Better living within the machine.

(Author: Immanuel G. Moon, Stardate 1997)

Dread K departed the morning express into another anonymous day. As a member of ThE SeEN Soc., she knew that today was the day. Armed with the second book. This was her time.

“After all, they are having some fucking bad times up there in the city,” the pansy-boy DJ exclaimed into the microphone, in the empty midnight moonlight lit room of the community radio station.

Dreadlocked rastamen keep lookout over the castle embattlements. They let the white rider through the drawbridge. About three hundred thousand years later, there we see her again, soul splattering the sunset sky with the electric guitar playing.

Better living within the machine.

The three men were just black-imitation. A sweetening for the bow. A nice disk of fun.

The medusa rap-scheme: Part low … greater acres nine four complex Nine coins onto itself begin appear kind fake / The selling point: / Image before the bed, a resplendent dance-field / Towards Clown nine / Behind a mid-shrine between brown and white / A course of sleeping / Asillyturn of events

“Now for something that is very special to my heart. The sounds of an artist who lives in … Clayton?”

The astro-naught fed the huge monster, swooping and clawing its prey. How had he, Dr. Krawson of NASA, managed to fall into such an obvious trap? Time research, as had been common primary school knowledge for 2000 centuries, is the most dangerous of all discourses. One philosophical slip, and the history of an entire earth could be damaged. This idea of it was this. That this universe, this one of pastures and hills, greenery, little kids chasing each other in the summer breeze, of games and songs and flowers, of everything, mortgages and state elections and … above all else … NASA … do you wish to tell me that this world is to be but a mere envelope that mirrors in reflection something deeper and more real?

“I do,” said the dog.

Well, I’ll be.

Sometimes you gotta speak in tongues, he he he.

Against a blue sky of snare drums, / Between a thousand appreciative audience members, / Annointed by the Professor, / Alotted a plot of land, /Against a blue sky of snare drums.

Inside the lounge-room, the two trippers grinned – a little unsurely — at each other. Kevin A., 23, a part time maths major at the local polytechnic. Full-time producer, has done several outdoor raves and one club performance to date.  The girl was Nancy C., 24, a full time psychology graduate student. Her green Chinese-Indian eyes blinked. He considered that whatever happened next would be interesting, at least, to listen to.

I might call myself “Christian funk band”. That’s what I’ll call myself, thought the young man. Give the album logo a Funkadelic font, too. That’d look really cool. As we get older, we get sillier. It was after his 25th birthday that he began to feel a bit uneasy about things. A kind of vague paranoia had come over him, like a tension in his chest. But then the business of the trade began.

It was a wet morning for December. The weather of the now is progressively degenerating from that of the youth, thought the guy, running to catch his morning office train. Could it be that the weather was psychological or was there a deeper excuse? The Zen koan: the wind blowing the flag or the flag moving the wind. Maybe all imagined? And I mean all.

It was weeks later, during a holiday in the Bahamas, in fact, that he realized what had occurred on that fateful day. It was a turning point in his conception of what was needed to succeed. It was the ability to snake your way to the end of the gate, and blow up those who inhabit its sanctum … but also to never find oneself in any need to use this ability.

The day the listeners of the mandate awoke in their thousands / To the beat of a new drum. It was too late, too late in their hands.

Buttursworth recited the poem as he fixed his mind, meditating beneath a thousand cloves. By then it was too late, the herald exclaimed, excopiously! Mine is the inner ear, the eyes of peace, the need for twoship. Beneath the clouds, the juice of oranges in years between many ear.

The Medusa Rap-Scheme

The medusa rap-scheme

Part low … greater acres nine four complex
Nine coins onto itself begin appear kind
Fake

Atlas. Minimal four …
At f- minestible c like wrong.
Green and red make the Micro-surfeit..

Between the music and the relationship
The relationship between who and the music
Against/for the
Acres of
Fields

The selling point:
Image before the bed, a resplendent dance-field
Towards Clown nine
Behind a mid-shrine between brown and white
A course of sleeping
Asillyturn of events

It’s not only a trace, but a jungle.

Against a blue sky of snare drums,
Between a thousand appreciative audience members,
Annointed by the Professor,
Alotted a plot of land,
Against a blue sky of snare drums.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21.

A nother brother.

Again they never got over it man. They ain’t never been the same, man. You know that I’ve been back in streets the canny thing about the money investment scheme is that someone actually give a dame by dear but then you always knew didn’t you? A school unto itself this kind of voice is a bit of a channeled voice don’t you think … then again, you always were one to try this again and again? Feeling seedy? Or else, but the words come out well.

“It was during this month that an essential distancing is reached between the intellectual and personal spheres of Freud and Jung.

A distancing that was to continue until the end of their lives. Freud felt that Jung was becoming increasingly commercial in his songs, penning, with the express encouragement of Mrs. Freud, “How can you sleep?”, a biting criticism of the Jungian one. Jung is fuzzy, a deliberate …

And so the bloody text goes. Verbal stomach-upset. But, all the same, Freud is the gorilla of the space, a real alpha.  It’s like … one is the top alpha male, and the other is definitely lower in the kingdom.”

–        Immanuel G. Moon, December 2001

But does that mean that Jung is an illegitimate father of his former teacher and collaborator? No, he too is a gorilla. Planet of the apes is not meant to be an allegory – at least, if you want to take a more amusing reevaluation of it. It is our planet. (!) Our planet, after a particularly lousy rave.

 Loop back. Watching Freddy’s Nightmares … getting scared … but eating popcorn.

He licked his lips nervously, surveying the patch of rival rhymers and their unwelcome kin. Dwarves and spirits they were, internally. By the swell of moonlight, he could just as well make out their real, paranoid forms. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then, at least, closed it in the realization that this was the end of the story.

Man

(Fragment of a play by Immanuel G. Moon, 1995)

[Videotape of experimental play, in student theatre. All actors are pasty looking undergraduates.]

Man: The key to marius. Of the divine hut of stellar nine.

Woman: A cool five hundred. That’s all that’s needed. A little sexual tension to jazz things up.

Old man: … but to be the poster boy … a kind of system before the five nines of dimension eight. A fifty thousand ransom …

Bike rider: A git a simply fathered object of nine … eight … towards it all.

A kind of simplicity we don’t have anymore like a dream report of a newspaper in the future. A kind of loveless drug-reduction program. Or another kind of random word play. But we are of this reality.

All: A brand new reality!

[Much later.]

Man: Do you think much of that meant anything? I mean, do you think it was something worth preserving, or should be preserved in a more … I don’t know … permanent form?

[Pause. No response.]

Well … ?

Woman[Entering with washing]: Sorry, I couldn’t hear any of that …

Man: I was wondering if you wanted some of this wine?

***

A picture of absolute emptiness. He thought, “We finally made it, if ‘made’ and ‘it’ are appropriate verb and objects to frame my current state of mind.”

Could it be a snake? Towards a new horizon, drinking in new shores of divinity. That was in the rock star’s cosmic mind as fans glistened in the horizon. Between me and him, thought the early 20th century barmaid, it could very well be one.

A nothing inside the mind of the astro-nought. He had been somewhere, had come from somewhere, but this – this place now – was a nowhere. “Therefore, no me.” How puzzling, he thought.

He boarded the air-o-craft. “Too much LSD.” Now his mind was moving into 2nd gear, faster and faster up the hill of the … future? A bunch of ravers, smoking cigarettes, trying to take the edge off. Outside the rainy dockland warehouse. That’s quite different from California, 1968. With wifey by this side on the air-o-craft: “Dave, you tripping?”

He smiled, white teeth against an ebony in entwined new fabric. This guy king of the space. A god-rap in person.

He felt like a rabbi in the 21st century! A lizard-king in another dimension. And she had to bring him down from it L Aw, shucks honey, thought the bastard. A billion dreams he had had!! A booming voice banding down the billion hands of billiton-steel. A chorus of board members reinventing the machine. A Winston in 1984. A vine inside the earth-face. A second voice.

The gardener

Reworking of Tagore’s poem, “The Gardener”.

I will give up my other work.
I will throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do not send
me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests.
But make me the gardener of your garden.

This oath struck the Vanguard as important: withdrawal from the dukka/jihad strategy.

The smaller line at the bottom of the piece come from the middle of the poem:

When the two sisters go to fetch water, they come to this spot and they smile.

The two sisters are the upper and lower aspects of the plane of immanence. The “smile” (it’s also known as “Sara’s laugh” in Torah) is a waveform of destruction/reconstruction that operates across the four rivers of reality (water, milk, wine and honey).

In the Name of the Waveform

all through the darkness
eternal repose
enter the waveform
summation embers

your chance and chaos
her fingers through form
whiteness of breathing
she runs up a storm

reject religion
apart crystallize
you’re just a recall
while memory’s wiped

their world’s a chaos
her fingers through form
whiteness of breathing
she runs up a storm

throughout the brilliance
eternal repose
in the name of the waveform
summation embers

your fourfold flight
through rivers of mind
your perfect breathing
derivative line

come into the fort and leave all mara behind
lock down your land and leave illusion behind
come into the fort and leave all mara behind
lock down your land and leave illusion behind