Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2017
! A frantic
rising pink impressions/
potent operatic amen/halo snaking

I've been resting in the silver lodge/
I adore you and your
it's causing mandalas to spill out of your
ears and into my mouth
like candy
birthed in the sun                 eyes/lapse of ocean island rain
                                                            ­           (ocean island rain)
starfish gaze, in sky, over city, over the banks,
into the kitchen, settling presence
(water) becalmed, sprigmask lip-
leaf smile, wide autumn orange                     (afterlife shade)

heavy breathing, hot, in Wallachian fabrics beneath the moon temple,
forgetting the living kitchen
which scurries off into my night, the holy architecture of a dream,

(to NIGHTMARE/silhouettes, wax-teeth
carrying a girl/unconscious, doll dress/brunette with blushing cheeks,
they forge a labryinth out of air, Persepolis
wide spread chalky
limbs thin like Cypress/
praying with a certain discordance, sword in hand
I tread with a careful
palm tattooed with a phrase from Matsuo Basho to guide me
thru a schoolyard, cement prism, myriad violins and lucid
eternal wheatfields, abandoned rosary/
chased by Quetzales, crowned explosive heads/
girl now devoured by the bedframe maze, darkness enfolding,
I'm alone, a cavern, smoke
thickens I taste its poison, fall-over
trampled by black horses/Nocturne/

       everyone has a different image of the Isle of The Dead....

                                        (na shledanou)

...wakened to green tea, pattern rug spread on sand,
unworldly passage
in distance, I've been out on high, travelling blind.
Someone laughing about my nakedness
I don't know when I lost my clothes (in my pursuit?)

There's a song, a no-song, Nada, two men
are writing on large papyrus

“At first, the sounds are like those proceeding from the ocean, clouds, kettle-drum and cataracts; in the middle (stage) those proceeding from Mardala (a musical instrument), bell and horn.”

when I ask what they're scribing I'm
hushed by my own inner voice

“The mind exists so long as there is sound, but with its (mind cessation)
there is a state called Unmani or Manas (viz., the state of being above the mind).”

Each word erases the previous as it is written down, until all that remains is the last word,
a final impression,
my internal voice hushes itself
now there is no

inner voice
to be quieted


Intoxicated & raised by the spice of
summer yarrow,

attention drawn to
a place beyond the fence, The Farther.

I sit cross-legged
on a stack of logs, it's June,
I scan the florid heat for
a birthplace I may never return to

"Le Foret Enchantee"
Written by
Connor  23/M/MSH
Please log in to view and add comments on poems