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Interview with Zed, who says he is dead but not beat

The dead tell no tales.  But this one was dying to tell.

‘Call me Z- rhyming with dead’ he said, ‘not zee - zebras are black and white. I prefer to be  ‘√©minence grise’.’

Well, dude, it’s your funeral she wanted to say, dying for a smoke.
She said ‘You are going live - on tape.’

He nodded - looked as if he was nodding off into the Big Sleep - or Nirvana as he referred to it, on which she differed. His and her perception of  ‘flat line’ were different - he was dead right, he knew.

Silence. The sun filtered through the blinds.  A quiet corner in crowded caf√©.  Outside the air reeked of life: horns blaring, holy swearing and business faring - no one caring to dare the ultimate: she thought she heard his thoughts in his stoned wall gaze. Some trip he must be on.  Graves tend to get covered in weed.

‘I don’t expect you to believe - your eyes deceive, open or closed. You are the ones  who live in boxes. Physical and mental. You are the vampires. You suck and you f….'

Bleep bleep.  She had stopped the tape. It was to go live before the watershed.  She certainly did not want to get f….d, this being a seminal assignment. Delete the f word.

‘You call this life? Hell, what a nerve!! Every breath, death to another.  ‘Hunger that is death’ -  the story of your every breath.  Deadened your senses - in a dead end, dead beat - you always repeat.  Thank God you are a dying breed!’ His rant stopped to sip the coffee - black- no sugar.

She yawned, swallowing a world of germs. Well, at least he was cheap - just scoffin’ coffee.
Black. No sugar.

‘Trapped in life - waiting or working to die. The old wait. The young  work and breed, then go to seed - fully insured,  small print read - ready to be dead.  Mortgaged.  Some believe they can defy by a last cry - die young, leave a beautiful body.  Crap. They just get recycled again.  And again. Till they learn to think.  Outside the box.’

‘So tell me, what is outside the box’ she asked.

‘Nothing. No thing. You breath but don’t. Empty but full. Dead to the world on the inside but feeling it all. In a sort of free-fall. Impersonal. Missing person. DOA. John/Jane DOE. You lose your mind. Buried alive. Not for the scared - only for the sacred.  Burned to ashes - a phoenix. But you will expire or become a vampire - unless you burn every single desire in Siva’s fire.’

‘Cool’ she thought - ‘he‘s nailed it‘.

‘Black is the night of the soul - because it is the true Light.  The business of ‘rage, rage against the dying of the light’ is simply poetic nonsense - clinging on to the pleasures of the little death.’

‘But without  such pleasures - no lust for life?’ She ventured.

‘Once again you baffle me with your fatal attraction - your basic instincts of so-called life-strife.  Your mind circles carrion like a vulture.  And your poor body  will decay - prey to the thoughts and the feelings that ultimately dismay.  But a few see through. They have successfully died alive. ’

‘But  what about the body? Who would want to live in a rotting corpse?’ she shuddered

‘The body is always changing - but hanging on is the rot’, replied he, ‘hanging on to the past , trying to make it last.   Maiming the spirit in a cast. Invalid. Full of pus. Not letting the body breath each moment afresh. Which can only be done to death. No method - no dogma - no dead weight.  But a living dead. To whom that which seems day is night, and that which seems night is day.   You have to slay much that is conditioned.’

‘But surely…..this is madness….some form of dissociation? Or a sociopathic badness’ she objected.

‘Yes.  Not for the fearful.  Better to live a lie which is death. Buried alive. Until you are ready to really live - dead right. The coffin of the body then becomes a chalice. The ego is dead. Or only its ghosts- remains of the day that is night to the sage.  The body  embodies fully the spirit - no longer a flesh-feeding corporate corpse.  So many centuries have impaled the body with fears and beliefs - a tipping point will need to be reached when at least some humans realise they are buried alive. Their smiles will smash the grave - only those who are brave can do so. Brave because the perceptual shift is tactile-tectonic. Be ’impersonal’ impersonating the personal - and give your personnel the soft sell. As for the physiological details - I remain silent as the grave- you have to dig for that ’

With this cryptic comment he seemed to fade away.

She stopped the tape. And paused.



What makes us global?
Lingua franca, frankly speaking…
Doomed to the angles of the Saxons
......Or towering Babel, disconnected from
The language of the gods ancient that match the digital age
To a t, to a binary, like no other
Call it what it is: not global but an English spade
By default.
Has the chat got your tongue?
Six thousand five hundred
Reduced to one.
Taking for granted the malediction
Where s is sliced of he
Old boys networks thrive
But sorority somehow survives
To sing songs of freedom
In colours that are not just red, white and blue.




Sunday ’s the day to go
Screw your shelf
It is after all your castle
Although mortgaged to the hilt
By mountebanks.

Forget that, just go buy another shelf
And bye and bye you will forget
That you are screwed
Take no credit for that.

Sink back, sip screw-ball
Wide-screen on wall
Telling you what to think
As in sofa you sink - so good.