Wednesday, 24 October 2012

I wrote upon a pitched peach blue sky



Imagined from knowshpere.

I had to break off, Monday, from this malarkey to get on with stuff and I braked the bolloxian output.

Family busy ness.

Real shit.

Neither commercial nor transactional intercourse of false wealth, no business in reducing ersatz entropy. Reality within my eyes, my heart and my spirit. When eye opened last morning my cast fell upon the huge pile that I had had to be examined on in Lalaland. To be conferred with my little red book, my COMINTERN passport to sloth, my death pass.

What a pile!

Expensive alrighty and as always one dollar translated across the pond to one pound, no matter the exchange rate. LIBOR revealed in dead trees decades ago.

Method and moment, heat and momentum, always leading us with its weight. Like a heavy metal hyper plastic balloon dragging us away from terra firma. In the vicious vacuity of our glassed lives we miss the ball in our ceaseless flapping around our numbers.

Numbers.

If the idea of business, quadruple abacusic ledger, religion as nothing more than killing nonheathen in numbers is not cauterised then we are lost. The sophist sophistication is ancient.

And zeroed.