For I am the Snibblet!
Let my ink infect thee thrice,
Time and space are bent by spice,
F4oC sounds rather nice,
And the word 'Ridley' looks like the subtle curvature of a Canadian lake.
"If we structured posts around our thoughts the way
the post-structuralists thought language was a slippery table,
On which danced these succulent but silly Wittgensteinian word-cakes,
We'd never be able to explore the Ground of Being?"
(Who was that speaking then?)
(I'm not sure.)
Still waiting,
For the world to end in 1972 like they promised me,
Or perhaps we have 2012 to look forward to? BAKTUN BAKTUN!!!
Like a dog barking eschatology in the turning midnight,
Above lines drawn on the face of Gaia
that become a moustache of monkeys with eyes of Ayahuasca.
I am the owner of that astral-tea room some of you know,
And yes, my cakes are simply the finest.
Begin being. Easy right? Ha! Om Ah Hung indeed my little swilly-whisp, go on, away into the atmosphere with you! Explore I implore thee! Wonder while you wander, maintain and elevate! Scrape the very beating wings of the Angel of Death, climb into the Vishnu Complex and bring us back God's toenails in a crystal vial! Then they shall believe, or won't they?
Always remain skeptical of skeptics, for even skeptics have a soul.
This, my good friends, is evolution, right now, this second, feel your part in it? Feel all those seemingly pointless little acts and desires and whims, try and see what direction they're pointing in, that, my friend, is the direction of evolution! Hot damn, man! Let's grow wings, gills, a tail, numerous tails perhaps, bigger fingers for touching the stars, bigger eyes for catching flies, enormous ears so that we might hear the sacred languages of household objects (my oh my, is there anything like the love-song of a dishwasher? the odes of a desk-lamp?), let us inflate our minds on a daily basis, let us see, deeper, fuller, let integral rule our paradigms, let the president serve the universal whims of creativity, not a god of money and packaged insanity...
No! nothing political herein. Let them feast, those who choose that way.
I.
I have other plans.
You shall all see,
For I am the Snibblet,
let my ink infect thee.
Let my ink infect thee thrice,
Time and space are bent by spice,
F4oC sounds rather nice,
And the word 'Ridley' looks like the subtle curvature of a Canadian lake.
"If we structured posts around our thoughts the way
the post-structuralists thought language was a slippery table,
On which danced these succulent but silly Wittgensteinian word-cakes,
We'd never be able to explore the Ground of Being?"
(Who was that speaking then?)
(I'm not sure.)
Still waiting,
For the world to end in 1972 like they promised me,
Or perhaps we have 2012 to look forward to? BAKTUN BAKTUN!!!
Like a dog barking eschatology in the turning midnight,
Above lines drawn on the face of Gaia
that become a moustache of monkeys with eyes of Ayahuasca.
I am the owner of that astral-tea room some of you know,
And yes, my cakes are simply the finest.
Begin being. Easy right? Ha! Om Ah Hung indeed my little swilly-whisp, go on, away into the atmosphere with you! Explore I implore thee! Wonder while you wander, maintain and elevate! Scrape the very beating wings of the Angel of Death, climb into the Vishnu Complex and bring us back God's toenails in a crystal vial! Then they shall believe, or won't they?
Always remain skeptical of skeptics, for even skeptics have a soul.
This, my good friends, is evolution, right now, this second, feel your part in it? Feel all those seemingly pointless little acts and desires and whims, try and see what direction they're pointing in, that, my friend, is the direction of evolution! Hot damn, man! Let's grow wings, gills, a tail, numerous tails perhaps, bigger fingers for touching the stars, bigger eyes for catching flies, enormous ears so that we might hear the sacred languages of household objects (my oh my, is there anything like the love-song of a dishwasher? the odes of a desk-lamp?), let us inflate our minds on a daily basis, let us see, deeper, fuller, let integral rule our paradigms, let the president serve the universal whims of creativity, not a god of money and packaged insanity...
No! nothing political herein. Let them feast, those who choose that way.
I.
I have other plans.
You shall all see,
For I am the Snibblet,
let my ink infect thee.