a deep chthonic rumble bids me re
read
Aldous Huxley, Ape and Essence. See it, beyond the doors of perception
Brave
New World Apocalypse,
now retold by the last of those old carp,
using modern magi-tech to tap
Old intel, informing conforming minds of masters,
each holding certain truth servant but they
mention no slaves, as we imagine
all men were by right rich in time to read
and speak of things read or said
in writing found in hidden places,
lonely,
all by my self places,
said to be, places in the mind, while
places in the heart have others of our kind.
We make up a mind, we say in thought
I see
the old wise men were not all wombless eunuchs,
though many
of the idle words they left as
landmarks, lost all meaning over time
being folded up and put away,
for future perusal with intent to improve
whose angst is only felt while beating their own drum?
whose joy is wishing and hoping and dreaming the best
is yet to come?
Not mine, in my future, your now.
Now, take a thought, a non stature increasing one,
ignor the basest of
us,
the beings once mated with actual gods
Ignacio's right use of wrongs, to foil the enemy...
that thought
that evolved into,
lying for the good of the corps social structure,
the mould… formed from thinking that thought
the shape. the frame, the footing under the cornerstone
the builders rejected,
get that straight, the stone rejected for valid masonic reasons,
genuine geometric unorthonicity, not right, not straight
from one point to another,
not smooth as glass,
level as
any
still pond, still lake of your one time experience
seeing the meaning of still
water
that remains the measure of stillness,
by which all further stillness is judged.
You know what I mean, by the measure you use.
Selah. Shalom. Nothing missing, nothing broken
meanings tie us to our measure.
Truths held in trust rust through boots of iron and form the dust on Mars visible from Venus,
as we all bear witness
everything under the sun is much older than any
New World Order, on fractally every scale.
Only poets read poetry, so I try to write poems I enjoy reading and measure my own good. There is a state where hubris has no grip and pride morphs in to this, state of grace as mortality tics away one day at a time
