Head-Hunting Parties

[Guest guest]

Indie rituals abound around the circles I come from.

A movie makes a movie of a movie and everyone’s

having fun taking their carrots and moving them over.

Head-hunting, parties of

coming out, going in, going out, coming in

become the very existence-skin that stretches rictus-like,

like a shrike shrieking banshee poised to strike without warning.

Having thrilled primal-high in killing,

an atmosphere of everything appearing

enthusiastically carnivale-like

takes hold in the mind,

directly timed to chime in on cosmically perfect cue

tuned to the tape tapped into from the past

according to the view of the viewer.

It gets really dilly when it’s an ingrained tilted plank-angle of vision.

Carrying heads on the humpback shoulders of headless head-hunters

with scads of less fortunate lads’ heads and nads on a board

which they bear like a bevy of virgins to some

perfectly logical, completely explainable

Paradisical Paradox peace-war slogan of "Let’s Party!"

A timely toe-tapping tune of remembering an ancient moon in June

that set the loon doing cout & ruin free.

Getting god to appease his thirst

for the pleasure re-longed for once more

was as easy as lifting a machete

and severing the head of the dead

and hoisting it up on a stick.

Some kind of schtick, eh, turning tricks with Kali the likes of this.

It echoed an old familiar skin-crawling caw maul and claw

and bone and blood mixed with mud and man and me.

There was a sensibility of someone jousting

in joviality and comraderie in the courtroom of the crusades.

It was a hot time then when getting one’s ass separated from one’s head

wasn’t altogether out of the realm of possibility.

Al-Hallaj never hollared anything but en-hallaq

and That Truth hummed his head like a frisbee in Frownance

across the crowds crowding around and condemning him

in the name of the Friend Who would claim his body.

The clown who would make such claims

and defamations on Allah’s character

was the kind that would find his head

being used instead

for a kick-ball by Shiva.

I possibly once walked with a man who ran around with Shams-i-Tabriz.

What he showed me was a mirror

under the moving still water in the river we gazed from

at the river of memories

and identities,

doerships and done-to-ships,

dancing like light in laughter,

a raft of rapture

all glittering

like gold,

like diamonds

on the Throne of Mind.

I did time doing mime and mine shows

for a very, very long, long string of dream sequences.

I can see that the sea….

I can see.

None of this was ever me.

None of this ever happened to me.

None of this is happening to me.

Head on a stick spinning

and grinning with rigor from mortis

or spun sugar sweet

on a stick

in the mitts of a kid

at a carnival,

it’s all just

one head

away

from snapping

the knot of mind

that binds us,

that hog-ties us

to the intriguing tail-spinning tale

we travel around in time and space as.

It’s a midnight dream told by an old hippie from California

high on life

and hopped-up on watching

images on a screen flicker by of men

holding de-cap trophy’s

just like Kali-Shakti did with Shiva.

Shore ain’t what we thought it was, eh, b?

See?

Umm. I see.

Snake Eyes!

 

LoveAlways,

Mazie & bThe new MSN 8: smart spam protection and 2 months FREE*

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