THE EARTH OF MAKING_CATACLASIS 

 

 

The earth of making is a twofold art.  One is in the left hand, and one is in the right.  Slighted by a pejorative prerogative to better than before. 

 

 

There are mighty men, there are flirtations amongst women, there are children born with black eyes, but the majority always heighten the tension to consider it just, to for-see a broken clock as a useful item. 

 

 

Money comes in bags through golden chains of incantation.  Melodies fly higher than before, but the bass line keeps pumping.  It is a mastery of healing from dogged damnation to let go of the clutch and find heresy as a bible untold to those who know only better than to repeat mistakes, until a human god reclaims them as jorum.

 

 

Where is this all headed?

 

 

To for-see a future of telekinesis for all, making levitation a reality, at least in the mind’s eye; if only to gravitate gravity, in order to rise up above prophetic gestures of fallow pastures in which crops don’t burn, but learn to die.

 

 

If only there were more than a stab in the dark?

 

 

There may be a prophecy of adulthood in which a tiger can see his prey.  Not to talk of cannibalism but nigh, no not to an end, but a new beginning which knows and proves the end of a creative spell. 

 

 

Two-step, and two steps bring us in line with the mellow drama that ‘scare ya, will make ya!’

So we wrestle with god speed, to find an answer.  Along the way there is a heretic spell of indignation to fathom well what would be new?

 

 

If only history had not taught us so well.  Is it that Curtis Mayfield, record, something about 'future shock' that encurtain’s an incursion of a multitude of sin?  And again we are not innocent.  Pump up the beats, and we feel left and right feet on the ground.

 

 

Insightful it was once told, that we do without the heresy and learn from history, there is some kind of inner and outer dialogue with the bureaucrats, informing us that order follows economy, and economy allows order.

 

 

For there is no God other than I.  We are make believe in a dream wishing on a Deuteronomy if not an exodus to find salvation when we are bound by our hostile environment to encompass all the world from four magnolia walls.

 

 

So levitation makes us part, segregate, and divide, when love was the ever-lasting, healing millennial promise to come together joined for eternity should anything go wrong.  Now things fall apart everywhere to find we knew what was new.  We knew that it is, what we have.  Only our work kills, kills the author, kills the beat for just a moment to know we skipped it, to find it further down the road when we have it in levitation.

 

 

We are influenced by corporeal image binding lives, checking on statics, moving manics, and leading tantrics.  But where is solace if only and not together?

 

 

There are heightened envisions of a world format by which we give in to credibility, but a long time ago my Master asked me to sever the lead, in order to re-gain truth through 

 

persuasion.

 

 

Am I really just talking about inducement?

 

 

There are finer ways to cajole a friend, frenemy, or of late, parent into creativity by way of war of word.  But work allows me to massage my mind.  There are figures in heaven of each one of us, waiting to crack into being.  Paying regard for Monunments of Mars, hacking virtue into our skulls, until the glass eye drops into vision.

 

 

There are mires who just do not get it.  If mien were a fallacy then complexion would just be a different direction but the poet knows his is of hand, and will stand up to alternate credence through play of mind, and the fallacy not to know a truth in erect dignified grace.  The principle of earth making, the earth stands up to us and makes love to us every day of the week: nature.

 

 

But do not pay your way to a sex of hated haste but impassioned lust.  Curse those who fallow graces of deception and laugh at another for their found freedom in each other’s presence.  Keep pushing.

 

 

 

 

Reconcile

 

 

When the pin has dropped, there will be no fallacy.  No heroine, just my love.  From millennial foundation.  To go far is not to jump off the cliff, but to leave a hangar, and build a house gripped to the edge.  To get back in the car and find the right way to a knew home.

 

 

We must reconcile.

 

 

Why doeth the monkey do what the monkey see, because it is a sort of existentialists trait to evolve into man.  To  pound, to swing, and to create.  So we pay by the pound, swing relations, and create.  Stirling is affirming our language is one of end, but that is not to say someone in Spain is not claiming the same heresy, through their cultural criminology.

 

 

Before we invite the forensics here is scope for a better earth.  Spin, through determination to fallow a crop.  Love busts the heart not open but into being.  The Immaculate Conception brings plumage, skin, eyes and hair.  No monkeys, move on ghetto.  However hope is everywhere as we see through the web of deceit to found ourselves in a good song, a good drink, and something we love.

 

 

Each other is a good source of purgative purging, to make room for more of us.  But to be someone will always without a shadow of a doubt mean more to your offspring than to show numbness at their question of ‘what’s that?’, or, ‘how come?’

 

 

Mediocre has been released from its New York jail cell, not because it lives there, it just ended up saying 'why knot, I’ll just be a moment,' and the bureaucrats came fingers pointing in the air.  Nowadays there is reconciliation in order to find a party line.  But you will be warned if you cannot come back to those you loved and love, with a heart to just chill and feel their calm to calm yours and reconcile yourself for the war of words you just had, with mother earth, then be pleasant.

 

 

 

 

Machine

 

 

Machine leads us to the normalising of heresy.  Not the man’s mind that dictates to others how mad a moment can entrain one’s vision.  It is not syncopation, but syncopation that impregnates us with the goodness of life.  On a normally unaccented beat I give you thus:  The homemade normally ain’t music, like music ain’t music in the form of Chic, my watch just dropped a beat, but it is!

 

 

The streamlined repetition of man’s life as machine rather than forcing the time, makes a mar but also that is why we are dictated by a knew heretical bible.  Our machine is ok, well that’s just heaven.  But our minds are out of sync.  Not in the sanctity of syncopation but a lack of expression for the altruistic beat that the earth lives by.

 

 

The Lion King shows only machine like aesthetic in its theatre props, and run of the mill, night after night performance.  No-one forgot a line.  But there is something to be said for Van’s naturalistic ‘Circle of Life’.  We are divided from each other for the first to say it:

 

 

‘It is our very reason for existence to pronounce a verdict, that life will soon revert back to ululated exegesis, in nature.’

 

 

Machine is man’s nature, and so are our books.  These allow man to exacerbate his freedom, to all and many, may we be equal, may we all reign, and may we find our brevity in cut.

 

 

Film is the ultimate machine, for America tells us of so many wars, fantasies and shortness.  If only there were a movie about earth’s call as a creative development.  Man’s mimicry.  Is man now monkey? To evolve his own devolution, I think not.  For the man that invents machine and film, like a ‘cataclastic maker’©, to fragment metamorphicaly through the fracturing and comminution of materials will make a new concrete nougat, solid to slice.

 

 

 

 

Environment

 

 

The environment stands alone yet is intrinsically dilated to our earth making.  The environment in essence is what it is we are making, through microcosm to universalisms.  We plaintively ignore the weather, and only dress for it.  We talk about it here, but it none the less gets ever wider a subject than good or bad, light or dreary when we could push ourselves to lever the progress of our vision.

 

 

The environment curtails at when the earth finds a way to solve its pain.  Mellow is the mood for yellow does not collude.  The sun’s fire, ignoramus to ourselves goes on fighting.  We get cancer, and it’s wrapped up.  What brings life, kills life, and we are back to our heretical machine.  The ‘cataclastic maker’© signifies an ode to the crush on our next-door neighbours girl, when we are just a boy.  We squash so much energy into our very being for seeing them, we lose all speech, and recognition of our bodily behaviours.  We are in love.

 

 

If we crush the environment it may not kiss us back.  So let’s presume we are going to have to be nice to the earth for this next round of making. 

 

 

Long shots blast back with reconnaissance of meaning to ourselves, our lives and our experiences.  If we have never lived at the North Pole, how do we know it exists.  Of course it does, so meditate on the fractured co-existence of dichotomous contrasts in your garden and more effigurate in the world, our earth making.

 

 

Our stamp is hidden from planar, flat earth horizons, so we will have to get on top, and ask ‘Yann Arthus Bertrand’, to use the ‘cataclastic maker’© to see how much has changed in the last 20 years (2019).

 

 

 

 

Ethics

 

 

Ethically we need heretical catalysts as this prose takes form.  Architecturally we have and will go on making expressions of the mind, made from machines of ever complex natures.

 

 

However where is the ethic in continuing heresy to normalise the moment of a good recorded repeated exclaim!  When will the earth call back with its verdict on us.

 

 

Ethically we are bound to our lives and feel wasted by the fact we have no parole for its making.  No let up and leave to go to:  the recycling plant, the book binders, the court house, the library, a place of everything you didn’t want and more you didn’t know you didn’t want.

 

 

A TV is no satellite dish.

 

 

Why not make something that reflects you, and forget the Chic that ain’t music, but homemade from rubbish.  Colour tells us so much about the way we work, a simple palette of reputable vision.  We are after all ‘babies making babies’, leaving man to holler, when domesticity leads over nature in the ‘cataclastic maker’© creating a crush.

 

 

Earths making has just begun to exclaim.  I hear it?  I hear it.  It says die for me, because I have already died.  Right now I’m dead says the World, will you behave yourself and have a good time. Otherwise there will never be a worthy exclaim. ©

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