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Yue Wang Yitkbel Oct 2019
The Death of Time: Chronothánatos

✼✻✻

Time in each realm is a ‘living entity’

The collective consciousness

Branching into streams for each being

Or rather, each SOUL


For it is TIME

The consciousness  

The awareness of change

Atrophy, ‘death’ and ultimately loss

That binds us to Envy, Fear, Grief

And

Even Desires for possession


What remains is the eternal

The everlasting

Love without loss

Hope without fear


In Etahphh, the entity of time

As cliche as it is, is

Literally a river

And the streams of consciousness

Literally streams


Perhaps

It would be far more interesting

For us explore the planet Tarphah

Where the whole realm itself

Is a gargantuan elastic fabric

And it is in itself

Time, space and

All of its living souls


Or the perpetual

Self-devouring serpent

Of the Twin Neutron Stars

Where time and all events

Are in eternal repetition


But those are for another day

For time is dying in Etahphh

The eight side diamond shaped

Sandy planet of golden palaces

And crystal blue

River of Time and

Streams of Consciousness


Situated between a Spinning Black Hole

And two colliding neutron stars

Etahphh, where, as it spins

Time is being pulled towards

Either the Night of the Black Hole

Or Day of the Twin Stars

Is about to undergo

Chronothánatos

Or

The Great Sleep of Time

And Consciousness


The measurement of time

Is rather like the measurement

Of the length of the river itself:

Being divided into fixed increments

You’d expect it to take the same amount

Of time through each circulation


But the flow is never consistent

And more importantly

The viscosity is changing

Time is slowing down

And the planet is getting hotter


For the land roamers of this realm

This means a great change is coming

Though change has been in effect

Since The Great Flood, also known as

The Birth of Time


For in the Olden Days, it seemed like

The ancestors lived forever, or at least

Much, much longer

In reality

It is rather that time used to flow

Much, much quicker

And each Sigh, or each increment

Passed in at least tenth of the present

Speed

While aging remained the same pace


In the same breath or meter of time

The same generation lived,

In the past, through a thousand sighs

Or a thousand waves

And in the present, as the flow slowed,

Through only a hundred


To the rich and powerful

And creatures beneath the waves

The direction and speed of the flow

Matter much less than to those

Without vessels, or the ability to

Wade and swim freely through the waves


However, that is only if the waves does flow

What happens when the ‘Chronothánatos“

Does finally occur?


Does everything stand still?

Even aging and atrophy?

But surely, not the subconscious, the soul

And since sand must return to sand

Does that happen the moment of thánatos?

And are we therefore instantly released from

Our ****** confinement?

Do we roam free as spectres in a waking dream?

Without temporal consciousness,

What remains of thoughts?


It might still be unfathomable

For beings confined to travel

Linearly in spacetime

Some no matter what direction

Or speed

To truly grasp the reality

Of an existence of

What would seem like

All that would happen

Would happen all at the same instant

The same exact indivisible moment

Much like life on the planet of

Phahrah, where all of its history

Happen in a single moment

Ever closer to eternity for its citizens

But next to nonexistent

For distant observers:

In the moment

Its whole cradle Nebula

Was destroyed and swallowed

By a gigantic black hole-The Thánatos-

Life was created

As it’s waters dispersed

And land was slowly exposed


For the powerless among us

The freedom of pure soul

Its twinges of love and joy

Without loss, without pain

Is ever freeing and welcoming

And as the planet is becoming

Hotter and hotter

The Death of Time seems like

The perfect paradise

But for the Rich and Powerful

Who has for countless generations

Used observers and other means

To ensure their life is lived to the

Most prosperous outcome

Being so powerful for a long time

Is perhaps more tempting than

Being eternally powerless


They might be able to set up

Minions at fixed points in

History of the Present, Past, and Future

To ensure all possible outcome

Of each action is reported back to all

Previous points no matter what

Can they be so powerful to

Stop, rather in this case

Revive Time itself?


✼✻✻

STILLWATERS OF INCONSEQUENTIAL EVENTS

✼✻✻

How convenient it is that

Time is a river and there are

Stillwaters of inconsequential events


The general plan is thus:

To use ‘unused’ time

To prolong time

To use wasted water

To replenish the rivers

And continue and repeat

Forever forward

And so

The observers became gathers

And unworthy streams

Will make its sacrifice for the

Greater good

But the lever of the Time Reserve

Was not to be pulled until

The very last moment

And the most ruthless of

The Clockwork Regime

Is set to pull it

For even lives barely lived

Still lived

And death is always unwanted

By the sufferer

And any measure to prolong

The Status Quo when there is

Hope for a much much more desirable

Existence

Is always met with

Rebellion

✼✻✻

THE REBEL’S PLAN

✼✻✻

How do you rebel against

Those who could see through

All of time, albeit through

The Gathering Observers

Their minions at hand?

They must be the key

These Reporters of Time

Surely not everyone of them

Is as devoted as the rest

And surely, not all of the

Rich and powerful

Is against this welcoming

Salvation?


Elimination of all of them

Is not only impossible

But also impossibly cruel


Just certain calculated altering

Of pinpoint events could in theory

Alter the course of that one specific

Event, even if ever so slightly


Only a thought need be erased

Or even just unnoticeably delayed

By just one indivisible moment

To end their reign of eternity

And let time meet its natural end


In a world where if there is

No one coming back in time

To stop you is a literal

Indication of everything

Going exactly as it should be

Perhaps, just a confused distraction

Is enough to terminate a timed action


We could find points in history

Where by slightly altering

The outcome of certain elections

We could end up exchanging

One key decision maker for the other

From one for the Revival

To one for the Death


Or a simpler and more likely

Solution:

We just need a rogue agent

To delay the inevitable revival

By one second, or just, again

By one indivisible moment

Beyond the point of no return


The seed, the idea of his betrayal

Must be planted at birth

Unbeknownst to even himself

By people’s subtle mentions

All throughout his life

Till his final act is without premonition

And completely sudden and unstoppable


Out of

Perhaps, yes, wrath of revenge?


The one to pull the lever

Will not be without enemies

So our hero must be close to

One of his previous victims

Take heed of the target’s every word

Especially his very last

For that will be the Trigger:

Our hero's very first word

And

His love’s very last word

For revenge must be buried

Deep in his heart

✼✻✻

ERAHKHU : REBIRTH

✼✻✻

Rebirth, Erahkhu

The General’s last word was

Echoed through the Time Reserve

And entered into Erahkhu’s

Stream of consciousness


It became his first thought

It became his first word

It became his name


Erahkhu loved Thaehrah

And when she was killed

By a bandit within the rebels

It became her last word

As falling into the river

She called out to him


Erahkhu thought he was

Destined to help revive

And rebirth the dying

River of time

As did the General

For it was he who ordered

The killing of Thaehrah

To ensure Erahkhu left

His home at the riverside

To become the destined

Final observer and witness

As witnessed and observed

By Reporters of his time


But as the General’s last words

To begin the rebirth echoed

In unison with the voice

In his stream of consciousness

As it did when he was born

As it did when she died


Erahkhu’s last indivisible moment

Was never intended for birth

Or Rebirth of any kind-

It was the General’s last word

It was our hero’s first word

It was his love’s last word-

So it was to ensure death

The death of the General

And the death of time

Perhaps, without it

Without prolonging of life

They may once again

Reunite

✼✻✻

THE GHOSTS OF ENNUI

✼✻✻

We succeeded and time died

But we were not reborn as

Timeless beings

Or reunited with our ancestors

Or Erahkhu with the love of his life

In that better kingdom

We can now faintly see

But never reach

Where Thaehrah and the General

Reside


We are destined to roam forever

As aimless spectres, for we never

Crossed the threshold of True death

But became The Ghosts of Ennui

Our home was eventually plundered

Turned to ruins and then finally

Taken over by a nautical race of

Time creatures in the shape of waters

And in effect, ironically, revived the river

The River of Time
All of my poems are written on a impulse in a stream of consciousness, even when they are structured or follows a narrative, no matter how many lines or words, I write them all at once. So I do not know if this even makes sense.
Chronothánatos
By: Yue Xing **** (Yitkbel)
Wednesday, May 29, 2019


--=
I wrote this quite spontaneously, and heavily influenced by Doctor Who and Fringe, if you're a fan of the two shows.
I composed the entire nine page poem in one day, and:

I have come to wanting to ‘disown’ this piece of narrative poetry. The poem is completely original of course, in some parts you can’t even find lines identical to it; it came to me in an uninterrupted stream of consciousness. I wrote it within one day, edited mere letters within it, left it alone, and was satisfied. But the ideas within it, or even the narrative structure, and the storyline is far from original. In fact, I could say, it is quite cliched. I was heavily, heavily influenced by what little science fiction, and popular astrophysics for the layman books I have read or watched: from  books by Stephen Hawkings to Kip Thorne, from HG Wells, to countless Doctor Who novels, and as for television and film, from Doctor Who itself, to Fringe, to even Interstellar. It troubles me to think the poem is merely the result of recycled ideas, for it is still thoroughly my creation, however unoriginal the core ideas and symbolisms within are. Like all that suffers from imposter syndrome, I have a deep rooted insecurity of being seen as a fraud, a mere thief of ideas. Thus, I must explain myself, explain all the thoughts that flowed through my mind when composing this piece of poetry:
(I am not a student of science, so please excuse the possible complete nonsense of this work, if it is not fit to be a science fiction poem, then please view it as a fantasy.)

Through thought experiments, before reading up on it, I have concluded that the illusion of time stems from the awareness of it, from our consciousness. Apparently St.Augustine was the first to ever question the entity of time, and resolve on time being of the mind and not of the physical. (https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/consciousness-temporal/)

Thus, the creation of the land in my poem of the river of time, river of conscious awareness of the passing and coming of change. Time is conscious awareness, as is birth, as is death. Therefore the river divides into streams of consciousness.

What is then core to the story of the death of time, is that, although the length of the circulation of time never changes; time, being a body of water, alters its viscosity. Time slows down, time freezes over, time stops, and time dies in a sense. (In my mind, this started as a metaphorically attempt to explain the differences in ages of human beings in the bible.)

When time mets its ultimate end, what comes of us?  Do we rejoice in eternity for the end of loss and sorrow? Or do we become the ghosts of ennui, ever away from true everlasting joy that must only exist beyond the threshold, unable to be reached without divine intervention.
Aaron LaLux Sep 2019
First 5 people that Comment and/or message me right now will get my new book THHT3: The Hollywood Hills Trilogy 3 for FREE right now. I will literally buy it for you from Amazon this very moment.

It's #3 worldwide right now, here's the link if you want to check it out: www.amazon.com/THH3-Hollywood-Trilogy-Lights-Shadows/dp/1950780023
Proctor Ehrling Sep 2019
The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.
Inspired by GY!BE's "Undoing a Luciferian Towers" and a girl I know, who is obsessed with Boris Vian and all things avant-garde.
Starry Aug 2019
As the sun sets
The pillars of salt
Really do come to life
With a vengeance
As the women come back
From seeing the destruction of
***** and gamoro
Justin Aptaker Aug 2019
death calls
every heartbeat by name
making each one the same

this is your life
this is your life
this is your life
this is your life

the metronome, calling me home, ticking away, fading the day
life can be so melodramatic
like watching static
with the volume on mute
and your mind on mute, numbed by the gentle static hiss of your own personal hell
and the waves that swell
the remains of life-forms onto endless beaches of time

all time is mine
all time is mind

i look out by night
at the vast ocean of Being
and the sand, as it slips in my hands
is not made for my counting
infinity is not comforting

i smell salt
sitting on the naked earth, i draw from a vast reservoir
a deep well
hoping that maybe if i bury my head
under the beachy sand
i will escape the tide by becoming one with the earth and the stars

i try to write perfect words
with the absurd feeling that if i get them right
they will work like a spell
that shatters reality itself
and places me somewhere else
where things were right the first time

after all, we cast reality with words
and all of our pictures come to life
and all of life is our pictures
and words are our entire reality
so we must not be saying the right words, thinking the right words
no one taught us the right words, we don’t have the faculty for those kinds of words

silence and sleep
thoughts of the deep
give no rest for me
they reek of the sleep i dread to sleep
i make noise so that the universe must keep listening
i banish sleep because a white gangrene is glistening
where the worm never dies
and the smokes always rise, blotting the skies

are we the children of Cain? cursed from the face of the earth
is it because of ****** in my heart
that i am marked to die?

we stand shivering outside, in chains and shackles, all in a line
with brothers and sisters in front and behind
and every so often (we never know when)
our captors pluck one of us out of the line
and none of us can stop it
and we are forced to watch it
while they stand our mothers and fathers against the wall
and open fire, but not at heart or head
on stomachs and bowels instead
so our loved ones expire slowly, writhing on the cold dirt
pleading eyes upturned
begging our love to save them
but we can only wait our own turn

it seems that no Mind would dream up such a dream
and give it as Life
to its very offspring

i tremble to blaspheme
but i am questioning
doubting

whether Love has ever tread these tangled paths at all
whether Life ever begot life
whether we are not in fact just the spectacular fireworks
of passion and sorrow
that the universe has cooked up with
its chemical sorceries

which paint once the sky
for an instant in time

Father! Father!
do you even remember the name that you gave me?
do you remember the night you pulled me violently from my resting place
where it was dark and warm and secure?
and you cast me into a cold, hollow womb that continually miscarries
and i was born in a tomb
too soon?

it was winter
do you remember?

the dying of embers
O, wanton December!
Who pierced me with sorrows
and gave me tommorows
but stole all my todays


i inquire into the science
of infinite gaps
of gaping synapse

i investigate the substance of Being
poking at it from every angle
demanding that it yeild fruits fit for our consumption
that it justify itself

must i remind you
that i never asked to be here
and i never consented
to this form or this figure
riddled with cancers

i am the eternal thought
thinking itself
watching with terrified attatchment
these bodies which i inhabit

my haunts, my accostomed places
my ethos, my habits
my character, a socially constructed facade
my self, ever putting itself
into the eyes of others, looking on itself
imagining itself playing the roles
of each of the other children in the schoolyard


but at last, the primitive state of nature overtakes me
i’m going to sleep now, do not awaken me
and when i awake, Love will wake again with me
and all the smoldering, dying wreckage of this day will forsake me

ah, i remember now, the sound of Love, walking in the cool of the garden
when each day seemed to stretch on forever
and the night was full of magic
the infinite gaps can only be scaled
in the space of one instant, no more and no less

working its way back through every other instant
time, since it is a function of mind, is also subject to language
i stand back from the bodies of the dead i inhabit
i am the universal singularity, the one thought
throbbing and pulsing in the ****** heights before explosive creation
i
howl
the body electric
and rise, ******* over Moloch
whose mind is pure machinery
and whose children drown in their insanity

with a cold and broken hallelujah
i hymn the blessed race immortal
and rend the fabric of reality from top to bottom
entering in the place most holy
and die, writhing on the warm, welcoming earth
the place of my birth
the place of my hearth, where the embers glow and spark

December has now heard a lark
Hades, required to return to her mother
the goddess he has stolen for a season
and the Bird rises wreathed
in flame from the ashes
baptizing the Forms of our collective unconscious
with the blessed and holy power of life

and coming to life, all of our pictures bring us to life with them!

*

one can not blaspheme what is not
for one can not think of it
look again at what Love gave us
in the space of an instant, which extends on forever
since time and space alike are a construct of our symbolic processes

i pull out my tabula rasa
i am written on the tabula rasa
all is white on the tabula rasa
all is white
all is white

the waves now are dragging me in
to the ocean without beginning or end
and the depths are alive with the wind
of warm currents and of births and of sand
and death would appear now a friend
leading me in by the hand
calling me into the land

Love is life
Love’s alive
Love is death

Death calls
Written ca. 2011
Stella Jul 2019
My buckle was tightened,
My hair pulled back.
The counting lowered
To a slower track.
It spit,
It moaned,
Then took off towards the sun,
Bringing me unknowingly
To Florence's most gifted son.


Haphazardly it crashed,
By a tree with a sputter,
And a poor startled child
Who gave a choke and a stutter.
My blood rose,
I crawled out,
In robes that were so
Immaculately made
Like a goddess would sew.


So I journeyed with grace
Across the sun kissed land,
Towards a busy town
That sounded proud to stand.
Bickering,
Singing,
In a stench of waste and wine,
Conditions in which
My own people would wine.


In a market of sorts,
I met my friend Leonardo,
Who sought about
With his pet cat Lombardo.
Rags,
Candle sticks,
He would aimlessly buy,
We greeted with smiles
As we passed each other by.


“Sono Signor da Vinci.”
He said through his beard,
The richest voice
That I had heard.
I assisted,
And learned,
In his bizarre eye,
And found he had a far
Sharper brain than I.


The man insisted that he
Could soar without wings,
And each day took part
In the most peculiar things.
“It is finished!”
“It is ruined!”
His passions were so great,
I could feel his frustrations,
And hear his teeth grate.


Then once,
With no mind,
I grinned at his temper,
Which made him glare-
The strongest one I remember.
But, he paused, and said
“Mona Lisa, give another?”
And I smiled once more as he lead.


Now in museums,
People crowd by the wall,
They notice my face,
And they tremble and fall.
“Her eyes!”
“Her hair!”
I always draw in a line,
Of inquiring tourists
Who struggle to align.


Now try as I might,
Though I had upfront sight,
His brilliance was too complex to site
On paper,
In art,
His soul,
It dripped
From every pore
And sought to touch
The mind much more
Than any genius
Known before.
Candace Smith Apr 2019
there’s a piece of you inside of me
I put it there for safe keeping
close to the beating pulse of my body
so I can still feel you when you’re not around

your presence envelopes me
your voice soothes me
your touch stimulates me

this piece I carry tightly kept
inside my breath
where no one can see

Sacred, where the she or him
Cannot take it from me
Solid, where the lack or not enough
Cannot waiver me

Protected in this quiet place
that may not actually exist
perhaps only in this prose

where letter meets paper
paper holds truth
truth is what I say
and I say this..

There will always be a piece of you inside of me
Forever.
From now
until the next life we meet.
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