OHHHH! no
Sorry reincarnation - there is no need for any kind of similarity
physically - for reincarnation - all there is is a link via
"identification" "internal identification" to be exact - nobody else
"need know'
You are not identical or even very similar to yourself as a baby - or
even as a very old person - you are more similar to the other person
on the bus.
A reincarnation is not a clone - otherwise you'd be a concurrent
"co-incarnation" of a twin - if you had one.
"Madness" is any state of mind that does not improve the wellbeing of
an individual AND those they interact with.
There is no general 'wrong" in this case just a local "wrong"
There is no such thing as an individual anyway - a mentally ill person
is just a "sticky junction" - often in a household the real "badness'
is not in the one with the obvious symptoms. Such symptoms are
sometimes the reasonable reaction to that "occluded" insanity.
For someone with a personality disorder or a sociopath the condition
frequently "works well" for them - its only the failures who "get
caught" - most live respectable lives - some are dubbed saints or
heros many found sects and religions. It is only their parasitic
behaviour on the spiritual and emotional (often $$$ too) that shows
them up.
Politicians are common cases. (Hanibal Lector was fiction - and a
failure - he stuck his head over the parapet in the wrong manner - no
genes to pass on - nor nemes - Napoleon on the other hand.)
There are two Glees of insanity - one is the grim and clammer of a
manic or hypomanic individual - this is the current "cosmic
background" of our age. The other is the private (generally) rejoicing
of the waxmoth in the hive - being tended by the humble beings iwhose
creation it slowly lays waste. This is "theft of surplus". and might
benefit from a googley grab around the groups where I've spoken
recently.
In the meanwhile - seeing as I snipped you'll not grudge me the space
for three poems - mine - about five or six years ago. They address
this one hard and fast - and only one is visible elsewhere
Steve Kane © but shared.
THE FIRST TYPE of GLEE
Thank God It's Friday
Remember - its winter when the rot stops
Not in the glad glades of summer with her silken days
Of shopping and ****pping.
We call out for the fall and its plenty which
Is prone to mould. This story should be more truly told
By some unbreasted maid.
She secures herself - as her hair by her lady's pins - has little
Subterfuge bar the using of her Madam's scent so as
To go scented unnoticed.
I'd not be telling this like I am if I could pass for her. If my
Swain's tales of red running cows on swelling green
Might serve to satisfy.
But I have this tale of darkness-tide. When the dank cold wa****ng
Dries by crackling trees. Heat merely rising and fingering
Smoke smells lingering.
Not like summer when the raiment dances - air spirits don our souls
Dancing and flying as we might try. Winter hot holds us with
Its fossil sprites. Inside.
In winter we dry. Dress as each other through that direst straight
Heap the plate, against the fondling footfall of our damp dreams
Huddle at the flame.
When's the merest heat the evergreens grow at the expense of the
Drop leavers. They scratch the pane - fallen on lean-tide we
Pray with them.
Of course those city folk seem as if its all a joke - this is fullness
without
Ending. Because so many of us are here - must be a party - lets all
Ever stay awake.
The immortals cruise in their ****ny cars, able to make any landing
crash
Past so very fast. They are the seamless, synchronised suitwearers
We bear their tidings
Uncomfortably, as toddlers tell mother of Jake's Dad's feats when we
know
That the real poor Dad of Jake cannot make ends meet. Oh children
By all means party
All our cousins are here. This is your father's funeral. Hear the bell
toll
Welcoming to beyond-old, he is now so over-mature, that he is
Truly Dead
Not living at some great disadvantage. Rising to no more subtle
challenges
Were I my ancestor of long ago - at forty I'd be close to him
Sitting sipping out secrets.
SCARY GLEE
Chucked up
I thought
That I might just be
A fat gut parasite, lodged in you
Keeping you trim. You tanned - me bleached.
Your needs were míne, míne were yours - that I thought
I mouth you ínside, press'd hard by your héart
I táste you, pulse by throb
Súp you
If you were not so beneath my contempt you wouldn't have ingested me
with lettuce,
white wedding mayonnaise, smiling lips, teeth, gut glistening, so.
Liquids beckoned
I oughta be your worm baby
For womb - your tripe, for placenta my lip'd fangs
Feel me deep, thra****ng insíde of you, fat fed by your transfusion
If only you were to see now, how it is for me, me as I am - you mine
I am no lódger, nót repugnant. I am máde for you
You are whóle with me
I ám you
I wéar you
An inside you serpent
See, I forgive you éverything, sucking on áll of you.
I am your perfect lover, true flesh pet - for long gone dówn on you.
It is as close as a creature like you are can ever get to being Mother
To have me to sip chew so at you, me ever chub swelling,
But never to léave you, only
I lóve you
Oh. Might you not see your way, as I snuck into you, body open both
ends to you, we
be pals, hang out together. You could see girls and feed from them
You will not
Let me drop silently off down the pan, nór
Slip out the backdoor, but chuck me out through the front.
Puke me right óut from you, be drying with dog-dung; dying, by dawn.
When I'm only protein with connective tissue, veer'd from with gags
Sticky with your last supper, sniff'd by a single stray
Be peck'd up by one black crow, be a blown
Part of her
THE REALLY SCARY GLEE
Cat
You have seen him press through the hedge,
At the door with a polite cry, at times peevish,
In the house with his tail, ma****ng your mat.
Put him out - his compulsion to be that cat
Will only drain your humanity, he'd have
Drenched your chair in his squirt conviction,
Made you crave for his sharp mouth's need.
His traces and hot flesh weight on your knees
Are nothing when he's drilling your orchard
With his form forcing a slot of grass absence
With his pad pressing down the dark stunted
Blade daily, nightly. Your side is the hunted.
In his presence only part of his plot - he lying
Coiled. You now pet dependent - you buying.
Thanks - Steve
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