“This is a lil exercise in audio-impression since poetry is kinda meant to be heard aloud than to be read in a silent inner voice. The WOW itself is an onomatopoeic being, sound is holy mystery, music is the medium and the message, so listen up, lend an ear, take heed and let’s get unconscious honey, let’s get unconscious, honey, lts gt ncnscs hny..”
WOW.
Explosion. Burst. Ooze. Bang! Whack. Plop. Spray. Slay. Volcanic. Wowcanic.
Ow. Pain. Hurt. The low. As abowe so belowow.
O-no-ma-to-peeee-a
Bowow
Pow. Kapow! Jokes. Comics. Nerdom. Affinity. Pop art. Warhol. War. Holes.
“If you look at a thing long enough it loses all its meaning.”
Until it regains it.. Only to be lost again, and agai..
Meow meow
Boomchicawowwow!
The sky is beautiful everywhere, but how rarely do we really look up?
How often do we see(k)?
Beauty calms and comforts; the sublime agitates and excites.
The WOW, much like the sublime isn’t provable, it’s an elusive, mysterious and unpinnable butterfly, a marvel, which seizes us, strikes us like a lightning bolt, and makes us feel, mighty surreal..
Like its friend, astonishment, when the WOW possesses the soul, it stops it in its tracks, gleefully petrified, glam terror. Awe, exaltation and boundlessness, the feeling of peering over a cliff, the abyss, gorgeous and terrifying.
“We gnaw on stones to open up space for jasmine.”
As any gardener will tell you, monocultures are hostile to pollination and few flowers bloom there. So rage, fuckin’ rage against the wasteland of monogamous norms, the false idol of individualism, the illusions of separation and of wowless basicness.
Raise a nice middle finger to the monotonies of the inherited world,
the oppressive mundanity of elitism, of sanitized conservativism, of the faux intellectual bullshit salad we get served with buzzword sprinkles on top.
Be bored, watch rivers run and paint dry.
Stand and stare like sheep into the void, stare so that your cares may soften, rest, relax, unwind, sleep deep, yawn and weep.
Be wary of the endless shoulds and mindless woulds others impose, to silence your technicolor loudness, shake like electric birds of paradise in the face of zombification, fast food nations, thought police stations and mind-numbing alienations.
Inaction is a weapon of mass destruction and that is where the WOW goes to die.
Every time someone stands at a red light while there is no car to be seen, the wow dies.
Protect the wow, nourish it, tickle it, hug it, seek it, feel it, absorb it, water it, share it, remember it, relish it, cherish it. Bow to the wow and take a vow that you’ll savour the wow now before your final ciao.
How to slaaay the dragons of malice, intolerance and spite and ride the magic ones like Puff, Falkor, Mushu, Shenron and Toothless.
The simulation offers up algorithms of hype shallowness, fast fashions and faster fads, single-use ideas and disposable dreams. A tiresome treadmill of fleeting dopamine highs, spinning, disorienting, widening, growing claws and suckers,
The wowmonster is born out of comparison, competition and insatiable hunger.
It can be a tiny, invisible leech, but when you let it suck you dry it grows into a giant Cthulhuesque parasite. It can consume and expel you into the realm of hungry ghosts if you let it.
Cultivate the wow, but remember,
the not now.
Some no-WOW-now, is needed to maintain that freshness, that aliveness, that unpredictable spirit of the WOW..
Slackline between discipline, restraint, delayed gratification and slow, tantric pursuits..
The ultimate improwowsation.
Because then of course.. there’s love.
A sort of final boss.
Love knows a thing or two about the WOW.
Love is a wow-dealer, delivering colossal, supersized, meteoric wows.
yummm, mmmm, ooooh, yasss!
All close cousins of the WOW.
The orgasm. The wetness. The moist OG source.
Pleasure.
Treasure pleasure.
And there is always some pain mixed in with the pleasure,
if no other pain, then the pain of imminent loss of said pleasure.
The ephemeral.
The thing about parties is, they aren’t meant to last.
So let’s break like waves, not porcelain. Often, nostalgically and always ready to re-break in a slightly different way on that eternal loop. Let’s be like mermaids, without fear of depths but a great fear of shallow living.
Reclaim.. rebuild.. reimagine..
Reclaim the junglebook from dull, colonial visions.. conquer the white demon of the deep..
Step off the carouself of pre-invented existence.
And if you have the strength or the crew, blow that carouself up, it is rusted to the core anyway. Let’s stop lubricating it with our sweat and tears.
Sometimes we’re just as afraid of the bliss as we are of the horror.
Hubris. Frenzy. Rave. Crave. Grave owow.
How to wow?
Bow to the wow.
Vow to wow.
Plough the wow.
Now in the
WOW.
aim: a vibological inquiry into the ephemeral dimensions of the groovement.