Ivor Mutation on Sound Cloud Electronic Dance Music

Ivor Mutation

Electronic Dance Music

Sub-tropical, antediluvian pastoral paradise;

Eden, dazzling whiteness, sublime beauty, perfection,
                         softly accepts the diamond.

She said:

"Control me, mould me, shape me,
bind me, scratch me, hold me;
just for you I’ll be there, now two,
just for you; only me, now two,
just for you; only you. Now two.
Only two."

Minds enclosed, conjoined.
Danced, magically as one, flying,
above the enchanted glade. Kissed: a love-miracle immediate.

Loving.

Twilight, mist descended, pink petals reddened,
opened; they possess, they embrace, surrounded with sound;
darkness rises, yellow moonlight encircled them
looking through his eyes, intertwining her mind
deep inside, together as one, rising
entwined, coiled — immaculate. Unbreakable.

Explosion.

Red star supernova, collapse of gravity,
breaking through, we stop time, twist time,
fluttering; expanding waves – quivering,
biting, scratching; spirals colliding,
stardust auroras a sparkling glow growing:
red, orange, yellow, blinding white
hot, lasting forever; one heart together.
One love, one soul, one moment.

Only one. ]]> http://www.blog.poet.me.uk/a-new-poem-by-ivor-griffiths-21st-may-2014/feed/ 0 http://www.blog.poet.me.uk/new-poem/ http://www.blog.poet.me.uk/new-poem/#comments Tue, 20 May 2014 18:08:12 +0000 Ivor Griffiths http://www.blog.poet.me.uk/?p=147 The Next X

When love moved me
it changed black stone:

psychometric psychosomatic

placebo effect,
synonym, like magic.
Thereafter,
a spice infused mentat sees a blur in
periphery, fizzing by half closed eye, magnified
precisely, high definition of a noun scape, like a parasitic
paradigm, latches upon the concept of a quark, a string theory
mistake, a pattern shift to a parallax view, quantum mistake, relativity error;
Schrodinger’s cat and photons know, they do.
Know they do when you’re looking. Bends it does, when it thinks we’re not.
Magic is true – it is

energy of two galaxies colliding;
They look so beautiful>>>>
joined tonight, glad I know you now,
two stars combining — spangling brighter night—
in a cool blue light — slide inside your mind
moving in your love-gaze, love me, touch and hold me,
it feels so good to me, loving and owning.

Nobody knows me,
Nobody stole me,
no one knows the soul
crackling static loving and rolling.

I feel so good tonight time isn’t stalling,
filaments of silk entwining, helix is growing,
splitting slowly now it’s a confusion,
tell me what to do, I always do it,
don’t matter what it is,
I’ll do it always.

It feels so new to me,
loving and owning,
now you own me now
we’re both entwining,
soon I’ll be yours to keep,
till I can’t stay there.

But once I’m yours: I’m yours
nobody owns me. Just you.

Georgian crowds bound to him, pondering
a vision: rings of people floating in orbit.

His mind died in damp fog – grey as ashtrays;
croaked, from a throat hollowed brittle
by fags and joints
smoked in a bar, in New York, South Tyneside.

Reborn, at four fifteen, on the cusp of light:
a solitary skink in a tank, in a tower,
in New York, South Tyneside.

Hidden under Shields’ sand,
weaned by electric heat: carefully.
A boy, blond, gawped through glass
blurred and twisted, like mutant pink.
In a tank, in a tower
near New York, South Tyneside.
Skink imagined a birth
pressed out in sharp quartz sand
beneath warm tobacco leaves

mottled, like the Seven Stars floor,
stubbed out fag-end burns,
a tracheotomy’s troublesome stoma
his cigarette holder: raw stingers
void his voltage, and scale a suit

crumpled to second thoughts
that scabbed a doubt:
sky is a strip
of electric light,
slung above a bucket.

drilling machinery downwards, plunging
needles, pins a brain synapse connection; widgets
welded rivets – smoke, a thought slug, white head
liverish splendour, grinning, clever sly,
husband of black toothed adultress
- anyone but him. Anytime. He leaves,

glistening diamond studded trails, ooze
behind her rubbery slitherer, grins wide
swivel eyed, on stalks, pervay’s the corpse
dismissively, body rippling, past cackler’s
hysterical laughter at the fat hairless blob
laughing stock and cuckolded slob,
“See? Who the fook are you?”

Moliere & Molly’s Magic Ping Moment

It’s magic, full of star shaped fuzzy light stuff,

mirror-balls spinning, floating in bright yellow light

Molly, me and humanity – warm skins, a glowing

patina of sweat beads circling fractured fractions,

of fractious thoughts, we lie down, dark shadows merge

into our special white yellow light.

A butterfly, broken wings, crushed chrysalis bits,

meringue pieces lying on fresh tarmac.

A warm road skin – glowing black liquorice -

shiny water droplets, steam rises – smells nice.

“Bye, bye!” little boy cries,

crying tear drops splatter.

Now unaware, coming up, disassociating ethereal

grounds, as sunlight pings from window to mirror,

pulsing light, signifying to some -

fir trees on a horizon line, black against orange

nibbling a sky, blue blurred, fraying edges, threadbare.

Diverging now – shadow memories decorate pavements,

hardened, like Plato’s cave, the thirteenth (magic it is!) chakra,

a multi-faceted two dimensional timeless blood line.

Add ten, multiply, divide, sequence, linearise the binaries.

Then it’s done, now he’s gone. And her, and her. And him.

Pinging towards the sky. Forever happy.

Eh?

Blue eyes, furrowed nasal bridge frown, caressed, coveted and possessed.

Running away from tragedy. Remedial action required, a thought wisp.

He knew, the third eye, it can help that piece of every one;

fall back to the one, the me, that is needed.

Not a creeper, a crawler manipulator – listening and walking

suspicious and constant is the interruption and irritation

disruption and cancellation of my thought processing.

Obstructive – a road block to progress. Obstructive a thought planter – limpet like

in the distraction of her destructive need to control, hurt and gloat

at the result.

Stamina is such that no amount of double Dutch code speak – “it’s a load of shite” -

response as a cover for blank faced stupidity would help.

A good mother? Probably, but so what?

What does that mean?

But the stone man is dreaming a dream of passing – passing –

still with me and him and her and them – all to one place – somewhere she is not.

The lad walked in, and she’s back again, desperate to interrupt and control the situation.

To make her voice heard – come what may – what is envy?

She knows: fear. Looking in the mirror and seeing time.

Snow falls slowly, methodically, gradually, smoothing it all out. The

trees, bushes, dustbins and plants merge with cars, even houses.

The frozen land that crept through leather soles to freeze skin flat.

In the memory he looked eighteen months old, unsteady toddler,

standing, staring at his wrist. It had a bandage wrapped around it,

tied to the cot, bright white enamel metal.

He cried.

Tuesday

Toes started it. Nipping cold toe, blue shiny

frozen toe. Meandered, lazy like,

to fingers.

Peripheral light flickered sharply divergent and diagonally

he succumbed to a slumber, he wanted day before stuff

from a soft edged vista. He peered through a hole in time, jagged edges.

Surrounded, each side also, lines of Aztec gnomes, hats reddened

or blackened: depending on the thought mode.

Some frowned or glowered returned neutrality: back in the eye.

Acuity, concision and precision is a watchmaker’s blindness;

the last words lost to him, too small in time rewound 17 times over,

elevated shore line – misty heat haze above it lifted them

to red sky, blue sky and green.

Jealousy splits granite – slowly – ice

numbs it, time cracks it. Gone for good.

Bubba, Billy the Cat and me. At shore’s edge, waves small,

frothy saline drips,

i.v. leaking, blood dripping, puss fills a jar.

Life, it’s not that far,

elevates us into the eye-line

shimmer and the beauty and light of love.

The beginning is the end sometimes,

futile, lonely.

The mind’s eye or a Third Eye.

Lobsang knew.

Swagger, curled lip snarl, high level android mentat, logic processor,
feelings guesser.
Thin mist of never caught thoughts hovers in periphery,
smeared to grey fog’s pirouette effect – velvetine leatherette,
luxury he imagines. Wrong again, of course,
Null void; reactionless, marble stone-faced cold, beard icicles dangle.

She surveys him, with warm love, no melting,

“You’re cold, callous, full of badness, suck the goodness from me,”
Evil you are, no feeling, don’t feel, don’t care don’t know.

She cried it like a Lioness who has lost a cub to the new Lion,
face crumpled in pain.

Hurt words exploding invisibly
around flint eyed ice bearded man

“love, yes,” he said.
“love, but never call, never go, never ask, never a card or a word, never…..”

The hurt he saw it, it evolved like a limpet, it stuck
to his thoughts, it evolved into a burrowing thing, it burrowed into his brain,
the bit that feels and explains the pain.

And he saw it there in her, he did, he saw it there. The first time
he cried he couldn’t stop. It hurt a lot.
Not him, her, he thought, not me her, he thought, he tried to anyway.

The unrequited kind is mine

The not necessarily returned, closed heart kind,

The not spurned, nor, yet anyway, kind;

the burnt kind on crumpled mind and cursed kind; verse of worse,

seasonal autumnal needful feelings.

Immersed birthday letters;

proverbs, devoid of adverbs; love flutering

softly feathering caresses, last moments.

Shady luck;

Trick of chance

cannot feel your thoughts; can see you dance;

cannot hear your thoughts; can see you dance;

cannot imagine feelings; can see you dance;

cannot but would; Molly showed me the ecstasy of seeing the way other kind see, the right kind not my kind.

The guide I can love forever; that love is mine, forever;

I decide to end that not you, or her or him either.

 

 

 

Starlight smile spangling doe eyes; soft

sunlight in velvet chestnut mantle.

Deep soulful eyes smiling, survey him.

Dreaming of the sensual curve of calf

• stilleto balanced on toes, leaning in
• and cupping hands; lingering touch
• complete control; I’d know; I’d needed; caressing

memories of that first night. When we were younger than before, my

heart opening for the first time, that mischievous grin

stirs my soul for the first time,

the memory of it even now, the last time,

whenever I kissed your lips

pure, soft and sensuous. Beautiful.

Waves of love flowed out of me to you

never stopped being in love with you.

Dreams of sun drenched beaches and being in your arms again

Always in love and caressing

Queen of my night and Mother of Mine.

Forgive me.

Sad, not bad, mad not sad, no not sad, unaware, anywhere, bad anytime,
“What you looking at twat? Eh?”
Sad, yeah pretty sad, not really, really sad, no, “out there” sad;
somewhere high now though,
In a k-hole, when I was two, out of body
smogged up for good then, fogged up
And choked up, choking on a star – its crescent congruence pertains to the appellation:
Constellation, stellar and canny good.
You could have it all, if it made bad not sad, or sad bad, just for a day,
Just for a friend who stayed true to you, in the end he did, for you, you know?
Stay true, he knew and you loved, because you is me, is you too, see?
All imagined, helical congruence is just a parallax view of it all.
Shaped, spangled, tangled and she played, indeed, twangled, strings vibrating
The heart in a red star glistening soft edged rose, red swollen
Exalted, excited, anticipated on elbow and knee creation, a fog of love descends,
Honey and the caress a cupping of unaware intuitive feeling my paradigm slide slowly
Clearly – plug in and turn on – clearing, disappearing –
“let me see it,”
Coming, coming, coming – it’s over make it harder
Get parted, diverge – demerge – avoid – polarity switch, core started the time of last orders
Dancing in the pale blue and white striped dress, pale above knee, bright shining doe eyes,
Illuminating mine, mine, she said. “Sometimes,” is the best it got, but now it’s never.
Left turn at the bog roll factory, or the box factory in the valley – she went, she came, and so scents life and the dying.
Photographs curl, like a fish on a line twisting and dying slowly – image fades,
The heart – the soul – the dead – the living we know, but unaware, of there and here.
That’s the place: the waste of time displaced; wanted and dreaded it flew by faster and larger.
Dropped through a fog of curlew craven crow like things with wings, a thought, it was;
A dawning of a new neurological quizzling report of an element of diligently laden kant that
Seeks to lay to rest, the rest of the true best – No, true.
Sad not bad.
But sad?
Aye, and that’s a fact.

The way is to stay away, detach, “attachment is crap”, says Buddha,
He does, it says it, “attachment is crap”, in his book,
“Lead the way, me teeth’s gone, me legs are fucked”, said Buddha,
But me brains’re intact. In fact, activated to follow,
Slavishly, the way set. The way of words in books, and thought hooks,
“it weren’t me, it were ‘im it were, he’s a twat,” so sayeth the Buddha
The dictat signifier of a kinda inchoate heuristics thingy, and the effect
On the ontological what’s ‘is name? Is unpredictable, like logical positivism,
That pseudoscience stuff and other bollocks, just like that.
Just have a fucking fag, or a tab, choke your fucking self
Have another gallon of beer, gan on, yer kna yer want it.
The fucking twat he shat that fucking fat greasy bastard of a fucking in cress well, towers
Above a long way like a spinacle of glass, twinkling a bit, and shiny, like a car,
In a long stay car park, and a postcard lands lightly – the thought inside
It – the thought on it – the love in there, hidden, and there, and every
Where, follow that then – but follow. When you lose the me you lead,
You are very careless indeed,
Like being a child, kidnapped, now punished as the devil’s child
Beware, declares, the curse intercepted rebounds back to you?
No the one next to you. Never you.
You are you, you are mine and I am yours, we are we, we are there
We are here, our minds are there. Beaten for you there, see?
More than you, that’s fair
Even now, we are, even, okay?

Push me to the something there, not a whine or a whinge or a cry, something more than just fuck off and die, too easy, it’s what he wants? You, you really, really don’t see the power you have over the us of being them and one. See?
Q. E. fookin’ D.

Some incentive is needed to produce
Buy contact from, a magic number,
Called one.
It surprises one that no one, ever, is active, or
As clever, without
Knowing. Is manipulated, easy, no shame, or fear
But blame, yes blame there is, plenty of. And fear,
Yes fear there is, a lake of it, full of tears of pain shame,
That one lasts the longer, like a rebound mirrored forever,
Pinging away inside your brain, just when you think it’s gone
Ping, back it comes, like a dog with a ball,
Fear that is, pit of stomach panic fear and anxiety attack stuff,
A dead tree, swings and creaks, no leaves, not ready to snap,
But it will split like a melon chopped and spray splinters as it
Smashes a few things; besides time is a healer, money is a sticky plaster that
Helps the healing process along, loads of money is pain relief
But if you now know the what of how to do the stuff, in the book it is,
Just do it – I would.
So should you.

A year to the day since losing Bounce.

But it’s a new moon soon, and I’ll be fifty-one, so I’m back to writing again.

At least with Kindle I’m guaranteed a publisher. Even if it is only little old me.

I aim to finish the novel and publish an anthology of poetry before Christmas. I’m not sure if it will be THIS Christmas but I’ll try to get one of them done. Available on Amazon.

I’d thought that Kindle and the like would kill books but now I’m not so sure. The readers will have the power now rather than the publishing houses. They’ll decide what gets read. I’m hoping my background in website development and online marketing will help me promote the books. I hope to get round to fixing the broken links on the site as well.

Thanks for all the support and kind comments about my lost boy Bounce.

I know he’s only a dog but to me he was as human as you. He could read my mind and was the best friend I’ve ever had. I’ll miss him every day of my life.

Rest in peace Bounce and I’ll see you again one day running through the woods, jumping for your ball and chasing rabbits. The sun will always be shinning for you now. Lie and bake yourself in it, we’ll all meet again soon.

Love Dad

I stood shuffling from foot to foot pondering on the nature of diet. I was extremely over weight at the time and was actually rather hungry, looking forward to my third Big Mac of the day. All of a sudden a huge elephantine man came walking towards me. He had a big bushy beard and wore a hat like Gandalf’s, the beard was somewhat grey and tobacco stained. He smiled widely beneath the bristles showing yellow stained teeth. He carried a part eaten and part wrapped burger in one hand and a carton of coke in the other. His dark green tweed jacket was so big the weight of the cloth made the pockets hang half way down his tree trunk thighs. These looked more tree like than they otherwise might given that they were cocooned in dark brown corduroy that flapped as he walked. The sheer size of him reminded me of a chestnut tree.

He stuffed the burger in his mouth and then stretched out his hand to shake mine all the time nodding. He quickly withdrew his hand and methodically chewed before he emptied his mouth, then as he raised up the empty burger-wrapper he slurped on his coke. With a dramatic gesture he wiped his mouth with the greasy wrapper, before throwing it to the ground.

“Hi, pleased to meet you, I am The Diet Mentor,” he said, again shaking my hand enthusiastically.

My quizzical frown was sufficient to launch him into a well-rehearsed story.
“Look, you don’t have to be thin to tell people how to lose weight. Look I don’t want to, but that’s me. I know it’s bad but I can’t help it,” he said through the chewing.

I couldn’t help but notice the glint of sunlight that reflected from a the top of a brick wall just behind the small copse. It seemed to bounce off the ketchup stains that adorned his large silk tie that hung loosely from beneath his chins, the top button of his splattered silk shirt looked like it had never been fastened. He sweated profusely even though it was cold and seemed to pant, even after the slightest of movements.

I considered my own girth in the light of my astute and journalistic observations. Yes, I’m not that fat I’d thought naively. I considered myself to be rather clever at that point. The Mortgage Mentor clearly had many issues unresolved. Why, I thought, a man of at least thirty-five stone a Diet Mentor. He can hardly walk. And he could not: he walked, no staggered, for about fifty more yards and then headed, as if with an urgent purpose, one arm out stretched, the other grasping his flapping jacket, towards the nearest bench. He collapsed in a heap both great arms placed either side of him.

He removed his Gandalfian hat to reveal a head as bald as a billiard ball. It shone, indeed gleamed, decorated as it was with a patina of sweat. It had a red tinge to it. His hair began about two inches down the side of his head and flowed in grey locks to below his shoulders. His chest heaved at the effort and he belched sotto voce numerous times before I sat down beside him, moving the hat to accommodate my slighter girth. Notebook in hand and pen poised I began to speak.
“Are you gay?” He asked me.
“Erm, no, I’m married actually,” I replied. I felt instinctively defensive in the presence of the Mentor.
“So you want to lose weight, right?” He asked, eyeing my stomach that struggled to break free of my starched white shirt.

“Well no actually I’m here from Lose The Gut the diet magazine, you left us a message to meet you here,” I’d said, now wondering as to The Diet Mentor’s motives for meeting me in this place,
“Oh I thought you were from Slap The Fat, the contact mag,” he said, then sat back open mouthed.
I dropped my pen before he started to laugh.
“Lighten up man,” he said then smiled as he threw the empty carton of coke over his shoulder.
“What do you need to know?” He asked me.

He seems to be of the view that he is some sort of prophet. He may well be. On the other hand he may be a classic example of the simulacra that Lyotard considers in “The Postmodern Condition”. He is in fact a creation of the very media that he now derides, indeed he worked within it for twenty years and because of that gained a platform. His ideas and what he considers to be original thought are in fact nothing new, but creations of the media and philosophers, they are pieces of “knowledge” that he has assimilated over the years. Subsequent to what he calls his “Turquoise Period”, and what some call schizophrenia, he has distilled this input and has himself been transformed into a “repeater” and is simply repeating what he has subconsciously assimilated.

Nonetheless he is an interesting man and a charismatic speaker. Much of what he says is reminiscent of L. Ron Hubbard’s ideas of aliens and so on. Indeed he has some theory about reptiles, I didn’t catch it all but am guessing it’s as interesting as Hubbard’s ideas on Thetans.

It was well worth watching and respect to him for preaching this view. I agree with his theory of the World Government. But this is simply a natural progression for humans. After all humans are social animals, they live in herds and have a herd mentality. As the world becomes smaller, whether this be as a result of an Illuminati plot, reptile invasion or Thetans et al, it will be natural for there to be bigger and bigger government. The EU is an example of this process.

In short I would say that he is not an original thinker, however the way in which he preaches his ideas is original. His books have merit because they will make some conspiracy theorists think they have a champion. Of course how are they and we to know that David Icke is not an Illuminati placed man and nothing more than a “repeater”.

Then again, what is knowledge? What is truth? What is justice? What is virtue? What is reality? What is good?

Didn’t Socrates start the whole sorry business a couple of thousand years ago?

Philosophy is where it’s at, and well worth “repeating”.

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