Shell Must Fall song -plus pre-millenial me
premillenial scribbles on shell:
Linkling's squirmy concept: If such could be your slot, wouldn't you just save the lot of your king's men right royally, to help the groves grow up from the light, well fed with the turned on tides of a life-unleashing fight with the uppermost tight, their bottom end beginnings are humblingly rough and tough wringings ("Are the marines helping yet"? John D Hamaker) To riddle, flake, peel and slough, moisten to slake, shine and grow the dry, crusty and crumblable rocks. Only then can the lustily rousaled sly lover proceed in good conscience to crown creation with his wriggle giggle bounce to ounce spring off partner as follows: a brief rush, then a long relaxed over and out right after, sends the race on course to soon meet the humptily dumptily tumbling Queens egg and try complete the bumptily rumptily trigger figger Quest, at that point with any frenzied sexspeedy end, cause life is short for tiny lives but the transformer primed and new beginnings immanent. So they stroke the flow like comradely candid dates, yet the specieman of her choice gets to know more than the others can tell from the broken shell in the spasmic swell. I foot the bill for stopping the spill only just until mentioned conditions fullfill. :: :: :
A few funny and tragic things happened last summer which give me evidence of (and hope for the worthwileness of a struggle with), my influence on the desired direction; more superficial and shallow penetration here (rub rocks for fresh faces), profounder absorption there (chew vitalized and -ing fruit). I used to sing upon entering the park, happy to see green rather than a computer screen, and when I saw the tramp who stuck it out under a so often graffitied and lit up overpass that it must be the most totally toxified spot in the park, all through 2 winters now, it went something like this at the top of my voice (to take advantage of the bridge acoustics): a satire song I sing, it's about the undercover king, he's going for the steadyest thing, one with the land is the king. Later that summer I found that the rumour had been misinterpreted and spread, making it all the way into the paper The Vondel monument proves propitious for publicity cause in '97 a Herald Tribune journalist caught me throwing an empty clean labelless coke bottle high and straight up into the air before screaming while catching it again and letting it down to the ground: " What's coming down to us here? Ha, that's not a coke bottle, it's a beam of light, an emissary of redeeming mercy, come to fondle, fetch and frame some specks of dust a little closer to homey heaven (not in so many words though). He wrote a blurb for their weekly supplement called the Netherlander where he made me out to be an American exorcising the evil spirits from the coke bottle. The other evidence was my first Net published poem (on page two) ending on tell, well, spell,hell, shell, etc. The trouble Shell oil got into that fall was something I flattered myself with by claiming at least catalytic synchronicity presence, wavecrest and whipcrack credit for it. It motivated me to go ahead and dump all of my work on the net, it took me at least a year to get to a point where the text looked reasonably coherent but it always does that for a little while at least (and most) after a bout of painstaking correction marathons. Finally opportunity knocked in the shape of my second apple freaky acquaintance, he worked at the drugspeace house, a dreadful place with Eagle Bill overdosing everyone with a hairdryer pushing the THC out without burning the stuff, it smelled awful and the mood was an opium den one, which I know only from photographs though. I learned the HTML tricks and in fear of famosity I decided I would go and see if Joern Zube couldn't be helped to get famous instead, it would not bother him as much anymore as it might me and he deserves it. You may read about that formerly called New Holland and the great South land encounter in the fourth appendix. The book 'Taming the great south land' got me very depressed for a while but at least it made me realize that the burnings as cultivation by the Aboriginals did a lot of ecological damage and pushed back the rainforest awfully but of course not as bad as we whites did.
if Shell employed me as a strategist for by proclaiming to wanna raze a beautifully forested area to the ground. After the protesters had arrived I'd send out a lawyer who tells 'm they can win and some supply trucks full of recyclable and burnable waste collected and donated by a local action group of concerned friends of the forest, savvy citizens who are afraid all the dead and dry wood in the neighbourhood would go up in smoke if they didn't help out, after a well argued legal wrangle which is to be a well orchestrated showpiece of unprecedented reasoning and preseasoning the experiment of legalized ferals fending for autonomy and ingenuity not only against the big neoliberal monsters but for permanency, themselves, sympathizers and potential converts can commence.
A poem similar to the following one was an omenlike precursing announcement for the trouble Shell got into but also an indictment of myself cause I hadn't done any better than that yet although it was tempting to take credit for the coincidence and in actual fact, it did prompt and encourage me to bare all.. Cracking rocks is a percrushion cruise sprouting nuts from hell that become all kinds of life wonderfully well. Would ya have it abundant and swell or scarce enough and suited to sell?. Does distance make dishonest? Dumb engines roar away to help age the young and make life hell. I wish us to learn a bit of composture to deal with each unpleasant repression smell. forgive me if I throw a Joyce like spell, my mother was born on his dying day and I on one sympathetic to her as you may soon tell. Poetic prefection percision about primordial memories: Prim ore deal
Here is the All's not well with the use of the word shell poem I mentioned already: Marblous Piet's Boible-Loth* or Phi-cycle peace of mind's eye sees an easily better than teasy chance to squeeze rock to fine fresh physical pieces and prized particles of roused rock sent to rise on rays; mined and misted mineral muds, the realm's coin raised from hell to ripen and dangle fruit from the sky. Marblous Piet's Boible-Loth or Phi-cycle peace of mind's eye puts on and pulls off a rigorous spell which can truly tell about how his inventuresome keys tolled the bell and prevailed with the petrified memory doors of hell to admit and remember the sun's saviours sent from that core of our magnetically circus show to swell and tie'm as grace justifying current from pump-skin-hell, so heaven is kept on its best behaviours and afloat very well...... * first two letters of an ancient treecalender-alphabet (see R Graves: 'The white Goddess').
personal PS to nobody in particular After about a year of going to ASEED's premises regularly to read some and peruse most new arrivals, Iwas refused access to their office, (the only semi-public place in A'dam with a sub to Multinational Monitor in A dam as far as I know), after one of ASEED members had found me rummaging through the building's refuge for sample items or leaflets to add to my modest archive to take to a squatters library and infocafe, (they once dumped hundreds about ethical shoplifting, too hot an item for the SEEDers). I was finding plenty amongst proof of poorly and barely budding personal stuff on at the most only half used paper, of which they feared I'd sell it to Shell or something, claiming such a thing had occured in the past; let me say this much in favor of the grain of truth sprouting in their suspicion: I have doggedly tried to dig up and jumpstart a dialogue between me and my dad as Shaman Black Peter/Churchman Saint Nick, Jesus/God and passionate protester/corporate impersonality proto- and archetypes numerous times to no avail except a decibel deluge meant to shut and shout me down, something I felt justified billing him about and for. He saw these bloodlettings (averaging out to an fat unemployment check, especially since I have managed to feel effective guilt about owning combustion driven vehicle for years now) as a baited hook which once bitten would pull me back into the fold of corporate subsidy and respectable workaday drudgery. Corporate hand in glove subsidy helped him ship frozen hindquarters a quarter of the way around the world over sea and land ever so easy. Meat fuels Macho's who buy machines and make Athens a smog smothered mother of cities. (see the SET comments in ch 4)
