Like an eye transfixed by a line of roses
That are subdued like a harlot's reclining poses,
He sees shapes, one illuminating the next

Of different layers of fullness,
Of hue and form
They all conflate and are completed with the eye.

If you meditate on one poem, you can learn more from that one poem than an entire book read carelessly

Is music more like women weeping,
Or giant glaciers melting
It is both, for through all speaks the One.

One is a human reaction, like light coursing through
A prism,
The other Nature's blunt abandon.

What makes music pious,
And women chaste,
Is the straining for perfection,
In the name of God and his image

This force is distinguished from clockwork
As every adage can attest.
Within the straining Man is this mission,
And what is life without purpose?

Knowledge from the Lord
Is unknowable without effort
And we must distinguish
The clockwork of the good,
From the underlying mission.

Oh, music
Only the mountains stand together
As a choral refrain
Highlights nature alone and together.

The swells as low as nature's valley grasses.
The notes reach as high as tundra's barren fields
Oh music,
How we know with you, and without you

Know how you might appear,
As a ghost foreshadows
To the knowing soul

Oh music,
only the word of the Lord
Could ever match thee
For within its secret duality lies the temporal,
And in the temporal is the infinite.

Alas, a canvas is the human flesh.
Not created through a mesh,
or dribbled on a sponge bereft
of the living vessel.

Your skin, our skin is one
And when we curl up to get some sun,
It speaks of art unknown to maker or recipient

Pull the lever.
Repeat.
The stars gather on the screen.
The music is gently stimulating, like your father's voice.
There is no stirring now, just sounds.
The music of the quiet gambler abounds.

Maybe the model should call up half the world.

Lemon, pistachio, orange, peach, vanilla, ginger, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, mint, chocolate, blueberry, raspberry, blackberry, cherry, honey, pumpkin, coffee, toffee, pecan, mango, guanabana, soursop, melon, plum, avocado, apricot, lychee, pear, pineapple, passion fruit, currant, coconut, fig, kiwi, watermelon, hazelnut, butterscotch, caramel.....





Soft drink

When I write
It sizzles
like an egg in Mogadishu
It says "nice to meet you"

When I write it pours
Like the heavens in the rainforest,
Not for need, but for want,
Or desire

The sky is clear
Then it grows opaque
As the moon shields itself
In the mist
The horizon beckons
This horizon
Of deceit and wonder
Of groundlessness itself.

A silent voice.
Rstlnevanna.
E4.
Rstlnevanna.
D6.
It's just the voices take some more haldol!
You're my soldier now...

We breathe it
Live it
It's on our mobile phones
And deeper and deeper into the infinity mirror we go,
And deeper and deeper into the infinity mirror we go.

Ghostly by the decaying remnants of his soul
Reveals nothing to nobody who cares.
Neglect reins and a ghostly voice
That penetrates his core
And dwells there malignantly.

Who would have thought a voice could cut like a knife
So sharp like a scalpel outside the operating room?
Who would have thought an outside force would
Penetrate into the core of a human being?

Like a malignant tumor it eats away at the soul
Until it's revealed that it's the NSA and the CIA.

A silent voice.
It speaks to me.
And knows my thoughts.
And knows my soul.

It dwells within
The ghost
That dwells within
The soul.
Sets harbor there.

9 followers.
8 followers.
7 followers.
6 followers.
5 followers.
4 followers.
3 followers.
2 followers.
1 follower.

Take this pawn
And its cousin kings and bishops
Wood flecked
With grooves gnawed by time
As it becomes you.

Playing a dance on memory,
A word on the tip of a tongue.
Playing a dance on memory,
A tune unfolded.

Playing a dance on memory,
An ancient chanting rite.
Playing a dance on memory,
A shot down the tank.

Amidst breathtaking ignorance,
And breathtaking scope,
Lies a sea of innocence,
And a vulnerable *******.

To comb through the space
Of space and time,
Leaves one vulnerable
To the wicked mother's curse.

The unequal lies
Of artistic design,
Become attuned
To something blind.
Needle this,
Thread that.
Through it all
Something black.

Ghostly by the decaying remnants
Of a human's past,
Awake in the artifice,
In this gothic museum, We learn
Through those lambasted, ***** coral eyes,
Lives A ****** in sterilized porcelain.

Attest not to what is in the background,
The artwork. In the foreground of the clinic is
Satan's work.

Like a curator of convalescence,
Who (as if to) merge the jelly of the gourd
With the opaque hollow body
I seek ownership of myself
Through being owned by another.

Somewhere someone is shown a space.
Their naked, mangled, convulsed self
In a rage of discontent In the cage.

Here the rage is in the spoiling of
The sacred ****** in us all,
The sounds are not our sounds.
The sights are not our sights.

a short essay about identity and schizophrenia.

Imagine if your ******* were pyramids.

Imagine they morphed as slowly as you liked, or as rapidly as you can project, into that much adored and historically influential form. Wouldn’t you feel more powerful? You’re ******* have become king. They’re printed on the back of a ******* dollar bill. NO, it’s not like a thousand men were used to construct your *****. NO, it’s not like a thousand men have been sweating all over them, using their ***** fingers to mould and shape them for hundreds of years. But for some reason, when I hallucinate, that’s what I see. Yes, pyramids of *******, ******* of pyramids. Move aside, mighty phoenix, for my retinal projections, distorted by some unknowable algorithm that works its crafty magic in my nifty noggin, have united what was once is on one hand the beacon of the ancient kings with what is, on the other, what always was and always will be-- the sacred bust of the babe. Now you know what I feel like when I gaze weakly at that electronic enigma of the Fens, the oft photographed, much relied upon, quite familiar Citgo Sign. Or so it seems. But through my eyes it’s enigmatic, for it amounts to a chimera: the human flesh, a breast, unified and mounted on a common triangle, which projects through a hypnotic digital display. Let me explain this duplicity of digital duality. For if you will please allow me to fixate on that mysterious, ephemeral display, I will reveal to you, layer by layer, its subjective ambiguity on as many distinct levels as there are illuminated lines that bisect its voluptuous form. Here comes the unconscious (and it speaks in somewhat fragmented dialogue:)
“There’s the Citgo sign…I can’t help feeling like the ****** illuminati has taken over this bastion of the oil industry! “
“Hold on! Now it’s there! Now it’s gone! Just like a rabbit in a hat.
“It’s the virtual ****** of our modern plutocracy! Only instead of milk, its leaking oil! “
“I don’t quite get the comparison.”
“Well, just imagine cars. They’re getting nursed by the pump, just like a mother uses her ***** to…”
“Yeah, I get it already…”
“It’s like an Angelina Jolie job all over again! Now it’s here! Now it’s gone!”
“Why is my subconscious so saturated in filthy pop culture.”
“Ok, guy, so what you have here is an electronic, flashing, striped, triangular…breast!”
“Shut up, you sound like you’re ******* Angelina Jolie.”
“I am ******* Angelina Jolie.”
“OK, shut the **** up right now. You’re in my head!”
“Zo-ombie Zo-mbie Zo-mbie bee bee.”
“Something familiar finally.”
“But, getting back to the image on the screen, its infused with the unctuous spirit of a fusion of Bill Gates and one J Boone Pickens.”
“Hmm, a digital breast that flickers into and out of existence and enchanted with the spirits of our humble oligarchy.”
“This flickering quality…is reminiscint of my time in the laboratory where I studied quantum particles that only have a certain probability of existing in any fixed location at a given time.”
“I’m thinking to myself…could this humble, digital display of triangular ******* provide the basis for the illusive emergent property of the quantum entanglement? That’s the building block of a quantum computer, which is sought after by…”
“That’s it, I heard that. It’s perfect! Everything is going to be powered by the pyramidal breast scheme. I can create an algorithm to predict the appearances of segments of the image…errr Citgo Breast at seemingly unpredictable intervals over spacetime! Project Milky way is what I think…”
“*******, this British dude in my head is attempting to… monetize the breast. And I once salivated over feminist philosophy. Now I’m like the Chimera. Part British! Part American! Part Bill Gates, part tycoon, part digital, part real…”
“You even make me feel part human. But I’m just a ghost in the…”
“Machine.”
“I gave you that thought.”
“How would you know. Maybe yes, and maybe no. That’s how this quantum universe…”
“Decides.”
“Yes. Decides. Have we agreed to disagree?”
“Yes, but in doing so, perhaps we have merged. Goodnight Angelina, goodnight Bill Gates, goodnight my other half, goodnight nature, goodnight quantum, goodnight moon…”

The most complex forms of day,
Reduce away, away away,
To simple forms of night
Like dimensions compressed or lost.

But what is lost?
In the quiet and loneliness of night,
The embers still glow.
And what is lost there,

Shines in the sunlight.

I stare at
The splintered puerile doll
With a benign curiousity
That grows into macabre enthusiasm
In this gothic museum

To unbend the legs,
And unhitch the thighs,
From encumbered postures,
And unequal lies.

What is more obscure
The light or dark?
For in dark we find a candle
And in light the lark.

One leads us to our lonely soul,
The other to nature,
And yet that candle's hope,
Is its own undoing.

There is no perfect strategy,
For as soon as you arrive,
You can find another,
And in it you'll thrive

There is no perfect post,
For as soon as you're there
You'll find it worn and weathered
And in it you'll roast

A tessellation of mimicry,
A pantomime.
Like a ghost apparating in a fountain,
Like something divine.

Like smoke unraveling around a fire,
Like a journey through time,
A tessellation of mimicry,
A longing for the primal.

Pull the lever.
Repeat.
The stars gather on the screen.
The music is gently stimulating, like your father's voice.
There is no stirring now, just sounds.
The music of the quiet gambler abounds.

A wall of sound

Was assembled when we

Uplifted many things from within us

//

The debris thus

Kindles a smoldering flame

As visible as a pulsing swollen heart

//

Of the unknown, the temporal,

And the infinite

A simpler time, and place
When love was its own reward
And silence had its grace,
For what has become of what was once was still,

When we gave death a lease,
Instead of always wanting more,
And what we have assumed best,
Is rendering us mute.

Death's kiss
is like
Searching for words upon
Bristled hair of a spine
Or amongst the rushes of an abandoned glacier.

As the spine of ice splits,
It hits you fourfold,
And the generosity of nature
Unfolds in the measure of
Sound.

For amber strings
Of the soul

Becoming waves on an azure shore
Onto one heart, or many

Becoming ghostly
Probing gently, with determination

A legacy of the unknown
A measure of the infinite

The ethereal ghostly glacier
Seems to penetrate
My senses.

The green water under its cave,
Ethereal green shadows,
Amongst the deathly kiss.

But nature's kiss itself,
Is lost amongst the shadows,
Of ancient sea men
And abandoned jellies.