Dead Hamsters Dont Talk

It’s like you are a part of a crowd, knowing your difference, but so coaxed into small time satisfaction Being, snapped up in moments, that you forget that you are borne of fire and chaos in the forest itself. Lightning struck a tree, once, and you were born. And now you find yourself, (really, you’ve found yourself) with a characteristic horror,

In a well-kept garden, someone else’s garden, at a garden party, at a pub with friends, out the back, having a smoke, alone

It’s because everyone is trying to be something new, and make themselves in each-others image.

And you, really, on another level, are their hidden source of change,

Your potential sings volumes in a silent universe.

You could go back in there, right now, and because you understand the absurdity of it, could call them all koala fuckers digging their claws into trees, and then fuck off!

But you’ve been so often furled up and trained to shut yourself up, you resign to keep yourself quiet,

Somehow with a determination, with a thin face on, everyone’s got to do it

The same determination of a hamster in a wheel,

Spinning, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around,

Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around

Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around

Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Around, Until the hamster dies and someone chucks it in a bin and gets a new hamster before little darling Sandra discovers the rigid lumpy corpse with one of the eyes a little popped out, and her eyes go as wide as that dead hamster, to near eyeball pop detonation, and she goes absolutely spare and in that high frequency, never-ending way that children do. Waiting for a carrot, you are, your own bloody stick so far up your arse you’re speaking like a puppet Or maybe a gap in the conversation to subvert, just hoping, you’re so weak. You’re so fucking weak. No. Stop that shit right now. This is what I mean. Those voices, right there, don’t dismiss them, take a moment to step back and listen without reacting to it. Look, I’ve just incited it, but characterise them as a reflection of something that is not a part of you. Recognise them as as just one medium, just one flow that is not of your creation. Do not alienate it, neutralise it, supress it, bounce on it, vomit it up, cut yourself, scratch your scabs off, hoover the carpet, hoover the carpet, hoover the carpet,  have another drink, havhe asbdotehr dirnk, starve yourself, cry alone, turn the pillow around at 4 in the morning, again, hoping for it to have regained a cool side, consider jumping, consider disappearing, destroy your relationships, beg for forgiveness, go around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around this cycle, again, maybe just hoping to reach exit velocity before it’s too late. Obviously, because you are you, you were born to lose your way, maybe you were born posthumously, and because you don’t know who the fuck you are but are told that there is something latent within you yet to blossom at some point in your life as a child (there’s not, you’re not a loaf of bread), you heed the force of self-correction, whichever ways it works. But heed it now and heed it good, just stand all ahenny, looking at it, like a grown up Sandra over all the live hamsters she has now liberated from children as a midnight vigilante,

Heed, dammit. Do not associate with all those things forces that are outside of your control. Heed and heedemgood. Heed their force! heed the power with which those voices and actions hurt you so and paint the sensitivity of your soul as lost in the distance, unreachable, something you cannot associate with and sometimes something that is too heavy to take responsibility over, and sometimes the pain sets it on fucking fire so much so you have to scream out loud and you wonder if nobody will hear you.

You have to heed that power over you, because you have to harness it, co-opt it, recuperate it, treat it as you would a chain of wild horses,

Red eyed and foaming at the mouth

Red alive with passion and fierceness, such that you have no choice but to be in awe and that awe turns it from self-destruction into self-preservation, like picking up a hamster cage and bashing life around the head with it. It has the capacity to destroy you over and over and over and around and over and Just, Over. You hear it? You don’t need sympathy. You need someone or something to kill with kindness on the back of a flaming fucking horse, you magnificent bitch.

Moments like these are moments of knowing

Knowing how you might act, with all the potential you have. The potential to turn what is prelogical and infinite into something finite, like making yourself a sandwich with your own two hands, with what is in the fridge of the universe, and knowing that ultimately, a sandwich is pretty finite, and that’s OK, and anyway, it’s made by you and it’s fucking delicious. And even if its not delicious, you tried, and it’s the trying to make a sandwich from the fridge that is great. Anyway, enough theology.  

All im saying is, to look at the question of how you ‘should’ act, as a travesty in the heavy handedness by which it is laid down, because it is obvious that this goes to uphold the order of things. Now, how you ‘might’ act, is a better question, because it gives you room to play. There is no real order, there is nothing to become, there is literally no way you could strive any further towards becoming something of worth, there is no such thing as that sense of worth that you seem to endow people after a well-made observation about life down the pub, after it seems that they’re so damn well qualified to do so after finally figuring out their place in the world. Well they sure have their shit together, huh. Yeah? Well they haven’t seen the tiny trebuchets lining up on the ground over there, each carrying the promise of dead hamster gone dramatically airborne, each hamster solemnly trussed up how they used to truss up Vikings for their funerals on their boats, with their arms crossed over a little sword and the little bouquet of flowers, and the hamster is lain in a small wicker hamster hamper on the business end of a primed trebuchet.

   

To not bring new connections into the world

To not know your difference,

Is the real hamster cage.

Im not saying you should go on and have something to prove
Unless you really give it a good go like Sandra,

Im not saying you should go on about hamsters all the time,

But your strength, your creative potential, for all breeds of conversations

(Yeah and to the one that heard breed and thought about hamsters, just learn to deploy hamsters at the right moments, alright)

In channelling a brimming ladle of chaos is,

Still, No?

So you’re going to choose to blame yourself with all this energy,

And that energy diverted to look at the floor,

So nobody sees your light except in reflection.

Ok, let’s talk about Them for a moment, not, all of them, just some of them that and the ability of Them to make you forget about You.

It gets told as a children’s cautionary tale, here’s the start.

Some, they cannot handle you, your words resonate but it is too scary. You may resort to love bombing them with absurdity because you are not scared, and know intuitively they shouldn’t be either. Some of these, you will drive them away, and some of these, you will lie to yourself and get trapped in thinking it’s your duty to help them to find their dead hamster again, probably because you want to bang them, or they want to bang you.

Some, simply don’t get it, never tried to get it, and cannot, for whatever reason, see strength in weakness and vulnerability, but fuck are you gullible when you want to bang someone, so you’ll get confused again, and forget again, and for a couple of days just live in that thick wispy musk of your own interpretative reality.  

Some, they truly believe there actually IS something to get, something to BE. I know. Absurd. But, here’s the kicker, rather than decide they’ve got it, they want to keep being in a state of trying to get it because someone told them once that it’s all a competition where it’s a glorious and virtuous  thing to just keep trying to Be Something. They were probably drunk and saw an advert with David Beckham’s face on it back in the mid-90s. So they see you, and then subliminally demand you to keep yourself from constantly becoming, by constantly BEING something Becoming. Right? They suppose that its just LIFE to be constantly rising up to whatever static state of being they believe is best. And then they’ve got something to prove, but only once they’ve hoarded all the David Beckham memorabilia they can, (joke’s on them, because you can just as easily make up another piece of David Beckham memorabilia right fucking now in front of their face), and then after scratching off poor David’s face they superglue printouts of their own smiling deluded face onto them. Look. You’re not someone else’s icon, and you’re absolutely not on this planet to be someone’s moon to pull their seas into waves, when you are, actually, the entire night and all its possibilities.

Oh yes. And then also there’s some, the most malignant, by greed and jealousy, who see the endless possibilities of you as a threat, because they have probably experienced chaos and endless possibility as a threat before in their life. So instead of recognising that fear, they just become that fear and replicate it. In some senses, they’re actually to be thanked, because in odd ways, they remind you of who you are and all the hamsters that died, all the hamsters that will stand tall to fill the gaps of where another hamster fell. But no, they will fight to keep you down with all the possible power they have, to scratch that itch to furl yourself, always, to demand their way is the right way, so that they can transform you, and poison everything and everyone around you, so that you can never have the opportunity to remind them of what they cannot give, which is non-transactional, good old, run of the mill, ever present, multifaceted, ever changing love. Poor fuckers.

All of the people who come into your life up until this point, it seems, drive you towards having to constantly explain your ways, and they reinforce in you, a mode of living, a mode of being, where you can keep excusing your sensational difference by crafting your outward actions and appearances- always with an apology attached, like a little tag on a cow’s ear, and this leaves you feeling as if the only options you have apart from going aroundaroundaroundaroundaround are to suffer in silence, with all the multivariate forms of suffering, sneak away in the night, or even bounce away in a dramatic flareup of fuckyouall.

Well as a wise man once said,

“Sometimes you’ve just got to stop apologising and just fucking get on with it, you know?”

Because the world owes you zero apologies,

You owe them, zero apologies.

In fact, if and when those motherfuckers who reinforce that will to apologise come to play, they owe YOU an explanation for their often malignant conformity.

Why should you stand in this garden, pruning yourself with some very well oiled secateurs, accepting secateurs-oil from the next bloody secateurs-oil salesman coming on in, someone offering you a fucking dirty old rag to wipe down your secateurs when you deserve pure silk, you fancy bitch, and what are you even doing polishing secateurs anyway, you're not always gardening, but you just stand there chugging down another dead hamster juice like its a bloody mary and crying about having to live in a garden when you know full well that there is always a new plot of land to be found, right under your own two feet? If the world had a goal, it would already have been reached, and all the plants would not bother to grow towards the sun, and the sun wouldn’t bother to rotate around a black hole at the centre of our galaxy. If someone else tells you how you should live, it would preclude a story untold, all the way from the end, to the beginning, here and now. When your gift, your power is your own, is already singularly unreactive to ANYTHING,

Apart from your own agency.

Only fear can make you forget this,

And even death is not even the end,

Cos when you kick that bucket,

That hamster blood is gunna flow down the drain

And into the drinking water. So do it fucking right.