Back to Identity?And scrambled transmissions from Planet Cod.

I am,

The result of a coital connection,

Between a saint,

And a demon.

It happened in 1978,

The Chinese year of the goblin…

…When it became clear to Her,

Around 1982, I guess…

That my father,

Was not man,

But a human shaped hellhound,

The saint gathered her little ones,

My sister and I,

Then fled,

Far way…

From sunshine,

Beaches,

Ocean,

And Matrimonial Suffering…

To bracken,

Grey skies,

Adders,

Refuge…

A chance to breathe,

Recover,

Regroup and restart…

She had wanted to lose her husband,

But not her friends,

Her house,

Her life,

In a country where she had really felt at home…

Her sacrifice was immense.

Before her own desires,

Came the well being of her little ones..

These last 29 years,

She has caught me when I have fallen,

Forgiven me when I have sinned,

Sometimes wretchedly…

She has supported every twisted plan I have chased,

with my often demented, invariably unreasonable will.

She has always,

Just been There.

Such is the power,

The ferocity,

Of Her maternal instincts,

I know,

That She would lay down her own life,

Before any real threat,

To her younger flesh and blood.

It has always been like this…

And it is Wrong,

For anyone,

Myself included,

To say ‘She cares too much’…

For She is me,

And I am her.

Better a mother loves,

Than not………………..

We are all blessed or cursed with natural capital in vital areas. Capital which can be used as a form of currency…In the larval stage we are no more than the sum of the parts that have joined to create a new life. I don’t mean just the parts of our parents, I mean the actual bloodlines of our parents which have been mixing and evolving over the generations with certain elements contained therein, becoming more dominant and evident in the creatures born of the blood, and certain elements becoming weaker and less evident under the fierce gaze of Existence…

 After we have exited the womb, Experience comes into play, in delineating our Natural capital. Experience encourages the capital to grow and develop, though it can also crush and destroy it…However, I should add, that the line between Larval and Womb Exit is fuzzy. Because I suspect that a creature in the womb is subject to Experience of the mother, and to energy absorbed from the outside world into the spirit, and the soul, of the new being. So effects on the raw building blocks of a Life begin to be felt straight after the point of conception*****

… Strengthening the magnification of this first attempt to find a starting point for my investigation into the idea of Natural Capital…It follows, that the mental, spiritual and emotional states of our Creators(mother and father) at the time of conception produce a powerful effect on us AS we are created. Intercourse can be simplified as a sperm and an egg, but this world is governed by complex Feelings and Thoughts which drive us, weigh us down…they combine to carve out the shape of our lives….After survival needs are met, most creatures seek happiness and happiness IS a state of mind and heart…Indeed. I am sure that in the least, traumatic events affecting a carrying mother( and possibly also the father) have a traumatic effect on the carried. 

The son born of a rape has a stain on his soul before he has taken his first breath of Earth air. A daughter born of a devoted couple, conceived through making love…making life through Love…what a beautiful concept…that girl has already tasted Love and her soul will know Love before she pops out….These are extreme examples, which I am using to illustrate in perceptible definition, my suggestions about the Importance of the Point of Conception. Unfortunately, the current aeon shows countless more incidents of children born of Hate, of Darkness, than children born of any connection between people which is remotely approaching a semblance of Love….but where was I***….Capital…natural capital…

Our society gives value to three elements above all else.

 1.     Beauty combined with Sexual Allure.

2.     Intelligence.

3.     Braun mixed with bravery.

 An unnaturally large showing of one of those Key elements of natural capital gives the bearer the potential to be a Success in the eyes of society. There needs to be at minimum, a little of all three. A brain dead hulk is of no use to anyone. But a dumb but salaciously alluring Beauty can take the World by storm, in financial terms…The higher the mix of those three Key elements, the easier it is to be a success in Society.

Beauty, Intelligence and Braun can all be used for Intense Good or Intense Evil. Depends on the soul and situation of the bearer. They can be increased in size and potency, through Experience and, or, conscious effort and training…..It literally pays in this world to take advantage of possession of superior values of the three Keys… 

To end this first stab into the darkness of the spiritual snapshot of what we Are, I will mention briefly the Element I value above all others. An element which society does not value highly, it does not reward it, in fact, it tries to mock it, to stomp it out of this realm…This element is Heart. 

Enough. But more will follow…  

The decision to give up the rollies two days before the stag-do was a poor one. Yes I managed to go almost 48 hours without any nicotine but on Friday evening, after dumbing my senses down to Sloppy with half a bottle of rum, the reality of cutting out a drug which my body has been eagerly consuming for 13 years hit home with a vengeance. Try as I might I just couldn’t sleep. Cold sweats, tightening of my mind and horribly contorted muscles combined to refuse me even several hours of decent rest…I awoke with a roar at 11am, shaved the tash then blasted off to Chimpy’s place like an angry, heavily fatigued hobo, stopping only to give in to temptation, to weakness, and purchase a pouch of Mild Drum.

Upon entering his flat I was all too aware of the fact that I was amongst creatures of a very different species to my own stock. One of them was pleased to see me appear but generally I felt as welcome as a drunk paedophile at a children’s party…Paintball was the main event of the day and I was happy to find myself sitting in the front seat of Paul’s car for the journey to the battlefield. I have always liked Paul, having known him since Chimpy’s infamous Uni days in London. He may look like a demented professor of carnal psychology but his fierce outer shell belies the warmest of souls beneath. While driving he made the fatal error of asking me to fill him in on my misdemeanors of the last few years since we had last locked horns. He was visibly shaken by my tales of flitting between Himalayan peaks of bliss and hellish catacombs of woe but the conversation served it’s purpose of staving off the boredom of the road work…Upon arriving at the arena of Death I was pleasantly surprised to see Chimpy’s brother, John and the lovable but not fuckable, smiling goon Mikey. Two faces from the past which may look slightly jaded but nonetheless both bring a glimmer of joy to my volatile eyes. John and I have never been the best of buddies, a relationship which was worsened beyond repair many years ago when after typical cajoling from Chimpy I decided to deface the buxom wenches found in John’s prized collection of Escort magazines…Still, it was wicked to see the bastard and the same can be said of Mikey whose good humour and constant desire to laugh like a hyena on meth makes him good fun to be around even at the worst of times. I always warm to happy, real people and Mikey falls into that category…After a brief pep talk from a burly, foul mouthed thug, battle commenced…Right from the Off it was clear that there was too many soldiers scrapping for too little ground. It was chaos and no surprise that I took one bang on the forehead within seconds of the ‘GOGOGO’ scream of the marshals. ‘fuck it’ I thought, ‘nobody will notice’ but how wrong I was because the top third of my head was glowing orange with oily paint. Before I had the chance to pump anyone with lead the shout was raised of ‘MAN DOWN’ and true enough a few yards behind my dangerously exposed position amid the summit of the hill of Doom, a team-mate lay face down and lifeless in the mud…I can’t say that I enjoyed the games that followed but I did find John Rambo exciting to observe. He moved like a man possessed, like a vet returning to Nam, the lone sergeant who had lost the rest of his squadron and instead of retreating from enemy territory was determined to go it alone. Pure kamikaze. At one point I caught him skinning a rabbit and gathering branches with the idea of making a camp fire…It was only at the very end of the session when I got involved enough to get nailed by a firing squad that I felt like I was getting value for money. However the energy exerted in the final dash for safety plunged me into a state of near total exhaustion. I hardly spoke on the journey home and was thankful when we reached Brighton where my trusty steed was primed and willing to return me at high speed to Base Camp in Hanover….
…
My body was bruised and weak. A steaming hot shower soothed the soreness before I got stuck into the rum and lucozade and prayed to the Lords of the untamed Hobos for a revitalization of my state of being.

The rest of the Chimpy gang had moved onto a restaurant in town. I had decided to skip that scene for financial reasons. Choosing instead to save all my sterlings for an all out assault on the spirits cabinets in the pubs and clubs we were going to visit after they had finished devouring every nubile damsel in the restaurant like a gang of rabid Huns.

Feeling more awake and suitably primed by the dark rum working it’s way through my system, I swaggered into town to rejoin the party people. As I shook hands and worked the crowd I was struck by that same uneasiness, unwelcome vibrations, as had hit me when I had arrived at Chimpy’s in the morning. Rather than pursue the source of these vibrations I gravitated towards Mikey, John, Paul and the stag himself.

We drank and caught up with each other’s lives. Nobody was getting wild. The heaviest it got, in terms of combined efforts at getting wasted, was a schoolyard drinking game involving downing large gulps of lager. Hardly dramatic, or what was needed to give Chimpy a decent send-off into the world of husbandry…Getting slaughtered is surely essential for a stag-do, especially for the stag. It is his last chance to let loose in ways he will soon after, be swearing in the name of God, never to indulge…One of those loose ways, which traditionally is celebrated on this last stand of the Bachelor in a man, is fidelity. The last chance to ogle without feeling guilty, to touch, to fuck another woman. A whore or stripper is the usual conversion of this horrifying trade-off into the Stag-do. Now, to me this has always seemed a dumb idea and one which shows painfully clearly that the prospective matrimonial union is a sham, a lame excuse for Proper Love, a superficial ratification of nothing more than choosing to be legally bound to another person…When I love a woman, I still find other women attractive- though clearly far less attractive than they would seem if my heart wasn’t captured and focused on One other- but I don’t entertain ideas of having my way with them. If I am going to commit myself to a Woman for Life, the last thing I want is to be with another Woman. They become less interesting in general to me. One is enough to deal with, to grow with, to adore, to give myself to totally…Our souls intertwine, for good or ill…And with intertwined souls, betraying my loyalty to another is the same as betraying myself…If I had a stag-do, none of my mates would organize a stripper or a whore because they know me well enough to realize that I would see such a gesture as an insult, an attack of sorts, and arguably a sign that they weren’t my friends. Something to be avoided. They would organize a buffet of drugs and drink, and a night of heavy hedonism and heart on your sleeve well wishes…Maybe…Anyhow, my point is that while I have never spoken to Chimpy about the subject, I know him deep enough to be sure his sentiments on the Stripper/Whore stag tradition are the same as mine. An unspoken but obvious stance. So when during the paintball session, a chap whose name I have forgotten but his toad face lingers in my memory, whispered in my ear that a private stripper had been arranged for Chimpy for 2am, I was slightly concerned. But more stunned that all of the gang seemed complicit and supportive of the idea, even Chris the ‘best man’ who I thought understood Chimpy better than the others…I mentioned that he wasn’t going to like it, but toadface just winked and smiled. OK, I thought, maybe it is me who has lost touch with Chimpy, maybe we have been living in different worlds for so long that he has changed into something else, something different to the righteous bull-hearted passion-addict who I had classed as my closest chum for 21 years…I tried to shake that idea out of my head soon after, but part of it stuck in my mind like a floater that refuses to flush…
(to be contd)

I’m a fishmonger,
I’m a Butcher,
But I do more than sell dead creatures.

Comically attired,
Blood stained apron, doctor’s jacket and standard counters Hat,
Only my trainers, socks and boxers are open to personal preference.

I serve as a human shaped social hub,
Exchanging energy with whoever crosses my line of sight.

The old dears with no teeth,
Some on their last legs, puffing their last breath, will they return next week?

The expensively clothed students spending their allowance from mum and pops,
chucking more sterlings into one meal than would last me three days on the dinner table.

The rugged salt-of-the-Earth grunts,
Their smiles and grimaces more real,
Their glares more fierce…
Than their socialite counterparts…

The catwalk hoes,
Showing more flesh than clothes,
Soliciting their sex while they shop…

The designer hippies,
All show, no substance,
Making a statement of Image, not a statement of Belief in Peace and Harmony,
Sandals, Thai fishing trousers, flowered tiaras,
It’s a fucking Sham…

The Woot Woot party people,
Human shells working 9-5 jobs which prohibit any organic growth or expression,
Voluntary slaves selling 5 days of each week just to blow out on Friday night,
Escape into the chemical warmth of ecstasy,
The addictive cocoon of cocaine,
The Ketamine Coma…
They are the Living Dead.

There are of course,
Orchids in the nettles,
Butterflies amongst the vultures,
Keeping my mind’s eye Open,
It’s gaze wide, lucid, piercing,
I seek out these interesting Souls…

I try to connect,
Build bridges of communication while selling haddock fillets…

And always I flirt, but remain a gentleman,
Tricking lovely ladies into conversation,
Writing them poems in my head as I admire their natural curves and smiles,
Waving them goodbye, as I make a silent wish that they’ll come back…

When the coast is clear,
No colourful characters or exciting minxes to eye fuck,
I fill these white pages with the thoughts and observations of a Fox in Fishmonger clothing…
————————–————————–————————–———–
Dearest Esmeralda,
How the mighty have fallen. The righteous stomped into submission by the dark forces which are running amok in this once great nation which day by day appears more like an open sewer. I watch these grunts like a wild fox watches the farmer, knowing that at any moment the tide may turn and the ignorance I perceive to be the guiding light of the grunt mentality will be replaced with a 12 bore shotgun. My days, like theirs, are numbered, but while I am un-caged, free to roam, observe, marvel in disgust and distrust at the uselessness of their lives and the senseless struggle of my own existence, I remain feral, untamed, a beast more than a modern man.

What drives them*** I often wonder, for they are bound by instincts foreign to those which fling me hither and thither, always pushing my nimble frame in direct opposition to the current of human evolution…Am I human or something else entirely***…It is true that I resemble, or can imitate, their customs, their style, but take a drop of my blood, send it for analysis to the Powers that Be and what will be uncovered will send shockwaves through the halls of Westminster, like a nuclear blast, for I am Dan, human by birth, but cat, fox, wolf, seahorse, badger, hamster and koala by NATURE, part of a drying breed hell-bent on adopting a stance of severe defiance…

They want me to dance the fandango while they whistle ‘Candle in the Wind’ by Elton John, they want me to aim for a studio flat on the second storey of a renovated slaughterhouse, they want me to say Sir, Yes, Sir when the call for attention is sounded out of large speaker attached to the top of a mini cooper driven by Chris Eubank…But I strut to the rhythm of one tune alone, ‘Man in the Mirror’ by Michael Jackson, I aim for the celestial realm of Venetian Gods and Neptunian Bitch-Goddesses, and when I next see Chris Eubank I will puncture his eardrums with Mayan Magic then replace him, as pilot of the fabled Mini Cooper, with a black tongued gazelle who will drive around these blood stained streets screaming the words of ‘Pass The Dutchy’…

Indeed, their chains and shackles restrain us all but it won’t be until they can read my mind that the Real Trouble will begin…When that point is reached on this perilous, relentless march, towards Total Control, Total Destruction of Soul, Total Eradication of the spirit once revered as the noblest of all; I will be done for, because there is no place in the New World for a man who sees only with his own eyes, hears only with his own ears, thinks only with his own mind, feels only with his own heart…I am not interested in Safety in Numbers when the Numbers are meaner, more cruel and dare I say, less decent, than I could ever stoop…The Lord says ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do’ but on this count the Lord was mistaken for the Swine know exactly what they do…

I hope they are treating you well in the Tombs, Esmeralda, and look forward to your release…
Until then,
I remain,
Biggie Smalls in Clown Shoes…
————————–————————–————————–————
A rose bush in the desert

This job, for all its rich social contact, is beginning to curdle my brain. To be fair I could be earning my sterlings in more strenuous and decidedly less satisfying vocations so perhaps I should focus my mind’s eye more widely and indulge the scope of this critique of my growing feeling of stagnation to include my extra-curricular activities, this town, this country, and looking more broadly still, the Western Way of Life which is rigidly enforced here in the UK and similarly in that barren outpost at the bottom of the planet where I habitually escape, Australia.

If the sole aim of my existence is merely to survive, to cement myself in a comfortable, ongoing position which causes me little drama or adversity, I am a successful man. But Security and Routine are neither my aspirations nor enemies. Which makes little sense to my long suffering mother who deigns my reluctance to settle, to accept my Lot, to set down roots; as nothing more complicated than puerile rebellion. What she fails to grasp is that while like a Tree I possess a propensity to grow, to reach higher into the sky, adding branches and leafs to my trunk as I head for the stars, thus far, when it comes to marking an X on the Earth, calling it my own and laying down roots, I have behaved more like a ship; plunging my anchor not in the ground but into the watery depths of the marina, whence an Escape is always a possibility, even an inevitability…It is the society here, not the Earth, which lacks fertility. And without adequate nutrition, my soul loses health and vitality like a rose bush in the desert…

What is really missing from this situation is a demand for attention to the Now…Too much of the Now is borderline mechanical, requiring little thought or enterprise. And it is this Automation of Existence which grates against my ideals, my instincts, and my zeal to feel Alive. So as my mind lapses more into pondering the Past and creating dizzying flights of fantasy out of the future, I am growing restless and more aware, day by day, of this clouding of the sky of my Psyche, my essence…less light is coming in as the depths of the Beast that is Daniel cocoons itself from the tedium and banality of the Now…Greenhouse effect of the soul, internal temperature is rising. It will continue to do so until the latent fire within reaches such intensity that it will burn a path through the clouds, like a blowhole in the ice, erupting in a cataclysmic explosion of Daniel Lava…That kind of Show must be avoided…Something must be done before I reach that very definite point of no return.

Maybe it is this internal greenhouse effect, the build up of psychological energy and pure passion, suffocated beneath the thickening clouds of Now, which is responsible for the sporadic incidents of Spontaneous Combustion which fit as cozily into the annals of human history as a Right Wing Rabbi setting up a pork-pie stand in the heart of the Gaza Strip.

————————–————————–————————–———–

Sainsbury’s, at 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon, is not the Right kind of scene for drunk and disorderly townie hags, yet here they are, hooting and whooping, cackling like witches in heat, bearing rotten cum-stained teeth with every hyena laugh.… “Don’t come to me you wenches!”, I whisper in my head…but alas, it’s too late…I just can’t help but stare when I see someone either naturally beautiful or brutally repulsive…extremes excite my senses.
“got tooth ache, darling…heeheeeheee…so we been down the pub” the crone wails across the counter at me, her breath putrid with the bitter aroma of stale lager and pork scratchings…
“I’ll have a bag of mussels, please…hahahhahahhahahahah’ she continues, blissfully unaffected by my complete reluctance to return her high spirits with anything but the steely gaze of a tiger shark mulling over whether to swim by or rip to shreds the bloated creature serving itself up for perusal.
“I guess it will numb the pain, the alcohol I mean…try single malt…se ya round” is as warm as I can be as I hand her the quickly wrapped bag of mussels. She leaves the counter and rejoins the human caravan…Screwing up her face in disgust, her friend notices the shellfish purchase…
“For fucks sake!…I can’t be doing with anything with eyes” she quips before roaring into more raucous laughter..
Eyes…Mussels with Eyes…If I was King these swine breeds would be put to the sword or sold to the Chinese as fuel.Hohoho!