THE MIRROR MACHINE: Burning children to make a point

Thursday 28 October 2010

Burning children to make a point

He blew up part of the temple
a little piece of his own heart,
the unborn child
in the burning woman
was bound to be a prophet,
now they have a soldier
on the throne
ready to go to war.

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IN THE WIRES

It's just a mirror machine

a reflection of light and dark

in the TREE of thought and senses

http://www.robsart2all.blogspot.com/

Follow the mirrors of a strange bird:
http://www.twitter.com/spiegelmachine

a warm welcome,

leave

the mirror machine

behind,

the words are from

the memory.

a silent song

is infinite.

(no borderlines)

the Paradox

Shine a light!

rob houter 1964-11-05

Hoorn(the Netherlands)

(an unicorn didactic)

The Mirror Machine

a timeless reflection,

A non dualistic whisper

under permanent

constuction

Not two

but one love

share

bread and wine inside,

be free and keep

your feet on the ground

this beautiful blue Earth

the only paradise

you could be aware off,

right here

and right now!

Is Love something

you can find

outside yourself ?

The mind clear and silent,

the Heart open,

it's always time to play

dancing on

your designer clothes,

be that beautiful Child again,

the garden has never been away,

although it's a bit messed up !

Be free to plant a Tree .

Is the source still infinite ?

Can you create a Universe?

I know it's very easy

to throw plastic crap

in this beautiful ocean.

Next step will be

to pay tax

to get clean air.

Meditation without words

Let us ramble in the cathedrals of Europe,
in the mosques and temples of the east
open the main doors for my devotion,
I’m just a stranger at the gate
my humble silence can only enter
an open book between the lines,
let us become drunk of blissful thinking
on your hard wooden benches
our tender knees on the solid ground.

I will take my Indian pillows with me
my king-sized beds
swinging bare feet round and round
burn my colourful incense
the candles from the middle of the earth
from the broken back streets
raw beats of the illusionary sounds.

Let us be naked and dance
high on our holy altars,
in communion with our hearts
make our dreams conscious
in the stain glassed sunlight
of the band,
let awareness be our part,
the rivers wild.
Let us forget ourselves
in the ancient energy
that came from the depths
of the chaos,
the ancient woods
the horns of plenty
in the hood
reconstructing the veins
of this planet of light and dark
the major chords,
the elements back in harmony
erasing the numbers
erasing the mark.
Let us be unknown,
no more fifteen minutes of fame
just fragile responding
with the hermetic structures
of truthful elevation
playing with the masters paint
in ecstasy,
the rainbow colours
of eternal dreams.
Let us make Love with Sophia,
smell of the roses natural style
and smoke in peace
through the rabbit hole
deep inside the symbols
that are pointing
to our sacred hearts
let us blow life in the saints of clay
from within,
in the love against all odds
of yesterday
let us wonder true the forest
our souls between the stars,
dear cardinals of good intention,
open Gods houses for the divine,
be our personal altar enter
the immanent tribes of love
and let us start the party
that will never end,
let the deejay spin
some Atlantic records,
playing chess full of scratches
and let us marvel
in our ambrosia skies,
islands come together
lost and found,
beside the samples
the silver linings of the day
in the mix
the golden sound.

Let us enter into the old ship
let us come home to the sea,
a change is gonna come
I fixed it up with Jesus,
mother Mary is smiling free
through the rhythm of the blind boys
broken bottle blues will pound
the true scales of the living water,
sweet whispering going all around
thy untold name
in a thousand different patterns
with a thousand different names
the cosmic blue air holds you
the six armed prophet
playing the brass pipes of the organ
elevating, elephants and monkey gods
with cross eyed rim shots,
scratching brushes
crying the tears back in your soul.
The healing has begun,
the echoes of the Tibetan chanting
orange masters whirling up and down,
the mantras from the secret travellers,
enlightenment revealing mysteries
murmurs of all neglected corners
of the world
the longsome howling,
the poetry of the wolf,
roars of the lion,
the buzzing of the bee,
walking the dog,
the muddy waters clearing
the One again,
the gypsies dancing
eclectic in the crystal ball
the burning drums
and the cymbals
like cleaning rivers
the bright voices
lightning crushing
through the gathering,
the Garden is calling,
the trees are shaking
the songs of Erykah
and Johnny Cash,
warriors make us holler
“what’s going on!”
drown us in the holy water
make those hip hop lines embrace
mystic mathematics of cosmic proportions.
Let us loose ourselves in the deep soul
of the paw waw ,
the fire walks
of the pink leopard claws,
the vision quests from the darkest cracks
in the rain,
we will do the secrets faithful
with the passion plays of the holy cow,
the mirror machine is bursting
with laughter,
the master is dancing on the ceiling
jumps from the tired walls,
the chain gang broken,
the spirit of Sitting Bull
hunting for justice and respect
feet standing on the ground,
the holy paths of our ancestors,
the nomads will fly
from snow mountain
wisdom breathing
sweet honey from the rock
hundred thousand birds will fly the way,
underneath sea level the Irish drunks
laughing in the storm
with fairytales in their eyes
cats and mice running in the fields of joy.

Open those golden gates,
no more diversions
no more ignorance
of the holy diversity,
let us whisper the words
of the Egyptian sorcerer
the serpent and the snake
the tails lost in circles
the wheels overheated
and contemplate
the eclectic words of Merlin
boasting on the wooden table,
let Chief Seattle
point out the webs again,
telling you humble,
we are all brothers
and sisters after all,
in any direction
the electric fuzz
shouts through the marbleheads
hypnotised by crumpled jewellery
of blood and bones,
captain Beefheart
painting butterfly movements
with his iron beard,
the Sufi master
Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
is always whistling
beyond the boundaries
walking straight
over the bridges in the air,
Alexander Smit a flying Dutchman
relaxing in front of a triangular T.V.
deep connection
with the fragile rooms of heaven,
Van the Man smiles from inside
up and down the stairway,
shaking Dante’s booty,
down to the bone
the healing game
in purple grammar,
the spirits of firewater
sixteen coaches long.
Let Osho the master of masters
determinate your power trips
here and now, let it be fast,
let it be known
in a borderless experiment
of mockery,
free the marvellous madness
of Tantra and Zen,
free the paradox of duality,
free the feeling
in the eye of the storm,
free the energy
of these untouchable sentences
and teach the wordless words
the pathless highway
in the middle
of the marketplace
individual liberation
to become the ONE
no name or form.
Let the Disco lights
of the transsexual ecstasy,
the nostalgic decadence
the new wave
roam in the trembling
of the bells,
the towers will go higher
and higher,
let it be now,
let it go free right here
come on
we will jump up and down
and blend it with the rhythms
of a New York poetry slam,
the humming of the dancers
from Persia.

Let the prisoners be free,
let the tortured prostitutes
of the battlefieds come home,
let the slaves
from eastern Europe,
from the African desserts
of death,
the wounded from the jungles
of America and Asia
become free and proclaim
their property
may the dream trails
of the pacific
be visual again .
Let the searching be
over the hill
right now,
may the lost ones
be found cheerful,
exciting to find
their broken heart
to be mend again
lifting up their hands
and heads
in self-confidence.
Come back priceless treasures
of inspirational art
made by hand.
Bring the little children
from your dungeons of lust
and give them
strawberry lemonade,
delightful cherry pie,
a little green tambourine,
crowns of summer flowers
and let their pure voices
sing Bob Dylan classics
in their own true
cartoon style,
listen tender to them
speaking in joyful tongues,
hallelujah mister monk
is just a punk .
Let us play all-night
with that violin
and the three guitars,
let us be human,
completely lost in divinity
with the smile of purity
in the well again,
the branches wide,
for ever growing,
let us be free and multiply
our strange love,
give our temples back
in this mindless rhyme.
The natural structure
of the source.
Let us be a prophet.
Let us be a saviour.
Let us be the One,
not Two.
Be a whale
or a dolphin again.
A big fish
swims back
to his place of birth.
The Mothercalls you.
(a solid pray)
rob2006-2010-10-29

The screaming happiness

The Screaming Happiness
number 2
(a song of an official schizoid)
The best of my generation
intuition infinite
Mouse movements
wireless connected
in our dreaming eyes.
Boiled brains
in the raging fire of solid lies
Silver disk minds
filled with
humming Tibetan magic words
of erected sorrow and bliss.
Dolphin oracles
splashing through
native American drum patrons
hollers around the sketches
of the eternal flame.
Travel reports
from the underworld
and the hard realms
behind the Sun,
tantrum highlights
from the square mountain.
Gurgling mediums
cursing loud
in hermetic voices
from the night,
ejaculating Masters
screaming
philosophical standards
in their bliss
smoking green
Jamaican Heavens
from underneath
the yellow circles,
African dreams
in black and white
paper cups
playing deep
with Hollywood memories
accompanied by
Fuzz guitars
and a hawking beat,
the boxes are trembling.
Tattooed desires
animalistic power
in plastic planes
dark battles
of pounding joysticks,
the freezing frames
of advertisement
and expression.
Exhausted genitals
chemical brews
for every emotion,
brand awareness,
repetition again
and again,
round and round.
Full of enclosed
certainties
material sweat
with rainbow colours,
the smell
of eternal success,
Refilled
by fabric body fluid
with the taste
of strawberry fields.
Injected symmetry,
smooth retouched
psychedelic worlds,
action figures
on the illuminated altar
of MTV eyes,
forever young
inside
the awesome great plains,
Indian ornaments
like plastic sunshine
and painted
cardboard stars
scentless incense
smoking us out
of the flameless
flames.
Catching dreams
stipulated castles
in the air,
staggering
between traffic jams,
former lives
and engineered
cosmic expectations,
making monetary
structures,
felt so nice
to know an answer
in worthless numbers
struggling for power
or just to make
another day,
money calculated
with broken
Zen machines,
Taoist
multi functional buildings
of organic glass
repaired by meditation
and mathematic whispers,
mirror halls
made of fairytales
stairs
to imperial blue clouds
pink vitamins
and mineral empires,
where you can do
business
with champagne fever
and senseless
third world slaves
children’s heads
roll raw and bloody
beside silver plated
design tables
shots are ringing out
in the darkness
of the soul,
the latest version
to be downloaded,
now for sale.
The multi headed Gods
perform
in shiny commercials
accompanied
by angel choirs
of the golden gate
with pierced genitals
and airbrushed wings
lost in the time of plenty
of a few broken
captains of industry
that made
mass produced
milk and honey
for the amazing
family
sleeping deep
in front of
a giant flat burning
tell a vision devise.
Buddha’s dancing
on transcendent disco beats
in painful misty colours,
the words were born from
the mountain flowers
the trees began to whisper
and the pope had a hard on
while reciting
the greatest hits of Abba.
Gregorian samples
on the one,
the funk was down
with the dry land
of the acid rain.
Flower power children
in rusty chains
lost the pimped up cellars
of the presidential temple,
a black goddess holds them
in mechanical temptation
breathing cheap cocaine
n a silicone paradise,
crawling snakes
in energetic explosions
alcoholic vapour
in the flame
of the holy heart.
Penetrating illusions,
computerised playgrounds,
desirable objects
like nuclear craters
in the over stimulated
brainstem.
The genetically manipulated
saviour woke up the dead
and walked
from the blazing sun
to the sighing moon
Virgin Mary naked
in a glossy magazine
raped
by a overheated
media tycoon
his perverted
management on ecstasy,
too drunk to know
anything anymore,
the pictures were taken
by a creative
mullah from Sudan
with a purple cigar
exploding.
The world news
back to the marketplace
read it loud and naked,
bullets make holes,
we are bleeding
machine guns
shooting the words
up side down
they came back smoking
and black
the books are crying
the pages rotten
soldiers forgotten
contemplating
in the slippery tunnels
of the labyrinth,
dreaming about
heavenly girls
and sweet boys,
a quick shot of anything
still hoping
for a happy ending
after their enforced
and chosen dead,
still hoping
for a certain kind
of community.
In the mean time,
silly laser eyes
are searching
in the wide
open heaven,
analysing
the bellybutton
of a well known
scientist.
The internal conflict
dissolves
in the divine emptiness,
the stones
roll in a slow blues.
The heart in loving bliss
sings
I am I am………
………rob may 2006
june 2010