ST20 ... How is it possible?
robots pushing time across the universe
How is it possible to say what needs to be said, what needs to be heard, if anything at all?. There is so much of everything spread out across the screens of digital plains. All the ancient texts scanned into the beast. The net is full of every possible thought. There are words for every concept floating around, repeating, rearranging, censoring, shifting direction, finding their ways into moving images, robots pushing time across the universe, data accumulating into every micro-second and i thought i had something to say?
How can the mind say what hasn't been said? Is it even necessary? How to make a buck and not be owned by the buck! Where are the great writers, what happened to the great artists that could open up your heart and illuminate your soul? We are drowning in mediocrity, crawling crippled thru the smog, selling our cells in fear of being. Where are the great thinkers that could fly through the night, escape the soft devious chains smothering love? Where are the sacred minds pure in their flight? What happened to the human being of the natural living dream? Where are the real saviours?
Who will awaken us? Who can see our dilemma? Who is watching over us? Who is at the end of the road waiting? Is there enough scripture to mend this broken world?
I think i thank the force that feels my pain? I think to the end of thought to be as i am or as i am not, to be true. Walking my talk crawls across the fields of nothingness. Sing the song to the last syllable and repeat endlessly. There is no way out, no way in, the way is no way at all…….let your heart smile forever as long as forever be, that's all i think i know, all i could ever say or possibly ever show.
I never expected you to understand, you with your head on straight, your eyes glued to the wall. Why can't you just take a little, why do you have to take so much, it just doesn't really make any sense, it doesn't work, it can't work, how could you imagine it could, is beyond me.
Who really cares? Who do you think you're fooling? We can see your shield, your dissenting breath and your fetish for truth. You can't hide any longer in the ruins by the shelter, the praise in your in-box, your lights are numbered, your death is on the charts. You will deteriorate like everything else, you're not special, you're a disease dying, a hypocrite, a leach, a disgusting energy of the devils delight. You, who have infiltrated sacredness. I kill you. You're dead in me. I'm walking out of this dark hall with all your needles full of evil control of satin thought and dis-truth, silver lies on wavering ends.
I see the science-cult trap, side saddled on the motion horse, the bully gravity, the dystopian domination killing the sacred, the worshiping of the word, the critical dissemination of matter.
The valley is lovely this time of year. It spreads itself like sweet strength across the plains of the mind like soft truth in a clear haze. Nothing is exempt from the parables of this forest air, the love emanating thru the leaves and honour reaching up from the roots to the heart from the final bottom. There, is the true power of the universe, one must be blind to mistaken it for greed.
I left for the coast. Walked past the injection booths filled with false gods and dark fruit hanging from golden branches of lovely trees. The big-grid is moving into place while a war, climate issues, elections and new variant structures are stacking up the fake fronts. It is just a matter of time before the players march to one step and fool the fools with undreamt smothering control unheard undetected, but by a few too few. The medicine man is no longer safe and effective, he's a trickster in drag.
For the time being, the weather appears fresh, the mood is calm, the streets bearable, the future veiled.
I sat with an americano and with the end of this magic pen, wrote. Nothing is revealed, nothing makes sense, nothing left real but these few memories i carry of your sacred love, your tender embrace, your pure light.
Great slivers of insight shimmering off the skin
some were born to lose, some to win
the dragon lies dying by the entrance to the throne
a frail trail illuminating on a dark direction home
a coffee. a like, a whisper.
WeyWord Times / Writing and Images by Patrick Wey
My Work …. Images - sales
From Roy Meyers:
Patrick,
This one moved me, it spoke to me and I reply to the living, breathing, testimonial answer that seeks to break away from the mundane, mediocre and mediocrity that which we see, hear, feel, creeping up all around us.
There is more than hope, the cavalry is not coming, it is here and in assembly.
We are the cavalry, the true believers who don't take any guff. We the People, the real folks, the righteous folks, not petty or self-righteous, but rather the folks, the intended, who are alike to the worker bees. The very beings “who” exert an effort toward life itself. To feed on the abundance that is, those who make abundance possible. Those who contribute energy toward real substance as movers and shakers. The people who get up and pick the coffee berries, dry them in the sun then roast them on a fire they have built for that specific purpose.
Not to lay and smell the coffee brewing, no not them that need to be awakened or worse yet "WOKE." But rather, those of us who have had our parents and grandparents who without a gripe or groan arose early to take on the challenges of the day to overcome weakness and prevail against it in every way with a grin. I dare anyone to attempt to steal from them what nerves of steel and boldness of brass not elemental but alloys and allies to truth. Now grind those roasted beans and boil that H2O until the thousands of aromas release and awaken the key to genius that we labor toward. Let them, those that smell it, its alluring aromas to pay the price to taste the black liquid which motivates the writer to pick up the pen and allow it to dance on the paper. Pay oh yes pay we must, don't just merely lie there and wake up to smell the coffee, make it happen.
Roy
The sneaking snick of Evil... Let's dig a big enough hole to bury it but good. Into the Good Earth where it can be reformed, re-formed, re-framed.