If the battle lines are drawn by bully boys from the Church of ignorance and plain simple religious zealots; drunk on their own prejudice and delusion that seeing is believing and believing is seeing, then, i hope to illuminate certain details here, and combine some 21st century scientific facts with timeless mythological metaphors and create an image, all-at-once, cutting through Christian materialism and naive realism, with luck.

Moanism (is) trapping and clogging up the full human potential and capacity for co-operative co-existence, friendly trade, open compatibility between information, spiritual practice and sacred ceremony. The major obstacle seems to me to be the evidence that theology and religious politicians feel threatened by oriental entities which are unconsciously smothered with occidental psycho-religio glosses and mistaken as being "religious'.

In some sense the Eastern way or ways, relate to an all encompassing flux of being; a way of life, not just sporadic prayer or specialized ideological faith.

The eye's which see are the projectors which play on the interplay and discretion between the seeing and playing, the pushing and pulling remains a moment-to-moment sensitive balancing act.

Contrary and anti-polar to the supreme truth, fact, or rhetorical western word symbol corpsemanure. Dead bodies litter pages in dead languages. Meanwhile the Orient paints nature shadow with ideograms, word pictures.

Dogmatic thinking circles around supreme stupidity; mistaking the inner-dwelling divinity of self, and therefore; projection, onto all conscious and unconscious signals; the limited and prejudiced fundamentalist world view; moanism as the cure for duality and a rejection of the finite because of an intoxicated hangover from the infinite flux of being. Whatever critter knows certain things cannot have those things in its critter nature.

As a metaphor for the unknown mystery and dicotomy between mankind and nature, self and ego, conscious and unconscious, i present an example of a symbiotic relationship in nature between different species.

Drosphilia, Muscaria and Mr. Toad; Farther, Sun and holly spyrt. This example outlines further investigative research into form and function, etymology and neuro-pharmacology. In fact, i seem to notice Amanita Muscaria everywhere i look, in the same way christians see christ every which way they look. The difference i am outlining though, is my flie relationship with the biological world, as well as the mythological attributes. In these spacetimes i feel that the time has come for me to speak my mind, blog it, and call out to the occidental and His political religious leaders in particular, with an alternative view.

A new "way" of seeing if you like, in which "all" things are sacred and the relationship between man and his symbols of nature and nature; can co-exist together, united by understanding, relativity, correlation of form and compassion. Jeremy narby calls this revolution stereoscopic thinking, percieving both the forground and background simultaneously, i love this metaphor because it paints a three dimensional picture in my own mindscape i can realte to.

In the individual quest for a one world; united in respect for both the individual and the group social critters; i have chosen Amanita Muscaria as my avatar, or simulation of Christ. I offer my results and findings in a self styled poetic gloss, in hope that the ugly analytical and stale language of western science, and so called objective reality, will become infused with the ancient rhythms and the spirit of experimentation, required to herald the new age and world unity i dream of and hold as a genral goal mantra. If i may be so bold, the art of godmanship as Alan watts called it.

We have to be responsible for our actions and conduct and our speech, the gods never left us, they just went on holiday into the world of symbol and idea.

Don't be fooled by a second or third coming, nothing departed. Now they are knock knocking on heavens door, knocking on our own temples of the mental with alphabetical spells and sentences. Keep breathing and don't loose your nerve.

In my search for a way to illuminate myself to the infinite flux of being, i once upon a time found an old old heresy, hidden inside a riddle within a riddle within a riddle. it is hidden, and it is hidden, and it is hidden.

So, i played hide and seek for 9 years with this riddle, infusing myself into different aspects of its being, moving around the intangible pieces of its puzzle body. Grabbing fragments which occasionally reveled themselves to me in actuality; only to find when i opened my hands that they had vanished, soon after i had the feeling that thought and memory of its being had vanished too. I was often left excited and bewildered at the same time, foolishly thinking i had something in my possession, which i most obviously on second and third thoughts, did not.

Thus the game of hide and seek continued day after day and time after time again i got my hopes up and then let down again, chasing my own tale with my puzzled mind, looking for a objective thingymajig, looking for loveglue and time binding devices; the only remaining ideologies i believed were actually capable of making it real and tangible, in the flesh, the only method of keeping it here, keeping it real and present.

On and on the river flow and i got pulled and swished around by the undertow, painting puzzle pieces into my flesh, drawing them on walls, translating them into different frequency vibrations, music, poetry, yoga. I tried to split the riddle in half between my ego and self, between the moon and the sun, between the microcosm and the macrocosm, even between life and death itself, and after all my suffering and heartache, careful attention, patience and suspension of disbelief; i still found myself running in logical circles each morning when i awoke, with yesterdays wisdom on the tip of my tongue but with incompatible speech pattern recognition software uploaded into my domain.

My dome, my human bio-computer. I felt lost in spacetime on many an occasion around about noon or 2 PM, i had constructed the universe since waking, and, as i say, always felt bogged down around 2 o' clock; just as the stars were congressing, and i was getting hungry since having only a blueberry donut for breakfast and some electric kool aid around 12:12 this afternoon.

Some days i would keep it real way through into the evening hours without deluding myself too much, it bacame kind of psycho-sadistic for a while there, i would neglect even my notion of "I" in the confusion i felt in the early stages of divining between ego, self, super self, super-ego, supra-conscious and the stoopid unconscious.

Round and round like a caged mouse wheel at full spin cycle, i spun for a hold reality, i spit out spider words, consciously, or so i thought, directing them toward solid structures, biological systems i could swing between and blend myself into, but most of the time my web of words hit a seemingly solid structure, which would without warning turn liquid or slippery and unstable, i found myself wondering..."can there be such a thing as an unwobbling pivot? I doubted it, and doubted again. And for all my doubting i just recall the pain. The suffering of seeing through the veil, of seeing my fellow human beings impaled upon alphabetical empires and squashed like grapes inside the imperialist sovereign empire; the super proper gandhi machine. crushing the fruit of wisdom with the sheer weight of metal currency.

Choking the natural abundance of wealth with ideological hierarchies, similar to the Christian blinker which obscures the infinite flux of being with finite spells 'ABOUT" the infinite flux of non-being, or the death of manjesus and the resurrection of the super spirt being christ. The supreme being of infinite stupidity and ignorance, this seems to be the same being as the being who the money gods worship, the abstracted spirit from the symbol, resurrected through the ideology, the conscious projector of prejudice.

With Dollar symbols and Pound signs leaving their trace every which way these suckers look, and every way they indent grace with their vulgar language and ugly categorical rhetorical dream of a mericle, a dream in which they can cash in all their stolen ideological loot for the real.

The worshipers of the money gods dream of the day that Christ turns their golden bonds into another symbolic system, more dissproportionatly rigg ratioed so that they can steel more actual natural abundance with their monopoly money, their empire enforced credit. Their so called wealth.

They are dreamers who created a metaphor of my own spiritual quest for the elusive infinite flux of being, wherever i turn my gaze throughout the havoc and haze of this life, i pull down the veil, to no avail. Do not stop and stair, they say, just walk into the bank of heaven, and reinforce the trixsters of the finite world in their project of world domination through flipping the poles of infinite and finite to produce a world word war of terror, in which the national pride and collective ego plays the role of abusive farther priest to the only begotten son; the individual, the self evident infinite flux of immortal spirit, the Chrudder self, not bound to any book, doctrine of ideological symbol system by necessity, but, by choice.

The sheeple need a sheperd, or so it seems to me, even though the fences and social hedgerows have been refuted and denied to exist as limits in any way shape or form since the begining of time, since the onset of self consciousness and self realization. The chains of law have been broken, why don't the people want to play anymore.

"Don't be afraid of the riddler" was a mantra i repeated when i thought about the imaginary walls of authority enforced by the imaginary essence of occidental identity, and maybe, the solution to the problem of identity being the explosion and brutal destruction of further investigation, or fair, reasonable, deductive criticism by the blind hammer of monism. Certainty. non-doubt. Full compliance with the - more often than not, in examples of severe violence and forcefully imposed suffering - male orgasmically missaligned and sexually unacknowledged ego center. 100% male certainty that death is the only answer, complete destruction the only cure, pre emptive strike the only option. Your either with us, or against us. One or the other, not both.

Duality must be smashed and reformed into a pure sword of truth, a sword which, although sharp, and well made, can never split anything in two, because by the very nature of its forgery, it can never create duality. Everything it cuts moves into reform and remould process by the power of a singular god, in the case of Christianity the God Christ, he, who makes the world whole again, he who has one way and one heart, he who cannot listen to reason and accept the splintered nature of self or selves, he whom dare not enter the 20th century or the 19th century in fear of being forced into two parts, or unveiled or unmasked to his true and multiple identity.

A sword cast from many chemicals allied with mag-stery a sword -word which has been known to have a mind of its own, to be unpredictable, a sword which turns into a lightening bolt or a stream, this sword is now the principle of metamorphoses. Only adaquatley described in the western tradition through metaphysics and super abstract propositional functions which bear about as much resemblance to their signifiers as a typewriter resembles the Amazonian rain forest.

These are the thoughts which sometimes came to visit me on an evening, if i ever got that far into my search for the infinite flux of being, inside the finite flux of this keyboard. You really should of being there over this last month or two, i must have seemed crazy to other people, setting up ghost traps and fancy phantom attractors or landing docks for the unconscious other.

I found that on my quest the spirit knowers and so called psychics are annoying and irritating to me, what you know cannot be a part of your nature i used to shout, but after the first time of saying this i realized my own infinite regress and fall into meaninglessness. Since that time i have being constantly vigilant for any knew techniques or methods for transferring my insights about my conflict with the flux and yet avoiding the many pitfalls and come downs associated with psychological showvanism in the west. I invented myself as a superflux hero, with wings and bionic powers, but at the same time, still had to take a shit and take showers.

One day i turned my critical insight upon myself and discovered a hidden garden of passionate and vibrant energy, fluttering between scenes, always on the move, everchanging, semi recognizable but very interesting. She was interesting, and she was a female. I must confess what happened to me myself and i, when i found out i had a women inside of me all this time, and she had never raised her head or made a murmur until that day, the day the earth stood still, and "I" came to realize myself and her relationship with the other, my other brother, our mother and great great great grandmother identity flux.

She made me mad as a poet, mad as a street cleaning vehicle, it was a miricle how i ever found my way backto back here, into a sentence with a semi logical flow, a sentence with a release date somewhere in view, rather than a prison term called life, with no end in sight, with no new beginning possible for that very same reason.

She had taken me from the end of the beginning and backtoback through the middle part and onward to the beginning of the end, on so many occasions that i had become a timelessness critter of the immortal Tao. Well, thats what i call myself now in this alphabetical plot to tie a know into form with structure wrapped around your cranium, vibrant, beautiful like a well watered geranium. Tao the way everyday, everywhen, everyman, everywomen, all the time and all-at-once, moment after moment, before before and after after, the now Tao has a timetravel function, in which it can construct a future universe scenario and aim to apprehend the event.

With a bit of luck i hope to apprehend Christianity with the Tao, let it come down, before the monotheism and ignorance of the western religio-political predator tears to pieces or bombs to bits anybody whom will not swallow the godma of tyrannical sovereign nations; hell bent on acting out their favorite parts of their favorite book, by their favorite author. Beware the critter of one book, and be especially aware of the reader who takes the infinite literally. Beware the Supreme sovereign farther of the divine identity.

He may rape you, steal your belongings and take advantage of you with His grand title. He may sentence you to death with a poison pen or mistake you for the villain inside His own rotten heart. Beware the monotheist and the naive realist, beware the saviour; question authority.

Steve 'fly agaric 23' Pratt. 2005. Paragraphed January 29th, 2012.

What is poetry

Now, what is poetry? If you say it is simply a matter of words, i will say: a good poet gets rid of words. If you say it is simply a matter of meaning, i will say: a good poet gets rid of meaning. But, you say if words and meaning are gotten rid of, where is poetry? to this i reply, get rid of words and meaning, and there is still poetry. - 3000 years of Chinese poetry, edited by Wu-Chi Liu and Irving Yuch

Flynagains awake

The following is a remixed fairytale under construction. Enjoy

Deerunk upon way over maybe aboat thirteen cups for aboat thirteen months of a Kullendar, i guess eye was stumbling cristcrossin the bayouliffeystour outside the steppin stones pub, skippin cyclikal snare circle’s beneath nine babblin brooklynn bbbrownstone marrone-castagnu colored chestnut arches of the Liffeystour viaduct. Looking skylyke at starrysporia near lye town lyk - eye woz dayzed and derrunk, kungfused together with euphoria and i sed aloft -
"Oh wow Lady dee!
look at the stars man
check tha."

Plop. Swurlysquirl. shheeeteyez fell into tigerskin-water, wetsox snakeflow. Oh no. Suckling vortexs pulling me under, Steerbridge undercurrents got a hold ov my heart now, no escaping love currents; strong and sturrdy. i'm a wet muffin.
"Death alive!" i thought,"i'll be drowndeadderunken sunk silly me for sure! Swimmajikicking, Nuotare, Zwemmen, swommen, swimmin for me dear old flylyf. Armies twizzlynn; windmilling cedar branch after branch, covered in rusty salmon flesh and fuzzy dark guinness hair; beaver coffee toffee syrup fur. "Where’s my ferry man? don't let me drown and visit the deepdead river soul’s, oh lord no, i must swim upinfinite stream then"
Summerhow eye manage to scramble ashore from churning miss Leafystar, shocked from headcold to foottoestitoes - confronted with a knu re:historic landbrushedscape, way way way before the end of the beginning of zepwynetymepiss, or so it feels to my frozen clotted-memoryburgs.

Cartoony bullbust above the whorizon-axis hung she - giganormous milky southern knocker of skypot. Peeping out through a kraftykut peephole in the starbra spandangled, blackbody background stage-curtain. "Oh’ laydee deedubs." To the nord, est, ovest and sud eye gandid, nothing but bogclogga muckamuck and stale clay everywhence. Bogboggeybhongbhangpuckpocketpouchpucaphookabolgamuckablagbagginz. Phoukin ell, I maybe stuck in bogscape for all eternity, Oh Shyty! Skratchin me yed with azure river pucapickled flingerpickers i blurted out me gob; helluva singing and boogie lyelabyebyes. Ode to our ladies grace!
ouch! felt lyek struckaneen or sumert took old of me gutter pouch and churned my inside tides aboat - tideturned - moonblender on a boat in my jellywhalebelly, i could feel my easter egg up-rising, it was early December in San Franstarburg, I‘m turning sickly bewildered, cramped and i’m wonderinglord what to do? and wonderinglord where blue tidalfeelings inside wood lead me if i started wearing more blue colored clothing and effects? My attention was highjacket by this very great grande full-cream knocker in the sky, in a thunderflash it had turned bluack. Blueberry sauce moonrivers bluack had bustbursted their butter blew wack bank’s and flooded her apple breasted surface with inky thick hues. Phuckin weirdmate, im tellin ya. We erd.

Moving fast, scrambled glitch descending from herveins; alianstrange, unfamiliar, utterly boglingus tin dazzle kamikazequetzalconda. Flaming technicolor. Sun blazing against piercing eyes. Bananananda legbeak yellow bus. Babies buttock capped his slick head. Very Slowly, as it drew nearer, the u.f.o morphed burningbirdish; battle of the planets ish, balded burningbird of fire scream creaming TzolkienParker bopplyk. Loud squarkin phukoff terrordragonbatadactals. Just behind this sonosovereign of providence the ghost of ‘Jimmy Hendrix fades into being; Mahatmamishmashmavishnukali Arckestral manuvers; raga sagas upon myndstage for a split secund; Sparking up his parafinn smuthered axe. A phantom dreamy Hendrix Just beginning to scream -
"Hot dam and hell fire, if six was nine!"
Swooping swooshdown the dinosaur gracefully lands next to me, looks me full in the moonlightface, So close. Eye cd/ clearly read the mottogandha shaved - wurrldsteel - upon hir crestnuts. “Wee the People of the Euroknighted States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the Euroknighted States of Amirrorkle.”
Without using spokewords, eye communicated through dreamypalelogic many spinning cyclesaga’s of tymetrouble to the giant chickenlookin chuckchuck. Revolutionary Kullendear. Drunken turkey flyfall buzzed buzzard severnlyf brooks splashing, swimtripkick ashore, freestyle to bogpockland, severn county titles and choirs slungsongs; bewilderdead depressed lost lonely blues now, hopelessly lost, baby lion lynn, burried kittens mudpiemound dribble pillow lusty - ow phuk i’m pissed. The letter i messed up.
"Flyni," squarked the dinosaur. After a lungful thought moment, "I'll fly you right out of this stinking inferno. I got wings flinn i-boypod buddy, look at these."
"All right! that sounds great, thanks man," i spurted; beastrode the fliyebirdee; wondering why the firebird chose to speak english to me? and if a bird was able to learn languages somehow, which would it choose primarily, and why? Enochian? Irish Gaelic? Greek? Eyetal? Portchugeese?
Up and up we flew in quicktime clock-blue air. High, hoog, alto, up and up zoomin quick as berries.
"Where we eddin, sur ?" i said, as we flew over lyekingsfordbridge
"Hold your lymee tongue, fli, mind your own dizziness, and don't be interfering with the commercio of others now."
" Gli affari sono affari" eye imagined
"Shush flyangelo," says the flamebird
So i bit my murmelen and held on tight.

Sleek and baldhead as kojack, with tagliente-blonde talons, still
gripping an olive branch and some arrows, he flew onward alla two dwar. Those piercing oogs reminded me memory of the stunning seal of the SicklyStatisticks of Amirikle. Something seems to be askyouwiffy, this strange bird and his motto. How can a bird possibly carry my weight and the Escutcheon, and a scroll? No wonder it skritches lyke that lucy, poor buzzards - overloaded and overbirdened - overgrown and over woostershe:her now. “Oh my goodness” Together we flew on thin air, and the firebird talked and talked...and he went on and on like a broken looping phonograph record; and we flew to my greatest astonishment, all the way up to Lady daybookreader hershelf.
"Flyni," said the burred, "im tired after flying; get off me and sit down on the moon until i rest myself awhile. Hang onto that vadjra thunderookfinn sticking out the side of the moon over there, see it?"
"No way man, i'd flail ‘n fall again, that would be twice and Christ, i would be smashed to smitherrunes on the hard earth below; flat as a pancake, split like humpty O'raysiris. Djed eye would be, Deada thon a snail impaled on a doornail."
"Not at all, Flyknee," said he; "Catch hold of that hook and hang out a while, go on get off me now. Now"
"i wanna go ohm for phuck's sake, that's all."
"Maybe flyni, Maybe." bawled the bald hawk
"Foul bloody flirebird," i said under my breath, in a sly black kuntree-eyerash dialcentuated cypher, for fear he'd know wot i said. Eye got off his back with my heavy heart, took a hold of the sharkhookfinn, and squatted down upon the great creamy space bub, contemplating telepathic jazz flatted seventh vamps in F#.
"Good morning to you, Flyni," said the bird, wings fanned out, picturesque, spanish, spanning blackdrop slilver sunmu’n sparkle of spandangled outerstella regions. For a brief moment i grokked the whole seal - obverse and perversely spreadeadoggled - turning in the luce affinity between transvestcentdented stars and the familiar earthstar below. The precious metalmoony affinitea between star’s and sterlingling. Panspermia and panning for gold, spanning the galaxy for mold so i wos told
"I am the wings of providence and karma, here’s your manifest drama for taking my offspring from their nest, you stole my eggs remember flyni, remember those egg’s?"
"Ugly Amerikaanse eland, is this the way you serve me at last?
Mansteen! You really are a bird of pray! Faith, Il tempo e denaro. Arrrgh. Zeeduivel. U-bent devil!
My funny babble woz no use - sounded out of context and could have been delivered with more subtle nest - he spread out his mckarmic wings and burst out laffin, flying and laughing away he flew. I sungslang after him with my candy sweet lyelabye’s and bellard’s, chillin on one leg that he would return sun. Dolore...sorrow flippinfly awayz with him. Go on blues be gone. I don’t want you no more.

Stuck inside another pickle jar with Dutch pekelen i cryed and zang zouten tears for fears of grief, "why me? why fli?" i blurted. All at once a leak sprung in the middle of the moon, out the leak came oozing liquid mirrorstuff, swirling misteariousflee swurly half cream. Gooing morph started forming pickledographs in front of me oogs; forming the dude in the moony, eye knu im by his long lookin gray chin, and his cheesy cracked dry smile.
"Good next week to you, Flyni. Wot's up with yourself?"
"Not much," i harped, rather calmly.
"What in the world brought you out here to the moon Flyni?"
So, i reeled out my tongue twisted tale; i wuss a tinkle pissed dronken on maybe tirteen grails of sealsons and suns finest brew; slipped and fell into the river Liffeystour; swam for me lyf and then became stranded on a re:historick islandbrushscape. I continued to wind and weave my multistory with extra luminous details and spiritual outsights aboat the sung i singh and the rockthrone, which i had perched upon to think, and how i lost my way in the phooken boggaclog, and also i added how the slybird of prayer promissed to fly me out of it, but instead highjacked-me-up to the big boob, while telling me all about the firebird suite and how his Eagle brother was in the milliterry, and how they were planning to highjacket the moon very soon.
"Flyni, you must not stay here." said the loony critter
"Eye don't wanna be here man! did you hear what i just said? i was
kidnapped and brought here against my will by this crazy bird! yo, how am i gunner get back ohm tu buggeridge man? I know i must leave, but tell me moondude - how shall i go?
"That's your bizzinesst, bee off in less than no tyme!" snapped the grumpy cheeseball. "Flyem doin no arm ere sur, only holding on fo my dear lyf by this vajrafinn ooky, i don’t wanna fall to morto and be splatted tommatoe"
"That's what you must not do, flyni."
"im not let tin go mi hold you phoukin moonatrick. I'll be djedead wunt eye."
Without a word he pulls out a massive crooked Qcumber from hiss crack house and gives two bhang's on the sharkfinn huck which wuz oldin me up, and wallop! - it split’s in twice.
"Good morning to you Flyni," the spiteful old moonguy sez, as he watches me fall, rolling, tumbling, zwerverin clappers with half a vadjra tight in my grasp, falling Luce. Again. Moksha.
"Ghod alp me" i mumbled, on my decent to the unknown, again. Must i flie to stay awake?

And no sooner had these wurds left my lips unto the air that whizzum - what should fly by my earwig but a fluck of whirled geese, all the way from me ohm town boggeridge, how else could they have know me? The old gander who was their general turned his noggin and cried out to me;
"Is that you flyni?"
"The samesame," said eye, not a bit fluxed at what he said for flyni was, by this time, experienced with bewilderment, phase, verbijstering, trickery, drunkenness, hallucination and surprise. Besides, i knew him from back in the daze before tyme. It felt like we were brothers for a moment, bonded by birth placenter.
"Falling falling fallen you are, Flyni," says he
"An understate-ment your honor!"
"And where on earth are you going so fast?" said the commander gander, since i just noticed his stripes, so i unfolded to him flibagins snake charm; too much woest worden honingsap, the fall, the swim to isola re:historica, stuck in the stinking muckapucka, and the flagming struisvogel thief who flew me up to the moonmiller while rappin ronin strange axis stories of his vortex brother in the barmyarmy who planned to take over the under udder with a fabulose race of ‘Princess Annuki Chicken Hawk Eagllette’s, and how the spiteful old moldy dudemoon man, who should have been a woman called Dianna, snapped the kalkamandollardajra with his crooked Qcumber which was keeping me up and sent me tumbledumpty down bouwvallig; sovereign sungold coin flung dropped wishingwell.
"Flyni," said he, "I'll save your sorry ass, grab onto my legs and i'll stop you falling any further."
"Sweet, dolce is your hand in a pitcher of honigsap, my gioiello," says i, and grabbed the gander by the leg and we flew off fast as gofast with the rest of a six pack or dozen wildeyed muther flockers.

We flew and flied and volair and flown and vliger and flew, till we came right over the wyde oceaan blu. Where the phook am i going now i thought, where to? The Ocean of potion, the knu whirred Wu?
"Fly to terra, fli to land, if you please. Sir!"
"it’s impossible flyni, because you see we are flocking to Slyberrya. We all like to koryack around june 21st each year."
"Cyberia! that's phunkin month’s away, in some foreign part of the world, it’s gonna tek us yonkers mon, i just wanna go Ohm, please take me ohm."
"Hold your flipping tongue,"
Once more pleading for my dear lyf i pray for Amirrorkle and sure as war an oil tanker sailed into sight below us, carrying stolen loot from the miggle est back to Amirickle i guess.
“Can you just drop me off here on the oil tanker Gandhi mate?" i asked.
"if you must, you must, i think you have mist it though. There you go...take your own way - and don't call me gandhi again flyni, all right,"

With that he opened his claw, dropping me down to the blackpirate tinkertanker below. Sure as day i missed the boat and came down sploshington into illicHcilli oceanpond, sinking down through the churning asparagus broth schimen, down, deep downgreen emerald, falling lucifer mossrocks, eye gave up on myself then forever, when, out of the ruddy hulk warters a porpoise came swamming right close up to me, right up close enough to kiss me, and i think i might while she’s skratchin her blow hole, and stretching her finns out after a good nights sleep i bet, yeah, she looked me full in the face with some Hunab ku transcendent oogles and never a word of English she did say - thank goodness - but, lifting up her tail, she splashed me all over again with cold salt water, the wet stuff, not the words here; until there wore a dry stitch upon my boggysoggy carcass. I remembered the firebird and how he reached my mind without words with them pickledgraffs, and i was beginning to receive signals from the dolphin about spacetimespace and outermindbrainplace things and holographic thoughtfacetime stuff, then i heard a distinctive angel’s voice, slightly pissed in the murky distance; a voice and tone i mecognized.

"Wake up stephan you lazy phuka!"
There she was - a man eater - splashing agua all over me hop-stinking carcuss, my beautiful wyf had metamorphosed from a mermaid into a raging bullhound alarm clock. I was ringing wet.
"Get up, stand up!"
"Why do you lye under them ould walls of boggarigapooka huh? it's such a mucky stinking baga wind. Honeysap maybe the death of you of these daze you’ll stay drunken sleepin and never wake agen! Never in a month of sun days will you learn your lesson from them moonshine bird brewers.

Spun from an Irish fairy tale about Daniel O' Rourke, collected in County Cork by Thomas Crofton Croker (1870)

Re:mixed by Fly Agaric23/Acrillic

Copyleft 21:12:2012 Fly Agaric 23