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What happens when you mix what is - arguably - the world's most interesting record company, with an anarchist manic-depressive rock music historian polymath, and a method of dissemination which means that a daily rock-music magazine can be almost instantaneous?

Most of this blog is related in some way to the music, books and films produced by Gonzo Multimedia, but the editor has a grasshopper mind and so also writes about all sorts of cultural issues which interest him, and which he hopes will interest you as well.

Friday, 18 March 2016

THOM THE WORLD POET: The Daily Poem

Rob Ayling, yer Gonzo Grande Fromage, writes: 

"Thom the World poet is an old mate of mine from way back in my history. Even pre-dating Voiceprint, when I was running "Otter Songs" and Tom's poetry tapes and guest appearances with Daevid Allen, Gilli Smyth and Mother Gong are well known and highly regarded. It just felt right to include a daily poem from Thom on our Gonzo blog and when I approached him to do so, he replied within seconds!!! Thom is a great talent and just wants to spread poetry, light and positive energy across the globe. If we at Gonzo can help him do that - why not?" 

MORNING ON ANOTHER PLANET
TIME MEANS NOTHING HERE(Gravity less
There is both silence and celestial sounds
Debris from rockets falls like rain /pockmarking dust
Always heat ,Light,explosions in huge symphonic movements
Leaps of Mandelbrots.Stars,comets,meteorites spin madly
spiraling past faster than sight.Know them micro and macro /scopic
Mighty worlds on the head of a pin.Tiny microcosms larger than solar systems
You return  in a different worm hole.Arrive before you were born.Attempt to speak
yet the articulation of wonder sleeps.How can you describe your flying dreams?
Each night one million moons,faces turned towards one hundred suns.
You have not enough lives to count components of evolving consciousness.
Expanding frontiers fall to closed systems in your Atlantis/Lemuria islands.
Pyramids remain,yet they lose power and alignment.
Scars on the landscape tell stories before Bibles.
You open your eyes to sing,but your eyes are butterflies

flapping winged away from your canyon mouth,struck dumb with praise.

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