-
Passing idea
Clusters a spark
a mundane brainstorm  
And as it passes
Through the elastic mind

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before the idea vanishes
Before storm ceases

Mad,
Mad mind

-
Passing idea
space exploded within itself
atomic fusion instigated
The mundane universe
And it expands
Through the elastic space

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before a black-hole
Swallows my universe
to create another one

Mad,
Mad universe

-
Passing idea
Clusters of minds
Until civilizations are fused
Into mundane cultures
And they expand
Through the elastic generations

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before civilization zero
Is both dead and alive
In the schrodinger-like
Transition to civilization one

Mad,
Mad persons

-
Passing idea
Cluster of lonely universes
Until the almighty gravity
Loses its kingdom
To the thought of multiverses
And it expands
Through the elastic kinship

I wish to sit
At my typewriter

To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before multiverses wonder
And discover:
They think, therefore they are.

Mad,
Mad multiverses

-
I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
whilst thoughts are passing through my cerebral cortex
Perhaps
Someone inside an earth-like neuron in my brain
Is sitting at his typewriter
With a writer’s block
Trying to make sense of the birth of me:
His equivalent of the big bang
a single atom
Giving birth to the energy
That shaped his universe - my cerebrum   

I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
Whilst the milky-way and Andromeda
Are to cross through a string of light-like gravitational paths  
Perhaps
The conscious of the universe
Ponders my existence
In a form of a passing idea

Mad,
Mad Alireza.

Everyday caught
In the labyrinth of mind,
I am,
Where dreams,
And desires
And lust,
From nothing
Conspire something.

Destination: Canada Water.
The next station is Surrey Quays.
Doors will open on the right-hand side.
Exit here for Goldsmith's College.

In the cerebellum
Fragments flash cerebrum bright:
Wheels in tunnels burn,
A neural screech amplified deep,
As waves of electrons churn,
And in multiple places keep.

This stop:
- My birth -
Is in Westminster!

It’s time:

Do you love me?
DO YOU LOVE ME?
          Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

In the space-time continuum,
The labyrinth is forever,
Within a fourth dimension.

It’s time …

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

Lost in the labyrinth: a journey to an exit.
The Overground train pulls!
And from floor to ceiling,
Between vertical orange pins,
A medley of languid listless limbs lulls,
       Seated hips,
       Angled legs,
       Dangling feet,
And neck-less heads,
Lost, ghoul-like,
The disconcerted move doggedly on,
Everywhere somewhere; but forever nowhere
Through London's hills and bogs.

From  STOP to STOP,
In the labyrinthine network,
In tubes splayed out on cubes,
Of bright brushed viscose comfort,
Overhead, the ads exhort:

       Top Up Your Soul,
       Fast Forward Your Escape
And
       uSwipe
       uSwitch
       uSave

Like these,
A hundred escalating messages,
Each more insistent than the last,
Compel, enough to distract,
So man’s desire enslaves his heart.

Its time…

         You love, right?
YOU LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

How? Why?
Has bacterial sludge,
Built these edifices of glass and steel.
This labyrinthian cage,
Whose walls race up at the speed of light,
While the inner commuter flame gutters,
Everywher, in multiverses,
Supernovas explode in showers.
And for a moment, in the moment, The Overground chromatic glows.

New Cross Gate, Canada Water, Southwark.

Lit and digital and LCD:
        
  ALL CHANGE, PLEASE.
  THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE

A few automated steps, and:
       Southwark,
       Green Park,
       Then Baker Street,
Appear, fade and disappear.

Now walking down Belsize Road,
On the evening of the
Super Gibbous Moon,
As it rises high over the Ziggurat dimensions of the Alexandra Estate,
And all is blood orange at dusk,
As I, a slinking silhouette,
Make for the event horizon of home,
For surely given, and taken,
A few more bends, another turn,

It’s time, again.

         Love, right?
         LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
FREE ME.

To the event horizon of consciousness,
To that black hole at the core.
In death's star-like eye,
Embrace, pass through,
(Fear not),
On, through the labyrinth northward,
Entering and exiting,
We go awhile, a little longer.

Stars, my Stars,
Again, it's time.

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
DEATH FREE.
LOVE!
BE,
WINGS FREE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

One more stop:

       New Bond Street.

GET BEYOND
DESIRE,
BEYOND THE LABYRINTHEAN LIE,
CONSUMER, DIE!
BE
MATERIAL FREE.

Last stop:

       No-name, this one:

BE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

SAY IT:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     DEATH FREE.
     LOVE!
     BE,
     WINGS FREE:
    
     WE ARE:
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

I want to learn everything; everything comprises of everything,
be it the knowledge of the nature or the horizons of the cosmos
I want to canvas over the universe, multiverses;
to paint my reality with a brush of joy.
But, it's tough for me, because I'm dementic
If I decline it while inclining towards a book
Dyslexia obliterates my desires and hurt me badly
If I ignore all this, ADHD comes forward to poke me
with a stick of astounds and pains of eventide
If I cut down the roots of ADHD, S.A.D greets me
and enter to my dark world and enhance its darkness
I'm confused, shattered; directionless in a myopic way
Highly myopic, no direction, but I do have vision
I want to crisscross my myopia to an extent
where it diminishes.
Meningitis, shut up, you *******,
Please have mercy on me, I don't deserve U at least,
But do I really need someone to have mercy on me?
I guess no, I can build my own world where
Dementia strengthens my spirits by saying,
Why just Embryology, what secrets do you want to find
Ova is not dependent on a ****** *****,
it is a complete YOU.

Quantum physics scares the **** out of me
Well it’s not really just quantum physics
It’s everything that stands in between its letters
It’s both the solutions and the questions that frighten me most
I was 12 when I first had a panic attack about eternity
I was in the shower, writing thoughts in steam
When all of a sudden
I was suffocating on forever
And showered with thoughts of before time
The all around terrifying notion of timelessness
Caused shivers that felt like our heater had gone out again
Tears rushed down my face
Faster than the speed of light
Not that I knew what it was
But it felt like lightening filled my body
From that moment,
I learned my truest fear of unanswerable questions
As I grew and grew wary
I took less showers in hopes
I wouldn’t find my fears
Swirling in around my ankles
Clogging up the drain
Lingering there
As the only thing that I could
Never wash off of me,
Never flush away

As time moved on with
A sureness I could never have
I floated amongst the thoughts of
Others so as not to drown in my own
But as night comes
So others rest
And as others rest
The Fearful attempt to count sheep
But even the sheep begin to wonder
About the unfathomable
And before I know it
I’m screaming into my pillow
Blaming the sheep for my restless nights
Insisting I’m not crazy
Insisting that wool blankets are the problem
Picking problems to bring me to now
Problems that make the present
Matter more to this masochistic brain
Than the questions that I should never have asked

Unanswerable, I’d repeat
I’d resolve
I’d allow myself to toy the word around,
Flick it around in my mouth,
As if to keep it too busy to ask more,
But also to make the original questions taste so sweet
That I never wanted them to leave my mouth
So I swallowed them
As if to indulge my taste buds just a little longer
But they sat in my stomach like seeds
With time they grew up my throat,
Watered with theological and scientific discussions alike
The first time I was told that my questions, could have a solution,
My stomach lurched into my throat
Now was the time
The questions were uprooting, ready to grow out in this world
But my jaw was taut
And refused to let others be haunted
So the vines
With no where else to go
Moved with intention
Past my mouth,
Behind my eyes
Into my brain
It had taken over
I became my questions
Rooted in the pit of my stomach
Paralyzed by the pain of
Wooden rigidity
Each move dictated by the unbending will
Of an oak tree caged by iron
Questions acting as a fungus
Rotting out happiness,
Killing the mind
That had formed the seed in the first place
I was immobile in my fear and
Planted in my questions
Unwilling to explore
And so the tree stayed
And I saw the world through
Shaded light
Always careful not to climb
Too far up
Too far in
Thankful for the fact
That not many aspire to
Plant seeds
Let alone
Climb trees

By the time I first saw you
Many rings had formed
You were passing through crowds
Like you walk through forests
Letting things be
What they were
And
Watching people act as they may
Imagine my intrigue
As I saw the callous on your hands
Smelled sap on your breath
I felt a friendly fear
In your eyes
But your hands
Did not look pained
Only worn
Still with care
Only when you spoke
Did I feel the logic in your branches
The whips of your leaves that
I had refused to grow
You were questions fully blossomed
You had leaves made of
Wormholes
And
Budding flowers of dark matter
And as I drew my trunk back,
Insisting I was allergic
I got lost in your bark
I found possibilities
Buried amongst your ridges
I soon found a taste so sweet,
It brought shame on my appeasing mantra
Without control
Like forces of nature tend to be
I grew into you
Yet still,
It was not the color of your leaves
Nor the feel of your vines that took me
It was your ability to blossom
Your permission of exploration
The blossoms, though pleasing to the eye,
Grew through your watering and sunlight

As if by some evolutionary revelation,
I turned my face upward
And found the warmth of the sun
Didn’t have to burn me
I opened my body up
And felt a comfort in the waters that
I had once felt would drown me.
The budding flowers I had let wilt
For so long
Arose from my branches,
Now growing toward the stars
With a few more rings
Of sunlight and starlight,
You’re much better at blooming than I,
But with questions now being watered,
My trunk grows with possibility
I may never grow to such great heights
Or fully know the universe beyond
But I do know, that no matter
The truth
If the wormholes
And multiverses
Are as real as
The Redwoods
And
Cherry Blossoms
I’m infinitely pleased
That I’m in this universe,
Sharing starlight,
And questions,
With you.

Some say we all live in a “Multiverse” –
A myriad of universes
All parallel to one another
Invisible to us
Apart from our own universe
Wondrous as it is.

So in some other universe there is
Another version of yourself,
Where you turned right at some junction
Instead of left
And had a serious accident
Instead of winning the lottery.
Or nothing much happened
Or Everything.

Even my own fertile imagination
Is floored
By the endless possibilities here.
My mind is truly boggled
Fit to explode.

For every tiny insect in our universe
Might fly right
Or left
Or not at all
To thus create another universe.

I could write an epic poem on this.
To think that somewhere out there
I may be Immortal, or a King, or Rock Star
Or even about to be Executed
If not already dead.
And you might be these things too.

Versions of ourselves might live in universes
That echo those of fiction
In worlds such as Narnia, Middle Earth
And that of Star Trek, Star Wars
And Stargate SG One
To name but a few.

Oh to have a TV Remote
Like the fictional “Sliders”
To take us from this realm
To any other of our choice.
Or a “Uniscape”:
A machine like a Tardis
Which can take us to any place
Or time
Or universe
Or Other Multiverse???

My head is aching now.
My mind explodes
Like The Universe
And The Multiverse
Or Multiverse of Multiverses.
So I’d better stop
Before this becomes an epic
And my head explodes.

But, meanwhile, in another universe
I didn’t stop!!!

Paul Butters

© PB 18\9\2023.

In the science of our time
there is a reported flagging of expectation
for new cosmology discovery..
With science's point of view
not altered since the Greeks
a continuing immersion in
objectivity and assertions verified..
Despite powerful instruments  seeing
the birth of inflation in the big bang
a suggestion of multiple worlds
this explosion of diversity
also suggests futility in discovery
of newfound truth..
So..
we may  be waiting for science
to redirect its gaze with new purpose
of finding that which is observing
the vastness which centuries have seen..
Turning around to discover
a background awareness experienced
at last as real Seeing...!

Instead of homework,
I, a curious and
strange child
ran into a library
of multiverses.

To the left was Macbeth,
and to the right was Dorian Gray.
Amidst my tardiness and slight
disarray, I found Beethoven.

He, so volatile,
so angry and loving,
so deceitful and charming
exhausting then relaxing.

He composed
infectious melodies
of strings and brass that
rumbled like thunderstorms
but these thunderstorms
rained heavily on me,
washing away negativity,
blooming flowers
of unique beauty.

Statements in musical
form, everlasting, ever flowing
lead me away from a
place of sitting in silence
and not knowing
what notes are like
when they dance .

With his outstretched arms
I found an embrace in
an immortal man
with a loyal stance.

Time means nothing,
when floating on cloud nine.
Beethoven transcends time
and with him, everything
is just fine.    

I once found Beethoven
in a library and since then
he has never left me.

...If I love you...

Feathers all fallen grey
I slowly learn to Fly
Again
This is how I am
This is who I am
My spirit clearly senses
Harboring delicate thoughts
Some things I often thought myself unable anymore
I burnt all the white sage
To purify the Energy
Let it go now Let it go away
All these somber silhouettes like dead crows
Around my head
Inside my heart
May they fly higher nevermind how it tears my soul apart
I will live on
They say if I love You
I love myself
Thus I learn to cherish my own Multiverses
Nevermind the misunderstanding
I know why it is so hard to love myself
This is how I came to the world
Maybe also parts of my previous incarnations
I have been taught again and again
About the precious release of Loving Kindness
When you kiss the depths of Forgiveness
You keep falling down the mountains
To the same grounds and dreary gardens
Because it's here
There is something to learn
There is something to burn
White sage
chanting chanting chanting
Shamanism healing
White Light coming from deeper inside me
Unlock my Spirit Now
If I love myself

I love You.

(inspired by Rumi's words)

Make-believe multiverses written in the
Rain
Petrichor
       Ichor
       Blood of (my) gods
Congeal. Thick. Rich, putrid poultry pan
                                                             ­           opticon
                                                                ­        theon
The bigger I am the smaller I am,
King of nutshells,
In ambition I beg--beggar butcher
Kingly kind **** beggar--look
In, give in, cave out implosion (my)  
God demands sacrifice; copper
liquid spills, fresh,
                                 Replace
                                               old blood
                                                                ­Regicide,
                                                     Warm
                                       running
                                 red
                         over
                Mars,
Vallies of dead bones they
Make a noise (crunch) like
Nutshells
Eggshells
                 White emaciated pale weathered withered
                 wothered wondered want I want I wont ...    

A  L I L Y  S T A N D S
In  v a n i t y  v a l l e y
G r e e n blue v i o l e t
T r e m b l i n g I--I am
Cold
       I can't feel my hands.
I rush rash rip stem
And all
Timeless life
                     Look how it not dies in my hands.
                       Look
                               I can't see
Unstuck by time trapped
In this eternity, make-believe,
Flower fickle, it is
A sentinel robbed of its post,
Eons past will pass before decay,
L I L Y ' S  F A I T H --Can't
Let go of this moment, just
Let it die in peace,
In v a n i t y  v a l l e y
Of bones dry dying...

When I wake up I see a man
Whose hands are open and eyes
Are free to wander.
He is royalty--a royal beggar,
A dry flower pierces
His heart--it rains
                               River
                                         run red
                                                      with
                                                              or­ange juice sun
Squeeze.
His hands on his sides.
On sand and seashells.
Open valley, horrible horizon.
Celestial cosmos ocean sky is
That it? Is that me?
Do I raise my hands or f
                                          a
                   ­                         l
                                      ­       l
                                              To the ground. Beg.
Where are my gods? This
Sun is too bright, I can't see.
The cold. I blow breaths of smoke.
Vapour vanish too
Cold. I can't feel my hands. Go
Back
Inside.

Constantly suffering like this is never a good thing.
It's peculiar to think otherwise.
I mean, I can't really do anything stupid.
Sure, I'll suddenly gain that rush of temporary popularity;
Since the dead are always so glorified,
But when they're living, they're trash.

I mean, isn't that how things work?
Well, that's the cynical, dark way of thinking about it.
What about the reverse?
Alternate dimensions, multiverses of beings that are you.
Six or eight, I forgot the precise number to them.
But the importance is that there are other outcomes,
To the solution you long for.

Then again,
Problems can't really be solved by the conciousness
That created them.
Just like wishes are only a success plan for failure.
Well, what's more important?
To be or not to be?
Pacifism or aggression?

Earnest Hemingway was always active with his words,
But there's nothing wrong with being the other.

I am honey coated
In the dawn yellow sun
As I walk softly
Through the glazing savanna
Intimately married to
My body I feel all
Her strength and power
My low center of gravity
Pushes down 2 tonnes
Of my power house weight
Almost buckles the ground
It is as though the earth
Beneath me becomes concave
As I stand on a spongy soil
As the landscape rolls up
To a brand new sun

If the rest of me forgets
Where I am going submerged
In flaky doubt my hard horn
Points the course through the
Clouds of apposing forces
As even the Gods are forced
To part the way like the red sea
As I plough through space and time
Nothing dictates to me
As I chase away darkness
And carve out doubt
Breaking spells while proceeding
All ghost will run from me
Possessed by the devil
I will DRIVE  him out
For I am the AFRICAN  EXORCIST

Careful where you step
Because I hang over
The savanna like a
Silent volcano
Run and hide if you
Ever hear the huff and
Puff of my disgruntled being
As you better get out the way
Without any delay
As I blaze new pathways
Showing you a brand new day
As I smash through obstacles
You or the world

I feel my center speaking
Opening , EXPLODING into
Inside out spaces
Multiverses are vibrating
As I ride on a wave
Of infinite forces
combusting
I am fired forward
With rocket fuel
As I reach new places
Expanding into worlds
Of high and far out spaces
Greater than I know

Hesitation and procrastination
Will be trampled on
All those blown over by life
Jump on my back
And I will stampede you
Through this world
So dare you attack
Or cover my track like weeds
With feeble words and excuses
As they strangle my future path
And my lava filled belly
Will blast them with fire
Melting and molding
My internal landscape
As I imprint my freedom

How I love you Black Rhino
You have my attention
So can you please point
Your horn in the right direction  
FORWARD AND UP
Forward and up for me
As I ride with the BLACK RHINO

Today is governed by the cyclical nature of science and the god that has been created mythically as an axis point to explain our existence.

To what end do we find separation from  a reality formed from consciousness?

The over-mind - what has also been referred to as a god-conscience, spans the digits of numerical structure and maintains an order that is beyond our limited comprehension. Division then, is not separation; it is a change that alters what is divided. Everything falls within our finite infinity - knowledge and the unknown - our minds and its thoughts.

The inhabited earth is a manifestation of thought vibrating throughout the cosmos. Star clusters are fragmented thoughts that gather and gradually grow closer until an idea emerges from the detritus left by the explosion.

Each atom is made up of multiverses that are made up of more atoms.

Rim shoot
Overshot on the
Carousel of time

802,702 A.B.C.
Time Safari Inc.
Jumping multiverses

Check. And check.
Could’t happen here…
President Deutscher?

We've stepped off the path
Time to jump back on and
Reclaim our future

a blight upon the world,
that means nothing in the first ******* place,
infinite fractals,
three dimensional segments,
of the fourth dimension,
broken in stand still,
an illusion of time,
grasp that of gods,
for we are,
omnipresent,
a color from light,
opus in value,
exceeding that of the night,
temporal time frames,
igniting,
fire,
passion,
wars,
surging,
rain,
anger,
death,
breathing,
gale,
adroit,
life,
composing,
earth,
calm,
peace,
that which continues,
as the strings vibrate,
all at once,
infinite in finite,
collapsed to zero,
in best understanding,
for a substance,
that cant understand,
imagination filling,
creating beauty,
we'd wished,
we see,
singularity looks back on itself,
the only time to be read,
watch our atoms collide,
multiverses inside,
never find the answer,
as looking in,
is looking out.

Our love is not normal
**** all that nonsense
This is a tapestry of our real, filthy stories
This is our beautiful love

Love by the sweat of our brows and breaking on our backs

This is not innocent, sweet, romantic love
This is love with swear words, dirt, and bruises
Scabbed over wounds
And interwoven scars

Love is an Armageddon

Let’s fight my demons together
I hold the sword
You hold the faith
I’ll take the blows and you’ll feel them
You make me believe in what I’m doing

We are clad in the defective armor of past lovers
Who were not strong enough
Not brave enough
Not up to our challenge

It’s not the cliché: you and Me against the world
It’s us against and within the multiverses I (we) create, survive, live in
Some maniac deity randomly switching channels absent mindedly

There are no white flags
Just a constant (technicolor) marching crimson war banner
Beating  the aortic drums of passion
Against the stretched ribcage bars of a super nova nuclear reactor
Barely contained
Always on the verge of meltdown
Cooled only with your tender touch

Our romance is played on my fingertips
Like a jagged out of tune guitar
Angels wince and monsters dance along
To the throbbing carnal symphony

Like a rabid jackal screaming into the night
Like a mismoshed dubstep cacophony
You don’t know why it works
Never sure it will
But you can’t turn away
You like it too much

I want it painful and messy
Like rainbow mud: *****, sticky love
So I will remember to feel it
When we ask “Why the hell are we with each other?”
I want the answer to be so obviously
The only one left
“We love each other”

I promise you nothing less than the infinite multiverses of my manic imagination
You are the idol my every creation worships
This is the Phoenix burned to cinder
Rising from the ashes of our jumbled, mixed, scattered pieces
Spawns our golden child


And then she says, “Was that just a marriage proposal?”
“Honey, every word I say to you is.”

13 billion years later we still discuss
Split second propositions of time
And temperament of infinite particles
That ceaslessley had a mind of their own.
God is still in capitals but cunning as she is
She first created herself as feminine.
Did it take us from the big bang to now just to know
That order began only after the chaos controlled
Pre-universe shadowed itself in a pin-point
Burst into beauty of perfection
Married waves, particles and precision
In anti-matter exactness of itself
To complement the new multiverses
That remained suspended in a gravitational enigma
Split second before collapsing back into a point
And bursting open in inflationary force
Arms wide
Welcoming you and me
From back in the days of confusion
To todays perfection.
That conjecture indicates that
The Master Creator was himself confused before the Big Bang
And so he created beauty and women to counterbalance
The new precision.
I know. Women are not chaotic. Only men are.
( Pssst!) my wife will read this poem.
Author Notes

SNAG: Sensitive New Age Guy! A fresh take on the Universe and Creation of common Sense! ( a Back-up Poem)

Entered for the Contest on Chaos.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

the many worlds approach
     not first class; I fly in coach
              M.M. a Spider-Man, not a roach ...




                            Webs.

Scripture seems to be clear about the permanence
Of hell's torment, yet we finite human beings insist upon
Superimposing our imaginative emendations
Upon Scriptural descriptions.

Why do we do this?
Perhaps our love for those we suspect
Have gone to eternal damnation,
Or the fear that we ourselves may not
Make it to eternal bliss
Motivates us to create
Heavens and Hells,
Multiverses.

I believe that I am finite,
That I am created,
That my planning and conniving are incapable
Of changing the Eternal plans.
I have no power to create alternate realities;
No temporal holds upon supernal.

We pray for salvation
To a Supreme Being
We hope exists.
But how is God possible
In an infinite number of infinite multiverses
Lasting forever?

We find our God
(We think)
Only to discover there is a Bigger One.
Then another!

Beyond is followed by beyond
Age by age by age
Light year by light year
Never ending.

Due reverence to every god,
But does each god have a god in turn?
Something tells me there are bound to be
Greater powers and intellects than us.

Yet, as the proverb says
We are all in the same boat:
A ship that sails a boundless ocean
Of space and time.

We can steam ahead
In a straight line
Only to eventually find ourselves
Back where we began.

All of us are lost.
But the good news is:
We are all lost together.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\4\2020.

Realms
within
realms.
Within realms.
Cascading,
flowing
realities.
Never ending.
Reality begets
reality.
Layered,
fractals.
Above,
below,
sided by
side.
Each a
cosmos
unto itself.
Infinite
multi realms.
Finite
understanding.
Infinite
ignorance.
Simple
stories,
attempting
to explain.
Stories
spinning
fables of
realities
never seen.
Beyond
capacity.
Capacity to
understand.
As constructed.
Parameciums
spinning
in circles.
Infinity
within
infinity.
Multiverses.
Beyond
comprehension.

it seems that the only antidote to the poison of existence is to write. to write, like our forefathers did - purposeful seclusion, months of trance-like writing, like a murderer maddened by the idea of salvation - writing, with ink-stained fingers, aching joints on the same old, trusty typewriter; writing, while wallowing in the deepest pits of despair, stuck inside a shabby room, dishevelled with books unread and re-read countless times…

to witness the act of writing - be it a staged enaction, wherein  an artist just slips his malleable soul into the garb of the prophet - to witness the act itself is a travesty, an ache on the roof of one’s mouth: out of reach, foreign, uneasiness swirling. nothing soothes, or quite imparts the strength to digest reality like the simulated sound of a virtual typewriter - the old, familiar clang that sustained generations of kindred souls, the tolling of the bell that eclipsed the knell of death, of betrayal, of a life cut short by cruelty, of unrequited love, of angst, of abuse - that of others and the self.

our modern machines that make life so easy, appear as a hindrance, an obstacle to the realization of my true self. or is it just incompetence, meandering as un-bloomed fantasies, that have been thwarted by none but my own futile sense of pride, which, in the very end, is nothing, but a pile of dust, that glints in the sunlight, and appears like the first pearls of dew-like snow?

beauty seems to be the only parameter for any semblance of human emotion we are willing to spare for another - beauty, or rather the bastardization of beauty, has rendered us barren, so dreadfully ugly. beauty consumes those who fawn upon it, destroys worlds, invades peaceful colonies, robs the poets of sleep, and urges the beguiled to sin.

my disfigured mind, once a slave to beauty, has broken its shackles from its dastardly regime. in the process, I've had to encounter my own ugliness - both without and within - bloated egos of the world that match my bloated skin - but it is dissatisfaction that I’m bursting with. dissatisfaction at the absence of prodigious blood in my veins, the kind that can foretell worldly events, conjure multiverses, concoct reservoirs of colors undreamt of, and feel the fabric of the world, the way one obtusely feels their own skin shielding their inner darknesses. ennui mingles with narcissism, flowers bloom at the edge of deserted lakes - the forest nymphs weep and wail under the blood-red moon, and the lovers die, without loving one another - alone, forlorn, their death a meaningless crease in the fold of the universe.

staring down at the unimpressive rising and falling of the telltale buttons - the very mechanism that allows me to stay afloat - I choke with tears that do not quite justify the source of my misfortune (perceived?). the faint, dull wail of the automation keeps me warm, but the sudden silence fills the home, no, just an apartment, with thunderous, ominous vulnerability. my bones ache along with the foundations of the house - the parakeets have made a nest among the polluted shrubberies, unlike their usual design to avoid large, empty cities. they screech , in imitation of my acute helplessness, mocking my hapless complaints, rendering me completely alone, while being surrounded by blood of the most coagulated, and thickest kind.

the neighborhood cats feast upon leftovers, as I look into the window of a world unexplored , ridden with darkness visible, and demons that admire your flesh while you  are half asleep. the walls twist and boil over, while i savour, in disgust, the heaviness of my existence, the meaningless lull of my name, called out by someone who brought about  an acutely unwanted genesis. the cries of the parakeets fade away, and the automation starts crawling around my skin again, enveloping me in a almost-comfortable embrace…the spell is broken, by the vision of my forefathers, on their animal parchments, and blood-like inked etchings, their truly broken hearts and the deceit of my own.

I have been given an entire universe to explore
I can create within it's constructs
I manifest change through it's vibrations as it reverberates my very being
I am matter,  so I do matter, and you are what matters most to me
In all of the multiverses with all of their galaxies I chose you
In every possible epoch or era, we are experiencing this di roll of reality
and I wouldn't want it any other way
I feel destined to have been designed
as I am when I am with you
You make my existence seem fortuitous
and I am grateful to be with you
on this earth