True Love is a Trip

By Nathan Payne | pablosmoglives | 18 May 2024


"A poet is called upon to provoke a spiritual jolt
and not to cultivate idolaters."
Mirror

 

It is time to return to the laws of music as the guiding organizational principle of our culture.  The heavy-handed adherence to the gravitational pull of technically-precise logic as the sole means of telling our story has driven our society beyond the event horizon, and into the black hole of nihilism and cultural implosion.  We've lost our souls.

We've forgotten who we are.

I declare an end to the golden age of fool's gold, and propose a return to the dream odyssey, and pure, non-linear imagination in the arts.  I propose a widespread casting off of the psychedelic shackles that have dominated the landscape for decades, and corralled the free human spirit into a subjective, if colorful, dungeon.  If true love is indeed a trip, it is of course a trip through hell, and not an attempt to tunnel deeper into the outer psychedelic mudscape of the moldy, muddled mind.  A poet is indeed called upon to provoke a spiritual jolt, and not to cultivate idolaters, as the Mirror clearly shows us.  I mean... look at it.  Look at the mirror.  Look at our ridiculous, mechanical reflection.  We have no poets.  We have no artists.  We've outsourced our spiritual journey to drugs and political agendas, to parties and machines.  We are all creators now.  Electric mirrors in search of a social credit fix.  A fix which is itself comprised of mirrors.  Mirrors and electric eyesmoke, from a psychoactive dung pipe.

We've lost our souls.

We're crazy.

When will we look through the illusion, and see beyond and through the invisible at last?  Why should we listen to the shaman, the witch who's taught us how to idolize our concrete wings?  The warlock who burdens language with ritual and incantation, believing his prescribed idolatry to be poetic?  Is it any less of a brick wall if you spray LSD on it?  Can you really paint a hole in the walls of your prison?  Is it a window, or a mural?  A shovel, or a bucket of glue?  Can we really lay our beach towels out on a painting of eternity?  How long shall we allow ourselves to become willfully stuck, writhing like insects in the colorful glue of some toxic, interdimensional wallpaper?

Does the witch reveal another wall, when she lifts the veil of perception from your eyes?  Is it an act of housekeeping, or poetry, to sweep two walls of bricks together, creating a deception even more impenetrable than the last?

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The vision of the singularity is compelling, I admit.  But it's precisely when you're stranded in the here and now, that you must learn to see through the outer, invisible wall, and not get stuck believing that the outer, invisible wall is a way out.  Seeing that it's actually a wall, is the only way to walk through it.  The witches, idolaters, social-media "creators," and Illuminati pop stars will paint the bricks clear, so that they can sit in front of them and revel in the artless events depicted in bloody, dripping light.  They will paint a mirror on the wall and believe it is a window.  They will rip their own eyes out to get a better view of the bricks, collapsing on them like the walls of a cathedral of false, self-righteous light.  They will bang their head against the stars, only to be swallowed like a mouse by the giant floating python of neverending gravity, and nihilistic need.

But who needs to eat fireworks to have a vision, when you're already dead enough to see?

After all, Nobody didn't share his fireworks with William Blake.

William Blake didn't need them.  And if true love is a trip through the depths of hell itself,

Neither do you.

Love?  In love with what?  Who said there had to be a "with" that has anything to do with it?  It's just in love.  Like a bathtub in the moment.  Standing at the ceramic edge of eternity with nothing stronger than a cup of coffee, or maybe kneeling in reverence and wonder, with the stars foaming like soapy galaxies around you.

Unless, of course, love is wasted.  Which, if we don't return to the laws of music as the guiding organizational principle for our culture, it definitely will be.  Narcissistic machines whose party line is clearly visible every time they bend over have had their day.  The golden age of fool's gold is at an end.  It was over on arrival.  Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder.  It's universal.  Everybody knows it, because, deep down, everyone is beautiful.

It's time to put down the mirrors, and remember it.

Thanks for listening.

True Love is a Trip

Stranded here
in the now
you want me to let go
but not look down?

There ain't no road
left to run
there ain't no way
to catch the setting sun

But I'll be damned
if we didn't try
our ship set sail
in the sky
the stars are framed
by fire and hair,
and our hands are in the air
as our footsteps slowly slip;
true love is a trip

Meet
me on the swings
under a sky of golden coins
and diamond rings

Hold
me in your heart
we can stop anytime we like
we just don't know where to start

But I'll be damned
if we didn't try
our ship set sail
in the sky
the stars are framed
by fire and hair,
and our hands are in the air
as our footsteps slowly slip;
true love is a trip

Cuz love is hell
and trust is hard
I let everything down
except my guard
let's throw our baggage overboard
and take a stand
hold the horror lightly in your hand
and sweep me away
with the sway of your hips;
true love is a trip

 

©Nathan Payne

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Nathan Payne
Nathan Payne

I am a songwriter and bandleader who travels the world in search of the golden ticket. http://www.pablosmoglives.com


pablosmoglives
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Replacing my blog at http://pablosmoglives.wordpress.com

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