The Culture of Disbelieving

How can one create from the complexity of human experience & the unique bonds that necessitate such in such a one dimensional world? STRUGGLE?
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We often fail what we believe in, to manage our insecurities, agendas, to get our way. As well as helping in perpetuating consumer culture.
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Freedom of ideas, speech & expression has everything- to do with the evolution of critical thought.
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We are too commercialized, pornographied, dumbed down, & blindly sexist towards both- genders & we misunderstand & abuse our thinkers & artists.
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We take communication for granted & sometimes it's actually an incredibly hard interaction & process for anyone to mutually achieve.
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Indifference is humanity's scourge & terror.
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"'self' as taboo-.."
"what kind of hell is that..?"

"There is nothing worse, than self as taboo..."

Self as Taboo - Marcuse
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"En effet vol ma foi, j'ai eu la bonne, rare foi, la foi tres utile, mais je n'ai pas foi gauche. Bled loin."
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All excerpts from work & 'Our Culture of Disbelieving'- by, Amy Marina Denes

Peter Orlovsky - R.I.P - July 8, 1933- May 30, 2010

FRIST POEM

A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
then I do?"
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.

Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
SECOND POEM

Morning again, nothing has to be done,
maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
to clean the smelly mouth.
A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
hallucinations aney more.
Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
maybe take a bath on the bed?
Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
room-land?
For this drop of time upon my eyes
like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
disappear forever.
The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
tabol.
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
that.
No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
a lunchenette.
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
flowers.

Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
My Bed is Covered Yellow

My bed is covered yellow - Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
More, More, cried the bed - talk to me more -
Oh bed that taked the weight of the world -
all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spiled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun whear yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-
how strong you are
Oh bed, only for man & not for animals
yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?
Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built
Oh yellow bed all the news of the world
lay on you at one time or another

1957, Paris
Snail Poem

Make my grave shape of heart so like a flower be free aired
& handsome felt,
Grave root pillow, tung up from grave & wigle at
blown up clowd.
Ear turnes close to underlayer of green felt moss & sound
of rain dribble thru this layer
down to the roots that will tickle my ear.
Hay grave, my toes need cutting so file away
in sound curve or
Garbage grave, way above my head, blood will soon
trickle in my ear -
no choise but the grave, so cat & sheep are daisey
turned.
Train will tug my grave, my breath hueing gentil vapor
between weel & track.
So kitten string & ball, jumpe over this mound so
gently & cutely
So my toe can curl & become a snail & go curiousely
on its way.

1958 NYC







- PETER ORLOVSKY

RADICAL CRITICAL EXPLORATION BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG

"I don’t care if people hate my guts; I assume most of them do. The important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it."
BANG
BANG & BANG BANG “In the magical universe there are no coincidences and there are no accidents. Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen.”

& BANG BANG BANG

"Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing."

& BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG “Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.”

EVERY MAN HAS INSIDE HIMSELF A PARASITIC BEING WHO IS ACTING NOT AT ALL TO HIS ADVANTAGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
BANG ?
"Your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative."

"Smash the control images. Smash the control machine." W.S.B

SMASH SMASH
SMASH BANG

“Every human soul has seen, perhaps even before their birth, pure forms such as justice, temperance, beauty and all the great moral qualities which we hold in honor. We are moved towards what is good by the faint memory of these forms, simple and calm and blessed which we saw once in a pure clear light form, being pure ourselves” Iris Murdoch

BANG!!

Counterattack as author's memoirs speak ill of Dame Iris

By Chris Hastings

"In her defence ... Iris Murdoch and her husband, John Bayley.

The widower of Dame Iris Murdoch has launched an attack on one of her former lovers, who described her as an intellectual lightweight and lousy in bed.

Professor John Bayley, 80, said he was unable to recognise his wife in the autobiography of the Nobel Prize-winning author, Elias Canetti, due to be published in Britain next month.

Bayley, who is a fellow of St Catherine's College, Oxford, said the Bulgarian-born writer, who had a three-year relationship with Murdoch in the 1950s, was "pathologically conceited and jealous of her success".

"I do not think it is worth paying any attention to what this man says about Iris," he said. "I certainly do not recognise her from his description. I think people who know what sort of man he is will not be surprised by what he says about her."....

Cont'd

"There's no doubting Murdoch's mastery when it comes to portraying Arrowby's self-deceit. He is able to eloquently insist that he is acting for the good of all concerned while he manipulates and bullies Hartley."

Вы можете съесть ваши руки и выжить, чтобы сказать рассказ? Должны быть много историй, но увы, ничто, чтобы сказать рассказ.. Не ешьте ваши руки!!!

“Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.”

Iris Murdoch -

"Earth's Screams Recorded in Space

( Space.com )

Wednesday, July 02, 2008
By Robert Roy Britt

Earth emits an ear-piercing series of chirps and whistles that could be heard by any aliens who might be listening, if they're out there."

B A N G.

"A photo can take your soul.. .. But I really- am frightened.."
"I come in their fucking lens "

"I can't on my own change the regime in South Africa or teach the Palestinians to learn to live with the Israelis, but I can start with me."

"Vegetarianism is a link to perfection and peace."

"We are taught to consume. And that's what we do. But if we realized that there really is no reason to consume, that it's just a mind set, that it's just an addiction, then we wouldn't be out there stepping on people's hands climbing the corporate ladder of success."

"When I was old enough to realize all meat was killed, I saw it as an irrational way of using our power, to take a weaker thing and mutilate it. It was like the way bullies would take control of younger kids in the schoolyard."



( A multidimensional interdisciplinary experience of relationships.. )