A Short Poem on Cyber Sexual Affection (Also now on Twitter)

Endless jets of the flesh of electric
Conjoin and fall into decimal ether
Feel the force of the celestial prick
Forever made reciver.

Now it expands, runs along sparking lines
The fear of mankind and the use of waste
Rituals become trancandental signs
Holy, but at once debased.

(( Intuitive Genuis is now on twitter, https://twitter.com/#!/IntuitiveGenuis. Join now! ))

From Heaven Saint Sebastian Relives his Martyrdom Through Art, and Reconsiders his Position on Homosexuality.

Strapped unto a withered trunk
And stripped of shirt or simple vest
Mere scrap of cloth does shield my junk
From the arrows of this holy test.

A junk concel’d and yet laid bare
As rods of fury rape my form
Penetration from out th’ air
A Tableaux to again perform.

As now, ‘moungst angels, I do soar
The loom of time moves swiftly and numb
And yet my death enact once more
In paints, as some delirium.

My body plundered by artist’s fancy
My death make sick and so obscene
Perversions fit for necromancy
Violation hard and mean.

For I am twisted to an icon
From leather bonds no chance to free
Could any else, perhaps St John
Become so figure of sodomy?

Betwixt the impact of the shafts
That transgress’d th’ barrier of my skin
I mused upon mere mortal crafts
And man’s propensity to Sin

And yet, my Lord, with each incision
That pinned me further to the bark
I felt that in my death some excision
Reduc’d my life to just one mark

And though fettered by the flukes of arrows
And perforated with many holes
A thought that chilled to me to the marrow
An aperture Beelzebub controls.

That one gate, that by heaven split
From which issues the bread of life
Is worth more to me than twenty tits
Or coitus with my homely wife.

I change my tune to adoration
On contemplation of the bum
Now I require some embrocation
For an act that leaves me sore, and numb.

The angels now join in application
Sodomical among the clouds
Acquiescence to temptation
Overthrow the loincloth shrouds!

And laid upon some astral bier
I see my Lord; ‘tis Christ at last!
There is no pain of arrows here
But betwixt his gateway, my spear is cast.

‘tis a prodigious man’s erection
That causes earthly statues weep
At thoughts of such a resurrection.
I am no Longinus, yet still reach deep.

Evidence of Retrospective Templar Intrusion into History

It cannot be denied that that, during their occupancy of Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem in the twelfth century, the Knights Templar discovered buried under the rubble of the new Temple, and, through diligent excavation, uncovered the means totravel through time. This is an indisputable fact. The nature of the mechanism, though now considered lost (while actually held by the Rosicrucian Ministry of Obama and his Past Truth Redactors) is known to us. For though history can be destroyed, knowledge cannot be. The device was nothing more than the Ark of the Covenant itself. By careful manipulation of the sigils, a Heirophat could alter the course of history itself, and disrupt the harmony of the Time Continuum.

Templar Desecration of the Ethereal Time Vortex

The Templars found this, and the arcane knowledge of how to operate the holiest of holies, which YHWH had intended to keep hidden amongst the ruination of the failed children of Israel. And ever since they have been redacting time, re-forging history to suit themselves and their evil machinations, even going so far as to create themselves by intervening in a past where they did not exist. This is why the armies of YHWH and his angels cannot defeat them; they exist both within and without time, are an artificial abomination imposed on creation from outside, some parasitic force attaching itself to time and space and leeching off all piety and joy; the devil himself, Satan, or as he is modernly known, O'Bam'Aaah.

"Fear me and my Mighty Time Vortex" -White House Press Release June 2011

Yes, the Templars created themselves in a time paradox by travelling back and crucifying a regional holy man, a small time wizard who came to be known to the world as the great pretender, Jesus Christ. Evidence for this time distortion can be seen in the ripple like effects it produces as it renders reality in twain. By slaying Christ, they gave cause to their existence, and with it uncountable human sufferings. The evidence for Templar Intrusion into history will now be briefly summarised.

a) The Sage Merlin and the Presence of the Graal

Merlin, a fellow time distorter, has often visited me and imparted some of his immense knowledge to me. And he has spoken to me of a world, an existence without Christ. The perpetual Empire of Romanus, the rise of the age of enlightened reason. He has provided me with scrolls to prove the existence of separate temporal realm, and I have no cause to doubt him for his knowledge is unequiable, his articulation profound, his stench horrific. And he brought me a relic of his journey to the moment at which the cursed Templars intervened. The perfect Graal, the chalice of Christ in which his blood was drained and supped by the high Lord Dragon of the Templars. Though Arthur fought them in a hard and difficult struggle through time and space across millions of dimensions, he finally recovered this proof, stained as it is with Christ's crimson effluence. Sadly it was destroyed in a fire which also killed Merlin, the holy scrolls and several homeless people.

Expert Advisor

b) Templar Intrusion into the Cretaceous period

Mediaeval writer Simeon of Arimathea wrote this revealing passage;

'and then they came, the Knights Templar, against the Saracens, and they were like the avenging horde of Christ, swords raised, riding their great land dragon mounts, mouths bristling with jagged teeth, covered in the scales of the reptiles but huge and walking on two legs like fierce and malevolent ostriches...'

What are we to make of this other than that the Templars used their quasi time and dimensional travel abilities to travel back to the Age of the Dinosaurs and procure for mounts some of these 'terrible lizards,' nothing more than the terrible Tyrannosaurus Rex. The evidence is indisputable; clearly the Templars interfered in time to press even dinosaurs to their will, This has been corroborated by recent archaeological evidence. Excavations of the site of the Battle of Montgisard have uncovered whole regiments of Knights found preserved aboard their hideous mounts. Irrefutable.

The Battle of Montgisard reaches it's bloody conclusion

Therefore we must consider that we in this age face a continued threat. That of the Templars, with their time distortion ability, led by the Tyrannosaur riding O'Bam'Aaah sallying out through time to ravage and redact the past, and perhaps, even more terrifyingly, the future. Ominous stuff, and what can we do? Nothing, but quake, and fear, for YHWH has been overthrown by the forces of disorder, and there is no hope for man or woman left in this realm. I recount the last words Merlin spake unto me as he breathed his last. 'Son,' he said, 'You cannot conquer the forces of evil. Rather you must achieve gnosis and by those means escape the tyranny of mundus, the Templars, and this accurs'd physical realm.' And then he died, and the morning sparrows died for weeping.

The face of a desperate man, after Spice 1 (original piece)

 

This piece as the caption suggests, is intended to eminate despair and is dedicated (in sincerity) to Spice 1. A man who so eloquently puts his unhappiness to music.The image is painted over a previous oil painting of Christ as the personification of hubris. And suggests that in the absence of mysticism or religion there is only despair.The painting contains elements of the artist's bodily fluids and is intended to represent excrement, decay, anger, isolation, darkness, fuitility, and death. 

'My mother thinks I'm going crazy, and when I leave the house she just stares out of the window'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulz7lkz2vBw

2pac as grocer

 

We gotta make a change...
It's time for us as a people to start makin' some changes.
Let's change the way we eat, let's change the way we live
and let's change the way we treat each other.
You see the old way wasn't working so it's on us to do
what we gotta do, to survive.

Why is it that in Pac's seminal piece 'Changes' his first priority is to change the way we eat? At first I dismissed this as a mis-ordering of priorities, a clumsy lyrical mistake. But then I delved deeper, what if this was some sort of lyrical Freudian slip?

Fervently I began looking through my extensive archives of Pac's works. Take for instance the classic 'High Speed' an undisputed masterpiece, but a multilayered work, in some places laying Pac's very essence bare. 

Whatcha gonna do when you get outta jail? I'm gonna buy me a gun Then what's next? Food and Sex, house parties in the projects

Again here is an odd ordering of priorities, first food, then coitus, then house parties. Does Pac just love food or is there something more here?

I then began to see this reoccurring theme scattered almost ubiquitously amongst his oeuvre, take for instance "Keep your Head Up"

"homey roll a e-class Mad cheese in the stash, still a deadbeat dad"

Here again a foodstuff is mentioned, this time cheese, a pattern is forming, (and it takes a very subtle mind to detect it). Pac seems to value cheese so highly that rather like Pepys he stashes or buries his more expensive cheeses, such as perhaps, a fine Parmesan, or an aged blue cheese.

But does Pac just like food, or is there something more here? Something deviant? I think not. But a practical relationship between Pac and foodstuffs is not out of the question. 

I then found something startling, something so sublime that I had to cease all thought for three days, least I become mired in its beatification. I stumbled upon "Picture me Rollin".

"Picture me rollin in my 500 Benz I got no love for these n***** there's no need to be friends
They got me under surveillance, that's what somebody be tellin. Know there's dope bein sold, but I ain't the one sellin!"

We know Pac is not the one selling dope but what is he selling? This is when I had the epiphany, I listened to the song, and Lo! The lyrics were wrong. I heard new words where old should have been, Pac posthumously let me in on his secret!

"Picture me grocing with my 500 Beans"

At this point the amount of seminal fluid dripping from my member was torrential. 2Pac Shakur was a grocer! A truth hidden beneath his rhymes, his love of food masked in his lyrics. What a discovery, what an achievement! I find more meaning in life everyday!

Spread the word, Pac is a straight up G(rocer)

Spartacus: Blood and Sand: Poetry of the Soul

"words fall from your mouth as shit from arse" 

The composition beautiful. The language, eloquent. The sentiment, profound. 

The writer of the Shakespearean megalith, Spartacus: Blood and Sand, here is again displaying his exceptional talent for simulating human discourse, and yet simultaneously makes an intelligent philosophical point. Shit falls from arse. It is part of the natural cycle of creation, the unavoidable offense of voiding oneself. And yet it is somehow hideous, the equation of of the excremental act to speech offers profundity in the wholesale rejection of the words as naught but filth. Feces (Lation for 'sediment') is the great first means of creation to a child, proof of their ability to be more than passive recipients, and yet here that very creative spark is derided; their words are nothing but dregs, and all their great inventive potency and magic is wasted, they are but the rejections of the body, utterly useless, and nothing more.

Nevertheless the act of making stool is (generally) deliberate, an assertive evocation, and a symbol of domination. An image that is turned on it's head here. The shit here does nothing but 'fall' from arse; there is no action, no deliberate push, rather it merely slips from lo the crystal battlements and falls without intervention. The great assertive act has become nothing but the passivity of the dripping faucet; it is an emasculating insult, the victim has no control over either his words, or his shit. Excrement, that gold that is valued above all external commodities, has become unattainable to him. He is not only unable to control his words or his bodily functions, he is now also impoverished, his wealth in shit slipping from the grasp of his miser's arse like so many golden coins.

In the Roman context, this loss of Denarii is a critical insult. The target loses his wealth, his influence, and his entire life may well be at risk as a result. And yet there is a beauty to it in its simplicity. The symmetry of the sentence is undeniable. The four nouns act as punctuation points, each itself an epithet. They pin the sentence in place, and give it a very strong rhythm. The conjunction of arse and mouth reminds us that there is very little difference between the two, and 'words' and 'arse' at the beginning and end frame the phraseology of the piece, keeping it stripped down and nuanced, plain and clear.

The alliteration of the 'f' sound is onomatopoeic, mimicking the sound of shit literally falling from arse. The flat dropping sound resounds like the infertile speech of the target – it is nothing but a background noise, and so on a subliminal level his speech is further derided. By starting with 'words' there is already one trochaic foot, a falling sound that is echoed in the dropping pace. This too already introduces the mood of the falling shit, before the shit is even evoked.

Clearly I have merely scratched the surface of this poignant statement, but words cannot do justice to such a well constructed and considered triumph of the English language, exceeding even the championing creations of Milton, Donne or Wordsworth. Nay, it may even be the greatest poetry since time began and the firmament rose from the ocean itself to drape stars across the hopeless void.

Contemplations on Cock.

"the Gods part cheeks and ram COCK IN ARSE" 

The recurrent anal imagery again intercedes into dialogue, a poetic leif motif employed by the author that goes hand in hand with his explicit phallic imagery. The penetrative member here is divinely assisted, and yet it's presence is very much within arse; despite the characters expressive arm gestures, the final emphasis is not on the violation of penetration but the habitation of "cock in arse." possessing the anal cavity like the holy spirit inhabits the disciples, the cock is nevertheless a physical being. The author stresses the physical interplay of tactile forces, the pressing presence of the cock rammed against the wall of arse. It is both obscene aggression, the sinful presence that plays on the primal male fear of violation; the emasculation of sodomy and the disruption of the natural order. By conjuring the image of this inversion of primal unity, the author is attempting to unsettle his audience. What they had once taken for granted is now disturbed , the rhythm of the world is broken and the audience can now identify easily with the grief of the character. 

 

And yet there is something more to this than simple evocative imagery. The Gods themselves intervene in mortal affairs to 'part cheeks.' This divine assistance in an ultimately violent sodomy speaks to a deeper level. The Gods are representative of the world, of natural forces, and here the speaker laments how the entire world has turned against him, the Gods themselves participating in his anal intrusion. The once beatified deities that looked down upon and guided man in his endeavours have become nothing more than degenerate perverts, gleefully opening the way for the violation of the arse. There is something profoundly eschatological about this. It is as if the order of the Universe is crumbling, that what was once good is in decay, that new definitions of morality must be drawn in a pestilent world. The author is clearly dissatisfied with the state of creation, and laments the coming storm, and yet welcomes it as expiation from the moral degradation that has left the world naught but cock in arse.

The Superfluity of Certain Body Parts

 Case 1. The eyebrows. 

The yoke of mankind.

The eyebrows are perhaps one of the most pointless features ever to adorn the body. What is their purpose? Some misguided individuals may contend that they exist to capture perspiration, but would a gutter of flesh and bone above the eyes not be a better evolutionary development in this regard? No, these ridges of hairs have no design, no intent. They express emotion, but emotion is the bane to rational man. That is why the greatest scientists and thinkers such as Einstein, Nietzsche and Arius have tended to remove their eyebrows to enhance their mental prowess, and allow the ether unimpeded access to their frontal lobe.  To transcend the limitations imposed on us by our tyrannical eyebrows, we must remove these abominations from ourselves forthwith.  

Case 2. The Appendix 

Greater, less eyebrowed men than I have written on the superfluity of the appendix, so I shall not dwell upon it long. The appendix, the ticking time bomb nestled within each one of us exists, if it has purpose, as an allegory for our own sanity. Mostly we do not notice or care to notice it, nestled deep within us. It plays a negligible role in our dismal daily lives of incessant and fruitless action. And yet it is present there, waiting, with no function expect to break, to be ruptured. It is defined by it's own destruction. One day, for no apparent reason, our sanity, like our insidious appendix, may burst. Then any one of us may emerge like a rainbow Phoenix, nay, like a god in anguish, from the graying shell of existence, and see the world for what it is. They will be called degenerates, like the appendix labeled fruitless, and yet to them all creation and the kingdom have been revealed, and the only option is to have them removed, or like a diseased body, all social order will subside back into the dust and the shadows. 

Case 3. The Phallus. 

The phallus is not superfluous in any way. It is a symbol of the might of the Lord. 

Case 4. Bones 

It appears to me in my enlightened state that bones only restrict our ability to manoeuvre. Consider the mighty octopus; it lives the life of the great oceanic philosopher, and manages to do it all without the hindrance of bones. By removing our bones, we too can allow our bodies, as well as our minds, drift free from the bonds of a rigid, conforming structure. 

Case 5. The Body 

Gnosis teaches us that the body is entirely superfluous to our existence, in fact is a thing of evil, created in a handful of dust by an angry and inept God. If we allow the divine spark within us to transcend the limitations of mundus by the obliteration of our physical forms, the human race can finally escape the torment of the prison imposed upon it by the demiurge, and the tyranny of the angels. Therefore we must cast ourselves into the sea, every man, woman and child, of every creed and colour. It is the only way to be free.

Dawkins and the Knights Templar

The Knight’s Templar or ‘The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon’ as they are known in lerned circles, what became of them and where are they today?

The true cross, the Holy Grail, the authentic shroud of Turin, where are these relics and where are their pious guardians? I find it absurd to think that our LORD and saviour would allow these sacred artefacts to rust away in some ancient cellar, or to go to waste beneath the arid dunes of Palestine.

It was Bernard de Clairvaux in 1118, that first decreed the Order was to go underground in times of woe. As the power of the Catholic Church waned during the reformation and the enlightenment, these noble templar’s still stood guard, unseen like seraphim casting their protective gaze over their divine treasure.

So what of today? Bernard was no fool, he predicted the rise of Newton and Descartes, of Huxley, and Darwin and all those defamers of truth, that have a dozen heads each with a blasphemous name engraved upon it. Under his auspices a few templar’s of outstanding intellect were to begin their righteous masquerade, they would cloak themselves with the knowledge of eminent scientists, sceptics and doubting philosophers. They would pretend to be of the ilk of those very men they despised. They would pretend to be scientists, men of learning, and they would hide the grail and the true cross, where nobody would think to look, among the houses of those who had torn down Europe's churches brick by brick.

Richard Dawkins is one of these dignified men, I suspect he has the true cross in his basement, and when, (under circumstances I deem too banal to explain) I took off his shirt around a year ago, I saw a strange mark etched into his goodly frame, it appeared to me as a branding, a tau-cross. This cross belongs in a museum; we should reclaim it from him. 

Pious old fool

A Lover Cleft: Von Trier and Tarkovsky

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?

 

Two beings cleave from one essence
Yet become immutable, opposed as foes
Rivals declare the other’s obsolescence
While their carrion is food for crows.

Their paints are one
Yet their minds are twain
The canvas gone
While the wretched remain

Tarkovsky is the eye’s delight;
And yet, my mind, it calls for Trier!
Upon his frames mine eyes delight
Relaxed like bodies on brok’n bier.

The Russian begs my hand in marriage
Yet Lars is lying in mine bed
When I talk to one he will disparage
The other, who remains unwed.

Oh divine essence! Oh portents pure!
Wherefore dost my yearnings lie?
The pervert Dane with his allure?
Or blesséd Soviet with funeral cry?

I lust for both, their arts are true-
But at a distance, seem like poo.

Phallic Symbol

A poem

A throng, in a den of thieves,

A gentle pattern of thought, weaves,

Amongst the linen and the baskets and the wool,

Upon a statue the forces pull.

I see a beggar amongst the throng,

Who has, if I may say, a vessel, wrong,

And underneath his leather cowl,

In dreams and thoughts his feelings howl.

There is an insect in the bay.

Which marches on its merry way,

To destinations good unknown,

To climb upon its golden throne,

Indeed it seems, that it is true,

His face is howling, as he too knew,

He is the bracken

And don’t he know,

From his anus the good stuff flows.  

Morrissey: Descendant of the Tetragrammaton?

Consider Morrissey.

Hi there, beautiful.

The greatest poet of our age, or perhaps any. At least the equivalent of Yeats, Milton, Shakespeare, or Chaucer. And his words are yet more beautiful, more visceral, more honest and nuanced than any of those lesser men. Is he the spawn of YHWH? It cannot be doubted. Consider his countenance. As the prophet Isaiah declared,

He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
   nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by mankind,
   a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
   he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

                                                                                                         Isaiah 53:2

Do you see? The great prophet predicted this, the hideous child of the Lord, the man despised, and held in low esteem, and yet so gifted, the great Servant of Jehovah. Was Morrissey not predicted millennia ago? No man on earth could fit this description more. Despite his Christ-like arrogance, Morrissey despises himself along with all humanity. When he considers the false prophet and heretic Jesus in his song, the humble “I Have Forgiven Jesus” he laments that

Jesus hurt me
When He deserted me

What a poet. And yet here he cuts deep to the heart of the misguided public’s relationship with the heathen Christ. He has deserted them like the liar he is. But now Morrissey has come for us, to deliver us and save us. To separate good from evil and to conquer the forces of darkness. And though he is reviled, who can argue that he is not the Son of God?


And like the true Son of God he will die for our iniquities. He describes his own martyrdom in grisly detail;

Monday - humiliation / Tuesday - suffocation
Wednesday - condescension / Thursday - is pathetic
by Friday - Life has killed me
by Friday - Life has killed me

This is what we as a society have driven poor, innocent Morrissey to. The lamb of God become our bloody sacrifice because we could not contain our wanton and repugnant lusts. They are a disease, a pox, a pestilence, and Morrissey fears even he has been tainted by being among us for so long;

why did you give me /so much desire?

Morrissey transcends his perpetual misanthropy by recognising himself as part of the corrupt whole, a whole body of humanity in decay, rotting in an open grave, a plague pit, a charnel house. Is there hope? Can Morrissey save us, even at the moment of our greatest evil?

I would argue not. We are beyond reprieve. Hence he has instead vested himself with the animals, and reduced himself to vegetarianism. To Morrissey, the innocent lambs and rabbits and calves and other animals frolicking in the fields are the true saved, the real children of Israel. These are the ones he will raise to the kingdom of heaven when he is martyred, not us. Not us.

Apart from swine. They’re filthy in the eyes of the supreme . And Morrissey knows that.

Musical Giants Pt 1, Morrissey

Morrissey: His genius manifests itself in the form of prancing, crooning, misery, and swirling bouquets of flowers. Perhaps the finest singer and performer of our generation, Morrissey through songs such as "it's over", "there is a light that never goes out" and "this charming man" propagates his apathy towards life and existence, bleating existential angst into every soulful syllable.

On occasion Morrissey, an expert make-up artist, transforms himself into a balding, shorter and more southern version of himself, Phil Collins. Collins is just as musically endowed, but a bipolar and schizophrenic character when compared to the persona of Morrissey. His songs are often more upbeat in terms of tempo, but the the lyrics are often equally cynical, if not just as artsy and intellectual, that is before Duke in '80. Invisible Touch was Collins' undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility. At the same time, it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding three albums. Christy, take off your robe. Listen to the brilliant ensemble playing of Banks, Collins and Rutherford. You can practically hear every nuance of every instrument. Sabrina, remove your dress. In terms of lyrical craftsmanship, the sheer songwriting, this album hits a new peak of professionalism. Sabrina, why don't you, uh, dance a little...

Look familiar?

Gerrymandered Properties

1a The property of being the mereological sum of a goose egg and a cremaster muscle
1b The property of being a ship's arse
1c The property of being a yoghurt cunt

2a The property of being both purple and square and a meatus
2b The property of being an argon haemorrhoid
2c The property of being a bad balloon

3a The property of being a jealous wizard
3b The property of being a golf-piece
3c The property of being a gerrymandered property

4a The property of being an Eton flogger
4b The property of being a pink volcano
4c The property of being a daft punk

5a The property of being a rotter
5b The property of being a rowdy existential quantifer
5c The property of being a sailor's pet

Sonnet 1: On The Butterfly

The butterfly flits through the open air
Tattooed eye wings beat without world care.
Though made Monarch of the open void
‘Tis as transitory as the word of Freud.
That is to say, a mere fallacy of lies
Though it has beauty, ’tis mere disguise
It is vacuous and illogical as Christ remade;
The truth is that he just decayed.

A bundle of rags in a borrowed barrow;
No saint Francis, no redeeming sparrow
Or young Sebastian or martyr’s arrow;
Just the incessant silence of the tomb,
The tomb that has become God’s womb,
In which the sounds of nothing boom.

Pornography: The Only True Art

What A Slut.

Man is void if not base. Nothing more motivates him in his endeavours but the desire for endless, rampant fornication. His eyes glisten with the combined fantasies of a million potential deviations burning like a galaxy of corrupted stars. His potency is his lifeblood, without it he is sterile, useless and without procreation, every aspect of his life becomes futile. Man is a canvas, drenched in the sweat and seed of a million rapes and conceptions.

And only art carved onto this canvas in strength and suffering can truly speak to man. There is no resonance in the cracked sepulchre of his heart, just the Tintinnabulum of endless desire that echos within his broken mind. The greatest art has no appeal but the erotic; in Caravaggio, Michelangelo, the only true aesthetic appreciation is for the perfection of nudity, bodies fragile and vulnerable rendered into being out of the ideals that swim in the ether. No man looks at the Mona Lisa without the sole imagining of her performance of fellatio upon him - what more is there to the image than her coy look and hint at illicit sexual practice? The painting’s fame come from those harlot’s eyes, that follow the observer around the room; he is never free from her incessant desire. Unable to obtain her, his frustration causes him to idolise her, revere her as something great, and as a consequence feign an appreciation of the painting as ‘art.’ It is nothing but, merely a ruse for his disgusting perversion.

The modern age has seem an exponential growth and availability of hardcore pornographic material; businessmen now forgo coitus with their wives to revel one handed in the appreciation of eastern European sex slaves forced into humiliating acts by desperation or drug addiction - they feed and glut their lust and aesthetic whims on the suffering of an impoverished female underclass, an underclass who are nothing to them but devourable, physical commodities. Acquainted to them only by their own wrists, they feed on the combined misery of these souls, sucking them to nothing but husks of being, life without life, physical being with no higher essence, until they are nothing but rocks or the eternal phallic redwood.

The Opium of the People - Art by Thomas Ruff

And yet this is the only art that speaks to man. The feeling in his heart when he sees a vulnerable young maid embuggered by a probable rapist transcends and massively exceeds that when he considers even the most apt Kandinsky or Warhol. This the one art that affects man, it affects him physically, causes his body to morph, to become potent by it’s mere observation. How can one argue that Van Gogh has anywhere near this influence? Compared to ‘Filthy Sluts 6’ he is nothing, a mere speck on creation who is of no care to anyone. Pornography on the other hand, it is the solace of every man, and unites man, rich and poor, of every creed and colour, all over the earth in simple desire and rampant, animalistic fornication. There is no hope for humanity, only the despair of the base and the crystalline perfection of pornography that casts cupid’s arrow into mankind's blackened heart.

Show me the colour of fear (an original piece)

Biscuits and Gravy: Anatomy of despair

              Behold the sodden loaf! I want my readers to imagine in their minds eye the incestuous love child of Hephaestus and Athena. Behold the glory of the smith's hammer coupled with the wit of noble Pallas. It is a thing too glorious to conceive. Nowhere in reality can we find an equal, except, perhaps in the creation before thee; the noble wonder that is Biscuits and Gravy. 
            First the gravy: so young, so tender; supple as new shoots of asparagus or a puppy's pink upper gum. It swallows whole the biscuits like the Red sea did the Egyptian armies of young Ramses. Where is  Moses to lead these lost biscuits to my mouth?! He is my fork, poised, ready to convey the biscuits to the freedom found inside the mouth parts and chewing mandibles of mine heavenly chastity. 
             The biscuits: Has one ever held a newborn leopard in their hands? or perhaps a piece of moonstone? nay, I yearn to clutch the tears of christ himself! Tears that fell from divine lids onto the the dusty slopes of Golgotha. From thus sprung forth these biscuits, like warriors from the dragon teeth Cadmus sowed. Biscuits to lovingly defile with copious spoonfuls of the erogenous gravy liquid. 
            Tell me man what do you know of life?  Have you heard the plaintive toll of a Spanish guitar as the moon rises over Cordoba? Have you sat up to watch the sun rise over Rome while you made love on the Spanish Steps? Have you experienced the all encompassing solitude of a mountain wilderness? Do you know of death and despair? Can you speak of these things with me? Nay, not until thou hast tasted these biscuits. Only then can a man truly love. 

The Chymist

Alone and naked, but for my stainéd coat
I contemplate my powders float
I am a God when at my trade
I build, create, and then unmade.
As I swirl an ether in my glass
And calculate the final mass
I wonder if they pray to me as their creator
Expiator, like Judas copper is the one true traitor
Poisoning my vast burette
Which like a phallus stands erect.
My fluids gush, my fluids flow
They ask for C I’ll give them O.
The potency of God is mine
As solute fizzles in the brine
I shall make life!
Forge me a wife!
I’ll add some carbon, then add Fe
The masses then will worship me!
My wanton lusts, they know no bounds
And as my pestle gently pounds
Into the yoni of the mortar
Perhaps I’ll further make a daughter
For when my wife reneges to dust
I’ll need new means to shape my lusts…
The distillation’s doing fine
My lab will one day be a shrine
To those that come to worship me
And like Lord God I’ll set them free!
I hold dominion over atoms, nuclei
And though I’m wont to ponder why
The world is not by me remade
Instead I muse upon my maid
Extracting ambrosia from the fleshy flower
I gasp, and Hark! For near’s the hour!
I add my seed by teat pipette
Ignoring now the lurking wet
That stickly stains my sweating hands;
The fire from within my glans.
Within test tubes essence coalesce
And as I wait in mounting stress
For that one spark of true creation
I silently mouth some incantation
I know not what, but lo! What joy!
A body’s formed, -egads, a boy!
His member large where vulve should be
The Gods in jest have answ’d my plea!
No Helen of Troy for mine desire
But only this eternal ire-
He comes to me now across the room
And in his eyes I see my doom…

Barabbas reflects on the genius of St Sebastian

Behold our fair Sebastian,

A saint, fetters, and oak

Sexy

A flight of arrows, so began,

The fable often spoke.

The barbe’d shaft, flew cold air through,

And wood tore into skin

He had a massive willy too,

To cleanse us of our sin.

And the cloth that girds his loins,

Seeks barely to contain,

A serpent, dragon, beast, and man,

A rod, stiff and profane.

And if a glimpse of mighty part,

Is caught,
If only once!

A bad d’sire it shall impart,

I plead,
Lock up your sons!

The subconscious as a deposit for the thoughts of apes and hominids

How many thoughts have apes had over the years? It is clear from science that we descended from some sort of ape and we share a common ancestor with modern apes. What did these ancestor think of? Perhaps he mused on the extent of the sky, perhaps he revelled in the viridian grass.

Imagine Homo erectus sitting on a hinterland looking out to sea, the placid waves lapping upon some primeval beach, perhaps he has built a raft out of pine logs. His core behavioural characteristics are stowed away in his brain as instinct, those hominids with the more useful instincts will pass those instincts down in the form of genes to their kin.

Imagine a certain hominid named Ken, perhaps he first invented the spear.

Now it was a natural curiosity, a basic intelligence and probably an innate aggression that led to the first spear. It is likely that these instincts that produced these behaviours such as curiosity etc. have been passed down to us in the form of expressed or unexpressed genes 

Our minds are composites of the instincts of our more successful ancestors. Thus I may have a mix of instincts from, a certain homo habilis named John, a medieval peasant named Francis etc, etc. 

By having these inherited genes we can explore the mind of our ancestors through examining our own subconscious. 

 
Taking a look at my own subconscious memories of my ancestors:
  
Pierre Allemand  (1662 – 1691) a ships pilot, explorer and fur-trader in the New World during the later 17th century.

Experiences: Remember this one, a bit boring lots of sea and fur.

Pristimantis appendiculatus  (2 million AD - 2 million AD) was a frog in the Strabomantidae family found in Colombia and Ecuador.

Experiences: Bit boring lots of flies.

Feldspar  (4 Billion AD - 3.995 Billion AD) Was a piece of Feldspar.

Experiences: Bit boring, was a rock 

Proposals: The sacrilegious nature of the face of goats

Hideous

 "The Deil cam fiddlin thro' the town,
And danc'd awa wi' th'Exciseman;
And ilka wife cries auld Mahoun,
 I wish you luck o' the prize, man"

 - Burns


Why is this image (on the right) so frightening? It is not the bosoms which we all love and enjoy. It is not the staff and two snakes, the sign of Aesculapius (a symbol that adorns the many hospitals of the world) .It is not the angelic wings, possessed by the hordes of heavenly seraph, or the Aladdin trousers (I own a pair myself). It must be then, by process of elimination, the face. The face of the goat, the face of evil.

Evil bastard

What are we as philosophers to do about this affront to our senses? (both visual, auditory and olfactory).

I propose we kill all goats.

Slay them! Dash their bodies upon the rocks! put them to the righteous sword! Let the rivers run red with goat blood and the valleys ring with the sound of their bleets!

The balance of Justice is restored

Mind Piano Melody: The Obliteration of Sight, The Transformation of Waste in E Flat Major

“Dark, dark, dark, irrecoverably dark” 

Samson Agonisties - John Milton

To be visually impaired may be a scourge to any prospective artist. Distortions in the visual plane prevent them from gazing into the true nature of things, and they can no longer distort reality, as there is no base reality to distort. However, in a few cases the visually impaired have actually turned the punishment applied to them by God into a blessing. This piece considers the influence of Monet’s cataracts in relation to the partial sightedness of contemporary artist Thomas Ruff and transposes them with the melody of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolude. Elements of Caravaggio add both a smooth melody but also contribute to the sensory assault, with bombastic choral sequences developed to underlie a rich and homely tune, which at once causes the listener to both relax, but also question the very nature of their own perception.

Andrew Marvell Reflects on the Genius of his Mentor John Milton

Detractors name me ‘catamite’
Like some supple Athens boy-
But I revel in my Milton’s might
My body his enjoy.

He rises stiff like a stalagmite
As he disrobes the gates of Hell
I feel him deep within me, tight
And discern my organ swell.

My loin’s most potent fires ignite
As he tells me how he Marvells me,
He buggers blind, but with me bright
Our true love makes us free.

Biting pillows like some sodomite
He forces tears from blinkered eyes
Our bodies riddled with delight
What genius to devise?

The mirth of dionysus and midas (an original work)

 

Here the artist grapples with themes of change, metamorphosis, the gaze of The Other and the arrogance of the colour red.

Piece for Mind Piano; Chronic in D

Below is a piece I just wrote for a revolutionary new instrument, the Mind Piano. In the future we shall all have these Mind Pianos implanted into our auditory cortex - the Brodmann areas 41 and 42. Simply by looking at the picture a cascade of action potentials shall flow though the neurones of our brains, giving rise to a majestical symphony within the confines of the interior of the skull. 

Here it is: 

It sounds a bit like Wagner/Dre to me.

 

Observations on Despair: Part 1

There was a night when I was at a club, totally sober, though I had consumed two bottles of wine. I thought that tomorrow I would be on holiday and it gave me some solace; but at that moment, there was only sadness. As Herzog said, the jungle is only fornication and disorder, disorder and obscenity. The same is true of humanity. We are creatures in a jungle.

I looked around and I was disgusted by all the vulgarity and carnal obscenity of the humanity filing that room. The ugly people and their drunken displays of libido were literally sickening and I felt something move in my stomach.

Fat girls in short skirts dancing together in little circles with eyes closed and looks of pathetic longing on their faces. Trying their best to be like orchids, hoping to attract ants that would crawl all over them and stick their tongues into their dripping nectar slits.

Opposite them stood the little pig-eyed men, flexing under tight short-sleeve-button-down shirts, scowling, trying to attract equally ugly women by the sheer width of their arms.

Everyone was just staring blankly into a sort of middle distance netherworld of longing and unfulfilment. Just waiting, aimlessly waiting.

No one knows why they want what they do, but they seem content with searching for it. They seem to sense that this all has some purpose or higher order. They don’t feel the void of beauty, the desperate longing for meaning, the ceaseless quest to project some order on to the series of unconnected events and instances that is life.

Drink only heightens sadness. It makes the depression deeper and opens ones eyes to the misery around oneself.

I wondered what everyone was doing staring glassy eyed around them in their little groups of two’s and three’s, not talking to those they had come with, just starring and waiting with their pathetic hope. Waiting like gold fish in a little bowl; waiting to die then be flushed down the toilet and forgotten about.

People go to clubs to stare at one another like horses at an auction. I go to confirm my humanity, my likeness (or dislikeness) to my fellow men and to justify the meaning I create for myself by looking for it in others.

I never find it though. I only find despair.

 The despair arises, particularly acute, when the ugly people are everywhere. They suffocate me. The pulsating mass of fist pumping, loin grinding, facially deprecated humanity that fills clubs is a gross display the human propensity towards being out of control, drunk, fat, and ugly. These people are the common denominator by which we are all divided. At these moments their is only despair...a despair so overpowering I am rendered immobile and it takes the greatest of efforts to drag myself home so that I may stare into a mirror and reaffirm the divinity of my visage.

I am not a narcissist, I am a heathen lover of bacchus, of thanatos, of beauty, and of pan. I love coffee, snow falling in woods, and most of all I love the sound of waves lapping against boats becalmed in an open ocean. I embody silence, soughing pines, and the susurrus of the wind blowing the jasmine flowers hanging from buddhist temples in some forgotten corner of the sub-continent.

What is Art?

  There are two orders of Art.

            1^st order Art is what exists. Everything exists. Everything is Art. Everywhere is Art. I am Art, my life is Art, the temporal rod of existence is itself an installation piece at which to marvel. Art Is created passively by existence. In this way all things are Art.

            2^nd order Art is the minded art. Photographs, paintings, Jesus, etc; anything which the artist gives existence to by conscious action. 2^nd order Art is what surrealism is chiefly concerned with. We all live Art, though all are not aware of it. 2^nd order art (which I shall now refer to as just as art) is art we must experience through others. Others can experience art through us. Surrealism seeks to show by way of art what art is.

            Art is man’s device by which he creates reality. Art creates its own reality and confirms the one that we experience. The artistic realm is where we find the nuances of the rough existence we experience first hand. Second hand experience is less artificial, it is realer in substance because it is not created by our mind, which we can never trust. What is real is what is depicted by art. The artist chooses what to reify in his work and by doing so makes reality concrete. When an artist makes enough things concrete, structure develops. The photographic negative of reality must be projected, expanded, and developed onto the photo paper of existence. Images confirm what exists by being a testament to their existence. Sontag describes how photography does this. 

            All things tend to the infinitely large or the infinitely small. Eventually there is void, in the void there is art. Art is the void and becomes existence itself because the void is all things and it is nothing. Art is therefore everything and it is nothing.  

  

           In the end there will only be art. 

The objectivity of subjectivity and the folly of Kant

When we consider subjectivity we typically refer to matters of opinion, for example taste, artistic merit, moral rightness etc, etc. We mean objectivity to denote true propositions of mathematics, factual statements etc, etc.

Kant in The Critque of Pure Reason arrives at the conclusion that the mind is limited as it can never know the true noumenal nature of things beyond the phenomenal realm of appearances. Hence Kant denies objectivity. The Positivists and The Vienna Circle took this viewpoint to its natural conclusion-  since the majority of Kant's synthetic a priori statements had been discredited with the arrival of relativistic physics - and argued that if the truth has to be verified independently of our own minds then there can be no true propositions at all, and hence it is in a sense meaningless to ask such questions.

Traditionally as subjectivity increases philosophers have been keen to reduce objectivity (see the pink line below).

However I feel that absurd statements are in a sense truer than normal ones (see the purple line) as they accept fully the absurdity and senselessness of existence. It seems as existentialists we are more willing to accept the proposition 'I am an ethereal nobless turtle made out of Pi' than '2+2=4'.Thus this is what we end up with.

Piranha 3D: The Pornography That Loathes Itself. Part 1.

When considering Piranha 3D (2010), one is wont to deconstruct it into two very different thematic elements, a chronological break down between the first and second halves. The bizarre juxtaposition of the erotic libertinage that constitutes the first act is contrasted with  the orgiastic violence of the second, but this violence itself is painted over the first act; the characters are still eroticised and existing in a sexualised sphere, and yet all sensuality is brutally destroyed as they all meat their gory, excessive demises. Like a painting over a painting, the blood and meat of the second act forms a manipulation of, and by extension a comment on, the sex of the first. The slaughter is itself a comment on the inequity of the  Lake Victoria collective, whose collective sexual sinning begets their judgment like a modern-day Sodom. Yahweh afflicts them with a pestilence as he did the Pharoah, the plague of the piranha is visited upon them, ‘and all the water was changed into blood.’ (EXODUS 7:20)

So what of the titular Piranhas themselves? Originating like avenging angels from a time before man in their cave underground, they are a symbol of constancy, the indomitable violence and aggression of nature that predates us and will eventually consume us all. As the cleft is shown to be opened in a manner according to Micah 1:4, ‘The mountains melt beneath him (-him being the fisherman with whom we open this tale. An interesting and telling choice, considering several of the disciples were fisherman, perhaps this individual is supposed to represent the Wandering Jew, and the Piranhas a messianic deliverance. He has lived millennia to be present as this moment of import, and yet dies alone. By opening with this tableaux of futility, Aja, the director, is confronting us with a summary of the film we are about to watch. Despite the excesses of life and sex, the only true sensation is pain, and the only purpose to life is to build up a reason to die. Furthermore as ’the fisherman’ this man is likely the only character able to stem the tide of Piranhas, which are fish, by the virtue of his fishing ability. By taking him out so early in a tactical strike which rivals even Israel’s propensity for aggressive direct action, the Piranha are making an intelligent and well planned manoeuvre, leaving the remainder of the human population helpless. If in the first half the humans are having a decant celebration of all possible excesses, within the second act it is the turn of the Piranha to party, and their gory feast is an interesting chiastic counterpoint to the culture of drink and sex which proceeded it) and the valleys split apart, like wax before the fire, like water rushing down a slope’ we see the detritus of mans commercial hubris lying neglected on the lakebed. Cans, bottles, garbage of al shapes and sizes. Though to us it seems permanent, the vestiges of our culture, the things we construct that cannot decay as we do, here even our one immortal mark on the planet is questioned. Next to the eternal Piranha, living within their own underground ecosystem, our commodities are nothing but rot, and stand doomed before nature. If Piranha is anything it is a comment on commercialism. The first act with it’s beer, boats and boobs reeks of materialism and corruption. The people of Lake Victoria have forgotten their own humanity, their moral compass has been offset.

The arrival of the Piranha is nothing short of revelatory. Aja is careful not to make them mere piranha as we know them typically, but another element of the natural order we exist within, and yet constantly try to usurp. Rather, these are prehistoric in appearance, like demonic mazzikim divine entities whose entire purpose is to afflict others. They descend on the town by Lake Victoria, ‘and I saw a beast come out of the sea. He had ten horns and seven heads, with ten crowns on his horns, and on each head a blasphemous name.’ (REV 13:1) Here the beastly appearance of these dinosaur fish, with their spikes and horns cannot be avoid interpretation as an allusion to and possible fulfilment of such eschatological prophecy. These are no mere piranhas, but Piranha. Like the evil spirits within the Demoniac at Gerasenes (also by a lake, the Sea of Galilee- surely no coincidence?) they are not individual beings, but are defined by their nature as a collective; ‘My name is Legion, he said, for we are many.’ (MARK 5:9) The Piranha are just that, Legion. Scholars of Hellenistic Jewish folklore have oft remarked on the demonic fondness for water, and legislation pertaining to it occurs in the Talmud; one must not leave pots of water uncovered on Wednesday nights, for instance, for fear of infection by evil forces. Is it any small wonder this film is then set in oasis like lake in the middle of the American desert? Sadly in mainstream cinema it is hard to pass off a film set in Palestine or Judea, so Aja has transplanted a Hellenistic Jewish society of the first century A.D onto a canvas of American Consumerist Decadence. Like the blood of the second act that drenches the bodies of the fornicating masses from the first, this uncanny combination only goes further to serve the films aims of chastising the viewer, and causing them to grieve for the ruins of society, and yearn for a better time, the time of Christus himself.

The pornography of the fist act is explicit, so as to almost throw the viewer off, so strongly is it applied. There is no subtlety here, only fornication and excess that continues on and on. ‘The spirit of whoredom leads them astray’ (HOSEA 4:12) and the masses are so taken up in their masturbation, sex without love, just to please the self, that they do not heed the prophets, and so, like daughter Zion, the City on the Hill, they too will fall.

Indeed the rampant sex and orgiastic bouncing of flesh actually causes the viewer to wish for the titular Piranha. They have come expecting a monster movie, and are presented with pornography. And as this drags on, they become more and more impatient, desirous to see a bloody end to all this fornication. Aja has here constructed a masterwork of audience manipulation; he has made them feel the frustrations of Yahweh himself at the deviant masses; but when they are presented with the eventual outcome of their insatiate bloodlust, the horror of mutilation and suffering, they realise what is corrupt about themselves. Their result of their lust for violence is revealed to be too disturbing to handle, and after they have rejected sex, and then rejected the gore they craved, what is left to their humanity? Nothing, or everything? Here I think Aja purifies the interior soul of the audience, stripping them of the sexual drive, and the propensity for aggression. The audience emerge at the end shaken, but changed for the better, purified as though they had been newly baptised. They have been released from vice, and are free to explore the world again.

End of Part I.