Teacher

Nietzsche (1892/1966) stated, "One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil."

feeling fragile

It is sexy because it is not allowed

Muses - Draft I

The muses are tired
They feel rejected by the angels
Who give work that godly touch
The angels have claimed popularity
And their angelic glow offers little space for debate
The slither through the heavens stealing prayers
Which should really be directed to the muse
The angels guide and grant serenely
And do not correct modern thought
As it informs the believer to stay close to the sounds that make you feel alive
To nourish the tender human communication through God

Forget your fear of words from the past
The muses sleeps due to the fear of language
She is leaping from land to land
Searching for a carrier
She once found habitation in the hearts of Wordsworth and Rumi
She once sprinted in the lives of Greek mysteries
In physics and maths, Yet in prose no longer
Maths and science are now her new domains
And she is slightly bored
For you cannot expect to give life to bodies devoid of expression
She wishes to once again dance across calligraphic words which can burn like blood
She wishes to fuel the cocaine running its way through your system

For the muse takes joy in baptising all those who choose to gulp the dark water
She dances in the orifices of the subtle link that joins the senses to the core of the inner flesh
If you remain in her slithers between life and death
You too will sing of perpetually shivering between two breezes
Hiding in the broken oath of the ode
You too will suck the life from the body of the dancer
Defy sense and become a schizophrenic
The rose which has become too sweet due to Shakespeare’s influence
Will become a menacing dagger
Allow it to bloom in a field of broken glass
As the muse smashes her feet in offered sacrament
Jets of blood spurting from each of her orifices

If she lacks response
Give her a violent kick
Not a struggle of thought
The machines are tiring her
Turn them off and sit in silence with the muse, state your demands
She has become lazy due to her lack of abode
She is only given a call in the most desperate moments
As the race of human beings wish for life over death
Fearing the possibility of dying from passion
They refuse to sign the contract
Yet, your personal vituperative demands
Create in her the blowfly of boredom
For this reason she sleeps
The muse is sleeping due to your lack of sacrifice
Lack of penance or renunciation
You dream of enlightenment
Yet, do not fancy to lock yourself in a cave
As did Francis of Assisi
Or to starve yourself to death
As did Simone Weil
You understand that there is a thin line between losing a heads
Or succeeding in their witchery
Yet, you make no move to tempt your way to oblivion
As did Queen Mary
For these reasons, your fate will be decided
In the tender necklace of sleep

Your neck will be cut with faintly remembered words
The muse knows that the poet is not brave
But has lowered to the ridiculous fate
Of doing what anyone can do
Yet few choose to
Play with their lives
For pain is the only real way to keep the muse alive
Sweeping the earth in deadly defiance to capitalism
When the muse sees the afflicted she appears
Eagerly racing to beat the angels
Writing an epitaph of sensation in shaky hand
For you cannot expect her to give life to bodies devoid of expression
Deleuze and Plath succumb to the calls
At the time of their death
The marrow sucked dry and offered as sacrifice
In their death, their bodies have no voice, no colour
But the muse heard and offered her presence
Insight was gained by climbing inside the bag ladies clothes
Sleeping beside her as they rested

If she gifts you with the words of prose
Run screaming in tribal pleasure through the fields chasing after those words
Catch the words in whatever order they appear
For there is no map or discipline
Backwards in Greek, Latin or a twisted frenzy
Gag out the tired voices of tin
Sing the blues to the artifices of your soul
Wipe the tears of ice which transported her message
Allow her to obliterate the memory of this moisture less world
Worship the men in abandoned whorehouses
Worship her by write a poem that changes everything
Which exhausts
That which I speak of is an exorcism
There is a reason that spirits are the choice of drink for the artist
Do not wonder on why men deserve your rhyme
Or of their worth
You are solely the vessel of communion
Give wisdom to the sacrificial lamb
Be rid of the ego which restricts you like a contracting mathematical equation
Where geometry borders on dream
Follow your soul as it seeks to escape the tiny confines of the body
I have only met the muse twice
If you see her
Seduce her
Weave poetry into her luscious locks
She is a succubus
A naked nymph, burning with naïve hope
Allow yourself to be the 80 year old woman
Stamping your demanding foot in between thin waisted women
Highlighting their beauty
Caress her, excite her,
Feed her grapes from between your breasts
Make her proud that the same lips which stained the cheeks of the masters
Are now licking your fingertips
If you please her, she may gift you the words of epiphany

perfection in narrative

None of that can begin to express the multiple layers of Mann's narrative. Here, for instance, is one of the central passages in the progress of Aschenbach's obsession (and one of the best examples of the loveliness of Heim's translation). He is watching Tadzio on the beach, while still trying to convince himself that his interest is solely aesthetic or platonic. Mann moves almost effortlessly from a total identification with Aschenbach, while he contemplates the boy's beauty, to a position of sardonic distance from Aschenbach's increasingly inane self-justifications. It's as if Mann empathizes -- indeed identifies -- with his passion, but can't bring himself to condone it:

"[Tadzio] would stand at the edge of the sea, alone, removed from his family, quite near Aschenbach, erect, his hands clasped behind his neck, slowly rocking on the balls of his feet, staring out into the blue in reverie, while little waves rolled up and bathed his toes. The honey-colored hair fell gracefully in ringlets at the temples and the back of the neck, the sun glimmered in the down of the upper spine, the fine delineation of the ribs and symmetry of the chest stood out through the torso's scanty cover, the armpits were still as smooth as a statue's, the hollows of the knees glistened, and their bluish veins made the body look translucent. What discipline, what precision of thought, was conveyed by that tall, youthfully perfect physique! Yet the austere and pure will laboring in obscurity to bring the godlike statue to light -- was it not known to him, familiar to him as an artist? Was it not at work in him when, chiseling with sober passion at the marble block of language, he released the slender form he had beheld in his mind and would present to the world as an effigy and mirror of spiritual beauty?"

Pen

An object is a catalyst for the mind. It can either be an indicator of the future potential. For example, the pen with which I write these words, were previously just a pen, and now the pen can speak. It can also be an indication of the past. Words this pen has previously written, times it was held in the arms of another. It can become past and future simultaneously. The pen too holds an unknown past, no one will remember the pen or its exact history, among the sea of other pens from which it arose.

Good bye, For I go overland

Within the fever of restlessness
The world begins to lose its human shape
I no longer find God in each cadence
Sitting alone in a field of blossoms
I always take much less than the others

Looking up at the light I catch a glisten of a body
I have seen it in many lives, with many faces, in many stories
who come to me and whisper sensations of regret
But always you remain with me
As I reflect on who I am to become

With you I discovered original sin
So seal the lips of the muses
And let their devastation warn the ancestors
Allow obscenity to create the perfection of entanglement
Dance me to the edges of oblivion
Solely with your hands

I only crave the colour
And I know I must not walk this labyrinth alone
For you have gone ahead of me

Think of the words as science and not of art

Do not fix your burning eyes on me when you speak about love. If you want to impress me when you speak about love put your hand in your pocket or under your dress and play with yourself.

draft 2

Nothing is able to penetrate my blackened soul. At times I feel so overwhelmed that I am taken over entirely, by a scent, a whisper, a tickle. Unsure as to what has ravaged me. I crawl around in a state of immobility and inaction with a desiring fire burning deep inside unable to surface. Movement between the two worlds is rapid and unmeasured. The celestial world is one which none of the languages bar poetry, can articulate. In this land colours fire more brightly and food tastes more sweetly. In this land the mere thread or sensation of thought is enough to arouse the other and the self.

The hybrid world, a world self-obsessed with possessions, commercialised music and marriage vows, allows the race of human beings to escape their fear of immediate death from passion. The issue with this world is that drop from the celestial world can creep through the many pinpricks which the gods forgot to cover. These pinpricks are responsible for making our feet itch, these pinpricks make our tongues wish to gorge and our bodies wish to be squashed with the body of another. When these pin pricks reach our intestines, the dull tinges of the day become brilliant hues, and one feels the itch of so much more.

Venturing into this world is a dangerous journey, but it is rare that one who has had a taste can refuse. Like a heroin addict, human beings seek out their next fix, selling their greatest possessions, their dignity and their courage for a taste. Once the ecstatic harmony had ended, as it does, as it must, rivers of dissatisfaction flood the soul. There is no land left. On my return I lay paralysed on the floor, a heart pounding with impossibility.

A growing awareness of the state of my rotting body arose. My thoughts were rotting me from the inside out. The agony pounding through my body is a relief. Dragging – long after the moment of autonomy has past, buried in thoughts which are not linear.

When a catalyst for entry to the world departs, the bright hues of the day change and appear as dark tinges. I exist inside four walls. Blank and black. My body is no longer a scroll on which myths can be written. Instead it is a proletariat, going through the motions of functioning. I view other proletariats wandering in a maze of pity, cursing the other world which was previously placed on such a pedestal and cursing the day they sold their soul. The hybrids of the second generation begin to say there is a price to pay for entering this world. For if you unlock pure undulated joy, you automatically unlock anger and sorrow which is a layer deeper.

The wind charms: which are portals to the other world spin restlessly for they alone witness the transitions and numerous stories which have no beginning or end and solely a pure dirty essence. They see the freezing cold in which the lovers bare their bodies, and the perfect of the stars which remains imprinted in their psyche. The wind sensing the emotion from the wind charms, lends its force and tangles my long auburn hair into thick knots. The hair malleable as a whisp of smoke, allows my eyes see that the queer buildings around me do not belong here.

I continue to seek you in the middle of the night, clawing through struggle to return and the sensation I feel is wanting. Wanting, words and thoughts swirl and dance around you. The world was so fucked up, borders and barriers, global ass. My sole saviour is that I know that you and I lived valiantly. In instances of intensity and connectedness. We were gifted with the ability to feel again, and were taken back again in its entirety to Eden. The land of mother’s kisses surrounded by celestial glory and freshness.

Pain occurs when a beloved follows their dreams, as they do, as they must. The enchanted city fades, fairies become mere imagined beings no longer in the midst of human interaction. Yet once one discovers this, the place that the hybrids of the second generation unlock is an arena of anger and love. Sorrow. Alternating between sleep and sobbing dry tears, I arise from terror, put on a dress, make-up and walked 40 minutes into the town to dance salsa. Now I felt good, I think. Twirling and turning, red heels, loud, proud, dirty and flirty, I gulped my way past the first foul tasting drinks. I dance with many men. Then there is only one man, he was perfect, his eyes were empty too. He twirled me round and round. I fall.

“Come home with me,” he proposed, little question in his voice, his strong greedy hand gripping between my legs. I am experiencing a familiar sensation. I can think of no reason why I shouldn’t, it was gone. In the morning I stroked him out of habit. My hands identifying that I am beside a shrivelled unfamiliar reptilian figure. The elements of the hybrid universe were on my side. They were aligned in that single moment of life. So she gave in. The feeling of skin on skin, the rough body on top of hers, her supple young body merged with his. She let her demon spirit run wild, so her mind could rest.

She had found some peace.

Writing away my demons

The wind charms jangled loudly together in the wind. She could feel herself being knocked around by them. She was a whisp of smoke. Sprawled on the floor, hair long hair tangled and knotted, buried in thoughts which were no longer linear. Her body ached for the essence of him. She needed to be by his side, to touch to feel, to fuck. What was the point of it all? Her here and him there, he asked her to wait for him, but her head ached with the impossibility of it all.

The pain from the hangover was a relief. She crawled into bed and slept. Some time passed, she did not know how much, she ached becoming aware of her stale body. Her thoughts were rotting her from the inside out. She arose and slouched in front of the computer typing out a generic reply to his love message. It did not say anything she wanted to hear and she did not type anything she wanted to say. That she had not left her house in four days, that she could not eat, that she had lost six kilograms since he left. That she could not see a future any longer.

The previous night she had sat alone in the back of an art cinema and watched a film about Manuela Saenz. A tragedy, the beautiful heroine rides over the Andes to be by the side of her beloved, su liberador. That night she dreamt that her body was clawing its way towards him. She awoke, knowing she would, but the fucking boarder control would send her back. She had experienced too much love, too much happiness. Once the ecstatic harmony had ended, as it does, as it must, rivers of dissatisfaction flooded the soul. There was no land left.

The world was so fucked up, borders and barriers, global ass.

Alternating between sleep and sobbing dry tears, she arose from her terror, put on a dress, make-up and walked 40 minutes into the town to dance salsa. Now she felt good. Twirling and turning, red heels, loud, proud, dirty and flirty, once she had gulped her way past the first foul tasting drinks they actually went down ok. She was danced with many men. Then there was only one man, their eyes met. Her eyes had found life he twirled her. She fell.

“Come home with me,” he proposed, little question in his voice, his greedy hand gripping between her legs. In her trashed state she was experienced a sensation she remembered, a familiar sensation. She could think of no reason why she shouldn’t, he was gone. In the morning she stroked out of habit. Her hands felt the shrivelled unfamiliar reptilian figure. None of the elements of the universe were on her side. They were aligned against her in that single moment of life. So she gave in. The feeling of skin on skin, the rough body on top of her, her supple young body merged with his. She let her demon spirit run wild, so her mind could rest.

She had found some peace.

Sensible heart

Athough I trust my sensible heart,
I still do not trust what is deep inside

I must be reminded to listen
To my sensible heart

For the lure of passion and pitfalls of lust
Are nothing compared to the peace of my heart

And the sensible heart is leading me far
So I will maintain to observe the visions of what is happening inside

Sensual journey of the modern day pilgrim.

Mihirangi was a woman who resided in the stage between a girl and a woman. Mihirangi’s eyes sparkled with the mischievousness of youth. Her body was full of the knowledge that a full life was yet to come and the youthful impatience with not yet understanding the ways of the elders. Yet, if you glanced closely you could see that below her childish being, Mihirangi was set to become a powerful woman. Already in her few years she held a mana which awed those in her surroundings. Whenever one came across Mihirangi talking with anyone young or old, the compassion, understanding and patience would be held in her eyes. She would be sitting upward, neither forward crowding the person’s story or backing up as uninterested. She been raised by her Kuia learning the Whakapapa of her whanau from a young age and therefore was secure in the knowledge that she came from a long line of noble warriors and travellers and hers would be another life in the life of a lineage of many.

Her Tupuna would smile in the skies above and the ground below would bloom secure in the knowledge that Mihirangi was going to be a proud Rangatiri of her people. Perhaps for the reason that everything seemed to be going alone perfectly, even the Tupuna did not foresee in time to alert the Kaitiaki of the danger which was on its way. For as many of us know when a young woman is at this stage of her life, where she is secure in the knowledge of where she has come from, and where she is going, she is in the greatest danger. For these vulnerable powerful females hold a Mana which is so precious. Other lesser beings who do not understand the transformation which has yet to take place believe that by possessing this woman, they can also possess the Mana from such a creature. The Taipo cannot understand. The Mana which before lived on the surface for all, instead becomes buried deep inside the soul of a person. They themselves can never possess this Mana. The tragedy of such an occurrence is that instead of one of the destined being able to take their place amongst their people. They are instead destined to wander. A modern day pilgrim searching for their alma the hard way in a land full of strangers. Until they discover, that their mana lies within them and with the path of their Tipuna, for a leader is not only created, but born.

The events which caused Mihirangi’s Mana to become locked in the depths of her heart are a story which will remain close to her heart for all time. Yet without details, all human beings understand the tragedy of first love. Many are never able to transcend this moment. For the moment when a youth knows the all the elements of the universe are on their side, aligned in that moment for a single moment of life. When this ecstatic harmony ends, as it does, as it must, drips of dissatisfaction begin to enter the edges of the soul. Once these drips become a sea, one begins to feel as if there is no land left! It seems that within moments, beauty that existed moments before begins to vanish in quick succession.

Breathe continues to supply us with life, as it always has, as it always will. Breathe as it pulses through the heart and soul of each human being began to flow through Mihirangi’s body with a force of anger and a discontentment which she until that day had been blessed not to have felt. Mātauranga, Mōhiotanga and Māramatanga were not in balance. Hell is pulsed through the body in a matter of breathes. Those close to Mihirangi knew that something had changed within the child, yet her remaining light continued to be shed upon others as it always had. Therefore the day of her seventeenth year in which Mihirangi’s life path was thrown in a different direction went unnoticed by most. The ravaging in her heart, although deafening to Mihirangi herself, could not be held by any, except by the Tipuna. They wept beside her.

Mihirangi’s pilgrimage started in a rather unobserved way, on the week following her graduation from high school she packed her backpack and went to say goodbye to her Kuia. Her Nan looked at her with wisdom and compassion and whispered the words “E kore e hohoro e opeope o te otaota:” A large force is not easily overcome. Mihirangi, although she heard the words, could not understand the meaning in her new consciousness of pain. So she just kissed her Nan, for what would be the last time and got in the van with her Uncle to the airport.

London was fantastic. So much noise, so much life, so much distraction in every direction, rather than walk past faces who knew her history and her family’s history. She saw only a sea of nameless faces and it felt fantastic. She rode on the top of the number 36 bus and watched the sights and sounds of a city pulsing with life. She had arranged to stay at the house of a cousin who had moved to London some time ago. But instead she followed the sound of jazz to this small club and sat listening, enthralled.

After some time a man came up to her, he knew, as men unconsciously know, of the state of her mind. He knew the loneliness she felt, because he felt it too. But too much time in a cosmopolitan city such as London and one starts not to notice the passing of time. The small intricacies of nature, therefore Kyle did not recognise the loneliness pulsing through his body. He only knew how to cure it, albeit for a short time. Mihirangi did not make it to her cousins house that night, she did not make it to her cousins house that week. It was a month before they met again, and once again she was being led, rather than leading. However, she needed to take rest for some time.

The first night with Kyle, Mihirangi discovered the art of controlled abandon. The dark whispers of her heart had calmed. That night Mihirangi crept onto the roof and sat for some hours, barely moving. She crept inside, into Kyle’s arm and fell into the first peaceful sleep that she had had in a year. She did not acknowledge or recognise that although the demons had quietened, as was custom when a child is becoming a woman. Her Tipuna had left her also. In place of the knowledge of self Mihirangi took a spiritual journey which did not include the study of the ancient texts. Instead she followed their rites and rituals without understanding that is so important in these journeys. She thought herself untouchable. Primarily she sought liberation through sex, her young supple womanly body merged with Kyle’s numerous times throughout the day. Her power was growing but so was his. Sometimes he would choke her as she came. She loved to feel his hot rough body on top of her, she loved to let her demon spirit run wild, while her mind could rest. At the point of orgasm, she found some peace. After some time, for it was London, and all the years merge into one. Mihirangi began to fast.

Deer Tick - Smith Hill

Sometimes songs just know how to say it better than me.

choices

The object of writing is to grow a personality which in the end enables man to transcend art - Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar

Careless abandon forged with self-control
For the land of fairy tales holds devils and foes
Yet the land of the living holds workers and bread
Oh how can one not let the land of the fairy tales fall from thy head
In the morning it whispers
And in the night departs
Oh how can I keep the dark whispers from my heart

As it strings and abounds with mysteries so great
The black and white ego is fighting my fate
As I whisper slowly and call towards the ghosts of the night
They come and support me
Through the death of the fear

A birth means that someone will come across oceans to guide
And one who will find the blind you
For when one is in the far dark wallowing heart
One must remain there and practice their art

And as I lay quietly and listen for the call
I can not help flying above my head and feeling the pull
For I spent time in this world I must remain
The temptation to slip and the celestial world gain
For though I did find thee
The life I choose tears us apart
How can I keep thee and be faithful to my heart