Maybe we were once stranded here
on the slopes of these mountains
between the white peaks and the low land

We certainly came up with words
to tell that story
and we went into the world

with that answer to the question
Where do we come from?
From the belly of the boat

as the image of our Mother
Earth, who is born where she is
in the lap of heaven

above the Holy Mountains
which kiss eternity
on the border of our existence

We move on and give names
to the world we discover
Time and space embrace us

I don't tolerate

distortion -- sound, face, or thought,


I straighten it out.

Blocks on the carpet:

messy, but very precise –


any way they lie.

The harbour: the quays


are like a flat sea, the ships --



are walls of iron.

i read an article
on self-realisation today
about how
we are an echo
of the universe
and how we can use
that awareness
to unlock our greatness

it stated that
an echo is merely
a vibration bouncing
from point
   to point
across an expanse
it explained that
all objects
throughout the universe
pulsate with energy
that all objects
are a manifestation
of energy;
therefore we are
nothing more than
clusters of energy
vibrating
           bouncing
     ricocheting
through space and time

over time
echoes weaken and fade
into nothingness
returning to
the universe's preferred
state of equilibrium
that cosmic balance
between order and chaos
which existed long before
our disturbance and
will surely return again

the article was meant to be
an aid for practicing inner peace
but it seems i may have
missed the point

People are order,

domes overarching the world --


head to head apart.

I'm fine, I clean up

broken pieces, quickly I --


look outside again.

dancing off to The Beetles’ tongue.
there is gloss on lips and all features rest
for nothing else
of decor could be found
in the sudden haze, the sudden haze
of that mad devour

we have stumbled on the edge of order
and now tumble we—
beneath, beneath, under
these treacherous waters with masquerade licked;
a calm— a calm shimmering
like them Sirens almost.
come, it cooed, and went and went we
to its feather-light lure

and jumped and swayed our arms about,
skipped and laughed then laughed
till stomachs winced

loathed
and we have loved on the lips
on the lips, but slipped
as smeared, pink hues;
oily and glittery in their innocence

there lurks chaos in its smothering, wet mouth
and we moths flutter
closer, still, still...

and for us ripped
the golden lake its skin
and us it held, held till took from us
all

we have lingered precarious and
surrendered crumbled,
and crawled out dying, dead, undying

still to those chapped, glossy
banks we go
and dance and dance and—

outside, the cosmos swirls on,
in here, the daisies scream
and ask the walls of who they cage
they silenced stand

one prayer was broken,
and one hushed;
one was hazy,
and one too late.
one then, never offered

in the age-slicked thread
of that shapeless rosary
sun on moon falls
with naught a sound
but a sigh.
and moon on sun still

within, a finger, a finger flays—
one nail was chipped
one’s skin too dry
one, imperfect a temptation,
and aching for ache one.
one then,
left alone with a clot

ask the walls
of their unwavering serenity
as hollow, massless bones
they stand

laced with cracks,
with clatter, with
thousands an uncounted
blemished prayer,
and skins as
paints scrapped off—

waiting, waiting;
to smother the daisies
to a quiet marrow