First, a lonesome rider comes gently
murmuring in the dark,
riding a white stallion into a bang.
Second, the sweet chaos of quarks…
play fighting like children
on a trampoline.
Third, the life and the love
of unthinking minds, and of molecules meandering
along our DNA, adapting.
Then the sensing things
find their place; crafting geology,
time and taste, into a land of empty waste.
All impressions teeming, ideas wild, dressed
in sterile suits, this is the reaping
upon the fearing eyes.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Mirror, mirror, on the wall…
I ask you, one who knows them all
who walks like Jesus, bathed and masked
into the cave where upon we ask
Who is the fairest of them all?
And in these moments of ferocity,
bright like burning Pohutakawa trees,
I cower beneath the fury of the sky.
In the timeless and fragile imagination,
I ponder teething things, creeping
and making their way to Matilda’s
earthly paradise. Take me now;
oh raise me, spirited Fig,
to enlightenment.
Though in my awakenings, whilst light
finds entry to the eyes
through a liquid sand,
I wish all the treasures of the lands
ka whawhai tonu ma¬tu,
ake ake, ake!
I wish to find a nightingale
with its blood drenched upon a rose,
staining my withering suit,
as I pass from fascination
into gentle death.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
First, a lonesome rider comes gently
murmuring in the dark,
riding a white stallion into a bang.
Second, the sweet chaos of quarks…
play fighting like children
on a trampoline.
Third, the life and the love
of unthinking minds, and of molecules meandering
along our DNA, adapting.
Then the sensing things
find their place; crafting geology,
time and taste, into a land of empty waste.
All impressions teeming, ideas wild, dressed
in sterile suits, this is the reaping
upon the fearing eyes.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Mirror, mirror, on the wall…
I ask you, one who knows them all
who walks like Jesus, bathed and masked
into the cave where upon we ask
Who is the fairest of them all?
And in these moments of ferocity,
bright like burning Pohutakawa trees,
I cower beneath the fury of the sky.
In the timeless and fragile imagination,
I ponder teething things, creeping
and making their way to Matilda’s
earthly paradise. Take me now;
oh raise me, spirited Fig,
to enlightenment.
Though in my awakenings, whilst light
finds entry to the eyes
through a liquid sand,
I wish all the treasures of the lands
ka whawhai tonu ma¬tu,
ake ake, ake!
I wish to find a nightingale
with its blood drenched upon a rose,
staining my withering suit,
as I pass from fascination
into gentle death.