the anticulturalist: appeal to objective reality and the anticulturalist response

 

Sessions

we pondered at great length

and discussed for quite a while

the fact that I was prone

to overthinking

uh 

it takes most of a session

to reach down deep enough

to start to untangle something

then the time is gone and

well

see you next week

I like to finish on an up note

if I can

an affirmation 

or acknowledgement

of something positive

trouble is

once I leave the chair

and leave the room

and leave the building

the world is there

I mean

carrying on of course

and yeah of course of course 

Nobody cares, I know that,

or better to say that

everybody cares but there is no time

because the earth spins, etc,

and work and whatnot

and so on and all that

gadzooks

did they ever find out

where Square One was?

A Slow Dive

Supposed a slip

but the ground fell away

your trajectory twisted

inelegant sprawl

red zone suspension

through the muddy squall

negligent absence

darker distractions

Cry wolf/help/blame

a learnt malevolence

staged rage. 

But no matter:

it is all wrapped pain.

There is no possible

control of what

should not be;

neither should we

suffer unduly for that

which is done to us

for there is a future

when we catch each other.

When We Gather Again

My friends

we will gather again

and speak to

the russet glow we share,

our greying growing hair,

and seek to

salute the past with grace,

and then

share our fire and follies;

show photos

of those who went before,

of those who’re coming after,

sons, daughters,

our triumphs and our glories;

make amends

for sharp words half-forgotten,

give peace to

this world in disrepair

the ever-heating air

where, brief though

life may be, the beauty is we were

such friends.

None Of This Was Yours To Sell

Money funnels are a curse

Take your hands out of that purse

You stole a future, hid it well

That none of this was yours to sell

The only trickle-down to date

Is piss from broken cisterns, mate

You took our stuff for a quick quid

Which was not yours, but don’t tell Sid

Recite these words into a mirror:

Jesus Christ loves every sinner

But let’s be frank. Don’t you remember

What He did to money-lenders?

Well, clearly not. You stole the Bible

You auctioned the manger in the stable

You spend your time inventing needles

With loopholes big enough to wheedle

Money comes, and money goes,

Today’s allies, tomorrow’s foes,

The dance of nonsense sputters on

Your feet are caught, your time is done

Take your hands out of my pocket

Your rhetoric is foul and rotted

You sold us out. You sold us off.

But Karma – justice – is powerful stuff.

His Name Was Nobody

There’s a dude I know whose only remaining ambition in life is to own the world’s largest collection of pornographic medieval marginalia

Confusing as it may seem I believe in his passion project as one of the final examples of purity in the modern age

He spends much of his time jacking off into ever starchier squares of muslin which he bought once from a Turkish market

He was so proud of his haggling that it was all he could do to keep himself from taking it out and bludgeoning himself to a finish there and then

His name is Nobody and he wants it to be known that he cares not a jot for your contra-indications

No, not a single bileous grunt will bubble up from that fumbly gutbush

He has recourse to a fine line in gibberish and hapful deals it behind the jukebox at the bar downtown

Of course, you enter at your peril as the sneers are quite astronomically griftsome, but Nobody never said that this would be a cakewalk, boy

He keeps it low, lower than you’d imagine: his scene is no example for any upcoming garbler

At one stage he’d considered making it professionally but had to let that go when he was discovered to be as broken as anyone else

More than some, and that was really enough to be said on that one. Yeah, Nobody is a dude I know and he makes it thinking about life in fetters and chains

The more he thinks, the less he does, and the paradox is shamefully brilliant, and beautifully delivered on many a sticky wicket

He ain't beholden to none and that’s why he is who he is

At root it’s only common courtesy after all

So sings the whale in the sea

As if that shit ever helped anyone float

Nobody's mammy has a mantra:

Remember to do your stretches

a groin strain is more debilitating than you think

Heavy is the Head

If heavy is the royal head that wears the royal crown

then take it off, and free yourself, and melt the bastard down

and think about the land you have, and who you stole it from:

return that to its owners – us – and get a real job.

Take a moment here, too, to really contemplate:

Is accident of birth enough to be a head of state?

If you surely are born to rule then here’s a quick suggestion:

Run as a normal candidate in a proper election.

Dismantle the whole edifice; the palaces and pomp

are expenses we just don’t need. And if the people want

a democratic, equal opportunity UK

then let the royals abdicate, and give us back our pay.

“They bring in tourist cash,” say some. “It is our history.”

Well -  nationalise this golden cage. Don’t give ‘em up for free.

Parade them for the gawping masses. Charge ‘em entry, too:

but first admit that what you’ll have’s a royal petting zoo.

Ay. heavy is the country’s head that accepts royalty

Without a check or balance or accountability.

Throw off the weight; cast off the chains; grow up and look around;

It’s morally repugnant to pay for this fetid crown.