sex, music taste matters
Show me a hierarchy of your values
Otherwise the conversation’s in tatters
So many things to say, so little ear space
Where can I write and speak this exotica
Pursue the air music
The paper bag on a branch
The cat sneaking over the fence
Um’s and R’s and “Oh my god’s”
Hidden gems in every family loom
Each Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom
Hides a genius of that space
A magician to any outsider
Knows the stairs like the back of his hand
Could walk the path blindfolded
Everything in its right place
No space for change
Johnson Farage Trump Three Wanketeers
NO machine to rage against
Rage against the information
Truth and Lie
Up up up up
The bit of pavement outside your front door
The handle of your tea cup
The hole in your sock
These are the things missing
Under the torrent of geo-political deep state shades
Light in the pantry
Wisdom in your Grandma’s biscuit tin
Dew drops and flower tops
Once forgotten memories
Here now this is it
Shit or bust
Do or die
Funny or not funny
Choice is yours, future up for grabs
And for your children,and grandchildren
A day out in Devon fishing for crabs
The postman tripping up the step
Your first bike ride
Wet dinners at school
Meeting new friends saying goodbye to old
Think you muppets, think
God damn it read into the stuff
And when you see lies kick up a stink
Whatever you do in life
Do it easy and to the best of your ability
Tolerate my manias and I’ll tolerate yours
Special effects are not the cause
Special defects and special ways of hiding shit
Ask me anything and I’ll give you my answers
I want conversation
A truly democratic vote would be
Johnson Farage Trump Three Wanketeers
On an individual basis
Tick the box for getting out of the E.U
Tick the box for staying in
Each and every vote is treated with respect
Get rid of this system where a bunch of
Half witted peeps, Oasis!
drag the rest of the country
Off a cliff
WHO speaks if direct democracy
Each person can decide to remain in or leave?
Why does a country have such control of its subjects
And hold them to ransom based on its political climate
Johnson Farage Trump Three Wanketeers
Leave us the fuck alone and get out of my business
Vote for your own laws for your own family and friends
Leave my decisions up to me and my community
All talk of national and/or foreign policy is bunk
Represent yourself
Encourage others to do the same
Be the change you wish to see
Sacred Helixirs and Finnegans Wake.
The Amanita Muscaria species of toadstool or mushroom has a very special role in literary and poetic History. I have spent the last ten yrs as an indepen-denting skholar and Solar Disc Jockey [saturntablist] researching this particular spreeshees and itx fascinating maxked appearance in literature from all-around the whirrled and also her suppressed phallic; “sunsol-pressed” identity [juice] within the history of relidge John > the wanker.
Taking into consideration the current war on soma people who use soma drucks and > the resulting revoloting dissconextion of mankind with the other; the sacred plant/human interface [Gaia, nature, mamma matrix most mysterious, Anna Liviixier] Eyefli jam re:presenting a theory dearly, which does not involve the obvious identiflying & “actual ingesting of the actual wet acrid sacred sacrement herself” in her coded-masked natural I Dentitea.
An alternative that drives the hologramick fragments of the entheogenetick experience into mind without law breaking; i present a KNU approach to entheogenic research and SOMA studies > anticipating a perculiar molecular poetic revolution in the thirsty minds of the entire species.
In a hazelnutshell Finnegans Wake is arguably the most entheogenic textual mapamatrix known to our tribe. Started in 1922 and published in 1939 finnish in 2311: “The Wake” appears to contain the twisted YoshiYoshi genetic kode/voices of nature; gene over meme, chordz knotted into cord’s “ply over ply” James Joyce has contacted dechoded and re:translated natures vices and elementulls into a unique divinitory device; a shammick lickaluckaslanguage. The goodbook iz the pudding which contains the non-local filling and everything outside the earths crust > according to physicist David Bloombohmshroom.
Dj fly agaric 23 ploughing Finnegans Wake with a rake of tongues looking for entheogenic themes, brews, plants, flowers, druckstore indians and “Native Amanita Muscaria” This blog iz a KNU species of ontological investigation, inspired by the text called “Animals and Psychedelics” by the brilliant Italian botanist Giorgio Samorini.
His new “Lazarus hypothesis” seems the most vivid gloss for the tripple Goddess-theme running throughout our worldwide encyclone-mythological-religious Pisstory; “Finnegans Wake” > because…. the observable biological chordial tonal harmonick relationships floating in natures chaosmos between croaking Toads, buzzing flies, Read with whoyte sprockled amrita, ohmrita, anamwrit-her; evidence cascadingdong on the human nervous system. Dawn golden metaphor for Birth, Death and Resurrection: demonstrable in nature by the intoxicated Drosphilia or [flies] witch “lick” Annalivia Muskatears, or take a bite like Alice liddel. I rekon that James Joyce would have been very interested in Samorini’s theory about the natural “sonoluminescented” world drucking itselves; and medicating all HER co-conspirators and co-connextionx = evolution through inebriation, happyness and optimizzim by eating and drinking what you damn well like!
Intoxicated and [remixed] evolution through using nothing-but [poetic] inebriation might be a legal loop-a-whirl around our current draconian laws and totalitarian governornaents who want to squash any “communion with nature” whithout barcodz, patents and stock options in (H)armaments. Therefore Finnegans Wake, in my humble opinion, is the KNU LSD!
The KNU paper Mushroom trip (poetry) > the new DMThorder flash. Spilling Neurolinguistic Correlative affinitea which removes the Frescoe suface to reveal hidden entheogens chemically time-sealed to interact with the human nervous system at critical “jumps” in evolution. FW is precisely isomorphic with the Great Tripple Goddess herself, “Rotorio” the word birth spun on a platter > intoxicating fires-in-the-head, Anna Livia Portabello: Amanita Mokshamanism. Amen.
The presence of Celtic, Egyptian, French, Eurasian, Sanskrit, Old English and Welsh to name a few languages synthesized into the wake provides a healthy base for any twentyfirst century biological, mycological, or genetic research. In fact; amongst scholars and Academics circumnavigating the information > the Wake provides an incalculable Ocixon of information; like an entire dream dictionary of the species perhaps? Lets hope that in the future Finnegans Wake by the brilliant anarchist poet James Joyce can be a bible for the poetic revolution. An intellectual revolutionary alphabetic vortexor breeding ground, a zoo; in which the mind of nature reclaims her place as mamma matrix most mysterious in the minds of the people and breaks out of the pages and into your local enviroment like Jahman(G)
The following textual gallery are a very rare and priceless collection of fossilized poems from only the first 23 pages of Finnegans Wake. With them i will signify the bugining of this neverending search for SOMA in Finnegans Wake.
Sin clearly
Disc Jockey – Fly Agaric/Acrillic 23
3. Riverrun
Adam’s
Armorica
Gorgios
malt
bababadalgharghta
humptyhillhead
Livvy
oystrygods
Whoyteboyce of Hoodie Head
boomeringstroms
4. Oaks of ald
elms leap
Phall
pharce
phoenish
tete in a tub
guenneses
hod
buildung
malltitude
liquor wheretwin twas
Risengeborg
helio
O’ you’re vine!
agentlike
thundersday
5. cubehouse
thunder
cchoruysh
muzzlenimiissilehims
Cropherb
ivvy’s holired abbles *
hippohobbilies
basilikerks
aeropagods
domecreepers
mud murumd
hoddit
mastabatoom
Fillagain’s chrissormiss wake *
Agog and magog
agrog
6.barrowload of guenesis
platterplate
Roundthehead
swimswamswum
wake him
Danu U’Dunnell’s foamous olde Dobbelin ayle
quaffoff
flowerwhite bodey
samosalar
agapemonides
7.
brella
piddle med puddle
tarabom tarabom
Wallingstone national museaum
waterloose country
prettilees
museomound free. Welsh
pousseypram
This way to the museyroom
Willingdone Museyroom
Cap
Prooshious x 4
(Bullsfoot! Fine!)
goldtin spurs
wartrews
bog lipoleum
nayther bag nor bug
Touchole Fitz Tuomush. *
Delian alps. *
crimealine of the alps
legahorns
8. sexcaliber
Sunshat
Fieldgaze
jillous agincourting
secred word *
damn fairy ann
twelvemile cowchooks
drink a sip, dranksup
guinnes
(Bullsear! Play!)
Brum! Brum! Cumbrum!
Goat strip Finnlambs
bunkersheels
Gambariste della porca!
9. bombshoob *
Culpenhelp
madrashattaras
Pukkaru! Pukka Yurap!
doorforhim
(Bullseye! Game!)
How Copenhagen ended.
This way the museyroom.
severallittle
whinealittle
Thon’s flash
Thon’s blowing toomcracks
burymeleg
peacefugle
potmother *
powwows in beggybaggy
10.
muddy kissmans
militopucos
maps, keys and woodpiles
nightgarters
nickelly nacks
muchears *
nice kettle of fruit
boosoloom
11. firstlings
two mounds
heegills
somepotreek
mickos!
Nicholas Proud
Corkhill
bergamoors
Summerhill
Constitutionhill
likelihood *
macroborg
microbirg
sovereign punned *
Hush! Caution! Echoland
mujikal *
mausolime wall. Fimfim fimfim
Wheatstone’s magic lyer * [neural lyre!]
A bulbenboss surmounted upon an
12. alderman
o’brine a’bride
popeye antipop
1132 A.D
quickenshoon *
brazenlockt
tome of Liber Lividus, (toh!)
stone pine
13. grasses the herb trinity shams lowliness
Hebear
Hairyman the cornflowers
duskrose
Goatstown hedges, twolips
whitethorn
redthorn *
Knockmaroon *
Formoreans
Firebugs and the Joynts have thrown up jerrybuilding
(confusium hold them!)
Pluck me while i blush
Hop!
shroonk his plodsfoot
mammamuscles most mousterious *
a dragon man
marrogbones. (Cave!)
blown monk sewer?
14. weak oach
Dungtarf
Boohooru
a piece of oak.
Ghinees hies good for you.
greytcloak
puddinstone
rexroom *
rawhoney ***
15.
rutterdamrotter
Mothering rue. *
alp on earwig, drukn on ild
thonthorstrok, thing mud.
abcedminded
16. Meades and porsons. The meandertale, aloss and again,
head-in-cloudsbagawards
holos
message in their mouths
17. littlesons
i ate the wind
wrunes for ever
the drinking
ramskin *
terracook in the muttheringpot
Gutenmorg *
rubrikredd out of the wordpress
papyr is meed of, made of
Daleth, mahomahouma
pomme full grave *
golden youths that wanted gelding [lealittlesons]
prytty pyrrique
experctungpelick! Veil, volantine, valentine *
20. keep the peacewave
mickelmassed
Livia Noanswa?
libe we drink
Unfru-Chikada-Uru-Wukru
whines for my wedding
Anam muck
Did ye drink me doornail?
21.
Devlin
sycamore
pouch, gloves, bricket, kerchief, ring and amberulla
Nobucketnozzler
Ginnghis Khan
Honey was the holiest thing ever was, hive, comb and earwax
nectar cup *
Basilico’s ointment
sacred rooftree
Salmon House *
Begog
G.O.G
buddhoch
22. millioncandled eye of Tuskar
bung king
elmstree twelve urchins
Maccullaghmore
hogglebully
Leatherbags Reynolds
Buggaloffs
falconplumes
tropic of copricapron
Isid, Totumcalmum
Christpatrick’s
Dr tipples Vi-Cocoa
Coal’s short but we’ve plenty
23. of bog in the yard. And barley’s up again, begrained to it. *
spelling beesknees
tables by mudapplication.
bag of knicks, playing postman’s knock round the diggings
in her white of gold with a touch of ivy *
Essie Shanahan
You remember Essie in our Lunna’s Convent?
Holly Merry *
ruddyberry *
Pia de Purebelle
redminors riots
Williamswoodsmenu
whirligigmagees
cachucha
Ezekiel Irons
he’s spooring *
Portobello to float the pomeroy *
Wramawitch
queenoveire. Arrah
Harry chap storyan grass women plethy good trout. Shakeshands.
“Bulbous bass and fragmented Vulva look broad and membrainus Apple-white
Sunlight fleece, tick
Toxicorange juices are Strained flowing pissgolden brown
Texture Like sun,
Spasm war
Luciditea in the sky with dyedmoons.
Paint your bee leaf.
Heavy Copper grasshopper sunsets scroll, dj Fly Agaric/Acrillic href=”http://www.maybelogic.org/maybequarterly/01/0121FlyUntitled.htm
Please click on the following link and check out DJ fly agaric 23 on trax 2 and 9.
http://www.abstractlogix.com/news_view.php?idno=85
Please send thanks for my unpaid hard work to continue the psychedelic revolution, over the last four years, to somebody else who is less fortunate than yourselves. Maybe somebody with no money, no home or job or feedback. Thanks DJ fly agaric 23
The following is a remixed fairytale under construction. Enjoy
Acrillic
Deerunk upon way over maybe aboat thirteen cups for aboat thirteen months of a Kullendar, i guess eye was stumbling cristcrossin the bayouliffeystour outside the steppin stones pub, skippin cyclikal snare circle’s beneath nine babblin brooklynn bbbrownstone marrone-castagnu colored chestnut arches of the Liffeystour viaduct. Looking skylyke at starrysporia near lye town lyk – eye woz dayzed and derrunk, kungfused together with euphoria and i sed aloft –
“Oh wow Lady dee!
look at the stars man
check tha.”
Plop. Swurlysquirl. shheeeteyez fell into tigerskin-water, wetsox snakeflow. Oh no. Suckling vortexs pulling me under, Steerbridge undercurrents got a hold ov my heart now, no escaping love currents; strong and sturrdy. i’m a wet muffin.
“Death alive!” i thought,”i’ll be drowndeadderunken sunk silly me for sure! Swimmajikicking, Nuotare, Zwemmen, swommen, swimmin for me dear old flylyf. Armies twizzlynn; windmilling cedar branch after branch, covered in rusty salmon flesh and fuzzy dark guinness hair; beaver coffee toffee syrup fur. “Where’s my ferry man? don’t let me drown and visit the deepdead river soul’s, oh lord no, i must swim upinfinite stream then”
Summerhow eye manage to scramble ashore from churning miss Leafystar, shocked from headcold to foottoestitoes – confronted with a knu re:historic landbrushedscape, way way way before the end of the beginning of zepwynetymepiss, or so it feels to my frozen clotted-memoryburgs.
Cartoony bullbust above the whorizon-axis hung she – giganormous milky southern knocker of skypot. Peeping out through a kraftykut peephole in the starbra spandangled, blackbody background stage-curtain. “Oh’ laydee deedubs.” To the nord, est, ovest and sud eye gandid, nothing but bogclogga muckamuck and stale clay everywhence.
Bogboggeybhongbhangpuckpocketpouchpucaphookabolgamuckablagbagginz. Phoukin ell, I maybe stuck in bogscape for all eternity, Oh Shyty! Skratchin me yed with azure river pucapickled flingerpickers i blurted out me gob; helluva singing and boogie lyelabyebyes. Ode to our ladies grace!
ouch! felt lyek struckaneen or sumert took old of me gutter pouch and churned my inside tides aboat – tideturned – moonblender on a boat in my jellywhalebelly, i could feel my easter egg up-rising, it was early December in San Franstarburg, I‘m turning sickly bewildered, cramped and i’m wonderinglord what to do? and wonderinglord where blue tidalfeelings inside wood lead me if i started wearing more blue colored clothing and effects? My attention was highjacket by this very great grande full-cream knocker in the sky, in a thunderflash it had turned bluack. Blueberry sauce moonrivers bluack had bustbursted their butter blew wack bank’s and flooded her apple breasted surface with inky thick hues. Phuckin weirdmate, im tellin ya. We erd.
Moving fast, scrambled glitch descending from herveins; alianstrange, unfamiliar, utterly boglingus tin dazzle kamikazequetzalconda. Flaming technicolor. Sun blazing against piercing eyes. Bananananda legbeak yellow bus. Babies buttock capped his slick head. Very Slowly, as it drew nearer, the u.f.o morphed burningbirdish; battle of the planets ish, balded burningbird of fire scream creaming TzolkienParker bopplyk. Loud squarkin phukoff terrordragonbatadactals. Just behind this sonosovereign of providence the ghost of ‘Jimmy Hendrix fades into being; Mahatmamishmashmavishnukali Arckestral manuvers; raga sagas upon myndstage for a split secund; Sparking up his parafinn smuthered axe. A phantom dreamy Hendrix Just beginning to scream:
“Hot dam and hell fire, if six was nine!”
Swooping swooshdown the dinosaur gracefully lands next to me, looks me full in the moonlightface, So close. Eye cd/ clearly read the mottogandha shaved – wurrldsteel – upon hir crestnuts. “Wee the People of the Euroknighted States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the Euroknighted States of Amirrorkle.”
Without using spokewords, eye communicated through dreamypalelogic many spinning cyclesaga’s of tymetrouble to the giant chickenlookin chuckchuck. Revolutionary Kullendear. Drunken turkey flyfall buzzed buzzard severnlyf brooks splashing, swimtripkick ashore, freestyle to bogpockland, severn county titles and choirs slungsongs; bewilderdead depressed lost lonely blues now, hopelessly lost, baby lion lynn, burried kittens mudpiemound dribble pillow lusty – ow phuk i’m pissed. The letter i messed up.
“Flyni,” squarked the dinosaur. After a lungful thought moment, “I’ll fly you right out of this stinking inferno. I got wings flinn i-boypod buddy, look at these.”
“All right! that sounds great, thanks man,” i spurted; beastrode the fliyebirdee; wondering why the firebird chose to speak english to me? and if a bird was able to learn languages somehow, which would it choose primarily, and why? Enochian? Irish Gaelic? Greek? Eyetal? Portchugeese?
Up and up we flew in quicktime clock-blue air. High, hoog, alto, up and up zoomin quick as berries.
“Where we eddin, sur ?” i said, as we flew over lyekingsfordbridge
herbengarden.
“Hold your lymee tongue, fli, mind your own dizziness, and don’t be interfering with the commercio of others now.”
” Gli affari sono affari” eye imagined
“Shush flyangelo,” says the flamebird
So i bit my murmelen and held on tight.
Sleek and baldhead as kojack, with tagliente-blonde talons, still
gripping an olive branch and some arrows, he flew onward alla two dwar. Those piercing oogs reminded me memory of the stunning seal of the SicklyStatisticks of Amirikle. Something seems to be askyouwiffy, this strange bird and his motto. How can a bird possibly carry my weight and the Escutcheon, and a scroll? No wonder it skritches lyke that lucy, poor buzzards – overloaded and overbirdened – overgrown and over woostershe:her now. “Oh my goodness” Together we flew on thin air, and the firebird talked and talked…and he went on and on like a broken looping phonograph record; and we flew to my greatest astonishment, all the way up to Lady daybookreader hershelf.
“Flyni,” said the burred, “im tired after flying; get off me and sit down on the moon until i rest myself awhile. Hang onto that vadjra thunderookfinn sticking out the side of the moon over there, see it?”
“No way man, i’d flail ‘n fall again, that would be twice and Christ, i would be smashed to smitherrunes on the hard earth below; flat as a pancake, split like humpty O’raysiris. Djed eye would be, Deada thon a snail impaled on a doornail.”
“Not at all, Flyknee,” said he; “Catch hold of that hook and hang out a while, go on get off me now. Now”
“i wanna go ohm for phuck’s sake, that’s all.”
“Maybe flyni, Maybe.” bawled the bald hawk
“Foul bloody flirebird,” i said under my breath, in a sly black kuntree-eyerash dialcentuated cypher, for fear he’d know wot i said. Eye got off his back with my heavy heart, took a hold of the sharkhookfinn, and squatted down upon the great creamy space bub, contemplating telepathic jazz flatted seventh vamps in F#.
“Good morning to you, Flyni,” said the bird, wings fanned out, picturesque, spanish, spanning blackdrop slilver sunmu’n sparkle of spandangled outerstella regions. For a brief moment i grokked the whole seal – obverse and perversely spreadeadoggled – turning in the luce affinity between transvestcentdented stars and the familiar earthstar below. The precious metalmoony affinitea between star’s and sterlingling. Panspermia and panning for gold, spanning the galaxy for mold so i wos told
“I am the wings of providence and karma, here’s your manifest drama for taking my offspring from their nest, you stole my eggs remember flyni, remember those egg’s?”
“Ugly Amerikaanse eland, is this the way you serve me at last?
Mansteen! You really are a bird of pray! Faith, Il tempo e denaro. Arrrgh. Zeeduivel. U-bent devil!
My funny babble woz no use – sounded out of context and could have been delivered with more subtle nest – he spread out his mckarmic wings and burst out laffin, flying and laughing away he flew. I sungslang after him with my candy sweet lyelabye’s and bellard’s, chillin on one leg that he would return sun. Dolore…sorrow flippinfly awayz with him. Go on blues be gone. I don’t want you no more.
Stuck inside another pickle jar with Dutch pekelen i cryed and zang zouten tears for fears of grief, “why me? why fli?” i blurted. All at once a leak sprung in the middle of the moon, out the leak came oozing liquid mirrorstuff, swirling misteariousflee swurly half cream. Gooing morph started forming pickledographs in front of me oogs; forming the dude in the moony, eye knu im by his long lookin gray chin, and his cheesy cracked dry smile.
“Good next week to you, Flyni. Wot’s up with yourself?”
“Not much,” i harped, rather calmly.
“What in the world brought you out here to the moon Flyni?”
So, i reeled out my tongue twisted tale; i wuss a tinkle pissed dronken on maybe tirteen grails of sealsons and suns finest brew; slipped and fell into the river Liffeystour; swam for me lyf and then became stranded on a re:historick islandbrushscape. I continued to wind and weave my multistory with extra luminous details and spiritual outsights aboat the sung i singh and the rockthrone, which i had perched upon to think, and how i lost my way in the phooken boggaclog, and also i added how the slybird of prayer promissed to fly me out of it, but instead highjacked-me-up to the big boob, while telling me all about the firebird suite and how his Eagle brother was in the milliterry, and how they were planning to highjacket the moon very soon.
“Flyni, you must not stay here.” said the loony critter
“Eye don’t wanna be here man! did you hear what i just said? i was
kidnapped and brought here against my will by this crazy bird! yo, how am i gunner get back ohm tu buggeridge man? I know i must leave, but tell me moondude – how shall i go?
“That’s your bizzinesst, bee off in less than no tyme!” snapped the grumpy cheeseball. “Flyem doin no arm ere sur, only holding on fo my dear lyf by this vajrafinn ooky, i don’t wanna fall to morto and be splatted tommatoe”
“That’s what you must not do, flyni.”
“im not let tin go mi hold you phoukin moonatrick. I’ll be djedead wunt eye.”
Without a word he pulls out a massive crooked Qcumber from hiss crack house and gives two bhang’s on the sharkfinn huck which wuz oldin me up, and wallop! – it split’s in twice.
“Good morning to you Flyni,” the spiteful old moonguy sez, as he watches me fall, rolling, tumbling, zwerverin clappers with half a vadjra tight in my grasp, falling Luce. Again. Moksha.
“Ghod alp me” i mumbled, on my decent to the unknown, again. Must i flie to stay awake?
And no sooner had these wurds left my lips unto the air that whizzum – what should fly by my earwig but a fluck of whirled geese, all the way from me ohm town boggeridge, how else could they have know me? The old gander who was their general turned his noggin and cried out to me;
“Is that you flyni?”
“The samesame,” said eye, not a bit fluxed at what he said for flyni was, by this time, experienced with bewilderment, phase, verbijstering, trickery, drunkenness, hallucination and surprise. Besides, i knew him from back in the daze before tyme. It felt like we were brothers for a moment, bonded by birth placenter.
“Falling falling fallen you are, Flyni,” says he
“An understate-ment your honor!”
“And where on earth are you going so fast?” said the commander gander, since i just noticed his stripes, so i unfolded to him flibagins snake charm; too much woest worden honingsap, the fall, the swim to isola re:historica, stuck in the stinking muckapucka, and the flagming struisvogel thief who flew me up to the moonmiller while rappin ronin strange axis stories of his vortex brother in the barmyarmy who planned to take over the under udder with a fabulose race of ‘Princess Annuki Chicken Hawk Eagllette’s, and how the spiteful old moldy dudemoon man, who should have been a woman called Dianna, snapped the kalkamandollardajra with his crooked Qcumber which was keeping me up and sent me tumbledumpty down bouwvallig; sovereign sungold coin flung dropped wishingwell.
“Flyni,” said he, “I’ll save your sorry ass, grab onto my legs and i’ll stop you falling any further.”
“Sweet, dolce is your hand in a pitcher of honigsap, my gioiello,” says i, and grabbed the gander by the leg and we flew off fast as gofast with the rest of a six pack or dozen wildeyed muther flockers.
We flew and flied and volair and flown and vliger and flew, till we came right over the wyde oceaan blu. Where the phook am i going now i thought, where to? The Ocean of potion, the knu whirred Wu?
“Fly to terra, fli to land, if you please. Sir!”
“it’s impossible flyni, because you see we are flocking to Slyberrya. We all like to koryack around june 21st each year.”
“Cyberia! that’s phunkin month’s away, in some foreign part of the world, it’s gonna tek us yonkers mon, i just wanna go Ohm, please take me ohm.”
“Hold your flipping tongue,”
Once more pleading for my dear lyf i pray for Amirrorkle and sure as war an oil tanker sailed into sight below us, carrying stolen loot from the miggle est back to Amirickle i guess.
“Can you just drop me off here on the oil tanker Gandhi mate?” i asked.
“if you must, you must, i think you have mist it though. There you go…take your own way – and don’t call me gandhi again flyni, all right,”
With that he opened his claw, dropping me down to the blackpirate tinkertanker below. Sure as day i missed the boat and came down sploshington into illicHcilli oceanpond, sinking down through the churning asparagus broth schimen, down, deep downgreen emerald, falling lucifer mossrocks, eye gave up on myself then forever, when, out of the ruddy hulk warters a porpoise came swamming right close up to me, right up close enough to kiss me, and i think i might while she’s skratchin her blow hole, and stretching her finns out after a good nights sleep i bet, yeah, she looked me full in the face with some Hunab ku transcendent oogles and never a word of English she did say – thank goodness – but, lifting up her tail, she splashed me all over again with cold salt water, the wet stuff, not the words here; until there wore a dry stitch upon my boggysoggy carcass. I remembered the firebird and how he reached my mind without words with them pickledgraffs, and i was beginning to receive signals from the dolphin about spacetimespace and outermindbrainplace things and holographic thoughtfacetime stuff, then i heard a distinctive angel’s voice, slightly pissed in the murky distance; a voice and tone i mecognized.
“Wake up stephan you lazy phuka!”
There she was – a man eater – splashing agua all over me hop-stinking carcuss, my beautiful wyf had metamorphosed from a mermaid into a raging bullhound alarm clock. I was ringing wet.
“Get up, stand up!”
“Why do you lye under them ould walls of boggarigapooka huh? it’s such a mucky stinking baga wind. Honeysap maybe the death of you Stephan…one of these daze you’ll stay drunken sleepin and never wake agen! Never in a month of sun days will you learn your lesson from them moonshine bird brewers.
Spun from an Irish fairy tale about Daniel O’ Rourke, collected in County Cork by Thomas Crofton Croker (1870)
Re:mixed by Fly Agaric23/Acrillic
Copyleft 21:12:2012 Fly Agaric 23
DEEP SCRATCH 