THE NOTORIOUS LOST BOY

True, I only ever really change from one lost to another - but I was REALLY lost, lover, an' I bin IN for ages. I'm through switchin' gilded cages, bro, I'm all spent playin' with matches - the same ol' birdseed, the same ol' birdshit, Mum, it all goes down the same damn hole! See where I jus' laid my hat? I'll call that 'home' until it hatches.

GREETINGS FROM BEYOND THE GRAVY

First up - I'm sorry for disappearing. 

I wasn't hiding from you & it wasn't anything personal - I simply had my head stuffed so far up my own pompous ass that I emerged out of my own mouth, like a snake endlessly swallowing its own tale [stet].

Sorry, that opening was as opaque as it was graphic. 

I'll start over, from the top .. only this time with intelligible meaning ..

There once lived a boy, very much like this man, who lived in a land very much like this one, in a castle very much like the top floor flat of 44 Nottingham Rd, E10 6EP. 

Now, this boy was a hurtin' boy - I tell you, he felt pain. Pain and again and again. Ow.

Then -one bright summer's morn- the boy was promised the emotional turn-off control he had always dreamed of, by three sisters he met on the internet, 'The Three Zolams': Eti, Clona & Flubroma. 

I tell you - he fell for them. For their promises. For their lies. He fell - like a soldier, like Lucifer, like the Roman Empire. He tripped and fell, much like Leary tripped, only blatantly stupid, not pretending to be wise. 

And did these seductresses take away his pain ? Hell, yeah ! But they also took away his brain. I tell you - he didn't even know his name.

So far he fell, and OH! so fast .. and he just kept falling and falling and falling .. falling so far up his own arse that he emerged through his own mouth, catching breath for a moment, before descending again up his own backside .. over and over again .. as The Snake endlessly devours himself.

It seemed like nothing could break his fall.. but one day he woke up from the dream and looked around .. the sisters had finally gone .. they had run out .. not one of them was left !

And that was he end of The Three Sisters Zolam. They and their kind had been banished forever from this land by The King's decree,  his iron will enshrined in a new law called 'The Psychoactive Substances Act'.

The End

I hope that was sufficiently clear - I realise human frailty is no excuse and there is no reason, but in the absence of anything everything becomes clear.

Second up - Greetings from beyond the gravy! 

Just thought New Year a good time for fresh starts ;)

All my love xxx

Happy New Year

Josh

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Thanks, followers! This blog has netted me more than £1,000,000 !

Well, that's a bit of a fib.. in financial terms this blog has accumulated £3.71 over it's entire 7 year run.

So not enough to withdraw anything. Yet.

But I've had over 25,000 views! And my ideas on the interpretation of William Blake have had a profound effect on a handful of readers - which is far better than a million pounds.

Kinda.

I've read articles on how to write a 'successful' blog - apparently you have to the exact opposite of everything I have done.

So let this be a lesson to you !

J

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MR K., HIS LOVER & THE GIRL WHO NEVER SLEEPS

A wall-post that might become the basis of a story about the Life of Mr K ...

"I wrote song this in late 2008- early 2009. I played it only once, and this is that recording, warts and all.

I'd shacked up with a great friend - she's a diamond character, I love her to bits. I guess I gravitate towards outsiders - or do they gravitate towards me? She's a post-op inter-sex, crack-tootin' witch. Me? I was a homeless waif with a messiah complex, so it was inevitable that we became lovers - a flame as bright as it was brief.

One day we stopped by her friend's place to deliver some 'black market goods' - and I became obsessed with the girl I met there, taking the opportunity to return there later on, after I was temporarily banished from the Crack-witch's domain following a lover's tiff.

I was convinced a series of poems I composed 20 years prior were about this girl I'd just met and knew nothing about ! - I was psycho enough to believe this wholeheartedly, and she seemed to give a lot of credence to the idea - most of the poems were quite general, so I guess the rational explanation was that I was unwittingly 'cold reading' her - but, if that was so, there were enough specifics to convince her I might be right.

We began a tentative covert affair (my only ever covert affair! But I wasn't myself at this time - I was The Celebrated Mr K.! Mr K. to my friends). By tentative I mean holding hands, gentle kisses, the odd caress - like shy twelve-year olds.

I was intrigued by the stories that emerged, our lives had certain parallels, in some ways, it seemed, we were like mirror images of each other, having both having been brought up within secretive Mystery Schools and instructed in their practices from an early age.

She was terrified to fall asleep, convinced that 'Joseph' (the man convicted of murdering her lover ('Jacob') had the power to enter her dreams from his prison cell - I wasn't certain how much of the back-story was a concoction of her mind, but I was convinced that the story held much power for her - even if it was all a kind of dream it was still a riddle set by her unconscious - my interpretation was that the clue was in the names - her murdering Joseph was "he could not be forgiven" - in a sense he represented her inability to forgive, and by extension the Jewish people's difficulty in letting go of the hatred fostered by a millennia of persecution of their people. Hence the couplet,

"I am the ONE, and you are the OTHER,

I am Joseph, Son of Jacob, who forgave his brothers"

https://soundcloud.com/thefamilyofcats/i-love-you-so-much

J.x

ps. Wrote this for your wall, but maybe will extend this into a blog post

The Jester Speaks... ON SUICIDE BOMBERS

The Jester Speaks... ON SUICIDE BOMBERS

An off the cuff ramble. WARNING: likely to offend "the living" & raise the dead

Sun Headline

Only1 in 5? I have been labouring under the misapprehension that everybody had some sympathy for suicide bombers. Surely they're victims too - they can't have been very happy when they were alive - & and now they're strawberry jam. 

Ah, now I understand why all those gorgeous virgins are reputedly waiting for them in Heaven - "nobody could call us fussy", a heavenly Virgin said, "BUT I do like a proper knob of bomber on my bread!"

I saw a documentary where a man who dealt in rare Mormon documents and two of his business associates got bombed - one of the associates died in the explosion, the other's wife was killed in his stead, by accident, when she opened the innocuous looking package on her doorstep, intended for her spouse.

It turned out the rare document merchant was a forger and was responsible for all the bombings - the attempt on his own life was itself a sham, his final forgery -NOW, That's What I Call Evil. Taking two lives for personal gain ? I have no sympathy. Giving up your own life for a cause you truly believe in ? NOW, That's what I call misled. 

Avaaz Petition

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/petition/Rt_Hon_Jeremy_Wright_QC_MP_Attorney_General_charge_The_Sun_with_incitement_under_S22_of_the_Public_Order_Act_1986

Why did I sign this Avaaz petition? The Sun is a vile rag. The Sun will brag about how many votes we cast in this Avaaz petition, it will present itself as an oppressed martyr, a martyr to the truth.

Those who train the fundamentalist bombers & The Sun both mislead with words, & neither knows a jot about martyrdom, nor has either encountered anything approaching "truth" - I have it on  the highest authority that neither party has the right to even look upon this word, 'Truth', even briefly - especially not late at night, while locked securely in a lead-lined padded-cell, where nobody is listening, & & if they were no-one could hear.

The Sun sells papers by appealing to the lowest common denominator of our species' feelings, the Jihadi leader sells death & glory using these same back-door tricks - characteristics, universal to our kind, built-in as standard issue, & all precious gifts, but mis-used to manipulate, to remote-control our minds, a security vulnerability that no patch but time can fix.

They both know all too well it's childs-play to access the CMD prompt &, provided the right syntax is used, we will follow the programme to the letter, believing it to emanate from our essential nature, or from God, because this hack bypasses the senses and the rational mind, and grabs you where you are most vulnerable: all the hate you ever hoarded in this lifetime, plus all the ancient harboured grudges you inherited from your loved ones - grudges that you love yourself because , now your loved ones have returned to Ash, to love their hate is the only way you know to maintain the illusion they were ever alive, when the reality is that our highest nature  has been hacked and abused by an errant and destructive virus - by all means honour your parents by contracting their disease, that is what their parent's did, and their parent's parent's before them - ashes, ashes ashes, dust, dust, dust.

The dead bodies piling up were always destined to return to ashes, their form a temporary aberration, just a deviation, from ashes to illusion, from appearance to ashes, from ashes to ashes, from dust to dust.

See the heaped masses of discarded papers - when did the hot news grow so cold? Today's news was already history before that single reader first glanced at the headline, before a single paper hit the stand .. that news was already old .. At the printers - dust! dust! .. on the battlefield ..  ashes! ashes! .. the intrepid reporter tries to jot it all down .. don't be scared, writer, don't get too attached to your shape, for it is but a fleeting illusion, nought but ashes, just dust blowing in the wind; but dust & ashes that leave a trace, a random mark upon a page, a mark that survives you, until a single word is all that's left of you - and it, too, in turn, turns to ashes - ashes scattered to infinity, together with the brave forgotten reporter, so unafraid to face the 'facts' -

"All I ever was were ashes [ashes, ashes, ashes, ashes], just dust [dust, dust], just dust alone - we're just deluded dust, just dust deluded, dust deceived, dust believing, just believing, believing in dust alone; believing dust is just, when dust just IS -it IS, just IS- & that's enough [that's enough] - well, isn't that enough?

To BE, to SEE, to be part of ME -isn't that enough?- but that dust can't see the Holy Sea - its not just dust, its sand [it's sand], its sand refined, - refined by hidden furnace [hidden furnace], hidden fire - sand by hidden hand defined , its Mirror-like [it's mirror-like] - Mirror-like, like ME - yet it is finite, it is limited, to MY infinity - to my limitlessness it is limited, & that what makes it -almost- the only 'thing' not-ME.

And it's reason? -if it needs one- is that it is, almost, not-ME. It's reason -should it need one- is that, like ME, it's free. It's raison-d'etre -if it needs one- is to be another ME - another being, an other, being, seeing, born alone, like ME - unaware of where it comes from or of its destiny - it is dust, here comes the rain, I AM the rain, the rain I AM - where I AM the dust turns to mud, the mud  to clay - a self-creating Golem, creating meaning, creating itself, then finally creating ME   & what it reflects is finite, & it collects partial pictures,  that dust alone can decipher ev'ry Holy sign, perceiving patterns in the fallout, cast about the winds of time - patterns [patterns]' shapes & forms - shapes dust vainly claims & names "my mind", when the dust  

reflecting but not fallout everywhere & I know that its a sign - can you deny that ev'ry lie -if just one believes it- it becomes the truth? And this? This is my truth, I own it, it is mine - indeed, it is all I AM, he who IS - ISIS trembles, before the Being at the Beginning & at The End of Time. 

Who was it who said, "there are only two sides in every battle - those who pick a side & those who won't, those who play the game, & those who don't" ?

This game is called 'the brave & honourable tradition of perpetuating the ancient harboured grudges we call "the stainsof time", in order to ensure my right to watch my children engulfed in flames, to make fresh that buried hatred, so I can get the satisfaction of incinerating another mother's son, & in doing so condemn my own.

My ancestor's children were consumed by fire, & my children, God-willing, will watch my children's children die, for it is a brave & honourable tradition to kill my brother's children, because he first killed mine, because my father killed his children, 

& when the battle's over, & only the remark remains, it'll be hot off the press -

"Men killed men, as they have always done, because of their various attachments to the ashes of various books, which reportedly differed only in title .. AND EVERY WORD MEANT NOTHING TO NO-ONE, HELLBENT ON GOING NOWHERE - AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER, WHEN IT ALL RETURNED TO ASHES, WHEN IT ALL RETURNS TO DUST"

J

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