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  Feb 2023 Isaace
William Blake
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time.
Who countest the steps of the Sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale ****** shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire.
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
Isaace Jan 2023
No longer in that postition.
(No longer robotnik— the robotnik man-clock.)

No longer seated there— square—
Fantasisng about The Line.

We are no longer haunted by ******* imprints—
Let it be said.

Now control the ethereal days—
When they come to pass.
Now, manipulate The Line in new ways—
If it does not break.
The Line bends but it does not break because it bends for me now!
And, at the end, decide whether or not it shall be perceived as real,
Or merely perceived as a figment of the imagination.

So now, we are in that position even when there is nothing there:
We are peddling, or writing,
Or etching a single line.
And this is how we shall expand...
Cycling past ourselves...
Isaace Jan 2023
The world as seen on television screen
Was mistaken for ourselves,
Forming dusk from dusk-‘til-dawn.
It was a recreation of the early garden that sat atop great, Gravel Tower.

The Gravel Tower:
A remnant of a world enshrined
Within exalted mind and eye,
Ushered in by old Dante’s vivid verse;
Old Dante's vivid verse reborn
For an irradiated filmscape.
  Jan 2023 Isaace
William Blake
Tyger Tyger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Isaace Jan 2023
Every day
I meet the soul of a poet.
Those who
Inspire in me
Million image—
As “the quintillions ripen;
The quintillions green”,
As Walt Whitman had once said.

In the past,
We ran through pastures of effervescent green,
And I
Saw in her
The life of a poet,
On the surface of her deep brown eyes.
And in him
There was always eternal wisdom,
For he was the one who first found
Peace of mind!
And, afterwards
I saw the world anew
And remembered:
“Be water, my friend”.
And recalled:
“That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons, even death may die”,
As Lovecraft had once said.
Isaace Jan 2023
From within The Spy's enfolding spire,
There emits a glint of fragile light,
Revealing an unreachable, mist-fading city—
The vivid incantation of unutterable occult rites.

Before the riptide of the shore,
Illumed by the light of his distant flame,
The Spy collapses into his spire,
Only to emerge once again:

Now past the water's glistening edge,
Having scaled the city's sky-flung walls.
Now moving between ancient shadows,
Following the light of his vermilion flame.
Now seeking catacomb chambers
Where, among dismantled skeleton bones,
The Master Of The Slumbering Dead resides.
Isaace Dec 2022
Aware to the reactivity of volcanic eyes,
The scar from the comet appears deep,
Transforming an outward growth of conifers
(Travelling across Pangaea,
Through meteoroid heat)
Into an era predating now,
Continuing indefinitely.
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