Category: Writing

He Said, She Said

He Said, She Said

My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;

‘We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee’
poet.

So to you I said ‘I’m ill’
‘Care to spill?’ she hisses.
‘Yes’ I said

My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
‘Prince and King Godber’
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded  dwarf on a throne.

She responds;
simple, penile, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain’t slept…
Small cock? Na cock, but let’s not go into it tonight,
naked.

In her dreams he’s laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn’t know till it was too late.

The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire

Pain. Passion, Nighttime.

‘Do what thou Wilt’ says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.

I did, I do, I do – boom boom. no one laughs.

She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don’t you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair

so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to kill myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.

Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.

Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming fuck this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half pissed,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that’s saying something.

Come and bathe yourself in my immortal quim, she bleats
‘look it up in your encyclopedia of shames’
you’ll just find a picture of a woman.

It’s intoned meaning
It’s poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.

screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, vomit on the doormat.

Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna kill us.

Already has.

Fuck it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don’t go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.

Love and silence.

Love and silence.

Just you and me and the silence in between things
hello cruel world, once more Venus in pearls
hollow echo:
the only way to conquer your fears is to face them,

to splinter a beady eye with glowing heart
first explode out your heart and intellect
combined in a style not
unlike Omega man.

to
ritualise the intent
to
combine the helix
to
hypothesise the meaningful
to
to forge cast irons in the realms of
the imagination

Fky high Omega, manufactured man
manufacture ideals
create new deals
and fielding questions from
professors draped in death black cloth;

Try and just lie back and relax
lie back and relax
relax,
relax.

It’s worth not thinking too hard,
being silent in your  backyard
it’s worth keeping that silence
as it’s golden, yes
sometimes it is golden,
always it is golden.

sometimes the silence is all we have
and all we should have,
it’s the unsaid things that hit you most
on dark nights, unsettled in a house that
shall not breed indifference
this poet writes in the third person.

In a forth wave of inspiration
something emerges which
seemed previously impossible;

Happiness, contentment
a form of therapy, a method
that does not breed indifference

These words are my fire
these words are my soul
please take my words
and burn them
into yourselves

cage your skin, and enjoy the silence because it’s
where we all will one day return to globe of
warmth, death, a deep slumber, an afternoon spent napping
by a fire.

An ambience of merry mourning. Sunlight drapes in through window
reminding me of her. Ethereal glow, sheltered presence.
Who is she? And who am I,
really?

the silence ringing
Ringing, ringing
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing

language is a power
unlock yours
and smile.
Smile wider than the sun
knowing all will be well
and all is.

the silence ringing ringing, ringing,
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing
worlds collapsing

Melting Mask

Melting Mask

It’s late but still I am awake
slithering soul, tears in a city of angels
hidden and alone, mourning day.

A sheltered concave anonymous cackle mires behind,
I look for something in this finality
and find nothing, I always could before.

My mask falls late at night and early morning,
in a moment with my back turned to the world,
I let my mask slip, and all I find is raw –
the visions seep, all that I saw and see.

A final moment I can never undo, even though I want to
I wish I could save you, I know I can’t now, time
machine come, a chance to say a proper goodbye, why
has this happened to you, in your hour of need
I was not there, I remember the way you laughed despite it all,
and smiled.

I can’t look at machines anymore, it’s a reminder of that.
That final tragic moment that I can’t wash now from memory
as much as I wish to, weeping willow tree, alive
with the memory of a man I once knew, living and free.
Your face frozen in my minds eye, why?

I think my mask must fall, and let you in,
a way to grant you access to this world again
for fleeting moments, from the beyond.
Goodbye my blood. Double eyes, seen.

An Island sits in ruin

An Island sits in ruin

This Island sits in ruin
split down the middle, ruined
tune of the howling dog
lost in the fog, black
and brazen beast, hair.

I walk down sunlit streets,
immersed in the solemnity
that is my want. I reverse, rewind
and play it all back, the screams,
the endless chasm of the undertow
lying on the other side of the street.

All God and no religion, all zest without
meaning, It’s enough to drive one mad –
it has.

Tracing back memory to find the skin
all I find is a wolf staring back
with hollow hungry eyes, the beast that feasts
at cock of dawn, day by day, inside.

The Island is split down the middle.

The Dog lays leaden over a hung court,
we want a world that makes more sense
but we can’t really see it, albeit in
distance, no it’s not here.

Yet, the Island is split down the middle.

What’s here is the sound of dizzying cries,
the flesh of the innocent burnt for Mamon
the burnt umber of the spirit, it provides no comfort,
none.

I dream of someone or something to pull me out of this
perfect calamity, peace is a world I can scarcely remember –
such pain, such leaden cliches.

Nothing is ever perfect, the Tertiary turning of the screw
the wolf howls and paddles in his boat towards a fresh death.
Whimpering soul of me, drowning in a cup of coffee, lost, afraid
and lacking faith. I swim. Drown sometimes, then resurrect, unfortunate and unwilling Lazerus. Blinking into mortal light.

Each day is another trial, the end seems far away, and close at the same time.
I don’t think this one has a happy ending.

Divide by 2, create 1.

The Oddballs will inherit the Earth [Draft / Extract / WIP]

The Oddballs will inherit the Earth [Draft / Extract / WIP]

The oddball tended to lurk best in corners, lank frame fitted well into dark urban alleys framed like Nosferatu in the shadow of the night. He was skeletal and bone, a mess of contradictions and confusions. He skulked around late at night looking for answers, an unholy ancient fire burned in his mind, burned for an answer to an unknowable questions, revelling in disorder. A student of Neo-Nihilism – The church of the infinite nothing, he jeered, he sneered he rattled and railed. A circle in a world of squares, bent double against the lamppost he stomped his way down the concrete streets to get back to his flat, half cut from the 6 beers he’d drank on the way back from his work downtown, now stumbling autopilot style back to the mess he called home.

Stumbling up the rusty metal staircase, his vision blurring he arrived at this flat, turned the key and fell like a rock onto his bed, the world turning and whirring, his mind in some sort of swirling vortex. Memories churned and danced in his minds eye, his youth, his loves, his losses, his pitiful moments, his self despair, his bullshit.

And eva, she got in there too. She always did, at times like these when he was alone, she was never far from his thoughts, the ghost at the membrane just waiting for a chance to break the skin. “Not now” he thought as he turned off his light and stumbled into a dark and numb sleep of nothing.

A roaring digital screech pieces nothingness and the Oddball’s eyes slowly open, he lifts himself up in a daze, looks around his room and groans, throwing a book at the alarm system on the other side of his room, “Fuck off!” He shouts. “Command Not recognised” replies the alarm AI”, “Stop Alarm” shouts Oddball, louder this time. “Goddammit, you fucking thing” he whispers silently under his stinking hungover breathe, before falling back into a deep slumber once more, to be swallowed in the mire of his own mind.

Then in a large room, a machine mantis staring down, long tendrils extending out from it’s mechanical insectoid form as it’s beady LED eyes look down at the Oddball and it’s disgusting mechanical mouth begins to move – “Oddball, we have searched our records and found you are in dire need of a reprogramming, you believe yourself to be a humanoid in the year 2060, in the city of Berlin. We must perform a cranial re-adjustment to fix this, so prepare fo…”

BOOM

The impact is so loud the whole neighbourhood is woken up by it, the impact blast reverberating though the street, Oddball jumps up from his bed, a look of wild confusion on his face as he stumbles for his glasses in the early morning light. “What!!! What! Was that!!?” he thinks in a hungover haze.

He rushes to his flat window and peers over, and then there on the other side of the street he sees a car smouldering and burning, horrified onlookers gathered round. Two people inside the car seems to be burning, and it all starts playing out in Oddball’s head in slow motion, the licking flames dance like some macabre spirit had possessed them, the burning flesh like some devil’s dance though the street, demonic and dire. Death Masks of shock and horror line the faces of the gathering crowd.

Oddball returned to his bed and grabbed his notepad, time to write he thought, he had to document this down, keep a record of this moment, and cynically he thought perhaps he could get that first published article out there with an account of an event like this, he grabbed his pen and notepad, hurriedly got dressed and ran out the front door.

“realty re-adjustments, you’ll experience a few strange events whilst we reset yourrr…”

Oddball rushes out into the street and observes the scene around him, woman men and children’s gather outside, with looks of shock and disgust. He grabs his pen from his black shirt and starts to scribble down notes, “What are you doing” a voice suddenly says to his right, “I’m…I’m writing” he says turning to see a woman with dark hair and sunken sullen eyes, staring deep into the flames, the light dancing off her strong features. “Why?” she retorts, “Why bother?” “They’ll keep on destroying regardless of how much we write against them, these mechanical Mantis fucks!, heartless beasts of our reason.” “Umm ok if you say so” Oddball says looking away from her and returning to his notepad. “Didn’t you hear me? Write that down in your little notepad!” Oddball beginning to feel nervous slowly edged away. “Do you know what happened here?” Oddball asks, “Why ask that question, when I just answered it? It’s the Mantis folk man. They’re responsible for all this terror, all this horror. You hear me, there were kids in that car man, senator of the state, wife two kids, now burning because our government can’t negotiate with the problem we all created”. Oddball just nods, his gaze returning to the burning husk of the car down the road as the security service bots mechanistic Mantis drone engines produce a loud abrasive buzz as they hover down the street, spraying water onto the burning car carcass. Take it all in he thinks, hurriedly scribbling down more notes.

“main system core, but don’t worry the flashes will stop eventually whilst we reboot your primary functions, so just remain calm”

“I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch your name” Mumbles Oddball to the young dark haired woman “Eva” she responds, Oddball freezes for a second in shock, ‘Eva?’ He thinks in frozen panic, before his rationale kicks in. “Are you from around here?” he enquires  “Yes I live just a up way Jackson Block, why?”, “Well, the thing is I’m a writer and I’m looking to get some accounts of today’s bombing, did you see much before it happened?” “Not much to be honest, I just heard the explosion and came out to check it out” Oddball scribes it down then asks “What makes you think the Mantis folk could be involved in this? Don’t you trust AI?” “Nah man, call me old fashioned if you like but I prefer when we didn’t put so much power into the hands of these tin cans, like where is it leading you know? People say I’m paranoid and a luddite but how clever are those things you know? I don’t trust them”, “Hmm” Retorts Oddball “but when has there ever been a recorded incident of a Mantis flipping out? Don’t you think it more likely to be some sort of political attack?, a bit of old fashioned organic vs organic violence, I mean if the Neo-Nihilists have taught me anything, it’s that if there is one thing you can trust us humans on, it’s ultra violence in the pursuit of powe…” “Look Dude. that’s my opinion you can take it or leave it but I gotta be places ” and with that Eva strolls away into the distance, turning for a few seconds as she crossed the road and glancing with her sullen sad eyes to the sky. She strangely reminded Oddball of her, but he knew it could not be so.

Night Thoughts 1

Night Thoughts 1

Pic reflects very much my current mood;

Just listening to this and felt suddenly emotional so trying to capture that down.

I must admit I feel very lost at this juncture in time, I feel like the world is heading in a very dark direction, kind of like a premonition type of feeling, a kind of dread, I think all the recent events in the UK and the world over are again hitting home more, the bombings, the division, our splintering off from the EU, I foresee dark things on the horizon and I hope I am wrong but it feels like war is coming, maybe sooner, maybe later, maybe another small scale conflict, maybe something bigger and more globe consuming. I worry too much probably and these are just late night thoughts so bound to be filled with melodrama but I get that feeling you get when you live in history sometimes that something large, and dark like a storm cloud is approaching us, I do hope I am wrong… It is probably just that death lingers near with with the recent death of my cousin, my loneliness and isolation from the world also grows, my separation from love becomes more pronounced and feels more solid, in some ways I have good friends around me, I have a better relationship with my mum now which is brilliant as there was a time where the distance between us hurt and our friendship got cold, I’ve had recent romantic failures but really nothing new there but yeah a general feeling of gloom persists in my mind and won’t shift, I wish it would.

In terms of failed romances I have a kind of armour against that now I spose, so it doesn’t hurt too much, more a general annoyance at how much I am often taken for granted at times, I’m not perfect, but I am perfectly flawed I think in my way. I am sure I’ve done the same to others in my past too with regards to heartache, we’re all flawed and love is no different, I think where love springs from defines how it ends or endures.

I really want to believe I can save everyone again, make a change for the better, it’s easy to lose faith in anything getting better when the lights dim. Sorry for this absolute nerd splurge. Time to sleep. I need direction, I need something to believe in…. i feel very much like an old soul in a 31 years old body, it’s a strange thing but I have always felt older than I was in the physical, anyway goodbye for the night.

Yours

The lad in the North or England and King of Nothing.

Yours

The lad in the North or England and King of Nothing.

A Most Mancunian Vigil

A Most Mancunian Vigil

Hello I’m Chris, I’m the guy who haphazardly threw this website together this morning in an effort to make sure I could help, even in some small way people affected by this tragedy. I think as tech people we always have a morale responsibility to use our skills to help as many people as possible in whatever way we can and that is a calling that we should all take heed of.

Just back from the vigil and what follows is my account of this sad. solemn, reluctant Mancunian moment. A moment that occurred on a bright blazing day tempered by horror, a moment where we all stood, in the knowledge that only hours earlier last night, 22 innocent young people had just died in the most horrific of circumstances. We shouted “Manchester” and “Love for all Hatred for None”. That is Manchester, that is why it is deserving of the title of ‘God’s City’.

A Most Mancunian Vigil

I arrive having taken a quick bus from my flat in Whalley Range onto Albert Square as crowds gather around me, awaiting the vigil of the fallen victims of this terrible atrocity, after 4 minutes of standing around and waiting to see what was going on I hear voices, chanting what sounds like Arabic, the crowd turns round, a tension in the air for a few hangs for a few seconds before erupting into applause as a group of Sikhs, some old and wisened some young angry for the truth and visibly upset by the actions walk down the street – gripping ‘I Love MCR’ placards, the crowd pays them respect and I already got that Manchester feeling that “Hey man everything’s going to be alright mate”.

I wait around sometime and listen into a few bits of fragmented conversations, which proceed as you would expect, one young girl  telling her friends about how “she cried on the bus”, a small child later to the left of me asks her Mum “why do some people have flowers?”, her Mum unable to tell her the truth trying to distract her from the reality of what has just occurred spins a white liar to soften the blow that no child should have to know. Further on a few minutes I witness many young couples arm in arm, embracing each other and looking so distant, you could see in their eyes how they were still processing this horror. It was an atmosphere of unity and sadness all in one.

The solemn tones of Edward Elgar’s Nimrod then breaks the ambient noise of the crowd, solemn and eternal strings rising over the Square as the Vigil begins, it is a truly bittersweet moment of communal grief, I think we all felt that, it was something I don’t thinkI  have often experienced much in my life – the group emerging from the Town Hall represented Manchester at it’s core, strong, diverse and independent of mind, everything from Political mavericks like Corbyn to Punk Poet Tony Walsh and Priests of all religions. It was a truly triumphant fingers up to those who would seek to divide us, and I think it really started hitting a lot of us then what has occurred, all the horror, the stolen youth. Silence for a few mins, for me it felt like a very painful 4 mins of contemplation, a group of golden balloons released in memory of the fallen, drift into the sky.

The first speakers begin, I will summarise to keep this quick – the first speaker talks deeply and honesty about our diversity and unity and how we are a “successful world city” and how “love is stronger than hate”. All Manchester truisms of course and the crowd applauds his words with aplomb, “These people whose lives have now changed, they are Manchester too” – as he speaks of those left injured and maimed. Finally he summaries by saying we must direct our anger towards helping one another at this time. An eloquent articulation of how we must move forwards.

Next up the GMP Chief Superintendent, who gets a round of enthusiastic applause, “Thank you from the bottom of my heart” he says, his thoughts are with the families, thanking the services for their great work he again stresses the importance of diversity to this city and how “you must all live in harmony with each other”, the crowd applauds.

Next up an somewhat surprisingly for me at least was Tony Walsh, a Manchester based poet I once had the honour of speaking to at an open mic he was performing at Farrago Open Mic for poetry in London when I lived there. I did a few bits and bobs on the poetry scene in London fro a while and I remember conversing with this seasoned punk working class poet and instantly liking his work, we had a quick chat, back then  “he told me to keep on going with it” and gave me some really good advice about “just keeping on writing” and now he stood before a crowd of devastated people and delivered poetry, in the truest sense of the word.

Oh my god it was good, I don’t want to go over the top but at times it was like some straight talking Manchester Jesus had come down to remind us how we’d weathered the storm before and how we’ll make it through again – a mention of Emmeline Pankhurst and everyone instantaneously applauds in riotous noise, and so many incredible moments that I can only recommend you watch his performance of “This is the Place”. A moment of beauty , and grace and a reminder of our strength as a community. Ok The ‘Manchester Jesus’ comment was a bit over the top I admit, but it bought us all together so I’m keeping it in.

Lastly a Christian minister completes  the ceremony with a lighting of candle whilst Adagio for Strings plays in the background, a holy moment for this Atheist here, he speaks of how we much “rebuild this city and dream”, the man could not be more right. The ceremony ends and then all of a suddenly we all start shouting in one united chorus “Manchester! Manchester!” and applause again. A few young men at the back put up a few inappropriate “No Surrender” union jacks as the crowd disperse but they get no more than a few tuts and people moaning “piss off EDL” than anything resembling applause, whilst a banner reading “Love for All and Hatred for none” gets another round of applause from the dispersing crowd.

I walk to my bus, passing through the crowd I see a Rabbi or Orthodox Jew through the crowd, he’s an old man and he looks sad, I nod at him and then he nods at me and mumbles something in Hebrew or Yiddish, I walk past a black guy who points at his heart on the walk to the bus and says this is Manchester, I get on the bus, a Muslim man is reciting Arabic silently, across from him a Mother is with her young child, the man smiles softly at the child and gets off the bus. That is Manchester.

Don’t be afraid and don’t let fear rule your heart. All of this is true and based on direct observation from being at the vigil and taking notes just hours ago.

Chris Godber 

@rationalchaos 

 

Burden of Meaning: The Harsh Reality of Zarathustra

Burden of Meaning: The Harsh Reality of Zarathustra

Download as PDF [914KB] 

INTRODUCTION

What is it to know? What is to to feel? To feel the gnaw of mortality instinctively in the gut, from the pineal gland gliding all the waydown. The struggle for meaning in it all, a finality, some meaning to burden with truth, and some truth to burden with meaning.

Truth. Lie. Duality. Contradictions. The mind as experienced by the soul must live by its excess, and by its very nature struggle, the storm creates the perception of sea, the lonely wanderer in an ocean of chaos, is bound to it’s treacherous rages, it’s moody melodramatic odyssey. Metaphor for mood. Alone. Aspiring to being an ‘Organic thinker’ as Cioran puts it. This short document shall try to uncover in such a state what possible meaning can be found, and what escape hatch we may yet escape down, to hold at bay the drop into despair the very real sense that purpose, is but a long lost pipedream. Reclaiming. We begin by exploring the question of meaning, and then proceed to a multi-angled exploration of the downfalls and triumphs of Nietzsche’s Overman Ideal in history, and in the arena of ideas.

The scope of the Burdens in a field of confusions – The Questions:

Must everything contain meaning? It is the question that drives me insane on late nights, has me thrashing in consciousness again an imagined brick wall, banging head again again against a blunted and stubborn question. What is this burden of meaning? What gives it such a feeling of density? Must we as poets and philosophers lie to tell the truth, is truth that most exquisite device from which many lies are generated in some excruciating circular fashion? To sail alone with such questions is to be half mad, adrift in the ocean of disconnected relations to a world that escapes meaning. But is this a reason to despair or to hope? Does not a void of absolute imply an infinite potential? Acceptance is the burden perhaps. The burden of uncertain meaning. Love, hate, data, fact, the whole boatload of associations and relations, abstract language.

And what of language itself, the obscene syntax generator of multi-dimensional potential. Meaningless garbage, syntax – Is this then a problem for linguistics to argue over? Or a mathematical equation that can be found? some underlying universal standard;

Of course not. How then can meaning be philosophical? Analysing Intention is the realm of linguistics, syntax maths, what place then does philosophy have in the world of meaning?

A brief analysis on philosophical precedence through the Bestial forces of Nature:

A subset of meaning and associations follows forth from each object the human mind forges – the abstract result of the slow heat death of the universe, and being as entropy is certain and set as a law of nature as far as our observations can tell, but with inclination to chaos there comes the subjective forms that we as the conscious and unconscious co-creators and interpreters of Nature imprint onto our ‘objects’, our ’emotional states’, our distractions from animistic impulse, our escape into that most forgotten, deep and feckoned of realms – the imagination, residing deep in the collective unconscious from which springs forth all the visionary arts, the arcane poets, the self imposed wanderers in the dark, the beauty, the despair, the multiple spinning distractions of the ‘music of the spheres’ Platonic ideals? A mere humanistic imprint.

Conceptually sound, but chaos begat chaos begat chaos, divulge meaning and the universe will play ten more tricks on you. My intuition is that if consciousness could be said to represent anything akin to a mathematical form, it would be that of the fractal, a self generative feedback loop of information, constructed ‘reality tunnels’, imprinted meanings. Associations. The whole garbage pile of psychobabble can’t really describe it, and written language is as an inefficient beast. Art can visualise the meaning of specific moments in space and time, but always as a frozen infinity, not as all moments, all meanings. To know such a thing is to touch the membrane of the mind of God. And what is God you ask? The burden of meaning. Our desire to impose order, morale (man made) and structure.

Negation of God as ‘Absolute Meaning’

The real question then, if we can negate God, in the abstract sense of all meaning, which are after all unknowable by virtue of being the ‘top of the chain’ of associations, and that objectivity in everything is an impossible quest, what must we replace this void with, as spoken of in hushed tones in the halls of Atheistic thinkers and philosophers.

What void replaces the void of the all knowing God, some obscene Man Puppet? Some Man God, wannabe Superman? Some rent a day Zarathustra? Some man as God Idol, New Hitler, and Dictators? The 20th century was an exercise in such folly, millions burned for it.

let us not forget our responsibility to each other, to the very base of compassion, an attempt at least at suppressing the dormant Beast (you’ll all know its face all too well).

This crisis is real and reaches into every spheres of man’s contemporary existence. A natural question, and one that requires if not a complete answer, at least some attempt at such. I will return shortly to this truly horrendous and difficult question, like some mountainous question mark in the distance, but for now, I must visit some ghosts.

 

Conversing with Ghosts On the limits of the overman

The answer Nietzsche provided was that post-human Ubermensch, some being who transcended the limitations of the dulling culture of complacency of ‘The Last Man’, accepted their suffering and transformed them into strengths, denied the cult of the ‘Christian Slave Morality’, and laughed in the face of death, instead creating art in its place.

This seems to me at least to be a rough description of the Zarathustra ideal as described in Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Few men and Women can work at such a level, by it’s nature the Overman is above man, and Nietzsche was a certain kind of ‘Cultural elitist, rallying as he did against ‘last man socialism and the weaknesses inherent in the Marxist interpretation of history, of which I would agree there are many.. But still the question remains, the will to power being the creative will, is a driving force, but the cult of the individual has driven us also into a willful despair. Unconscious but howling everywhere, from every street corner.

The children of Ayn Rand (herself unquestionably influenced by Nietzsche) have a powerful place and influence  in the world, and if Nietzsche’s idea have rooted and changed the world, beyond amongst the artists and the poets it is in her philosophy of Objectivism. But this is not about her, and her cult of followers. This is about the Overman.  

What is clear to me is that Nietzsche was one of the most painstakingly accurate philosophers of the 20th century, adequately smashing and reconstructing in the Ubermensch the ‘Ideal’ of the self created being, tragic but totemic. But if I were to say there were a flaw in this totemic statue of something new, a figure emerging from the shallow weeping  of a dying God, which is not known and evades easy detection, I would say it is the very mercurial description of what this Ubermensch would entail practically in man, for which one forgive Nietzsche. What other philosopher has set himself such a task!

Most certainly an impossible task, but a task for which yet more must pick up the baton, in this the – certainly the most complex, multi-layered and confusing of eras to live. How much of this is mere projection I leave to you. But the failure of the Ubermensch ideal is reflected in it’s inherent belief in the subjection of all societal moral values into a self created morality – no morals exist in isolation from the cultures that create them, and no man is without Morales, even in a universe as certainly burdened with meaning as ours, this much I can attest to. By which I mean of course that morals are abstract value systems, but this does not mean they are without ‘Meaning’ as understood via the prism of society, the suppression of the unchained Beast in man is never without purpose entirely.

The flaw of the Ubermensch in my humble eyes is Zarathustra’s tendency to blast the world open, it’s bombast and stern arrogance, whilst stemming from the most sublime arena of the human imagination, also has a tendency to veer into fanaticism when applied to society, and even worse when interpreted by the moronic, as in the 20th century when the ideas of the Superman was co-opted, leading to  a mass misinterpretation to a fatalistic Fascism and self destructive will to power.

Perversely instead of cultivating and refining the individual above the values of the  herd, inversely during the disasters of the 20th Century the herd became the powerful possessor of a weakened will via the false idol of the Man God / dictator. It is the opposite of the ‘truth’ of the ideal, a negation of the superman. He will not come from outside. Such failure, it is a good thing that Nietzsche got to see his ideals co-opted and distorted, mutated in such an ugly fashion.  

The Overman will certainly never emerge in any way we can imagine, it must remain by its nature enigmatic, this is the greatest strength of Nietzsche and also his greatest weakness. He created an ideal so perfect in its philosophical elegance that it is the most clarifying of ideals. That is, it must always remain so. A vessel trapped in a metaphysical chamber, separate and winking at the sufferings of men, forever, but pointing us occasionally to sweet moments of transitory bliss.     

 

  

Wondering God [Prose / Short Story]

Wondering God [Prose / Short Story]

The cage of sanity, preserved and solemn sacred space in a mental landscape of shattered cultural remixes, shamanic, shambolic, American consumer smiles, Chinese Tao daydreams, Indian snake oil Spiritual visions, the sacrifice of the Jesus Child, Satan’s self aggrandising selfhood, the whole mother-load of ego baggage and spiritual mumbo-jumbo clambering and fighting for a way in.

The cage of sanity is a refuge, a dim light in a landscape of contradiction and conflict, men could go mad in those waters, and most who venture were never to be seen again, drowning as they do in their own ego visions, blinded to the truth and guided to the Godhead by obscene and trickster lights. Not Morpheus, he had been taught well how to navigate between these planes of belief, how best to navigate the will through the energy fields of the unconscious spheres. Trained well, protected by ancient knowledge, knowledge that preceded even the Godhead’s all seeing eyes.

Ha that trickster Serpent who thinks it knows all men, Godhead, Abbadon – two sides of the same coin. Meaning found in chaos by beings trapped on a 4 Dimensional plane Morpheus thought to himself, silently under the cover of his cage.

Morpheus cackled from above – splintered over his multidimensional form across 3 separate fields of navigation. Observing itself, himself and herself from it’s vantage point in the cage of sanity he smirked, to be higher than the Godhead was a blasphemy he delighted in. A temptation he indulged, so that it may not hold power over him.

He moved silently in 5 dimensions now, his form ebbing in and out of the unconscious cubes beyond the meta-chamber, where the horrors grasp and sway at silent night, gasping and drowning silently in some ghost’s bondage, a sly wink down confirms his passage as they clear, and he sets course for the light in his floating cage of sanity, drifting at past the speed of thought to reach his destination – The Central Godhead Dictatorate.

Faster through the nexus he plunges into the nervous system of the ever living Godhead bastard, faster until forms merge into one universal light, one lightbulb of infinity, like a moth to a flame, floats Morpheus to find his light, basking in it’s glory the fractal Godhead burns in all directions, a light to all who seek answers, beyond good and evil. And then penetrating skin he arrives in the halls of the unknown, surrounded by the endless hills, eyes winking and mouths twitching in twenty different unseen ways.

The Godhead Bureaucracy stares at Morpheus with disdain, the disdain which had become their hallmark – “Desire Morpheus?”, “I desire the will of the sane, and to cast that which is rotten and unclean in man into the depths of clarity, to obtain some sense of reason Lords, I have become so tired on my journeying through the unfettered depths, these metaphysical exertions are burning me out, I tire of the Underground Caverns, the untempered skin chasm, the burning void, I need some sense of meaning, something to will me to continue, some work beyond the great Godhead’s word and will”.

The Bureaucracy stares with mechanical eyes at Morpheus for a second, blinks without comprehension and then delivers it’s mechanical and well rehearsed answer – “You think even the Godhead can give you this Morpheus? Meaning? Meaning can only be found in service, some service themselves, some others, most divulge something from that sublime madness that can be found betwixt waking and dream, search harder and longer Morpheus, and the answers should present themselves, and do not fear the riddle, it is in the mystery that any meaning can be found. Confront your fears and do not run from them, instead run to them and embrace them, cancel them out, what do you fear?”

Boredom, that was the terrible truth, he’d seen a thousand dying meta-worlds become and then disappear, seen aeons of species both familiar and alien all die across the stretch of a billion years, watched as entire worlds burned in acrid fire of storm and ash, whilst others ascended to the stars across a billion light years in desperate search of that which he know stood before, trillions of worlds and lives all sacrificed to this – the Godhead. The eternal abomination that dwells beyond. Mechanistic, yet organic, the meeting place of all contradictions in mind, into this – the all knowing mind.

He responded “It is nothing, I will continue to observe and record as much data as possible to the Bureaucracy databanks, I shall reflect and meditate upon your reflections on a Terra world, and seek to eliminate all contradictions into the unity.”.

The Bureaucracy telepathically projects a smile, and then whirring processing machines rise from the surface of Nova 2, to record this moment forever in the vaults of the Godhead.

Morpheus did wonder then and again, but then what God does not?

It is in the wondering that any meaning can be found, to avoid the rot, now there’s the trick.

IT [Experimental Prose / Writing Exercise]

IT [Experimental Prose / Writing Exercise]

A short writing exercise in steam of consciousness, written whilst listening to this

It bleeds from every corner, every rune permutates through this ether into the back of crooked eye sockets, bled black rot, insipid virus. It crawls in the flesh, cradles the anxiety. It’s everywhere, creeping shadow, death, rot, Media. Newsreader on TV, blowjob eyes, international conflicts, multiple orgasms, winking porno actresses, reptilian anthrax.

It doesn’t blink when you sleep, what need has it for sleep? It’s the crawling nether of some long forgotten chaos dream, some parasitic violent fever dream of some obscene Noir King on a throne of blades, burning bright and black for twenty eons. Perhaps it is death, perhaps it is void, emptiness, everyone has a different ‘it’, every one assigns ‘it’ a different mask.

It could find you on a cold night in New York, or lounging back in Hawaii . It doesn’t discriminate based on age, gender, sexual preference or creed. It lives deep inside the Pandora’s Box of the mind – the obscene boils of the sewer Queen squealing with delight, the nether Cybernetic fuck mind, the orgies of the queer Pope, consumed and black lining of stinking anus shit.

It boars deep into it’s victim and find host, sublime anti-Christ of the imagination that few men make peace with, or even confront on any level, so they turn from this Toad Lord, on it’s throne of pestilence. It gives each man and women a mask to hide the anonymous alien of surface, spit pouring forth from mouth to free demons that dwell in man’s jet black corners, mood surface light. Death, 25th century Hedonistic death drive towards abomination.

It’s inspired millions to madness, driven thousands to just ‘follow orders’, created mounds of bodies in dust covered wastelands. Some man have called it Lucifer, it has so many names in the tongues of all, it is the broken soul of the creature known as man, searching for stability in the void of infinite space in 360 degrees of crushing void.

It sneaks up on me, I feel it breathe on my neck, feel it’s burning gaze break through membranes into the back of my brain, possess my dead soul and inspire words of blasphemy, inspire a craven image or two, driven to visions of absolute power and obscene hallucinatory megalomania. Demon Burgle laughing on throne of basking bone. Cerberus and cackling hen.

It can be anything, it can be anywhere, any place, everyplace. It does not matter to it, the it-ness is in everything, detached dead eye of Nebulous – a chapel of Bone engraved in human memory, a plague of the death of reason, the opening to the nexus of unbridled violence, the spasm of the vortex, spilling forth into the organic cage of reality. A thousand rolling eyes of surveillance in an endless twisting internal maze.

It’s here now. Can’t you feel it? There in the corner, grinning widely, an invisible grin that hides the malice of centuries, the grin that goaded Christ to accept his fate on the cross, and tempted Eve with the Apple of seeing, it cackles at your failure, exalts when you fall, sniggers when you crash, delights in your suffering. Beast, Man, Woman, Fall.

It is inside you, face it or wait for it’s inevitable crush, there is no middle ground on this one. Until you stare into the depths of yourself, you will remain blind wondering in the Desert, Blinking for a memory of Sun.

It is whatever you assign it to be.
Fear. Death. Sex. Art. Choice.
Choose wisely.