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Phil B Sep 2019
Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Ever?
Composed overwhelmed and in awe , of  everything, and nothing.
Paul Mar 2019
Over the bed a ceiling fan swings in
arrhythmic ellipses
pushing the hot air back onto a lone smoker from whose
yellowed fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning
tobacco loops, widens and merges with the unseen
everything. What she said, what he’d done everything. all of it
replaying in a faltering loop of half truths
and deliberate deceptions
The grift finally worn through, the rubber shredded
the rim of the wheel titling on its axel and
scraping ruinously
to the this room yellowed by the by post-****** or solo smoke-filled
lungfuls of salesman, hookers, preachers, cheaters, the luckless
chancers, the gamblers, the grifters, the desperate, the deluded
the lost, the plummeting, itinerants of every stripe
lighting up with and breathing out with the narrow hope
of every fresh smoke archived on the wallpaper
To which he now adds, breath by breath,
thought by thought
Hope by hope. She has gone back to the world from which they’d run
A husband, a home, the wearying balm
of acceptable comfort
and now finds himself in an aftermath,
as in the denouement
of a minor character in a hero-free
subplot. Shaken
by his new status he turns on the rumpled mattress, stubs
out his smoke and tries to think of what comes next.
Tries to corals his possibilities, there was Tom with car yard
he’s give him work
there was Lucy, who once loved him, and single now
Instead, he light up again, sees the sheets strewn about his ankles
and warms recalling  how they'd named this the cellmate’s noose,
the way they roped around his legs during
their thrashings.
it was Funny because she'd done time, for years. And it showed,
in the way she assumed her role in the act,
face to the wall,
*** up, expressionless with silent jailbreak intensity.

He inhaled, and a ring of orange fire bloomed like some brief proclamation of hope or plenty. A short, bright clarion call
of a thought that stoops as soon as it stands.
He exhaled. The open window frames a field of empty blue sky from which frayed curtains, flap and seize with sudden and passing forms, pleasurably meaningless, and under the window
in a shadowless heat outside, a dog, limp with thirst, laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.

— The End —