http://www.youtube.com/user/floydyopz/
http://www.poemhunter.com/the-caterpillar/poems/
http://thctrpllr.blogspot.co.uk/
Czym jest Truml?
Ye Caterpillar
Truml.com
The Caterpillar is a Visionary Ghetto Tabloid and comes replete with its own Remixed Dub Acetate. It can be printed out for physical distribution.
Sparkling through the crystal-receiver, distant laughter. Shimmering in water droplets, in light-rays, rebounding brilliance, luminescence. Rattling keys of the machine encoding and decoding old poems of the fog on the hill under the ash trees drooping. Going the way of the Ancients – a fresh World blooms awhile before the stars go out-
& a new sun rises…..
Origin of The Universe- evolution of conscious life- the price of cheese- - - - it’s all in The Caterpillar- tried, tested and trusted by millions……….
Flyers:
http://www.youtube.com/user/floydyopz?feature=mheeImaginary films of flimsy poros vapors a marbled and drenched body, fruiting summer’s echo of atavistic and autochthonous cataclysmic glossolalia.
The glossolalia-echo of summer’s fruiting-body, drenched and marbled in a vaporous film of flimsy imagery.
We are receiving reports that a concatenation of skyanarchists have been attempting to infiltrate, subvert, subsume and obfusticate the serious work of The Invertebrate Press by jamming transmissions of ‘The Caterpillar’ and superimposing their sacred cloud images upon our news bulletins. Such subterfuge sucks big bucks from Bub’s box and cannot, I say can NOT be tolerated. Should you, the aforementioned, find such persons, person or personae imbibing, implicating, ridiculing or otherwise meta-confabulating ‘The Caterpillar’s current communiqués with suchlike aery jargon and flim-flam you will please not encourage them.
Established in 2008, tried, tested, trusted and true; there is only one ‘Caterpillar’ – accept no substitutes!
Radio Free Penzance: www.radiofreepenzance.blogspot.co.uk
YouTube: www.youtube.com/user/floydyopz
Check out The Caterpillar in the realm of Truml…
Relishable to sit on the low cliff, overlooking the water. The Cor-Mor-Ant skims over the Mor, projecting his silvery reflection. This lapping pewter mirror meniscus slips over the bed of the Earth. Cloudy sky dips drooping down to meet and marry the mor, grey billows puffdadaist pillows of watery vapourous flimsy stuff. Searing sun slinks hidden above the puffy layer, basking, rasping, replete and resolute in shiny shark-skin suit.
At the water’s edge the land is muted, swaddled, subdued and subsumed… The soft land melts into the soft sea. The clouds disolve the hills. The ocean absorbs the land and the rocks.
Technical note: Since Blogger seems to be having a problem with letting you enlarge images, we’ll print the text of ‘The Caterpillar’ No.38 for you:
Hallo, and in today’s news we have reports that large sections of the country are dreaming in golden black earth fields as flamingoes wield glint feathery glowing rivulettes.
Reports are beginning to reach us from the Mid-Country, the Centre-Earth, the drowse-field, the furrowed furlong day, the hinged flint hinterland saying mercury runs through time like sand.
And now over to our home-affairs correspondent in the home counties where tea-cozys chuff and puff scones, thatched-roofs, brittle biscuits, croquet lawns clacking, a sunny day, a drive in the motor-car, ducks on the village green, the Weald, the Wold, the wobbling early World, bakewell tarts, cricket, cloche hats and a phonograph playing the Charleston.
And from our foreign affairs department we are receiving reports of vast open spaces, titanic gangetic deltas, Obs, Dakotas and Orinochos. Of teaming hordes, stampeding herds, shattering ice-bergs, lava-flows, cactus jungles and steppes. Of turbans, Turfan, Dong Fang, Ming Ching and deep-fried chicken-wing.
And in the city today a basket of currants see the light of a market day, on market street, buzzing, fizzing metropolitan jazz schisms scatter frissons of shivering glissando rhythms. And souls of the city soar, searing and seething gleefully revealing today’s street-feeling.
And today’s weather – there will be shattered skewers in the rest and sloth, with bands of grain and packets of isolated sun-hailing. Sleet sleek she slithers silently forth. Sun-glow a-boom a-radiate down like a radio tuned to warm. Magical under the sun, maroon earth slumbers.
Stellarium – see the stars, planets, galaxies and galactic clusters; satellites, mythologies and trajectories.>>> In issue 37 of The Caterpillar Dub, we explore space, form & texture; plus Li Po and the mysterious cow. Also, The Caterpillar bounces back the ongoing question to all the People out there:- “Who Are You?” “Who Are You?” “Who Are You?”
(If you enjoy ‘The Caterpillar’, please spread the word, by printing out some of these flyers, cutting them up & distributing them… thanks!)
Get your amazing Free Stellarium and travel the Stars: http://stellarium.org/
Astronomy Domine, Pink Floyd, 1967: ‘Look of the Week’.
Email The Caterpillar: caterpillardub@gmx.com
www.poemhunter.com/the-caterpillar
www.radiofreepenzance.blogspot.co.uk
www.youtube.com/user/floydyopz
Truml:
Of course, it had not been my specific intention to seek out that mysterious carapaced presence, transmitter of cultural aftifacts, radio-telegraphic telepathic mind-waves, magneto-grams, gasometers and general bivalve-envelope oracular dramatic. The Caterpillar was not one to be sought, so much as one to stumble into, no doubt in some archaic and eldritch spot, probably a mist-haunted cross-roads, at around 3.15 am, on a rain-rattled morning when even the dogs howl not and upon the towne falleth a blissful slumber; but not, of course, for all…
No, not for all – for some wander, stumble and blunder, blusterously billowing forth with sails hoisted high up the mizzen-mast and thoughts of a whaling voyage around the Cape of Greenland or some such doom-shattered remnant of mind’s utter, outer and outré folly. So yes, as I say, The Caterpillar is not to be sought, any more than one would rightly chase shadow-chimeras upon the chiming chimney-hearth on blasted heath. For that noble & elusive figure does flutter forth shimmering in High Yogic Concentration, giving off a humming, a sort of knowledgeable pulse of warm glowing yellow energetic plasm-pulse, utilizing internal magneto transmitter antennae system.
Rattling down alleys and ancient lichenous byways, the form ripples on like photons on a hot tin lozenge. Ululating and simultaneously undulating was culminating in simplistic dualistic rustic risk multitudinous to spinning discs of info fixed on crystal wheels, encapsulating glittering vistas of spacemind’s inner and outer eyes turned forever twixt a constellation spinning fixed, whirling disc whisk glittering mind’s sharp edge.
The scrolls and optical viewing equipment were passed from the shadowy, pupal one, to me, inexplicably, inextricably, indubitably and indistinguishably by the very same being, that rippling and many-footed furry hooded figure of night’s foggy moonglow. I say night’s foggy moonglow.
Hazey horizon means Summer has come to the sea. The Lizard dreams in the warm, indefinite haze. The chugging trawler gives bass to the hissing rippling waves licking the shore-stones. Cloudless – radiant – only haze for a terrestrial corona. Only life clinging to this planet, such a warm island in a deep and cold space. Such a peaceful friendly island on which life can flourish, can grow goodfully and diversify into a chiliad myriad species, eggs, wings, legs – fishes and things. 600,000,000,000 years ago the molluscs – what’s this year’s thing? An internet argument for Homo sapiens? Or the mass-transformation of humanity into ten thousand billion Avalokiteshvaras?
A small, shiny thing, creeping off the path – a lizard basking in sun’s radiance, in glimmering viridian carapace waistcoat. Moving away, with the delicate, swift, hesitant, slow movements of the Jurassic.
In the clearing, an art-deco fritillary thing, rare speckled happy Butter Flye, lapping the drowzy nectar – opening and closing your mystery rococo wings – very very slowly.
White snow-falls of thorn-blossom dust the hedges along by the sea; horse-chestnuts bursting into stemmy, furry leaf – and oaks fragile baby leafes resplendent.
Chiff Chaff chatter, the burbling of warblers and rusky cooing of wood-pigeons- crack! A pine-cone opens in the heat. Sounds like a Canadian guiro being played by a crossbill.
(If you enjoy ‘The Caterpillar’, please spread the word, by printing out some of these flyers, cutting them up & distributing them… thanks!)
Astronomy Domine:
Space is the Place:
Another Girl, Another Planet:
Get your amazing Free Stellarium and travel the Stars: http://stellarium.org/
www.poemhunter.com/the-caterpillar
www.radiofreepenzance.blogspot.co.uk
www.youtube.com/user/floydyopz
Truml:
Flower-gardens in the rain, petals washed away, rain falling in the pond.
Frogs hiding, long hours, summer afternoon. Lighthouse, the ship- sunlight on brick on summer-lightning’s tongue. Tendrils of ivy on topiary trellises. Still the sampan goes down river, past buffaloes and mountains of the sun. Horns of the beast rippling with crinkled crumple-horn-rimmed speculation in orbic magnification. Smoky blocks of tea in the market, kettles, fruits unknown. Under Jade Mountains, cloud shadow. Under cloud shadow, Jade Mountains. Cloud over mountain, over air over earth. Forest quivers as monkey climbs higher. Rain in the East- the first drops falling into the tea-bowl…
Under cloud shadow, quiet presides- then thunder crackles and roars between the peaks. Gurgling waterfall draws colourful birds; a sage observes. Rain-curtains sweep across the mountains and valleys, grey sheets of water-element mixing with air. Water presides, and the crags run white with rivulets. Under Cloud Mountain, shadow of jade glows green. Down the river, past wallowing cattle, floating long hours. Tendrils of lightning’s tongue flicker petals of pond-water tea-bowls. Monkey splashes in the pond, slurps from tea-bowl, nibbles on rare lotus-shoots and runs shrieking into the trees. “Aboo! Aboo!”
Published in the street by The Invertebrate Press…
A carapaced overcoat huddled to the wind, disappearing round the next corner, enshrouded and enmeshed in mist. The multiple feet pattering on the Cornish cobblestone caunseway, clattering. A presence, larval, gnoscient, aglow with wisdom, a clear intelligence, cornucopia of crystalline chrysalis glistering glycerine lepidopteral looming forth through the fog that swirled in from the sea. This was no everyday wanderer, not the typical denizen of this realm of codfish pasties and odd goings-on. This was the ‘Carapaced One’, as I thought him so dubbed; the very Caterpillar, transmitter of this flow of fluttering double journals, flags flew in face of fleeting street rag barrows.
Holder of myriad glossaries of dialects, alphabets, idioms, pictorial hieroglyphs and tablets ceramicus. Dabbler in technology of shifting times, epochs and places around and all over the place. Broadcaster of shimmering symbols on aether’s aery waves. Living lexicon of culture’s codes, collections of systems, ways of communication lost or not yet found, ways ancient and dreaminspired; ways mottled in sunshine’s memory’s yesterday’s forever’s dancing leaves in the sun of yesterday’s a sunny day’s a dappled windy day’s echoing, shuddering, rippling pictures. Most informative and innovative pupa, mystical tourist guide to psyche’s flight; so long from my sight. A message he transmitted to me by the wire, the telex. This slumbering behemoth of a beast of a machine still hurled its rolls unraveling an ink-spattering paper-jam, ticker-tape and green lights flashing. Dream-transmissions of subtle cultural sub-codes continued. Myths imparted by osmotic symbiosis. An outwardly rippling telegraphy of symbolic meanings to open the eyes- his mission resolute as he hunched over the dials of his communicating device, reloading paper-supply regularly and antennae-inspecting the inner-workings, clicking. With insectivorous precision he fixes the coordinates and delineates the paramaters of transmission, then the wave is put out. Jamming all spectra, the Caterpillar rides the airwaves as a buckaroo clings to the mane of a bucking morvil steer or a toucan spills over the rainbow gliding. Valves glowing and static crackling, ribbon spins and swirls on spools as ink is warmed by special flame jets to correct temperature for print-run, paper by now spinning on giant rolls towards gaping jaws of printing press. With the crisp rip of paper torn along a perforation, the message is in and production can commence… Dials sing, valves glow and the wave is put out…
Burn, burn, burn…..