The Lush-Life of Dr Strange

A critique a fling a fandango 

It’s your birthday boys

A black broken nail of a day

A bright fulsome gratitude of light like falling petals turned to woolly fluff day

A never end 

Some time ago now we wrote about all things beginning with self; this was weeks before what has happened. So, it was a prophecy see. The notes from 22.03.20 just after these observations run thus:

                        Spring in full effect. Viral pandemic (people were still sceptical at this point)

                        Completely unprecedented situation       on edge / freaked out / restless.

 Gross satisfaction self love self service know yourself self belief home self work self social self sense of self love self loathing self sacrifice the death of self the divided self self ish self harm 

Self isolation

 Dr Strange trip sequence late capitalism collapses in on itself in a DMT vision of a flatlined reality where fingers sprout hands that sprout fingers

In the centre of this there is a well drop a stone into it 

Never-ending

Than the stone plops out of the sky abrasion sleepwalks towards empty fridge spilt out

Pools of blue and red bubbling lights touching from inside the outside distanced from the flow

Goad a lowball lollop deflated boobs over the fence

Singing rebel songs with corn beef hash

Close the door on your way out

Sing a son line to a broken finger

Decide to ride the cheer of the cat

Throw your arms into unfamiliar rooms

Clap the super-sonic honk

Pressure the blue hazed high way

Separate prism from pattern

This is an instructive poem

Skid to a halt

Wipe jet wounds

A photographic book had been torn up and strewn along the hedgerow. What hard harmonics shore up here against the back of the wind. Clouds of midges like blankets of airborne moss stalking the rim of the reservoir. 

In moments like this all is so much air pushed around so much skimming; colliding with the ear drums crushing the air in the chest smothering the heart. The days roll by like abstract oddities; we flit from book to book from poetry to prose and look for the glimmer or crack of light from which to prise open something new.  Lotus position lothario in tie-dye stand up against backwash of Orthodox loud hailers assault this cage is a madness brother. Like Pound in Pisa writhing in his cage. We hang on hyperborean to our witness to the witness of pot noodles and fag ash smells of brains stunned into silence from years picking through the trash mounds. Of big greasy slaps of peanut butter of rained out bus shelters; that warm lovely smell of stale piss in a corners. Aghast against so much of it; the shittiness of it all backs up against the headphone beast who stops mid-lane and will not move. 

Just a bit of help sometimes is all it takes; as real as lightning and bastard fractals on a trip a dozen heroic platitudes against the sky staring straight up a tree trunk until the upper fronds reach out granulated into the ether then trip and spray into tendrils melting, fatty folds oozing into every orifice.