Ozymandias 2

They cut fair Christus with their swords Knifes that slide below the skull To mortify and purify The face of the devil And Shiva stands amidst the sand To guide you with his spear Among the spirits of the dead Who live in partial fear They tell me tales of artefacts Of objects of great power Of matter favoured by the gods To set back the final hour I cross the dunes, with stupor’ed mind To find I’m in a room The surgeon stands with bloody hand Within a scintillating tomb The maze, the dune, the artifice The endless flow of life Why build a god up o’ so high To cut him with a knife?

Upcoming Publication: "Where the Hood at? Man's Great Question Solved"

Over the years many intellectuals have asked perhaps the most precient question of our time, "Where the Hood at?" Now, for the first time and thanks to several months of deep investigation, in which I lost contact with my family, friends, even my own children going ignored, their feeble cries for sustenance put aside as we all withered under the relentless yoke of my passion, all this waste, all this death, all this suffering, but now culminated in my seminal publication, due out this autumn, "Where the Hood at? Man's Great Question Solved by Recource to Grecian Methods, Namely that of the Pythagorean School, Incorperating Elements of Dadism, Sadism and Hegelian Notions of History." The book where this most fundamental question shall be answered.

When DMX first queried, he doubless expected, in some far corner of his almighty concious mind, that the answer to his puzzle would be found, naturally, in geometry. Of course! For is it not the preserve of the shape, the mighty abstract forms made concrete, location of universal space, and, so it follows, the enigmatic location of the Hood?

Like Arthurian Heroes of yore I followed the sage words of DMX, my cyberage Merlin, as he pointed me towards the Grail that was the Hood. Though, unlike Arthur, my quest was not to be found in the forests and glens, marshes and moors of ancient Albion, No! It was to be a mental oddessey, and so I cut myself off, reaching for gnosis, trancending space so I may look from above like the noble eagle whose entrails I so carefully read, and see the seat of the divine, the illusive Hood.

And now, for your delectation and delight, yonder diagram below illustrates the summation of my efforts. As you can observe, the Hood is in fact located in the last vertex to the right of any irregular triangle.

fig, A: The Location of "The Hood"

What secrets lie there, immortality, trancendance, gold, hennessy? For the answer, seek out my upcoming book, "Where the Hood at? Man's Great Question Solved by Recource to Grecian Methods, Namely that of the Pythagorean School, Incorperating Elements of Dadism, Sadism and Hegelian Notions of History."Available at all morally decent bookstores.

Adeui,

Barrabas

poem

Seven bridges approach the planet Uranus

And the god Nebuchadnezzar watches in delight

Dragging the hangman by his feet

Forty wheels, each of sixteen spokes, and ninety pulleys,

Power the absolute tide of Gilgamesh

Batteries and substations, canons and wires,

The god rises to his feet

And takes his first tentative steps

The cherry blossoms over the substantial ether of the fullness of existence

And the peach is consumed by the god

While this is being imagined by a pug

A grasshopper transmogrifies into Hercules and overpowers the little dog

The tsunami travels up a river contrary to the flow

And a masturbating baboon laughs and splurges its pearl jam upon the greatest of poets

Morrissey

He was the best of men, and the worst of men

A blustering and arrogant Ghandi

But

Jimmy Saville violates the moral structure of the universe,

A perversion and a pervasive penetration into the fabric of space time

He is truly the worst of men

His taste is poor, his face abominable, his cigars cheap like used teabags

Saville is a trumpet of desires, a man who sounds his own concealed horn of base physicality

Lord have mercy

Six men eat poo poo in a circle,

Drinking tequila and liquefied worm faeces

These are queer men, aboriginal felons, hawks of deepest purple

And they are the tyrants of galilleo’s mathematics

What can be done about their wizard’s spell?

The most ancient of magic

Poo magic

The precise distance from 19.5 to 72

The great dali, alive and well

Coasting the tide of a thousand suns

Finally transcends into bliss

The snails and butterflies

Lift him up into the heavens

To dwell in nothingness and everything

What love and hatred this man has

Déjà vu

A hideous creature, with wings and

Memories that occur

Contrary to the synchronisation of divinely appointed space time integers

They poke into the wires of constancy and like

An octopuses eight limbs strangle common mental decency

Now let me speak of another

With post-post coital indifference

The one upon a chimney plane

Firing gaseous black, and fumes!

Sulphur and the charred remains of the dispersed atoms of Hammurabi

Each man,

Has an atom of him in his body

Truly

All is one

Here the cord is mixed with a different fibre, contrary to the laws of Leviticus

Leviathan and the crocodilus

A gentle foe

Let him not cause within you the oddity of a-synchronicity

For this is the throne of the spectacular bush

George Bush

The reincarnation of Richard the Lionheart

Who dives into the chorus of

Men singing in waveform voices

At a resonance of 40hz

The frequency of god

Wave, screenplay

Wave

ACT I

Wave by Frank Sinatra plays, its romantic cadence echoes throughout the room.

--Show in black and white--

A man with tortured eyes wearing ball gag stares into the camera, his face is pressed down against a wooden table and is partially obscured. He tries to scream, but his tongue is clasped tight against the gag. The room is darkly lit by a barren lightbulb.

“The fundamental loneliness goes, whenever two can dream a dream together” croons a whimpering  homosexual voice, in time with the track.

The garglings and screams of the man continue for another forty seconds. His eyes light up in realisation, as if something has entered him.

Slowly a knife emerges from stage right and slices the throat. A mighty gash appears and a deluge of blood drips onto the camera.

--full colour--

We are in an LA police station. Mercer a bitter, recently divorced homicide detective discusses the details of the murder with his superior.

“looks like he was fucked to death” says Mercer to the Sgt.

“his ass was all cut up”

“the slice to the jugular must have finished him”

“Christ, who would do that to a man”

The police sergeant pauses for a while and considers the photos.

“Christ indeed” replies the Sgt.

ACT II

We are at the end of the working day. Mercer leaves the station in a poor part of urban LA,

The night is cold and a man huddled behind a dumpster calls out to Mercer.

“spare any change”

“please”

Mercer walks on by in the snow.

ACT III

We are once again in the station. Mercer presents the photos a second time and is discussing the murder with his superior.

“the autopsy showed that the man was in his late forties” says Mercer

"white american"

"he's probably local"

There is a pause and the sergeant looks at him,  but this time maniacally . 

“You dumb bastard Mercer” says the sergeant,

“can’t you tell who it is yet?”

The Sgt then begins to hum the tune of wave to himself and Mercer finds he is being dragged into a dimly lit room. His face is pressed down against the table, a ball gag is thrust into his mouth.

--show in black and white--

“The fundamental loneliness goes, whenever two can dream a dream together” croons a whimpering  homosexual voice, in time with the track.

Mercer is painfully sodomised, tears stream down his face, and yet his ears are enraptured by the beautiful track. The knife enters from stage right.

Before the moment of his death Mercer sees the face of the devil in the whites of his own eyes, he knows at once he is condemned. Anxiety fills his final moments as he contemplates the infinity of hell. 

--Repeat ad infinitum--

THE ADVENTURES OF FLAHERTY AND SPICE

Father Flaherty the Franciscan friar feverishly and forcefully feasts upon feculent faeces, forcing the fetid form past his quaking lips. He looks to the sky as he prays to god the almighty, his cock erect, his eyes piercing the clouds. Each bite he takes he becomes more aroused, his cock swells ever larger and his heart beats faster. As he reaches a crescendo his priestly bell-end begins to pulse and vomit and semen are expelled from his body simultaneously in parallel lines which stretch to infinity. The ritual of purification is complete.

Flaherty proceeds out of his cloister in a dream like state, shit still smeared across his lips. He is filled with angst, and this very angst takes form:

He beholds a man, his face is decaying, maggots fill his eyes, his tongue must be about 20 inches long and is a deep glans mauve, indeed it looks like a hideous contorted phallus. Flies eject from the mouth as He (the urethral tongue) speaks a few words

“In the jungle the air is humid and hot, the trees kaleidoscope in shades of greens and browns and yellows. The sound and cadences of the river pulse in sine waves, like the crystal water itself. This jungle is home to many creatures but here we are focused upon the times and destiny of but one.

In the water is a carp, its face comical, its antenna pulsing and searching for food and enemies. The carp moves downstream towards its congregation, for this fish is a shepherd unto its flock, or indeed its shoal. It wears a purple robe, finely crafted by the lobster craftsmen of the shore, the finest tailors for two hundred parsecs. 

It wields in its miniscule prehensile fin a sceptre encrusted with a diamond as big as the carp’s head. This sceptre is a wand, and a magical tool of the ancient carp messiah.

But lo’ a hawk drops from the sky like a dead fly and consumes it”

“Now I see” replies Flaherty

Fingers and hand

Tangled ganglion, fingers, appendages of activity, poke the mind of god. Fist is block, sponge, flanked and mounted by five sticks. Organelles of functions, divide my mitosis, rather like frogspawn. Property of a nincompoop. Absurd devices prehensile. Silly. Fingers and hand. God's joke.

winter

Crisp winter snow, boulevard flanked by stiff parallel trees

Digit like, bleak fingers rise to touch a pale sky

Hunched under a wheely bin a downtrodden man covered in ice

His beard wire like, brown and grey, the eyes stare up at the birds

Pardon me, I ask, would you like a cigarette?

There was no response, for he was dead

Words from a Homeless Man

I don’t think you can count being a beggar as being part of a counter cultural movement, I said to the leper. He had fruitlessly tried to argue that each era had its own revolutionary cultures, which all, regardless of look or circumstance, consisted in entirety of irredeemable ponces, and that intransigents such as he were the Wildes, Lenons, etc of this era, clothed in filth but with the self satisfied look of great intellectuals or babes who’ve shit their nappies.
Empty globe eyes and the dumb nose of the dog pointing upwards in anticipation to catch a fractal raindrop maladjusted in decemtum. Young men dressed as contemporary fairies walked past with pompous look of the freshly sodomised. Flowers sprout around with hippy fronds in Technicolor. The beggar was adamant and I had a French bus to catch. A Parisian, always artfully late, belching smug. I wondered why all the homeless wear berets and paint their faces like mimes. He doesn’t silence, so I hobble him and let the plants have him. Vicious geraniums. And why is the bus stop a log? All about are insects going about their daily business, beetles in suits buttle to the office, ladybugs get into place as secretaries, woodlice the builders. And the growing flowers cover all.
 Above it all I walk away from a similar but different beggsr to catch a train made of Belgian chocolate that travelled along sugar rails. Halfway to Nashville I ate through the coupling bars and caramel cables and accidentally derailed my carriage, which turned to glass about me, shattered and became water which fell around into an oriental mud river, with multicoloured villages sitting, living on houses raised above it on stilts. They plot acts of global terrorism with plans that are 50 years old, and one day they will pull it off, very bond villain, very peculiar, the sound of a rolling metal tongue, lightmares and nightning, blue and silver flashes in the desperate void. Black is the colour of between space-no colours so objects in the way, you look out and see the void, what exists before and out universe. It is sterile, changeless, produces nothing. Then it gives birth to creation. Rapid expansion from a point, almost like human birth - why so similar? Conspiracy? Fragmentation becoming severe, ideas dissacoiate like alien limbs in zero gravity, spaceship logic falls at the first hurdle and has to be put down, is in a bad mood for another week, weak fool to try and waste his hard effort on the futile endevours of men and of mice which always reach maximum termination at the back of the microwave and are governed by an inhospitable terror bird, code named squark, who actually squonks, the sound made when two frogs are forcibly pushed together until rupture, similar to how the polish monarch of 1153 used to wear shoes with frogs on the sole and jump about his palace yelling ribbit, until he was assassinated and his dynasty supplanted by pagan planks of wood who were later overthrown by papists, but not the papists of andulasia who were not-o-rious pederasts and big biggie fans, instert component B into slot F, gyrate with your partner then separate for two beats, on choral medley strip off and assume intercourse position alpha, and recite mantra of the lecturous, later found as recorded on a stone tablet by a dystopian empire run by a puppet government of humans rules by physic rabbits, who use them to fight their principle enemies, chicken, pig and cow.

-The deranged rantings of the man I met at the bus station.

He was homeless and raved, but I saw that there was an evil in this homeless man, he drives others to his state, entraps them, swaps with them.

The Tale of Octopushead, Professional Overseer, and his Adventures Behind the Window of Reality

Octopushead marched down the 3&1/3 regiment of the chain gang of former clowns astounded by their decrepitude and tattered costumes. Here he was, in the middle of a solar desert, many kilo-miles from his happy suburban home, and it seemed the decaying failure of the clowns was a hideous metaphor for his own failure as a commandant of the circus performers forced labour camp 9. In the distance he heard an elephant bellow, from behind an array of red and purple mesas which swayed and shifted like plants in the desert winds. Clearly the animals were yet again unwilling to partake of their share of the work. Octopushead wondered if they would take industrial action again, or attempt a breakout. It was only with the loss of several fine tin foil men that they had prevented Larry Lion escaping last months. The horrific tears and mangled remains of those tin foil men, utterly unable to resist Larry’s savage claws, claws which he had been sharpening in secret for weeks, these nightmare thoughts still regularly haunted Octopushead’s conscious each successive day.

He was overworked, and, after the last prison freighter had encountered severe turbulence due to a cacophony of astral projections from a nearby barbershop and ditched several kilo-miles out in the parched ocean, supplies had been running low. Without his heroin, that most secret of vices, necessary to maintain his forever splintering sanity, Octopushead had been experiencing creeping bouts of The Fear. As Octopushead was terrified of clowns, his job as their Overseer was a particularly strong catalyst for these outbursts of psychic energy. The last few days alone the heads of three clowns had been caused to explode like eggs with hand grenades inside them because of panic attacks brought on as he was forced to manually restrain them. His job was at stake, he needed to score, and soon.

Each day the itch got worse, he could feel it at that moment, a creeping, prickly feeling under the rough wool of his resplendent uniform, like it was some static interface with his skin. His attention to duty waxed and waned like the tide; when he caught a clown shirking he administered the ritual sowing of a live, sexed up monkey to the back of the inmate’s head, yet at other time his attention to the strict and serious regulations of the penal colony was lax at best. Clowns would caper and prank each other, and he seemed to be almost unable to summon the effort to even give them a solid beating. Some days he didn’t even break any bones. Octopushead thought of his wife, how she abhorred his job, thought it was cruel to treat clowns and other circus folk like this. Octopushead’s buddies had informed him that her perverse sympathy was due to her likely gypsy ancestry, but Octopushead simply thought that she held the heartfelt belief that clowns could be tolerated. Also he would never marry a gypsy, for fear of their wicked spell craft.

Octopushead had argued with his beloved, Squidface Clam-minge, many times, but try as he might he could not conquer his fear of the clowns as something hideous, unnatural, untermench. Only a few of his closest friends knew that clowns had killed his parents one fateful night as they were walking home from an Operatic rendition of Naughty Nurses Nine. Even Squidface only knew the bare outline. Thanks to his smack withdrawal, it all seemed like it was happening right about now…

The rain on the streets, forming great, spinning whirlpools that lasted fractions of seconds. The amber city lights like fireflies trapped in jars. The rumble of traffic filling his ears and body with the vibrations of the city, like some giant hideous organism, perhaps an aardvark, as it ponderously plodded to the future but never seemed to leave the present. His father, a wealthy entrepreneur, one Sebastian Scalloptit. His mother, a lawyer by trade, but he remembered her most for her compassion, for her smile, and for her briny smell. Mrs. Cocksucker Van de Fellaté was one of the most popular debutantes of the year when she had been seduced by his farther, and that beauty still lingered on, in its way. His father reminded him to never kiss his mother on lips, as she had a taste for landwomen, but otherwise they had the perfect family.

And then, on that fateful night, moments before his parents were brutally run down and left spazzed multifariously, hung upside down on life support, twenty clowns on the run were carjacking a small business owner in a mini. All twenty clowns piled in, but the generous camp diets had made them corpulent and there was no room to steer or control velocity. The mini sped along the road, out of control. At that moment his father, Scalloptit, was fiending for smack, and spotting a man he assumed in his weakened state to be a dealer he knew, shouted at him and began to cross the road without looking, dragging his wife along. The man was in fact a pony called Albert, and he didn’t sell drugs but was a community support officer, a duty which saw him take a key role in managing the aftermath of the pending and now imminent disaster. Octopushead’s dad always needed smack to pay his mother, he told him, otherwise she wouldn’t be willing to ingest his landwomen and she would starve to death. Octopushead never really understood any of that, and was pondering it over again when he heard the car of clowns smash into his parents.

The rest was a blur, as he had just previously stolen and used the last of his father’s heroin. Also he was 7, and could never remember much of that age anyway. The incident, however, had taught him several valuable lessons, primarily not to put yourself at the mercy of clowns when you haven’t had the horse in a while. And yet this was what he was doing right now. He cursed his stupidity not to have had a larger stash. In his anger, he took his club to a nearby clown, but all he heard was squeaking of the clown’s bulbous red nose.

Later Octopushead found himself in the mess hall with not memory of how he got there, or anything since the beating of the clown. Clearly his need for heroin was intense, he had to score, and soon, reality was decaying, and he had no intention of letting it run out anytime soon. He had done it once, while hiking for several days in the great Breast Mountains, let his supply run dry until his mind became detached from the corporeal world and he went to the shadow realm. He had no intention of returning. The indistinct memories made him shudder as he ushered prisoners in with his baton, the hideous sound of muted shopping mall music, the sparse but manageable crowds of contented people, the good deals everywhere… Octopushead woke up on an Oriental Schooner in the middle of a grey and turbulent sea.

Again, he had no memory of reaching this place, or the (he assumed budget) whore lying next to him in the bed of the opium den. He was no longer even sure if he was later in time than his position as an Overseer or not, maybe that was still in the future and this was soon to be the memory he was remembering in the camp mess hall. He no longer felt the need for smack now though. The water was seeping into the ship, it came up half a foot against his bed. Addicts sat in the water, gazing deep into the beyond, some lay in bed, emaciated, others huddled in covers. A laudanum bottle bobbed past the bed, but he had no desire to grab it, to chug the entire cork stopped bottle. He still had a need though, this time for opium.

Octopushead heard a throaty laughing from one corner. An immense and corpulent moor
sat cross-legged on a buckling stool, a hookah pipe in his hand, and yellow teeth bobbling beneath an immense moustache. He reminded Octopushead very much of a clown, and he wondered if the man had any clown genes, it would explain a lot. This man was surrounded by many glittering wall hangings, yet looking closer Octopushead could see that they were the flayed hides of poor, misfortunate tinfoil men. He felt disgusted, and wretched. Even weaker than before, he gestured pitifully and slowly at the pipe, Opium, Opium he begged in a cracked voice like wind over the top of a dying mountain, but the moor just sat there a laughed again, his deep, booming laugh. Out his mouth poured rolls and rolls of paper covered in mad scribbles, like a plenitude of tumbling tongues. They wrapped as if guided by some mysterious force about the opium den, about the struts of the ship, and at the head of this mass of paper tentacles was the moor, like some fat and crazed abdomen, covered in gold and silks.

The paper sheets heaved and the boats supports buckled, tearing the vessel apart, wood cracking, splintering, coming apart like torn muscle, and Onctopushead was too weak to stand, let alone stop them. Vainly he flicked water with his fingers at one paper roll, but only got it marginally damp. He felt the boat give way beneath him, and he tumbled into the ocean, only to wake up in pitch darkness. The only sound was his own breathing, slow and tense. He got up off what felt like a dusty floor and tried to squint. Still nothing. Then dazzling lights thumped on, and carnival music filled the air and all around him, crowds cheered. Oh god, he said, I must have travelled back in time, I’m in a circus ring! His body spasmed like a dying spider, and then he heard the sound of a mini cooper engine starting, somewhere backstage, a sound getting closer, closer with its rhythmic chugging. A nightmare come alive. And he didn’t even have any smack.

Fin.

A recurring dream

The room is lit by harsh white light, no shadows being visible in the four square corners. In the middle lies a brown wooden table with a green vase and a blue flower. At the far end the grinder.

The white floor moves incrementally towards the grinder. The table and plant would be the first, and then I too would be crushed. The grinder is metallic and mechanical, it has circular rows of sharp galvanized steel teeth, and the loud, churning, electric drone of the grinder clouds my mind and my thoughts become confused, as if in a fever, as I head inevitably towards my death.

A story

Adam had been waiting for hours now, in a dark upper room of a Paris flat block. His rifle resting against his angry chin. He was waiting for the pope. And he was going to shoot the pope. Right in his head.

He took a last puff of his PCP laced cigarette and opened the blinds slightly to get a better view of the road below and to let out the sweltering heat of the French summer night. He could see the flickering of candles metres below, the people clumped neatly together in rows, it was the start of an improvised vigil to mark his Excellency’s arrival. Here Adam saw the sunrise of an entirely different, bleaker ceremony, the beginning of the sacrament of execution.

At eleven-thirty the Vicar of Christ would travel along the Champs-Elysées in his pope-mobile, towards the Notre Dame cathedral to hold midnight mass. There Adam would take aim with his precision fifty calibre rifle and in one bloody squeeze of the trigger blast off the pope’s head. It was a good plan, and Adam understood that this simple action of projecting hardened metal through an old man’s skull could change the world. 

Adam would dip his own semen in the bullet that would kill the pope, and as it soared through the electric sky the potency of the bullet and that of his own seed would become one, in a cataclysm of destruction. The flecks of semen being driven into the pope’s brain and mind with the speeding bullet. Only this deed could reverse the tyranny of the evil pope, his shooting would be a profane act of intercourse. The penetration of the bullet exposing his virginity as a fraud and flooding the cavities of his papal mind with semen.

Adam had time to kill, it was not yet ten, but he knew also that he had the pope to kill and this thought made the minutes flow, as if the gravity of the deed he was about to perform was dragging him at pace through the silken minutes.

He felt as if this night was a fiesta, a great feast, as if god himself was in the sky playing Spanish guitar, over the warm coffee black night-time atmosphere, the streetlamps whispered words of encouragement, the heat rising from the concrete road spoke words of love. And he knew that as the old man approached all these signs would reach a crescendo, and in one tumultuous squirt he would fire his semen bullet into the pope’s brain and infect his mind with death and truth. In those last seconds the Vicar of Christ would know his destiny, know the black uncertain hole he was doomed to be cast into, taste the semen of his conqueror in the back of his throat. And he too would see that the aesthetics of the situation were that of a perfect act of death-love-making.

The adventures of the prophet pt 2

Hercule and the prophet walked out into into the black night. The cold desert wind caused the mighty Hercule to shiver, but the skinny prophet stood erect.

"Now my child" said the prophet,
"Try and lift this small stone".

Hercule bent his trunkish legs downward and reached for a round pebble beneath his feet.

"It is too heavy my lord", whined Hercule the strong.

For the lord was using his magical powers to make it heavy.

"I can usually lift two-hundred times the weight of this small stone said the puzzled Hercule",

Hercule looked at the black sky and the amber sand and let the harsh wind blow across his stubbly beard. He sighed and wondered where his strength had gone.

"Are you using your magic on it" he finally asked

"Yes" replied the lord

A Treatise on Church Corruption

Bring to me the men of God
Who trip ov’r their vestments,
They stumble in their shoes well shod
Unfit for divine assessments.
And each by each they are to kneel
Before the font of reason
And each displays a golden heal
For it’s wealth that is their treason.
And when the bishops try to pray
Heavy gold flows from their jaws
And as it crushes down their cassocks hear them bray
And tear off their gilded gowns with frantic claws.
For they take on the pomp of ancient kings
And all forsake Jah’s edict
But see now the fate it brings
To those who feign believe it.

The adventures of the prophet, pt 1

It was a cold night in Samaria and the strong flow of the wind rattled and battered the sandy desert houses. A disciple Hercule, and the prophet were seated at Hercule’s table for supper. The disciple of the erudite prophet asked his master:

“Master what is the secret of strength"?

The prophet paused and then said to Hercule his disciple,

“Strength is not physical strength, but a strength that is non-physical, and hence the physical has no effect on true strength, the opposite however is not true, true strength girds the mind and hence allows the building up of the physical body.”

Hercule was confused but kissed the prophet on the lips and thanked him nonetheless.

He reached from the communal plate with his wooden spoon and sipped on the fish broth he had prepared for his master.

After some time he gestured towards his large arm muscles and asked the prophet if he should continue his exercise regimen. The prophet knew however that his parable was a metaphor and that Hercule had sadly missed the message.

The Prophet continued:

“Strength is good, it is better than weakness, but an excess of strength is a weakness, and thus too much strength is a weakness that cannot be cured with more strength, but only by weakness. The opposite however is not true; too much weakness is not strength but is a weakness and hence can only be cured by strength and not by any increase in weakness”

Hercule thought for some time and then gestured once more to his mammoth arms. The prophet frowned and decided that poor Hercule must be possessed by a demon of ignorance.

“Follow me my child” said the prophet.

The two ventured out into the cold night, each wearing only a thin white shawl.

RUSSEL CROWE's 'Noah'

A rather trite article on the upcoming Aronofsky Opus Noah (http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/filmblog/2012/aug/13/russell-crowe-noah-darren-aronofsky?INTCMP=SRCH) starring intense character actor RUSSEL CROWE led to thoughts of what the film may hold for fans of Biblical epics:

SCENE 1:

Noah builds the worlds first cruise liner for animals

It is morning, birds call, RUSSEL rises from slumber next to his wife. Though aged 600, he looks a mere 300. His body has withered into a wrinkled husk of a man, contracting to a dry form the size of a 6 year old child. He dreams of rain, so that with moisture his dry, old skin may be refreshed. There is an extended dream scene, perhaps of a cornfield in a deluge.

RUSSEL: WIFE, I SHALL BUILD AN ARK, FETCH ME TIMERS.

Wife: Noah, you are mad, it has not rained here for many a cursed year

RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Wife: Oh No(ah), not again (Laugh Track)

RUSSEL: Whatever comes through those gates….

Wife: I’ll fetch some wood

*    *    *

An Ark is built, the world floods, RUSSEL sets loose a dove
 


Scene 30

RUSSEL: Fly, my pretty, fly!

Enter Commodus, dressed as a dove

Commodus: Caw, Caw

RUSSEL: Dove, find me land, or a tree that lo I may perch my boat upon it.

Commodus: Caw, Caw
Exit Commodus, Play montage of RUSSEL looking hopefully out over a wild sea. The rains have made him young again, perhaps there is a scene in a corn field. Commodus returns with a branch

Commodus: Caw, Caw

RUSSEL: A BRANCH, I CAN USE THIS TO AVENGE MY FAMILY, BUT FIRST, WINE

Together RUSSEL and Commodus get progressively inebriated, until their clothes fall off, exposing their nakedness. Enter Ham.

Ham: Egads, father, your nakedness, I shall avert mine eyes (He does so)

RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Ham: Here father, Shem and I will cover thee

RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Advancing backwards, Ham and Shem cover RUSSEL. Commodus flies off, only to be caught on an overhead power line. He explodes.

RUSSEL: Son, Son….

Ham: Yes father?

RUSSEL: You covered my nakedness, son

Ham: I know, father

RUSSEL: I curse you, son

Ham: What?

RUSSEL: I curse you in the name of Jesus. My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Ham: Father, you are drunk
RUSSEL: Son, I never loved you, you were always a dissapointment. I am not your father

Ham: No, father, it can’t be

RUSSEL: You were just a bastard in a basket, I used you to get contracts from God. Just a pretty face. My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next. Bastard in a Basket, BASTARD IN A BASKET

Ham: Father, I saw your nakedness, I know you could not have begat me, for you have nothing betwixt your thighs but the painted face of a bald man with protuberant teeth

RUSSEL: And now I am undone

RUSSEL dies, Ham, distraught, cries aloud, then commits Hari Kuri over RUSSEL’s limp form. Commodus flies down, and weeps. His tears fall onto the face of RUSSEL, but he is no phoenix, and RUSSEL does not stir. The shot lasts 8 minutes. Then black.
Fin.

Then, a voice, calling in the darkness, and the darkness could not comprehend it
RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

The Philosopher at sea

When the oaken barrel’s empty base, 

Feeds the peep holes in your face

And grog is gone, the wine run dry

Perceived by a perceptive eye

The tumbling of the masts and sail

The clanking of metal,

Sounds of the whales

The gull that caws above the brine

The eyes on a pittance dine

When, blank sea returns a meagre smile

Sit on deck and think, a while

The storm at night;

An irritation

The constant cracking of the bows and

Their, unchaste vibrations

Make a sailor rather cross

He laughs

A thought

• 1.) (premise) I exist in the present
• 2.) (premise) I existed in the past and the past is something "real"
• 3.) (premise) I have free will and the future is undetermined. 

Conclusion "I" am a growing '4D' time worm and "I" can shape my identity

Inferences:

IDENTITY IN AN FINITE UNIVERSE

1.) If I only live once my identity is valuable only in some abstract way, and hence not of any particular concern.

IDENTITY IN AN INFINITE UNIVERSE

• In an infinite universe reincarnation necessarily follows (as given an infinite time everything that is possible becomes actual) 

If identity is directly shaped by my actual moral/experiential deeds then "I" could only exist where "I"  performed similar actions to those that I performed in my actual life or in a life where I felt the results of those actions.


Thus if "I" were to be reincarnated I would have to perform similar deeds in all subsequent infinite reincarnations. 

Thus I should pick my actions very very carefully indeed.

COUNTERARGUMENT 1

Life whether finite or infinite is imperfect so it’s not all that important to “choose” our identity right, if indeed we can choose our identity. Indeed many things are beyond our control and as long as we have a reasonably ok identity then it is unrealistic and a waste of effort to aim for a much much greater life..

COUNTERARGUMENT 2

Rigid identity and an infinite universe necessarily impliy determinism. (i.e. i was always performing these deeds in an infninte chain with no beginning or end) So I can't change my identity even if I wanted to.

COUNTERARGUMENT 3

I only have control of a small part of what shapes my identity (my actions), bad things still happen if I do good things.

Confessions of an evil man

TWO ARGUMENTS IN FAVOUR OF BEING A DICK

FIRST ARGUMENT: MORALITY IN AN IMPERFECT UNIVERSE

Three preliminary points:

1.) Imperfect things have imperfect value.

2.)The universe in imperfect.

3.) People belong to the universe thus they are imperfect, and their wllbeing has finite value.

PROOF OF 2

FOR THE PERFECT UNIVERSE TO BE ACTUALISED THE FOLLOWING KEY DESIRES MUST BE FULFILLED:

a.) We do not want to be ultimately accountable to somebody else – we want pure free will: Atheism

= Plausibly true at this world

b.) We do not want the universe to be dependent on our thoughts – we want the external to be real: anti-idealism

= Plausibly true at this world

c.) We do not want to know we live forever - If we knew we lived forever life would be meaningless thus we want a period of forgetfulness between lives: reincarnation

= Not necessarily false in this world

d.) We do not want to suffer unnecessarily

= It is almost certain we do suffer unnecessarily

CONCLUSION: IT IS ALMOST CERTAIN THAT SOME OF THE ABOVE KEY DESIRES ARE UNFULFILLED THUS

THIS IS NOT THE PERFECT UNIVERSE

From 1,2,3,: A slippery slope. 

If it is morally justifiable to spend 99.99999...% of my energy on morality then it is morally justified to spend 99.9998…% of my energy on morality. Because of the insignificant difference between the two figures.

- It is morally justifiable to spend 99.99999...% of my energy on morality because people's wellbeing has finite value.

It is morally justifiable to spend 99.999998...% of my energy on morality

THUS

It is morally justifiable to spend 99.9997…% of my energy on morality. BY TRANSITIVITY OF RULE

Etc. etc.

It is morally justifiable to spend 5.99999999...% of my energy on morality

THUS it is morally justifiable to spend 5.9999999998…% of my energy on morality.

Conclusion: I can be a dick

ARGUMENT 2 THE ARGUMENT FROM SELF-PRESERVATION

2.) It is justified to hurt somebody a little to avoid a very large amount of pain yourself– SOME VALUE COMMENSUARABILTY

OR At some point avoiding pain becomes objectively more important than a little immorality.

2. a) Slippery Slope

If I can hurt somebody for 1 unit of pain in order to avoid 45000 units of pain myself I should do so.

If it is morally justifiable to inflict 1 unit of pain on somebody in order to avvoid 45000 units of pain then it is morally justifiable to inflict 1 unit of pain in order to avoid 45999 units of pain. As the difference is insignificant.

Etc. etc.

THUS BY TRANSITIVITY OF RULE

- If I can hurt somebody for 1 unit of pain in order to avoid  0.1 units of pain myself I should do so. 

Conclusion:I can be a dick

Jazzstep

Dizzee ft. Evans

The Olympics as the triumph of Thanatos over Eros.

 

With the Olympics near I turn my learned mind to the topic of competition. Competition is in essence the embodiment of the death drive, the desire to subdue and defeat your earthly brethren, the angry face of nature, red in tooth and claw and glans and wizard’s sleeve.