The Lost Boys

Lost boys

an evolution

a focusing

on people

on individuals

     flying

in fog,
– distortion –
It ain't in voice,
it's only in your mind,
clustered and conscious,
where it isn't just a mear fucking numbers game.

Fallacies:
you are not free,
you are pseudo symmetries,
fragments and forgeries,
aftermaths,

only adjoining the paths,
to changes that’d charge you,
that would propel you,
that would propel the world
to a state of True vitality
that could reach biological escape velocity,
to the beginning of death being a dimestore curiosity.

Respond, react in all your instances,
to choose your life,
your choices,
to the creation of the container and contents,

shape the bowl,
throw yourself at the project,
dig your hands in the muddy grooves
as they sink into the features that are your moments,
make a choice to reattach the forgotten parts of your life,
score and slip the friends and lovers lost
into a new cast,
into the kiln,

break every flawed fabrication,
know that the resources are infinite,
although the components have cost,

they are still limitless:

in practice - dwindling,
in principle - ever dawning,
ever flowing into another entity
somewhere within the multiverse.

Take the responsibility to respond,
take every joule,
every bit of your lifeforce,
and act in accordance with the principle that they matter,

they are life.

Where every evasion deprives recreation.

Think of a world without scarcity,
that is our world.
Think of the lightyears of untapped energy,
the cities among the stars yet built,
the beings of godly health,
of universal reach,
of a renaissance anew.

We are the terrestrial lost boys
and will always be.
At the brink,
at the edge of understanding,
persistent on truly becoming
a Focused People.

Hum of Humanity

A simple beat,
each member playing their part,
and when the beat and banter becomes obnoxious,
when the psilocybin peaks,
we can sink into this soaking tub,
drowning out the noise into a hum,
of woe and excessive wonder,

a human humming,
the hum of humanity.
now distant discussions
diffusing our divergences.

In hegemonic pools,
lording over my eardrums,
regulating the earth’s hot water,
this chain of the collectives choices,
some people voted someone to make this mountain spring
structured,
They set it in o-so-smashable concrete,
yet we align betwixt cloudly blue tile
pacified.

Patterns and background ergonomics,
state-funded play places plant people
to grow into themselves,
layer by layer, drip by drip
becoming raisins or contemplatives,

until we engage with the drain,
sucked down until we’re left with better problems to ponder.

This is My Little Life

Let me scream in complete isolation,

give me an ocean and let me run the waves,

like, just for a day, you don’t have to tell anyone.

Tell me I should be afraid,

but I’ll tell you the chance of growth was worth the risk,

I’ll tell you the pain of these possessions were worth it,

my life,

my cherished scars,

my intentions

are worth the effort,

my impact

will be positive,

because I prioritize joy over pleasure.

Tell me I'm a robot,

just another slave program running in the matrix,

well, with respect, fuck that,

but I still love you,

and everyone who contains slivers of understanding,

we are always equal in the endless errors we house unknowingly,

our capacity and potential is endless,

we are all vessels for value creation,

so I’ll be there for you – if you want to learn,
I’ll take up the slack in the rope,
in my simple states,
to keep you safe for the path you choose.

I turned 30 today,

my birthday present to myself is that I want to be alone,

I want to wash away the decades in desolation,

to be

to exist in my hovel on four wheels,

in my world,

with my perfect dog Cash,

with my neglected books,

on my computer,

reading how infinite the world is,

that ol’ multiverse,

which I write my verses in

is my life.

Free to do as I wish,

aware.

Bathing in all the choices

creatively.

Seeking understanding,

meaning,

because asking why never became unsatisfying.

Uncompromising

but accepting of reality's constraints

as glowing truths to play between.

Newt Life

Frame:

https://aeon.co/videos/watch-a-single-cell-become-a-complete-organism-in-six-pulsing-minutes-of-timelapse

Replication

copy copy copy copy

a selection,

a test,

the most gentle force

moving in microns, making the most monumental alterations

in these pre human beings.

This granular velocity of knowledge without a knower.

A new being brought against the force of falsification,

in conditions that wash away all bias,

focusing in on errors in eternities.

Generations

generations

generating

life

life

life

living each second as an expression of organic codes,

before organic thought,

abstract patterns adapting to no end,

weighted wandering into different forms,

endless diversity, complete universality

of shape, of environment and niche.

Nature’s cutting force

that brings beings into benevolence or breakdown:

a population sentenced without a sentencer–

to be painted into a existential corner.

Organizing at the level of a life,

structured in a chain of knowledge accumulation,

insightful code created creatures to no end,

no end goal.

Awesome mindlessness,

peaking at people,

atop mount improbable.

That is power,

of nature

and us as it’s extension:

purporting conjectures

in memetic explanations

detached from genetic language

staring back at the tangled chains of genealogy,

stopping at the crest of mystery

of what created this universality,

knowing that somewhere beyond the clouds lay simplicity.

To my lost lover dancing in a sunbeam:

Woe.
Cynicism destroyed by fire,
light giveth the wonders of heart,
images of strength dispersed among flower petals.

Rain.

Broken noises creep into my consciousness.
I sift and strain, panning with patience at the possibility,
the strain of the decades, the risks that we didn’t even consider,
that grew intractable and sought me out as a martyr,
that you could stay silent and leave me to infinite artforms
is still an expression that caresses my being.

This hope, this knowledge of what could be,
progress within autonomous individuality,
sharing ideas that keep us in some disconnected collective.

Run.

Finding drops of perfection in undeletable nature,
the information that we walk with,
we want to call it knowledge,
we want to say it is true.

Seek.

Stay with me and let me hold your flame,
only until eternity leaves us on an endless wave.

Until the world of man is careful,
until we plant compassion in stable soil,
to watch the roots drive down through mantel
and into the burning core.

Joy.

Why are the myths of love synonymous with the seeds of science?
Is it that we must run blindly into a vast dark cave to gain some enlightened perspective?

Why do we care about morality?

It seems that we seek truth that spans between you and I,

Across the valleys and foundations

of what we should do,

in the landscapes of nowhere yet charted.

There are facts to build in the foundry,

forged in our minds and never tested,

only guessed at,

whittled and refined to the point of possessing solutions.

Thinking and sewing attention into our critical rationalist operation,

with joyful sensations,

overturned by the worms who till the soil at our feet,

in the spirit of creation we go...

Into the Forge

Rita was always an outlier,
always trying break into another level,
never accepting the sickness adrift in the rest of us,
work was spent in the smoke of the furnace,
in breaks she looked back and saw the flailing arm of her girlish self
swinging a hammer while creating her first cabinet,
she looks at her arm now and feels flawless force connect down into sheets of steel,
in flow – in her open-ended artform.

Art isn't easy, nor is it painless,
and soon, at the end of the day, that arm ached,
her instrument of power,
and aches turned into agony,
and ultimately into unemployment,
the means of her production evaporated.

She couldn't pound, she couldn't form, not with that arm.
She spent months waiting for something to heal,
or some news from the doctor,
some new therapy,
but it wasn't available.
She was restricted by tissue,
her body worked against her.

The idea of nothingness dragged on,
her anchor slipped away and she watched helplessly as her body,
her ship
went drifting towards known unknowns:

She could wash onto the rocks.
She could ram into another vessel.
She could drift alone and apart from anyone for years and years.

She could wake upon a sandy beach and take responsibility for all the new possibilities,
to find a new extension of all that pounding,
that knowledge – of shaping and movement,
force and material.
That time came and she began to live behind the wheel of a new form,
standing behind the veil of her own skin denying the most oblivious thing to do,

to create again but through thinking alone,
to go forth without the attachments
of arm or tool
or anything outside of what is absolutely essential.
Essential ever since man walked out of the valleys and into a new foundation,
into infinity and explanation,
to the landscapes of nowhere yet charted,
that is where she would mine her ore.

There were elegant facts to build in her new foundry,
a place that could be rebuilt or razed at a whim,
she began to see that she was always going to be injured,
be it by accidents or ignorance,
she sat and accepted that this first glance weakness was the source of everything inspired.

She was an unbounded immense world of possibilities,
She was a world undeveloped and immensely misunderstood by the multiple I’s existing inside,

weeks passed and weakness solidified into philosophical bedrock,
she began whittling again like she did in the old forge,
her moral choices became structures stronger with every systematic choice,
to the point of possessing serene solutions,
created in ideas stronger than steel
but as adaptable as clay,
evolving and creating joy
by way of this new criticism,
crafted in stainless sensations.