Thursday, May 19, 2005

sham shamans

I wish I had seen you. Buried to the neck in shamanic insanities with the tubby head plonked upon the ground like a croquet ball waiting for three bags of mushrooms and a fat WHACK. That would be pleasing. The little head rolls of the shamanic friends bouncing forward backwards, skittering across the floor and coming to rest in the remains of the ashes and grubbiness after the fire has petered away. You would get little flecks of ash in your eyes, and they would blink stobelighting effects, trying to expel the smoky pains. You would think, goddamn, I wish I could wipe my eyes right now. You would try to move your arms up and smear those chubby sausage fingers across the creases and folds of skin. And then you would think:


My arms are buried. Up to the shoulders. Muddy little wrists and earthy elbows and a kingdom of worms festering all around this gimp suit of earth. You would be stuck and you would blink again and again until your eyes were dribbling with sooty overspill. And then you would wonder why, and create some reasons immersed deep in Buddhist mythology and monkish pleasures. The reasons would be silly. They would include references to souls and suffering. They would include justifications that you would not utter aloud while bouncing on a mattress and listening to some power tool dj.

Because, in truth, muddy arms do not save your soul.
Because, baldness is hereditary.
Because, sushi causes impotence.

Didn’t you know?

Ways to save your soul part three:
Call people “lovely”
Admire architect’s plans.
Fuck off

you worry often about your sole.

you bite back the truth of its fishy head when it rises behind your eyes and

pokes the truth with its floppy lips.

the fish is miming,

the fish is mocking.





the fish is forbidden to speak.

instead you speak. mumbling the very opposite of what your inner fish would scream at the stinking hippy.

your quivering gut soffocates the fish with weak simpering statments.

lies that belie no trace of wisdom, buddhism, or genu-wine love of

the 'beautiful spring day'. the 'healing mud'. the 'amazing talent' that is all happening around you. it means nothing to you. it does not even warm your fishy skin.

one day they will figure it out.
they will bury you and leave you for dead.
step on your muddy head.

the fish knows this,
the fish wants to tell you,
but you'll never let him get the words into your throat.


we all have a fish on our shoulder. whispering fishywords. seeking fishywives.

people wonder why it is a fish that tells us these things. people do not like to consider that their inner lives and eternal mental dialogues are merely the ramblings of some drunken seaform. they long for enlightenment, but they long for it to come from nirvana or Buddha or sufferings in mud, penance and retribution, endless salvation, some world of clouds and golden gates and men-bird winged hybrids. not a fish. that seems too backward, too simple, too far regressed on the Darwinian trail.

of course, it makes no difference one way or the other to the fish that people are looking for something more than him. he will go on regardless, being fishy and being wise, thinking the thoughts in our head that we are never allowed to say aloud. in truth, it would be better for everyone if the fishy thoughts were vocalised, but convention stops us from screaming the truth. convention does not like people to open their mouths wide and vomit up crazed finned phrases, force them out spasming and flopping, gills akimbo. convention says: keep the fish away from me.
we do not spill blood and guts on this deck.

of course, all this talk of fishy wisdom demands the question, who is sitting on the fishy shoulder, whispering words of wisdom in the fishy ears?
this is a silly question.
there are no fishy shoulders,
no fishy ears.

there are just fish.
and wisdom.
and the eternal search
for fishywives.


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