Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #8

Daddy Monster
 
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your green bleak skin, blotched and chewed?
 
I serve our kin, our Kings, to name a few,
who, with Their big, black arms, have ruled and rule the rules.
I kiss Their boots, lick Their hooves and pledge to do
anything a fanatic, a fool, a tool would do;
Ah-woo, Ah-woo.
 
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your eyes blare, poppies paired, glaring their hue?
 
My eyes thrust into Their eye-catching snare,
through which, I can see the world, twisted and stirred,
the monsters, once chanting and marching with their hearts bare,
are now hiding in their lairs, trembling scared;
A satisfied smirk, I titter and wear.
With mocking laughter, I curse, dare and swear,
 “Come out damn creatures; I’ll send you to hell!”
 
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your mouth titanic, gaping pit, dribbling toxic spit?
 
As a desperate preta, I forcefully enter the monsters’ houses and dig
into their hidden crypts, where the earthly delights glitter and hiss,
which off Our land, Our men they unrightfully ripped.
Pissed, like a ravenous pig, I swallow them all in bliss
Sweats and tears, blood and fear; there’s nothing I miss.
 
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Your ruthless red hands with guns, black rotten like soot?
 
Out of the skulls of heroic mules, the goo of brains, I shoot.
From their half-dead carcasses, dismembered, bruised and mute,
their rights and alive organs, I bite off and loot
to sate my sadist ache for crude blood and food.
 
Daddy, daddy, what is it you do,
Mighty and high, your bloody brute shoes?
 
I stomp on the wings, the dreams, of youths, of you
with brute limbs, no flinch, I kick you and squish you
until the soul ooze out of every piece of you.
Beneath my shoes, your bodies spew
Blood and mush, like a squashed red fruit.
Daddy, daddy, how could you do?
Aren’t I your daughter, your beloved baby boo?

Daddy did love you, my little baby boo
But you can’t give what I want like my masters do.
I can always make another naive fool like you.
So if They asked me to destroy you for an infinite times or two,
you know exactly what I would do. Don’t you, baby boo?

Overthrowing Fists
               Part 2 : JungleContemplate

Big mound of lion dung,
beneath the big-leaf tree
grown around malicious den
               of a pride of lions,
monkeys in jungle surprised
not for various bananas
are what they’re after,
though odor in the air oddly stung

Fast food swallow by the hoot-hoot
               & was forgotten;
then it begotten a little mofo
               called MaOLay
who never knows how to hoot
yet has great dexterity
               in how to loot
for he has his team named
               “FOMO of mofo”
consisted of loads of locos.

Out was one scouring the mud path
his barefeet stamping in a crinkled piece
               of litter from processed food,
Stride not to the pond nearby
for ashore lake drink in group
having croc in muse : food?

Big cats just ran off snoozed
               stooped only to themselves
yet starved-short-fuse in haywire mood,
deprived desolated feelings oozed. . .
pounce a lion to playful monkeys
grabbing bananas yet pee from atop is all it gets,
               sad humongous pussy cat

Its lair nearby the color of rust,
trust he in him still though no hair in butt,
               he went hut. . . hut. .
While scores of monkeys munching bananas
taunting hungry humongous pussycat,
the others in the pride stride,
               hide & waiting to dive in
on those bananas-munchers
               yet huge pussyfoot
ain’t puss in boot, so no loot.

How a old colonial robber
forget those ways to squeeze its juice
out of the hill dwellers,
               tree-climbers;
the gray leaves of the teak forest
rustled like a ghost was passing through,
               a tremendous feeling of hunger,
even a pride of lions tread on carefully
               a bit dreaded, embedded
in the saddest part of forest
are numerous beheaded serpents
with all the bodies shredded,
looming up the atmosphere,
               the scent of death;
all the lions, for a while,
forget how to take proper breaths. . .

Their tails wriggle still
               in the ponderous mud puddle,
Like some wicked ladles in hairs,
paired not bodies and minds,
to each other gave fierce animals’ glare. . .
Following the swoop of the eyes,
almost like the Nike swoosh,
children with their hands amputated
               float on in an air image, was it,
a distant memory while factories
               of garments still
               can fetch a viss of gold. 

Holding on to power without soul,
a ghost tell anotherGhost aJoke :
when you’reDead, don’tExpectTheDeadertoTellTheDeadestTale ‘BoutYouOrYourDaDaforNoPhantomOfHorror
NeedsPatheticHonor from aFuckingJoker.

Don’t cling to death as the solution of pain,
               thought he who could not die again, 
A call out from a monkey
like the death rattle of a human being.
Shifting with the wind the spindly legs of centipedes
               crawled across the dirt mounds,
tracks where paw prints from a pride of lions,
their scent like the sweetness of gasoline,
stamped all over the countryside,
               and on the minds of the people;
a fundamental lie of governance,
               their colonial symbolism like a brand of terror.

Famished pride of lions roam around
               not so far from the lake,
bake they ideas of team play on some prey
               they can take;
monkeys slippery off the branch
               can they wait?
Or lions’ meal they’re gon make,
               yet they almost break.
Hear the snapping of the teak,
Grass thick in deep mud
camouflage ought not be caught
coz nothing but buzzing flies
               and bugs fuzzing
along a mudpuppy feeding
               on dead lion’s meat
               that’s left;
too bad for the big cat
who tread on strange water,
thought it’s a bar tap;
brought it a far slap
               in a jar of death
smothered breathless
till finally the king of jungle
               kicked the bucket.

Overthrown like a helmet,
               is this the flag one bears;
does one choose to die for symbols
               masking true intentions,
Bearin’ with swellin’ agony in head
for the stench of the lifeless catches
all big jungle cats in the wrapped bundle
               of stress in search of prey,
annoyed-empty-stomach-frayed. .
a wave from overseas, the fabric drifts,
               is you a mast me dear, avast,
Put a vest on, lad: said a cat to another cat. .

Bay thoughts of pain, day hot rot game,
               play sought not gain,
lions in jungle oddly lame, rained
bought gods shamed on mighty predators, say :
fought caught rain be same lot tamed
gay sort of huge cats and their honcho?
Monkeys nibble soft fruits from above
playfully shouts : Too stinky you bozos,
               get a fuckin’ poncho!

Burning Home 

I ran alone out my burning black home
of my own hammered heart and battered bones,
of scattered slashed skins
and daggered dead dreams— 

I ran alone out my burning black home
grown out of my dismembered childhood sown,
butchered by cannibal scars
that smothered my cranial stars— 

I ran alone out my burning black home,
a pome that thrived on the bloody meat loam
nourished by my screams
and the sadist’s whims— 
A grin on my skin, felt, as I spin
my neck to look back at my ruined home.

“As a reporter in places of upheaval all over the world [writes John Pilger], I have learned to compare the evidence I have witnessed with the words and actions of those with power. In this way, it is possible to get a sense of how our world is controlled and divided and manipulated, how language and debate are distorted to produce the propaganda of false consciousness. When we speak about dictatorships, we call this brainwashing: the conquest of minds. It is a truth we rarely apply to our own societies, regardless of the trail of blood that leads back to us and which never dries.” [John Pilger, Julian Assange Must Be Freed, Not Betrayed]

Propaganda as a Language of Power

“Like an infant that has not yet smiled.
I droop and drift, as though I belonged nowhere.
All men have enough and to spare;
I alone seem to have lost everything.
Mine is indeed the mind of a very idiot,
So dull am I.
The world is full of people that shine;
I alone am dark.
They look lively and self assured;
I alone, depressed.
I seem unsettled as the ocean;
Blown adrift, never brought to a stop.
All men can be put to some use;
I alone am intractable and boorish.
But wherein I most am different from men
Is that I prize no sustenance that comes not from
the Mother’s breast.”
-Tao Te Ching, Chapter 20

Propaganda, perhaps not only in inverted totalitarianism, follows a dialectic.
This may be because language itself follows a dialectic, and propaganda is the language of power.
It is a language in the sense that it is a narrative. The narrative is also instilled immediately into the subject’s brain through a process of indoctrination. Thus the absorption of propaganda is not unlike the way a language is acquired. As a culture would be acquired with a language; as a subject of the nation-state, so too does one acquire its language of power.

Note: (1) Inverted totalitarianism is a form of grassroots totalitarianism where power originates from the ground up as in the oedipal family unit. (2) The oedipal family unit is a family grouping with sex repression functioning as a form of power formation, ultimately patriarchal, which formulates power as a privilege of ownership and authority; dependent on the atomization and inequality of family members effectively fractured by the State, and forced to sell their alienated labor, taking the form of an ideology of becoming “self-sufficient,” i.e. taking a spouse and reproducing this cell of authoritarianism being at the root of a so-called oedipal conflict.

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #7

The Powerless
               by Zo

We were born into this–
toils of tangled gods’ maws
gnawing us raw
as we wiggle and crawl
on top of each other
like fish out of water. 

Nothing sprouts from our barren faces
no eyes to cry, no mouth to shout
and wail as the gods’ acid spit flays us alive,
naked red ready
for an eternity of their vicious brute bites. 

Shrieks of pain caged inside our larynxes
eat us from within;
our blood and self
chewed and churned to nothingness
whilst outside, our bones and flesh
crushed and burned into disfigured mash. 

Then the gods feed
on the juice their teeth have squeezed
out of every fiber of our meat.
our blood and tears, bittersweet
with the futile hatred for them we bleed
A gory feast that goes on for eternity. 

Then here we are—
a mammoth mush of battered bodies
and dismembered hands, feet
wrenched dry of any humanity
Our gods’ grisly feat. 

But we don’t die like free men do
in this teethed pit of spit and bodily goo.
That’s how these gods torture you.
We bud again from our broken bits
to be bitten and chewed anew.

Overthrowing Fists

Part 1 : LakePonder

Soldier of self-abuse,
Used by the frog chieftain
among frogs in the lake,
               ripples made;
on the silver sheen of the surface like gunmetal
burn subtle the souls of brutes in battles of lakeside,
while a frog jumps in,
               & swim to the middle

The size of the waves looked like a knife
               used to cut off the legs 
Only dead rot the amphibians
               and frog chief wouldn’t care less
Generations of the gentle creatures had become
               foam in the belly of
               a monstrous crocodile. 
Lines of each individual’s
               freedom crossed 
Captain frog head
               in the clouds fogged 
Thought everything can be bought like a boss 
Sought he not in his own frog’s belly
               and ask what’s lost


Contemplation half-way jumped the crocs
               at the entire army of frogs
               till chieftain realized
some thing cannot be bought.
What violations of serenity in a pond
               where green was once the color of life, 
yet too many green frogs suffocate the very life
               out from under yourself,
and an infinity of soul-crushing soldiers as frogs
               would never be enough, to squash
               our freedom-loving struggle,
this blood-thirsty ignorance shall see nationwide reverse. . .

Converse the universe of brutality
in the heads of frogs with weapons
               in lake pristine
               near those mountain
ranges by the river of life
Till all their thoughts flow out
               in the open water
               defenseless yet serene
The mountains reflected in the sharp knife
               of the lake upside down became
               jagged rows of the dictatorship
Commander lost-marble gave out command :
               lunatic fickle in the face of religious label;
               brutally, heads penetrated by fire metals
in concrete jungle, yet army-owned news on TV
               one-sided fabled

Rainforest tropical from the south to the west
               up the ranges to the north till we go east
and also in the middle : said playful otters to each other. .
going further, frogs know not better;
               for the rightfulness of mind and act is best together

ii

Strategize, neutralize damage in water,
otters scattered networks of defensive
& offensive packs in the lake green shore,
though it not clean leading foul water to the middle
               yet if need be there could always be battles,
settle differences and all unjust acts through the right tactics
               rather than might mad click of metal amid misery

Misery, like the kind hovering over mass graves,
               a bloody massacre of their green bodies ripped to shreds
in a bloodlust rage of the crocs; 
Hushed not by his own FrogConscience,
general power-thirstFrog fat flat sat
               on his butt yet let the other frogs rat-tat-tat-tat. . .
met croc the brute mess not in water made foul
               so oiled-skinned otters pack up
yet fatso FrogChiefGenerals led by TheUnscrupulousGeneral,
               Ruthless. .

               were days on end,
not only this cycle that fattened the stomachs
               of a regime gone blood-blind; 
but so too to accuse electedButterflies of fraud
               on baseless blunt cockiness, O. . . .
FrogGeneral wanna-eat-power, voracious. .
               moral fibers & every molecule
               lifeless in shamelessness.

Only problem was
with this characterization of butterflies,
               numb-nuts and the full power
               of its propaganda machine
was goin’ around sayin’
they were actually Death-head moths.
See the thing about that is
every single fucking creature on the planet
especially anarchist frogs or at least
the common peace loving people
have goddamn fucking eyeballs.

Yet to make brutes see beauty in truth
               ain’t always been smooth;
nonetheless, sight we have not
               even though no one’s life’s futureproof?
               “Exterminate all the brutes,” has always been
a common maxim among the ruling class box of tools,

and “do we not see cruelty with every creature?”
               should be asked often to ourselves if we ain’t fool :
said the FrogChief to his army
               An army’s an army.
               Hence all the world
must bow to our own conception
               of human nature. 

               Right, human nature. . .
what do you think of us, peculiar savage nature :
ChieftainFrog retorted unnurtured
The untutored, the unwashed,
Bags of theft-cash packed
FrogChieftain thought he might have left,
swag yet croc & otters ain’t done having frog-snacks
soft splash in between jaws raw fat exploded,
               oily mouthwash

               in There was the Lake,
how to fight against its swelling waters in the monsoon 
As frogChief panic, butterflies in its stomach
               one thoughtless traitorFrogSoldier
gave an unexpected bullet penetrated
               the Chieftain’s right temple
through left, putting the GreedyGeneral
               to eternal rest. . . . Hush. . .

billions of lifeforms sprung up
               in a rainbow formation.
We are the regiment for Life.
We shall be taking over now,
dear sweet corrupted General,
               how sad.

               ripped and swallowed,
numerous frogs in serene water
               near many rocks,
advanced otters & croc,
met not chieftain for he
               marbles lost and hop. . . hop. . hop.
Till he on his deathbed will he stop . . . . Aye. . .
what the fuck the deceased gon be if he still hop
               not sleep stop? : asked a loco mob

Frenzied like the monsoon waters, 
Nah. . . Chieftain exported byRussianMobAs
               toastedAmphibian to ChinoShop :
said a RedMofoLunaticBliss at the bus stop.
Awaiting a signal like them trains
which always run on time in Western Fascisms, 
               Panic ensued GreenFrogChief
then got swept away by his own greed
to leave no print in the sands of time;
Organized otters, however, glide with ease
even in filthy water

               dark green polluted by dead frogs
and found themselves exhausted;
flock above the lake were famished vultures,
occasionally snacked down along shoreline
               of lake on dead frogs ‘fore they rot,
or just when they’re rot enough as the birds’
               snacks in filthy water broth.

TO BE CONTINUED IN DISPATCHES FROM HEURISTIC HALO PRESS #8!

Cult of a Colonialism called “Liberty”

               Our life
is your entertainment,
we are the lumpenproletariat.
We are the refugees
               of endless wars,
we are the rent paid
               to your mortgages.
We are the disempowered
               statistics,
we are “we the people”
               with an asterisk,
Human in quotation marks.
We are the loose change
               donated that relieves
Protestants of guilt,
we are the infinitude
               of suffering on display
at a never-ending protest.
We are the bums of global
               capitalism.
We only ever get heard
               after we’re gone,
After the illegal operation
               wasn’t explosive anymore
               & got declassified,—
we’re the ones who
               didn’t get a memorial
               after we were bombed,
we are the ones who
               you refused to say
               even got bombed.
We are the refugees
               of the bomb,
               of our circumcised
               peace movement,
Of executed civilians
               who are terrorists
Because we don’t have
               a State.
I am a refugee of your State,
               O Lady Columbia, you cult!
And what else is a cult,
               but a conspiracy?
Ms. Columbia, you greatest
               of conspiracies;
Stealing the land right
               out from under
               Life’s nose,
With the ideology
               of a war machine
               from overseas!

When a throbbing fear invades my mind, 
Roses of divine, in time,
               bestowed thorny rhymes;
Structures like a shell spiraled,
Deconstructive at sea viral
Waves of the hand, pearly nets
Though stormy the fisherman drag
A lone crab. Jellyfish sparkle
at sea deep, no hurdle. . .

for a sun blooming red
               above the twinkling sea.
Dark blue dotted by colorful diamonds
               framed by the sky, free
in the times before history began,
               a value higher than currency, 
truth be not in part of nurturing minds;
               the mightier, legendary?
Textbook hypocrisy or red book theory!

All text is a double value,
memorization is indoctrination,
theories are statues made of the once living.
Who could force the youth to conform,
and all their hopes and dreams, on an exam,
on the tyranny of social status,
               be based upon?
As in a harp played by a lady in Bagan,
strings don’t begin to make mellifluousness
unless struck by individuals
               with manual dexterity;
How then can the poverty-stricken golden land
               of Myanmar ever be sweet again?
              will we ask our teachers in exams?

It is the divide between teacher and student,
the singer and the song, for all are one;
no sweetness can come out of a singer
imprisoned for singing out,
               not in beauty alone,
but in speaking these truths. That
if you divide us into privileged classes
               and race, poverty and misery,
though wealth and power,
               do follow. 

Hollow in universe of learning
be the freedom of curious minds;
indoctrinated are we much
by the dead through time,
‘fore we resign from the diverse earth,
what do we genuinely feel at heart
after being poured with old ideas
               in the dark?

How ultimately be human
               race saved at last?
               We are vessels,
like the cosmos itself is,
               empty like a cup.
Bottomless potential for creation,
stifled by the Pharaohs,
who rule us by death
               through their Legacy.
Are their dusty wraps as real
               as the Statues proclaim,
or does it all fall to dust
               but return again.

What returns being potential to build it up.
But manias for Legacy govern us,
               as always. If we Fear,
that death will come,
               and remove us
               from our Mummies.
Hence stripped every pyramid
yet do we find kindness
               in humankind?
ask the thorny roses
               to whoever is divine.

Cruelty we find among the so called gods,
               a human is a rational animal,
so the ancient Greeks supposed.
If we can’t show compassion
               to every creature,
from the smallest flea,
to hugest divinity,
               what Good are we?
Within our own selves,
               does divinity not exist?
ask the fisherman to the sea
               sparkling with jellyfish.

A baby dolphin keels over in blood.
The fisheries fatten on change,
the human diet craves its holy menu.
Are they not beings as we are beings?
Whose net but the net of industry?

Slash of robbery on the blue planet
witnessed by some yet greed
               blanketed the truth;
Hush not truth by the bloody nets,
for in every soul there’s a seed at rest.
I eat myself, thinks the Dragon
               Ouroboros.
Self is this selfsame illusion.
And the net of industry transformed
               into the net of Indra.

For “I” is a mere speck of dust
               in the sands of time:
said the fear of Self at sea
               to the rest of burnt cinder
on many boats been afar. . .  . . .

“Arrogating to themselves the resources that are the common wealth of our planet, the capitalists grind us into a poverty that denies us the right to live. Not that the State punishes them for it: worse still, it protects them through a battery of laws. […] Without the State and its laws, we would have real freedom: without the capitalist class, we would have real equality. Friends of the world of labour, can you see just how free a society rid of all authoritarian power would be?” Ba Jin (巴金).

MORE POETRY COMING FROM ZO IN ISSUE #8, AS WELL AS THE CONTINUATION OF “OVERTHROWING FISTS”!

CONTACT MARSHALL AT HEURISTIC HALO, OR ALEX AT ascottbuch@yahoo.com, IF YOU’VE GOT SOMETHING YOU’D LIKE TO SAY!

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #6

I cross the way

As you fall
               in the 1810s
a new century
               arises.
Call of the spirit
               of Tecumseh,
               of Geronimo
Dancing ghosts;
               if history as, why
wouldn’t it continue
               on cosmically,
Extends into the heavens,
               then in truth,
One day we shall overcome
               these earthly dominions,
Shooting star.

i

Sky rained not clear;
drizzle billions, not downpour
How does each bead of the monsoon link up,
Dressed up Elf asked. . . then in the backyard : click, clack. .
Nickety-nack with the gnome goin’
on about subterranean bee’s wax

Taxed in the nuts up from the government of animal kingdom to squirrels. . . through old-fashed fax
The paper squeaked through,
‘who xeroxed they nuts on this goddamn photo-booth?!’
While numerous general skunks boozed-slapped each other;
drunk confused, funny pics oozed
Caught with their military fatigue pants down,
how many goddamn generals it take to screw in a frickin’ halfway decent society, not go around killin’ folks, by gawd

brought the generals’s father’s daddies in Japan in some forest witless since the English screwed ’em over thoroughly
Buggering each other thoroughly and the planet too and all its inhabitants, and calling it Civilization
Realization of schmucks in the jungle wasn’t quite the idea yet at the time. . .

Civilization has created our concrete jungles,
where war and poverty and suffering and misery are the fruits of it
Bit by bit, clouds drain from above for a whole day;
squirrels wondering question: what civilization?
Can I sell deez nuts for a Porsche?

What’s posh is the nature nurtured not by rods, not?
Or would squirrels rather drive a McLaren in jungles?
All creatures have a car farting up the ozone,
oh no now the rain falls a Civilized Brown
Game of crown played in the animal kingdom found by a shepherd;
later sold the game idea to a fame-famished clown who breeds lots of skunks

This odoriferous code, a trinity of programming language,
hieroglyphic beginnings start on square one in the pharaoh dreaming of eternal life, eternal Rule 
Blew in the cool breeze of moonsoon
when a wizard named MickeyMouse pass gas : Buzz!
Fuzzy Dumbo then the Trademark put a sleep in all the people’s eyes,
can you smell that smell,

Belle then asked the Beast : did you just break wind?
No not I, said the fair Prince, while that stupid fucking candlestick was like, ‘aw fuck’
Who utter the F word?! : yelled Duck the Donald.
Ol’ Grandaddy Scrooge! His flappy orange hairpiece eclipsing the sun,
and Farts ruled for a century. 

ii

Really? Who’s the grandpapa of that orange moron? :
asked Pooh Winnie who was made in China.
Winnie Winnie Winnie can’t you see,
sometimes the Dragon Lord hypnotize me

Hypnotic KungFu Panda jumped in and he went :
I am the dragon warrior. . . wu. . ha ha ha. . .
Monkey King grow out of the rock on the hill,
enlightened with Tao,
no you are the emptiness of your Dragon Mind

It’s time you dine with your bananas, bro! :
cried the Pig to the Monkey. : & we’ll talk about Dragon Mind
after we get rid of some snakes, eh? : he added. . .
Fall one banana. Grown to the size of crescent moon.
No a helical serpent. ‘I am goddess of wisdom.’

Crimson creek in concrete jungles wonder :
why does she not make the water pristine with her wisdom?
For God came, binding her with power lines,
pyramids of skyscrapers, and banished her to the ancient books. 

Divine not God, for banishment’s not
what a true deity would attempt if he or she’s good
Indeed for Jesus the Conqueror in the name of All that is Good,
kicked the shit out of all His enemies.

Believe or be good or will he be
his own enemies? : is the question we need.
One’s enemies are also one’s self, ah yes
for the true conqueror first overthrows
the violence in one’s self!

How often do we reflect our selves
from the inside? : ask ourselves.
Which is the true mirror : the mind,
or the Endless Yearning of Farts
to be smelt and dealt, out of a Screen?

Algorithm

We are born into a world that
               cites as facts
the absolutism of the reflecting
               screen,
that the imbecile omniscient
               has their proof!
And all is everywhere
               no more a miracle
               than tuned, programmed.
All is confirmed forever
               in the absolute mundanities,
Even the last revolution
               passed without much thought,
Till even the reality
               of thought goes
               debunked,
Leaving us in the fantasy
               of our clockwork
               universe.

Ghosts of fallen souls risen again holdin’ branches of flowers poking the soldiers’ & the generals’ conscience 
To see if the murderers have hearts & souls who hold the oath to protect yet destruct 
The very people who employed them to avert danger fallen to the country 
Now look at us, do we still need this self-destructive army?
No. . . blood we can still breathe. . so, please. Breathe. . . . deep. .

I read a book about the
meaning of life in my dreams,
While keeping me hands clean
amongst monstrous scream. . .
Me felt a wave of energy,
like a roar of a ghostly train, 
Enter terrain of bloodthirsty
creatures draining crimson
from atop, insane.

My mind squirmed in its hold,
desperate not to catch the disease, 
Oh please : said the crazy monkey
to whoever with the disease. . .
               breathe. .
The breath was golden light,
confusions began to clear, 
Fear not, dear : send the message
from the book : for over this territory,
               there’s beer;
Brews of intoxicating amber color,
ideas and words blurred,
a Oneness of existence
               fermenting;
Bluntness in honesty rewarded not
by people with integrity :
said the Whiskey to Fermented Liquor. . .

Now the booze was talking to each other,
the Beer said to the Whiskey,
what do you mean by a Reward,
what do you mean by Integrity?
Dependency on each other
are what they mean respectively,
dummy! : clowned the Whiskey
to Beer the dizzy, yet both in lunacy.

The dizzy and the lunatic,
relieved in their passing gas
naturally, though then were
approached by the
Drug Administration : No,
one can’t be farting here,
to the dungeon with ye!

No. . . no. . no. No off they go
somewhere else for the breaking
of wind without being heard or seen
yet they make sure the gas
is thoroughly smelt.
And we were tagged
with a birth certificate,
endless government documents.
A celestial bureaucracy which
watches us from birth to death.
Face analyzing software or rather,
can and bottle analysis, found
the Whisky and Beer in a crowd. 
Big Brother say : There is a structure
in life we create that denies the fact
of making a fart behind
               little White lying!

               Aye, here goes : poof. . .
& Whiskey goes : the other boozed
               can just passed gas!
Beer got gassed. Punishment of death.
Whisky got a bunch of Indians shit-faced,
then became an American President!

“There is only one path to happiness and we can only get there by overthrowing the following systems: 1. The state: [. . .] The state creates law to restrict our freedom; it forces us to fight against our peace-loving nature; it encourages us to compete with people of other nations while we are supposed to help each other. [. . .] 2. Private property: private property is the reward of pillage. Property was originally shared by all people. However, some men, either by using their intelligence or their strength, began to occupy public property or made many people homeless. They also began to hire people to work for them. The products that the workers produce are only enjoyed by their bosses. This is the most unjust example in the world. [. . .] 3. Religion: [. . .] Religion teaches us to believe in superstition while we should search for the truth; religion encourages us to be conservative when we should act progressively,” Ba Jin (巴金), 1921.

CONTRIBUTE? CONTACT ALEX AT ascottbuch@yahoo.com, OR MARSHAL AT HEURISTIC HALO.

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #5

ValidateExploitFish plays in the PollutedInfoFoolLake with SystemicCrapCrammedShrimp and both of them enjoy MuddyShallowMarsh because they get to SwimDiveDeep together JollyFunGood

               M.

Like swimming in poison

the psychic atmosphere

of this eon,

               a dominant ideology

                              is hidden & toxic,

all one can do is remember

               to breathe deeply

And to, like a tree,

               suck up this latent toxicity

                              & produce a cloud

               of equanimity.

               A.

iLLpUNKuAted

Drifted off shore floor earth touched electrocuted by lightning
sky dark yet no rain . . .
Then heavens untamed. .
Pained waves of stormy sea strike as tsunami lives in agony
nonetheless the crazies can still find joy in miseries

               M.

A Haven Made of Memories

by Zo

Back when I was 4 or 5 years old, I used to sleep in my parents’ bedroom. There was something peculiarly cozy about that bedroom which still sends a warm soothing feeling down my spine whenever my mind wanders back into the elusive memory of it.
It was a small, windowless room directly beneath the only staircase of the house. It was so small the sides of the bed touched three of the four walls of the room leaving only a narrow space on one of its lateral sides that acts as an aisle between the bed and the only door of the room. Not only was the room particularly small and dark, it was also dimly lit with only one small electric light source that blankets the entire room with a comforting faint glow; all of these added to the whimsical atmosphere of the room.

Besides the observable features of the room, what also made it special are the memories tethered to it. I remember waking up late to the mumbled voices of the rest of my family chattering at somewhere that sounds far away from where I was snuggling amongst the piles of pillows and heaps of blankets. I also remember waking up early and listening to the distant sound of my mother’s gentle footsteps roaming around the house doing chores before dawn. I remember the crackling noise of the radio left turned on by my father who had already left for a morning walk. I can even remember the slightly rough touch of the cotton bed sheet and the tender fluffiness of the woolen blankets which I liked to mindlessly caress with my small palms and feet. In the mornings when it was raining, I would nestle inside the embrace of the thick, soft blankets as the blurred cacophony of raindrops hitting against the roofs lulled me back into my nocturnal dreams. Some mornings, I would quietly read a book or a cartoon journal that I snuck into the room previous night under the poor white light of the room alone. However, some other mornings, my cousins who lived next to my house would sneak into the room and then we would have pillow fights and wrestle among the messy blankets as we laughed and shouted in silly voices. When I was sick, both of my parents would stay inside the room with me and I would crawl into my mother’s bodily warmth as I was listening to my father telling me stories he had read in the books.

Whenever I think of such memories, I can taste the bittersweetness of them for I know that I will never be able to recreate those memories ever again during the remainder of my life as much as I know that such is the very thing that makes these memories precious and special. Nevertheless, at least, the room with its memories will always be a haven inside which my inner child can snuggle up among its wrinkled bed sheet and piled blankets whenever I want to escape from the overwhelming hustles of life no matter how many years had passed.

ChildJoyRide 

A crow with uneven feathers at its wings
Took flight
Like a kid in delight fly a kite 
With a kitten by his side
Oblivious to all things aside
Obliged not to any adults ‘coz he knows not wrong or right
Fight for his own joy wherever he might 
Till he finds in a park, a slide 
Much of oozed joy, what a ride!

MarsDust, 8:09, 30 June 2021

               M.

In the screened porch

The paradise of inside

for a stray

               cat,

what’s in there but

               clammy solitude?

O the world is yours,

               unowned feline.

Why gaze through the window

               into the emptiness of the

                              human

               isolating; what desires

Are to be believed fulfilled

               in these animal cells?

Your fur is dusty,

clinging cobwebs from repose

in a shadowy nook.

Your tail curls up in

the window reflected.

Did you find your worms

that ate the rodent,

               little bird?

               A.

Insein the panopticon
which shades our brains like a Giant-Eye
Defiant individuals slain behind bars
Yet asked the remaining freedom-lovin’ ones: How far?

How far is control willing to go to punish defiance,
making those who fight to be free or those who wait
and see believe they have it already, lining their
prison cells the idea in the punished brain, “I am free,”
those who fight against it will Punished be.
Pen fished in papers and questioned the heated brain
to the punished and the murdered: is it near?

Distance seems to blur, the pen seems a sword
of power dangling precariously above my head,
my thoughts are they near to the Truth I seek,
or does this Image on the screen
pull me deeper into the Money Magic Machine?
Funny tragic “Kaching,” pulled by slick billionaires
with pandemic states of minds, sick frisked in time
and we still know what we are deep down
so tell our selves: fear not dear. . .

Hope but not the phony Wall Street Obama
doin’ drone strikes on our brothers and sisters kind,
pardoning Chelsea Manning who sits in prison again,
how not gone Insein
Assange deprived of his mind 24/7
and thank you Mister Trump!
While I can feel it, the souls of the murdered
Became an image,
a memory, this has happened before
O to all the young & old proletariat, 
Freedom Fighters committed to nameless graves
or Numbered of an asylum
Still Kaizen is what drives ’em
citizens be citizens in responsible selves
and despite laws flouting itself though times are tough;
then ask our selves: how well can we preserve what
we value while still holding our lives on the line. . . .

O the flower of life worth preserving,
O everyone creating resistance to Tyranny
& beauty in their life-lines of Art & Poetry
O get me out of this Pandemic State!
of mind, of body, of Soul,
Your sickness generates more profit
& control part of
like a global chessboard Monopoly game,
I’m going Stateless, son
we all Live under the holy light of yon up there Sun,
O light which shines the disinfectant of All
Peoples working together in global cooperation 
Not your sick Corporations, son!
Bits of demonic gold rain down from the crimson sky
and will we clink the clank or will there be any fair trade
of pure air for gold just for us to breathe?
Metallic breezy evening carried with it
an eerie helplessness. . .
still hope ablazed. Burning. . .

Seas rise like the Creek, will We?
Breathe. . survive. . . thrive. . . build we hives
fight not caused till all our wits lost,
cross we boundaries of thoughts at times.
Blinded and fold ‘fore we go, into the hell hole
boldly some gave lives, some gave others hope. . .
some survive. . . but mostly hope.

               A & M.

Nmko

Thy smoked finely wrapped tobacco
Chewed in red nuts packed in betel leaves
Breathe in moist air on the bridge across the green creek
fecund with different breed of fishes & birds
Then walk thy across the street deliver looks of fury
on thou betel chewing visages
Yet laymen choose their attention in turning the pages
which seemed to take flight by rages
of flapping wings above still water
Why ask we not ourselves to reason out of blind faith
paying homage to only the creator within us, without
breaking trust to our own selves? Take a deep breath.

               M.

(a)
The illusion of progress is a carrot on a stick
that masks the possibility for immediate justice
in the present.

(b)
Life has no meaning in words alone.
For only words can mean, whereas life can merely be.
And yet being has a meaning singular to itself.
Hence all words are a metaphor.
Language has precisely the same function as
symbols do in a work of literature.

               A.

SnotBoogerStickyMaskBabe yelled at BlurryDirtyWrinkledFaceshieldTom when he was about to go for groceries shopping: Don’t forget to put on your NewMaskWithFaceshield so you won’t die! 

               M.


Got anything to contribute? Contact Marshall at Heuristic Halo, or Alex at ascottbuch@yahoo.com.


Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #4

Today’s dispatch includes a contribution from new author Maung Pyae, whose attribution is P, below, collaborating with Marshall (M) on “Mysterious Pines.” Another guest author is a former student at Heuristic Halo, Marshall’s school in Mandalay, who goes by Eric (E) in collaboration with Marshall on the poem which begins ‘Cold shower bleak weather blizzard. . .’

            Language is like a conquest of information.

NeverAttemptShitYouNeverTried and DareDevilMotherfuckinDickhead watched a documentary named HowToSuckBallsLickPubicHairStubs&SellBullshitOnline and have a brainstorm section afterwards and come up with an innovative idea named “ButtStuckInFrontOfDeviceAndFartAerodynamicProducts.” They then asked FamousPlushYoutuber called BallJuiceSipSickPrick for feedback on their idea and the CelebratedBallsyYoutuber said: Don’t go out and get you ass dry or you’ll waste shit to sell.

M.

On Speaking with my Buddy Marshall after the Video-phone

A laugh can settle the
disturbances of bygone years
Shaking up joy from the belly,
my old friend;
Overhead the hum of war-crafts,
the gasoline scent of mown grass,
the stillness of centuries-long enforced
domination;
Though I still have my laugh with you
and my soul is settled,—
The hopefulness of being humans
who do not sacrifice truth,
even when the weight of corruption is
heaving its great mass,
            smooshing like a glorious wildflower
the People’s Head,
Smashing the people down,
robbing the soul of its humanity;—
No, for a moment we laugh,
but do not forget our duties to future generations;
Our soul-words like a banner,
our laughs like a weapon
which we shall wield in vigorous honor
to the end of Incarnations.

A.

JollyGiraffeBond, GenerousCatSally and FabulousChimpJenny talked about how to fish in a pond and MightyBruteAlligator suggested them to go deeper into the water.

PurchasedTwistedMedia shouts in the sea afloat when it sees SlyFoxPickBucksBags on a nearby island and asks for help. All of a sudden Kim’sTestedNuke just annihilates both including the island. 

M.

Mysterious Pines

Faint flight voice up high the night when insects delight: dark yet bright, plain sight— blithe

Night light bring the life into being, feeling the dull side of life

Lulled by nature, walked I onto the grass scattered with leaves and gazed up: misty, moonlit sky of foggy texture

Fulfill the mind with light ciggies, seating on the cozy iron, musing the peaceful gift underneath velvet sheet

Kites of streamed thoughts drifted with the humid breeze yet wondered the beast beneath the tree smokin’, see nothin’ but life’s miraculous blessed beings sounding obscure in the vicinity of stark dark illuminated by yellow bulbs

Track through the windows of eyes: haul the deep thread of sophisticated minds, found the descend of painful asphyxiated lines.

Brine contemplation sought outta timed compilation— fine revelation seeps into the ears of kind personification under the pines’ chilled decor. . . behind hill hectares. . bind ill scepter.  A fine spilled factor made of ancient lacquer. . . bittersweet nectar.

M & P

FakeNewsMedia and FuckedUpInternet talked to MindlessProleDumbShitsPublic about how the world should be and everybody went nuts.

PervertedGoatInBeachPants asks BeautifulSheepInSwimsuit while they’re relaxing at the beach, “How do you choose a sexy bikini?” and she reply, “Why don’t you Go Ogle it?”

M.

Garbging Trhgi

Search birth certificates online at

the mark with blue “f”

Sagged lives with brag rights pass

gas of sad pike swinging rich flat

plight on websites

Everyone’s on a heist for attention

Anxiety rises the web delighted

Beg the kite of hope for an

optimistic dive

Yet it hit the little high tree

destroying the home of bees

Hive lost

Yet the resilient insects still find

ways not halt :::::::: the narcissistic

show, not stop.

M.

Cold shower bleak weather blizzard
Discarded dreams still stream at heart
Fire of youth is all but ash
Yet from the cinder lies change
Fame clouded while young, life’s blurry
Flame youthfulness built families named
uncertainties
Youthfulness paved way for rushness
Dreams built upon emotions, heard only void
Sight not in void, dive lost in divide
Kites fought in flights yet slight thoughts in
might
            of a young child’s mind in delight
With every fights reward a scar
Each scars disclose signs aiming for the
stars
            so very close, yet so far away
Bay and the ocean touch yet there’s a
shoreline
Define, “far away,” asked the bay to blue
water from ashore
            & the water said, “Ask the ocean floor.”

M & E

Is it evil,

            Literature,

in the best

            sense of the word;

Aye, when it

            resists!

It’s not about immortality

or nothingness

but merely

the will

to carry through

what you can’t

give up on anyways.

Never trust anyone with a profit

motive, I always say!

Yeh the Romantic is simply one

who sees in the Satanic

rebellion against God

the affirmation of the

            original sanctity

            of Nature.

God is an illusion

of the reality of Power. 

See the creation of God

            like Ideology

is the accumulation of Power

behind a veil

            of secrecy.

The modern World

is shaped by the Philosopher’s

            Will; civilization

or the State is the Power

            of ideology.

This is the World of the Philosophers

conceived during the Renaissance

like in ancient Egypt,

a creation that echoes

like the Godhead of the future

from our distant

            past,—for

            Time is a place.

(Suns)

Hierarchies are

the establishment

of systems through time

that preserve a transformation

            of space.

Ancient history

as the far distant future

            of another race.

Though to separate the human

from inhuman is to make

a hierarchy of life.

Creating shadows to fear

out of a flame

that binds us all the same.

            29 March 2021.

A.


Contribute to Heuristic Halo Press, send ideas, expressions of all kinds, poems or prose, to ascottbuch@yahoo.com; the project of Investigative Poetry is that of all citizens of the World.


Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #3

Universe become a black box like the individual human experience, our

Souls delimited into a control system

. Rather than each individual being a part of the whole universe, we are subjects of a control system, the environment is excluded from the cybernetic mind; becoming a resource to be exploited like human consciousness becomes an energetic mine.

M.

Texts flatten youth,
like possessions use
the classes their rulers make up.

            A.

MOOnshine

            Mooned by full moon, dark strikes not the bright light
                        Up high in stark quietness obliged
Not by the divinity of any holy ghosts spirited in wind, swiped
            Pipe smoked the devil stashed tobacco, debacle beneath hide
                        Fleas bite the imaginative corner of totalitarian dream, might
Does not make right of fleas bite into an alligator strike
            For the people, not blind
            By the people, odds dined
            Of the people? . . . . neigh
Find cosmic rhymes in dictatorship: a butt-kiss sick sign {-}

MarsDust
25 June 2021; 1:12pm

M.

The golden apple
is the struggle for immortality,
power and knowledge.
It is hierarchical permanence 
or more precisely its
           striving forth 
which drives all conflict.

            A.

iLL-tRANSCENDENTAL 

Beauty, easy to say yet gorgeousness boundless on earth neither heard nor seen by the herd. . .
Birds flitter wings of anxiety amidst the dark clouds of perplexity, rushing home to their families for the lightening brings with it the thunderous roar moments before the downpour, no mercy at all. .
Bald mountains slowly take shapes, like monsoon green cakes, here and there we see emerald flakes, rocks of dark crimson lay awake down from the peak creek, deep not the crystal water clear albeit the top it’s near. .
Flocks of flight dotted the sky: draw lines, take shapes, rainbow curved up the eastern horizon coloring the ranges, river to the west reflects sliver though sometimes the silver-lined clouds cover the setting sun. .
Bountiful gifts of nature nurtured not by citifying but by dumbing all of us to natural state of minds blinding a bit at times.

MarsDust
12 June 2021

M.

General Strike as a State 
           of Mind, for
The Market is all your Life
           has in store.
The World is War, all the 
           Time, war. 

            A.

We want you to contribute to the transformation of INVESTIGATIVE POETRY into a movement that transcends this website and all websites, for this is our world. Shall we imagine it better? Send your poetry, articles, essays, cartoons, photography, illustrations, jokes, to: ascottbuch@yahoo.com.

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #2

One can no longer simply be in the world without complying with the System that governs how to be in it.

Religion is the conservatism of spirituality, meaning that it is directly connected to power politics and defending the status quo.

Tough Raw Confectionery in Sky Lane

Flow of clouds amongst the crescent cake float in sky lane

                                    wrote the wolf to wildflower “Jane”

                        Rain not today yet cloud & wind play drought game

            Pain in Jane, unable to enjoy wolf’s cake

For the other beauties in flowers the tamed take

            the idea that Jane’s malignant breeding hate

baked bread and cake in underhanded deceptive drape

Nonetheless, what matters to Jane’s not other flower’s idea

            but some simplest question from wolf as in: Why, dear?

That moment, moon, cloud & the dark sky on a windy day disappear

                        into the next dawn of hope to see fear more clear

                                                                        feel dear more near

                                                                        heal tears for years

Tyrannizers, no matter who or what,                     here Jane & Wolf clear

Look back at thousands of years of histories & humanities         the smear

            always get backstabbed                   of all your blood, sweat & tears,

                                    my dear                                                          all my dear

                                                            were closer with each step and the

                                                                                                                        End

                                                                                                                          is

                                                                                                                        Near

                                                                                                Mars Dust

                                                                                                19 June 2021

                                                                                                     22:47

M.

Soon It Will Be Midsummer

I let that bramble star flower go,

O lily of the Lethe

I wanted to trade you for an apple,

            that peach-tree blossom;

With the sun pouring over the hill,

            egg-molten.

Pan the crow,

peter-bird in the Rodeo.

In a trash bag of leaves.

The mush of pomegranate.

As the severed head was lured back

            into the lair of the incubus,

The astral flight became like

            a circumcision of my soul.

And I began to wonder, do those

            who love God, love people less?

Do those who love God

            love less?

            20 June 2021

A.

Beaten and shocked by the professionals

A young brain morphed

Into names of unimaginable thoughts

Lost not in solution of whatnot

Professionals got caught

While performed under the poorly taught

Wrought not the knife for a knight

Like a street vendor would make kites

Fight not the obliged souls

For warm hearts in ‘em won’t turn cold

Fold not to injustice like a dream

For your dreams gotta come clean

Flights taken to heights of heights

Yet down to earth here I stand upright

M.

The crystal lucidity of the sky

framed at geometric angles in time,

By the shape of trees spangled with yellow-green

that differs now and than from what it means.

The TV cackles like with a signal,

Wondering about the ring of Saturn;

On a day that recurs with things we’ve learned,

An anomaly like a silver ball?

A.


HAVE A COMMENT TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE TRANSFORMATION OF INVESTIGATIVE POETRY INTO A MOVEMENT THAT TRANSCENDS THIS WEBSITE AND ALL WEBSITES, INTO IMAGINING A BETTER WORLD? GET IN TOUCH: ascottbuch@yahoo.com.

Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #1

Introducing Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press, founded in 2018 by Kyaw Zin Myint (“Marshall”) and A. Scott Buch (“Alex”).

Today we are featuring two poems by Marshall and one by Alex. Please feel free to share this Dispatch, or even to contribute your art, your poetry, your thoughts and words, in the future. Send them to ascottbuch@yahoo.com.

M.

Dog-Hare of the Firewater

I see Maung Maung again in Thailand

Not Maung Maung himself but the spirit of Dionysus

A ceremonial den like a cow skull,

The holy mischievous law-breaking that is

As much of Karma, especially in the Abyss

That we must in tantra have

Subtle wind through our bodies

And the blood of a god intoxicates

Us, who see in the fabric of a day

A great pattern of ecstasy like silk lingerie

Who wore out our bodies like clothes

Until there was only mad spirit left,

And there you glared at me—you rascal!—

Until I became old dust,

The distillation of existence

Pounded out of the Milky Way!

A.

Petals of roses red whizzed by a gust

            Flat on dried earth spiraled touching gently on the spikes

                                    of branches, no thrust

                                                kissing the primitive floor of nature

                                    Fertile soil mothering thorny stalks beauty on top

                        Crossing everyone’s sight: delight

            Obliged not regardless of whoever the gardener be

Fantasy of a magic garden still in every bees’ instinct, beautifully

                                    ‘fore all the delicate parts rest beneath earth.

                        Water flowing down from the north to the hearts

            Of the plains nourishing, growing and multiplying more plants

Blooming not only exotic flowers but bearing heavenly fruits

            Regardless, as bees don’t fly around instantly causing flowers to bloom

                        Who are we to yell at seeds to grow trees

                                    Let alone what those tree might produce

                                                Till, individually, we improve. . .

M.


HAVE A COMMENT TO CONTRIBUTE TO THE TRANSFORMATION OF INVESTIGATIVE POETRY INTO A MOVEMENT THAT TRANSCENDS THIS WEBSITE AND ALL WEBSITES, INTO IMAGINING A BETTER WORLD? GET IN TOUCH: ascottbuch@yahoo.com.