A Steaming Cup of Groupspeak Brothel Broth

Posted by Erik Moshe on Friday, March 1, 2013 Under: Poetry


Groupspeak.

A savage attraction to spheres.

King Seti’s peculiarities.

Djinn in a hovel.

Vein symphonics, chord quartet.

Smears on the laboratory window.

Why the sand’s draft is so sweepingly potent. Why the potential for oil to adjoin with its half-brother water is the single most threatening aspect in desert survival fare. The 10 Commandments was filmed over beige turpentine soil like this. Greek columns were erected for the same reason. The statutes that make the spheres of influence the spheres of gospel. The inner circles of inner circles are a human concoction! Our laws, our governments, our beliefs, our pressure to behave, conform, provide, live in the grid, prosper by obedience, accept the monkey wrench - is being bogged down by the equator pews. A man in church places his behind against the workbench where the exotic tree leaves and vines form the jungle’s own makeshift throne. He sits on loose leaf paperweights but the chair upholds his humanitarian posture for a desired period of time. He lives in a luxury home while the treasure is his two little girls sleeping in a small bunk bed. Free trade reform is regenerated when they awaken, a tale of two city girls with chips dangling from their mouths as they ride the high horse to boarding schools. They just know they’ll go to Malaysia this year and fence with the zoologist’s critter students, tiny and keen leaping frogs and macaques holding Mancala marbles in their balled fists like sparkling orbs containing multiple multiverses. They mope inadvertently while inverted heel hooks are always in close range. Get a leg up on your future at a risk, they say. Go for a figure four lock while you figured four years would’ve brought you a college degree worth hugging materialism for. Knowledge materialism, uniformity, elitism, speech-isms, Wadsworth, Longfellow, Henry Ford. Warping industrialism with practical Ecuadorian shaman folklore and you have capitalism with a certain azure spice. Chile pepper grounds so you can raise your ayahuasca eyebrow imprints, or boast bear claws on the chest by way of Indian body art as a manifesto of sorts.

Nature documentaries never show you the half of it. You miss the real feeding that occurs when the indigenous tribe begins to identify with the video cameras and the Capri suns. Their sun gods don’t allow for that type of vibe-killing. The tribe is resilient, yet the tribe is facilitating a human drive to acquire the fiery fruits that offer themselves so willingly. The terrain is good. The terra is ripe for diversified digesting. Our brains are the pearls; the oysters show themselves when the starlight of the Gliese system probes the ocean like searchlight spectacles. This may be the end of an abnormal abstraction. You will never see King Seti like this again. Not in those constellation pajamas.

Go back to sleep.

In : Poetry 



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