Trip Mckenzie and the midgard serpent

The Northern Lights, dust stars, light years away by the millions. Trapped in our atmosphere, transported acoss universes. Through wormhole cracked space. I stare up and into.

A wing and a prayer on imagination´s back, inspiration fuels their frenzied dance. Colour and bright, try to escape our world.

Briefly I float. So tantalising. Up toward the tears, but one last flash, spectral shift and they slip break away. The tear closed behind them. I drop down to earth again. In the dark alone with serpent and sea.

Driftwood.

Weak later I regain conscious.  Whichever I am awake, but unfamiliar. I have never been to this place. What though is it to drift?

It stretches, like the moon but worse.
A league against me, until then I may reach sheer mountain's barrier.
So this plane is where I drifted down and now I am trapped.

Look to the sky, no bearings there. Even the moon is gone, though if this is it then that bears sense.

I hike inland, nothing marks this choice but direction is comforting. As I walk features strike me. The landscape, not as barren as I thought first. It is scarred. Lacerated by gorge and river. Cut deep by the fury of angels wings.

I think of angels, but find no comfort there.
Just a dream, they pass through, cold and purposeful. (and their passing is terrible as angels tend) My mind or this land. The dream refuses to stop or offer a sympathetic hand.

Unsolaced I walk on.
I had not noticed, how?

In the centre.
Standing, sole defiance. No host could drown its beauty, not even a truckload of trumpets. This rock, this fort and monument. Rising sharp from lunar homogeneity flatscape be damned. It just and it cracks, straight up to the sky.

Now purpose is mine. I scramble and scrape, scrabble crawl, run and fall. I must mount this beat, it will bear me, take me away. I can ride this obelisk I say. Right through the tears.

20 minutes, 200 metres up. Maybe a lifetime an insurmountable height. I stand barely, ripped by wind cold as cosmos, sharp as wings.
It is more than I can stand and I press down. Prone. Supplicate, pay respect to the void. At the violent edge the storm is strongest. But now I am here, I look. Our far and deep.

This is it. The crack in it all. I think.
Foolish and giddy, adrenaline and inspiration surge, thrusting me onto my feet.
One roar and I am gone. A twig in a maelstrom. Tossed toyed and cracked. Star dust.

Later I gain conscience.

Blogged with the Flock Browser

Trip Mckenzie pauses to reflect on a question someone mentioned to him: Why is reality so disturbing? But he gets distracted, loses his thread and comes to no insightful conclusions...

Reality disturbs in gestalt shifts.
Between one concept to another.
Experience bears out little reflection and only continuity threads it all together.
So fragile crack the world and what will unravels.

Drowning in electro submersive music and alcohol. Fragments of a face from sometime shatter me and I'm reeling. Through the crowd, faceless and confusion, we came together and tumble up the stairs with a toe to chine and no need for apology. For one moment wild and senseless  oh what glorious sense this is. And then it slips away. What we had, a world cracked was never so.

Irresistible with mane and sharp jacket, riding the dancefloor again. His bitch and castle rolled into one, throwing out temptation confetti and wed yourselves to sin girls. Hardly meant that way but he can't help it. Lock up your wives and fuck partners before they get a hard on they don't want scratched. Or so they say.
Isn't that enough to turn any man to anger and drink?

Whilst I stand confidence high-tailed and waved me off. Another room of the facelss. Finding this grey and lifeless, not waiting around to say goodbye but go blank and empty mind.

Then we get the hell out and being again.

Poison lines up in front, about to embibe when oh my mercy my soul is making music.
Acrobatics ensue. We somersault twirl and trip. From sofa to sofa the magician and I. And pretty young thing they walk in to join. So altogether spinning circling, hip to hip, making such tragically sexy living.

Five fused on in music, sweat freedom's moment. Others crash in and out, limbs flailing, twist break and snap it is joyous. To behold and misbehave.

We flood break on the street, into the dark and ever onwards. Buring bright we light the night, through traffic and travail, whoop and scream. Onto our next stage.

Blogged with the Flock Browser

Trip Mckenzie and the eternal mirror

Derelicts and emptiness. Pass through and over, for the lost and transient.

Lost transience pass through and over in derelicts and emptiness.

Pass over, derelicts and emptiness in and through transience lost.

Transients pass over, lost in emptiness through derelicts.

For the lost and transients, derelict and emptiness. Pass through and over.

Pass transience lost and derelict through emptiness.
Over.

Trip Mckenzie and the wasteland

Dull grey street, functional and flairless. Colour free is its character, depressing as hell it makes you feel alive. Push your cheek hard-on crack chewed grafitti walls, run fingers over rusty chicken wire borders. Revel in reality, oncrete for once.
You think I'm slumming it. Shoulder to shoulder with wild drunks and noble fuck ups, drinking in gutter water romance. Shit of the earth and that salt.
None of that.
It is the colour, its lack. Environments quaity bare and sterile despair. What fucking potential? Wasted land, desolate.

Crack the world part 1.