Month: November 2016

“Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.” ‘1984’George Orwell
“IntraCellular/InterStellar OverDrive” – Gwyllm 2017

Well,
I am changing the format of Turfing, and going towards less of a magazine feel to a journal of sorts. This entry deals with the concept of “Transmission”
Thank you for coming back to Turfing. I am humbled by the love that people have shown for my work, and the appreciation. Time is short, there is much to be done.

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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Transmissions

I have thought long and hard about the concept of Transmission. I realize that I have been the beneficiary of Transmissions going back time out of mind. Genetic transmissions (of course), teachings handed down over the countless generations, through thick and thin, through prosperity and poverty, peace and war.

I realize that I am here because of the efforts put forth by those who came before; my direct ancestors, and others who thought and dreamt the future. Without them, and the sacrifices made, we would not be here.

Transmission has been recently given over to the concept of the spiritual side. My Buddhist friends use the term frequently. This in itself is all kind of wonderful, and puts it a bit imo on a pedestal. Transmission from the teacher, the lineage etc. This of course is all well and fine and does serve a valuable purpose.

There is the transmission though of mammalian comfort, of love first of course from ones mother, holding you within her body for 9 months, and then in her arms after one makes their appearance in the world… There are countless ways that Transmission occurs. Little ones are like sponges, picking up the good, with the not so good. A child can learn love, or fear along these journeys, often commingled with countless myriads of conflicting signals.

The transmissions continue through ones life, and I think one has to do a sorting of sorts. Which ones did I accept at face value? Why do I repeat old saws, and are all of my thoughts truly mine? Are these emotions valid, or something I took on?

Perhaps the task is unraveling the various transmission that one tends to go back to, examine them for their validity. What do I want to pass on to those who come after? Surely not the gathered fears, angers, emotions that short circuit my life.

We all are on a voyage, as messengers from a distant past to a distant future. What transmissions do we truly want to deliver?
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On The Menu:
Standing Rock Fund Raiser
The Linkage
Gwyllm Art Calendars!
Morning Dew
Poetry: William Butler Yeats
“Symphony No.9, Boogie” by Matryomin Ensemble
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Help Support The Standing Rock Sioux Tribe!

I have constructed this print in support of the Standing Rock Sioux, and all who have gathered in this struggle for clean water, and for Mother Earth.

All Profits go to The Standing Rock Sioux Food Fund.

This is our time, these are the issues, and we know the solutions.

Stay Focused, Stay Real, Love Will Prevail.
Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
Standing Rock Food Fund Raiser!
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Linkage:
50 Million Farmers – Thanks To Diane Darling For This
People Who Can See Calendars…. 😉
Occult America!
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Whoa! It’s That Time Of Year Again, Calendars!!!
Yep, the new ones are here! First one up is the desk calendar, lower in price, but unique in that there is back history on some of the pieces and it is indeed a piece of art on its own:

Gwyllm Art – Desk Calendar 2017

The Wall Calendar: Sumptuous in size, for the wall of those whose discriminating taste runs to the Surreal, and possibly the Occult!

Gwyllm Art – Large Wall Calendar 2017

Why have one calendar when you can have two?
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Poetry: William Butler Yeats

A Crazed Girl

That crazed girl improvising her music.
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea.’
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A Coat Poem

I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.
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A Cradle Song
THE angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.
God’s laughing in Heaven
To see you so good;
The Sailing Seven
Are gay with His mood.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown
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These Are The Clouds

These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye:
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie.
And therefore, friend, if your great race were run
And these things came, So much the more thereby
Have you made greatness your companion,
Although it be for children that you sigh:
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye.
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The Back Story: Theremin Nesting Dolls Extravaganza!

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“A life without love is of no account. Don’t ask yourself what kind of love you should seek, spiritual or material, divine or mundane, eastern or western…divisions only lead to more divisions. Love has no labels, no definitions. It is what it is, pure and simple. Love is the water of life. And a lover is a soul of fire! The universe turns differently when fire loves water.”
― Shams Tabrizi

The High, The Holy – Gwyllm 2013

“The universe is an intelligence test.” Timothy Leary

Dear Friends,
It has taken a lot to get Turfing moving as of late, but the last week or so is just the thing to get it going. Hopefully, I will not let it slip back into sleep. There are circumstances as well why Turfing has to come back alive… (Please see below)

Turfing has been dormant, as I have worked on other projects.  With the election, and the ascendancy of the Alt-Right viewpoint, the loss of Leonard and other issues… I lost my father and his wife this year, had to move due to the sell of our home in the South West of Portland, and go down to Bat Country with my younger brother to sort the parents estate. It has been a very hectic time.

Where do we go from here?  My son and his friends have been out in the streets demonstrating.  I am still trying to assess what is happening to the US. I am not surprised by the election results as some are; I figured Mr. Sanders was the real deal, and basically got screwed out of the nominations by the machinations of the Clinton Machine/DNC. It seems no one in the Democratic Party is listening to working class and lower middle class people outside of the major cities. This is not a victory for the Republicans mind you, but for Populism. We all will have to pay the piper for this little adventure it seems.

So, where from here? Do we hunker down and wait out the storm? This will work for some, but not for all. Let’s face it, everyone was expecting the centrist/Neo Con state to continue. This is a wonderful opportunity for those who are concerned for the earth, its family, and all to move forward. We have been given a gift, let us use it!

If you are coming here from FB, you’ll find the postings here a bit more earthy than what I publish there. So it is, We are in it for the long haul. Let us do this for the generations yet to come. Reach across the divide, talk to those who you would shun, only by this act of love, will the world change. Embrace them, do not refuse them.

Much Love,
Gwyllm

“Vanitas” – Roberto Feri
This beautiful image helped get me banned for 30 days from FB. Imagine, art such as this being deemed… pornographic, or without redeeming social value. At times I feel that the wheels are running backwards, back to an age of prudery, muffled social dissent, and racsism…. oh, wait…
Commercial Break:

This is a great book, especially if you are interested in Acid Culture outside of the US. (which takes up a bit of space). Andy Roberts ties disparate threads of the psychedelic culture of the UK together in a brilliant cohesive piece of work, recommended.

Acid Drops – Andy Roberts

On another note, Gwyllm Art Calendars will be available this coming week! Yes, art that hasn’t been shared, experiments, and pieces never seen before.

On The Menu:
The Linkage
LSD and the Search For God
Poetry Lenore Kandel
The Ganjas

The Linkage:
Thank Goodness For The Neanderthal!
The Parrots Of Siberia
Secret Lives…
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Poetry: Lenore Kandel

Age of Consent

I cannot be satisfied until I speak with angels
I require to behold the eye of god
to cast my own being into the cosmos as bait for miracles
to breath air and spew visions
to unlock that door which stands already open and enter into the presence
of that which I cannot imagine

I require answers for which I have not yet learned the questions

I demand the access of enlightenment, the permutation into the miraculous
the presence of the unendurable light

perhaps in the same way that caterpillars demand their lepidoptera wings
or tadpoles demand their froghood
or the child of man demands his exit
from the safe warm womb
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First They Slaughtered the Angels

I

First they slaughtered the angels
tying their thin white legs with wire cords
and
opening their silk throats with icy knives
They died fluttering their wings like chickens
and their immortal blood wet the burning earth

we watched from underground
from the gravestones, the crypts
chewing our bony fingers
and
shivering in our piss-stained winding sheets
The seraphs and the cherubim are gone
they have eaten them and cracked their bones for marrow
they have wiped their asses on angel feathers
and now they walk the rubbled streets with
eyes like fire pits

II

who finked on the angels?
who stole the holy grail and hocked it for a jug of wine?
who fucked up Gabriel’s golden horn?
was it an inside job?

who barbecued the lamb of god?
who flushed St. Peter’s keys down the mouth of a
North Beach toilet?

who raped St. Mary with a plastic dildo stamped with the
Good Housekeeping seal of approval?
was it an outside job?

where are our weapons?
where are our bludgeons, our flame throwers, our poison
gas, our hand grenades?
we fumble for our guns and our knees sprout credit cards,
we vomit cancelled checks
standing spreadlegged with open sphincters weeping soap suds
from our radioactive eyes
and screaming
for the ultimate rifle
the messianic cannon
the paschal bomb

the bellies of women split open and children rip their
way out with bayonets
spitting blood in the eyes of blind midwives
before impaling themselves on their own swords

the penises of men are become blue steel machine guns,
they ejaculate bullets, they spread death as an orgasm

lovers roll in the bushes tearing at each other’s genitals
with iron fingernails

fresh blood is served at health food bars germ free
paper cups
gulped down by syphilitic club women
in papier-mâché masks
each one the same hand-painted face of Hamlet’s mother
at the age of ten

we watch from underground
our eyes like periscopes
flinging our fingers to the dogs for candy bars
in an effort to still their barking
in an effort to keep the peace
in an effort to make friends and influence people

III

we have collapsed our collapsible bomb shelters
we have folded our folding life rafts
and at the count of twelve
they have disintegrated into piles of rat shit
nourishing the growth of poison flowers
and venus pitcher plants

we huddle underground
hugging our porous chests with mildewed arms
listening to the slow blood drip from our severed veins
lifting the tops of our zippered skulls
to ventilate our brains
they have murdered our angels

we have sold our bodies and our hours to the curious
we have paid off our childhood in dishwashers and miltown
and rubbed salt upon our bleeding nerves
in the course of searching
and they have shit upon the open mouth of god
they have hung the saints in straightjackets and they have
tranquilized the prophets
they have denied both christ and cock
and diagnosed buddha as catatonic
they have emasculated the priests and the holy men and
censored even the words of love
Lobotomy for every man!
and they have nominated a eunuch for a president
Lobotomy for every housewife!
Lobotomy for the business man!
Lobotomy for the nursery schools!
and they have murdered the angels

IV

now in the alleyways the androgynes gather swinging their
lepers’ bells like censers as they prepare the ritual
rape of god
the grease that shines their lips is the fat of angels
the blood that cakes their claws is the blood of angels

they are gathering in the streets and playing dice with
angel eyes
they are casting the last lots of armageddon

V

now in the aftermath of morning
we are rolling away the stones from underground, from the caves
we have widened our peyote-visioned eyes
and rinsed our mouths with last night’s wine
we have caulked the holes in our arms with dust and flung
libations at each other’s feet

and we shall enter into the streets and walk among them and do battle
holding our lean and empty hands upraised
we shall pass among the strangers of the world like a
bitter wind

and our blood will melt iron
and our breath will melt steel
we shall stare face to face with naked eyes
and our tears will make earthquakes
and our wailing will cause mountains to rise and the sun to halt

THEY SHALL MURDER NO MORE ANGELS!
not even us
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God/Love Poem

there are no ways of love but/beautiful/
I love you all of them

I love you / your cock in my hand
stirs like a bird
in my fingers
as you swell and grow hard in my hand
forcing my fingers open
with your rigid strength
you are beautiful / you are beautiful
you are a hundred times beautiful
I stroke you with my loving hands
pink-nailed long fingers
I caress you
I adore you
my finger-tips… my palms…
your cock rises and throbs in my hands
a revelation / as Aphrodite knew it

there was a time when gods were purer
/I can recall nights among the honeysuckle
our juices sweeter than honey
/ we were the temple and the god entire/

I am naked against you
and I put my mouth on you slowly
I have longing to kiss you
and my tongue makes worship on you
you are beautiful

your body moves to me
flesh to flesh
skin sliding over golden skin
as mine to yours
my mouth my tongue my hands
my belly and my legs
against your mouth your love
sliding… sliding…
our bodies move and join
unbearably

your face above me
is the face of all the gods
and beautiful demons
your eyes…

love touches love
the temple and the god
are one
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