"aldous" poems
i
why don´ t they just make a machine
that does our living,lily,darling,
save a lot of messing..
we live all these years and then
slowly our memory depletes them
(though they say all memory lives within..)
if we were programmed at the beginning
some kind of limiting of emotion
ambition etc..
alpha to epsilon
brain washing
soma..
*** but no reproduction
endless fun
order..
is belonging
art gone
the way sure..
simple dogma
love or go
love..*
ii
lily says
love is meaningless
unless we are ready to
die..
who is..
would i..
i
stood
high
to the very
devil..
fall over
weebil..ha..
but to die
and see sun
rise no more..
little bird
sing
in
the silent
dawn
sweet voice
eternal greeting..
blithe angel
o children
of the future..
messenger of
the gods..
loyal gaurdian
to ever
and never..
outside
and know
a silent cosmos..
be born anew
to heart
be found..?
*through-out the poem are references to the
brilliant novel brave new world.for which i make no
apology but as a mark of respect to great talent of
aldous huxley..
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
GOODBYE TO THE CIRCUS
( 'Oh! Nellie the elephant packed her trunks
and said goodbye to the circus...
off she went with a clumpity clump
...clump....clump... clump!
The head of the herd was calling...
far far away.' )
Auntie Nellie
died of:
drink, loneliness: & whatever...
(not necessarily in that order) .
And the farm that was
our young days summer holidays
cast her youth like so much pig slop
to the squelching grunt of
cow dung days
moo cow lowing years
until the dust collected and
settled in the corners
no one could reach....
Time left her like a Holy Picture
high above the mantle piece.
See the children
take the coloured cards in their hands
go play 'Fish in the Pool! '
Scream: 'Snap! '
Laugh at who is left to be:
'Old Maid! '
'Not me! '
'Not me! '
Time never took her
hand like a lover's...touch...
... Time...
...only...
...waited...
. . . for her.
In her loneliness
she read and re-read and lived on:
Aldous Huxley's - ISLAND.
She said...this said: 'Everything! '
Years, later...when she reads
like a fictional character in someone's story
when time no more ...mattered.
I travelled to her
ISLAND
and touched her LONELINESS.
felt her LONGING.
Auntie Nellie died of:
drink, loneliness: and whatever
(not necessarily in that order) .
...said goodbye to the circus......calling far far away...
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC
Let me tell you what I want….
I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver
I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia
I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground
I want to explore small towns and big cities
I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard
I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques
I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies
I want to take long drives without a destination in mind
I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing
I want to build a fire and watch a movie
I want to sit on the couch and sip tea
Most of all, I want to do these things with you
Don't let your addiction take this away
With all the bits of my heart….
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
They tell us, in school,
to read all these books
by great minds;
H.G. Wells, Arthur C. Clarke, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, Aldous Huxley;
but, at the same time,
they tell us,
even if subconsciously,
to ignore the grim implications
coming evermore true with each passing moment
of these Prophetic authors.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
aldous huxley told me twice,
'that men do not learn very much
from the lessons of history is the
most important of all the lessons of history,'
both times i put my pen to the page
and re-read what he had said
until i thought i understood
today i watched big fish and
thought of spectre longer than
i probably should have,
where is it that i arrived before
the road was paved to bring me there?
when will i return?
i know i don't need to figure out
timing because that's what fate's for,
but with a wild wandering mind
it's difficult to detract senseless what-if's
from buzzing about in my brain
tonight i delete excess and make plans
to live a life that doesn't declare ignorance
of what preludes each step taken,
tonight i find sollace in full moons and
figure if there's anything i've learned
thus far, it's just as aldous said,
live life as if you've learned something
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
"The realization
not the knowledge,
for this wasn't verbal or abstract,
but the DIRECT, TOTAL AWARENESS, from the inside,
so to say, of LOVE as the primary & fundamental cosmic
FACT.
I was this fact;
or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that
this fact occupied the place where I HAD BEEN."
Aldous Huxley, English writer, died 1963.
A quote respectfully, deeply so, arranged on the page by Martin B.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
"I ate civilization. It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then I ate my own wickedness."
- Aldous Huxley
i let my head hit the brachiaria.
cyan sky rolled past,
and it seemed to me as if
my past itself was dragged out of my body,
excorcised and pulled up
and traveled with the sky's current
the sky is moving,
impossible and slow.
the clouds jog with a rush.
sometimes i think i have never
felt at all
with my year ****** up,
on their way to Mongolia or
Philadelphia,
I tried to desperately recall
sullied at the thought i couldnt.
I thought about how i always embarrassed you
in public
how i'd turned into an embarrassment
at this point in time
my pure innocence
that flowed in the past gently
uncomfortably shifting and
wondering how certain things felt
i don't know
manhood devoured me like
an apple.
in the garden
i walked
tried to spot all the perennials
and i did
and i thanked mankind for taking up the
habit of finding wild plants
bringing them into our lives
i see a sign, the museum is holding an exhibit on
british pastorals and hellscapes
i tell her we should go.
she agrees
walks across the street to buy a wire.
my blood ran down my body
onto the linen
Egyptian cotton
like the princesses who
married at 14,
at 13 i laughed
when they asked me to go the square
and at 15 i felt it my responsibility.
the fetid collapse of my
sincerity and my serenity
flowed through my being
patrolled round
my purity like
a culpable
sentry
i closed my eyes
and i felt the sheets heavy with
plasma
i blinked and
everything turned to burgundy
the subway grates licked at my ankles
the poplar and elms
in firestone
laughed at me,
who had so eagerly
held on to a fray
consumed by mankind
gutted with
certain
toxicant.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
My life is occasionally a continuum of anxiety of and or relating to the possibility of my going insane. My greatest fear is schizophrenia, thanks mostly to Aldous Huxley's Doors of Perception. At my worst, I am standing in a Wal-Mart under the surrealistically bright lights of dead consumption waiting for my head to become an unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar voices. It has never happened. The closest I ever came was on the night of February 4th, 2013 (which, in this case, just so happens to be last night), when in a state of silly pointless inconsequential anxieties I thought I heard the faint hum of an unfamiliar voice chanting, 'Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.' It went away, but the moment I started hearing it I freaked out a little inside as I was lying in bed having just finished reading. I attributed it to the possibility of over-reading, over-conceptualization, not enough time in the real world. I blamed reading and writing and watching for the feeling that I'm never quite in the real world, because my head reads and writes and watches and asks itself; “are you real? Can you truly say with any certainty that you exist? How much sense does depth perception make, and now go to sleep and dream in your head because one day dreaming will be considered a symptom of mental disease. Enjoy it before it terrifies your strange fettered wits.” Sometimes I listen to music in my head and wonder if that's insane. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and contemplate innocence. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and sing along. Sometimes I listen to music in my head and realize all music comes from inside so I calm and I calm and I calm.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
the wind is reading
Aldous Huxley's ISLAND
dropped among the hollyhocks
the wind speed reads
skips entire sections
a fat fly walks over the title
an obese raindrop falls
upon the author's name then
another & another &. . .
ISLAND
turns to mulch
raindrops batter the book
it comes apart
at his touch
islands of words remain
"...two thirds of all sorrow
is homemade and so far
as the universe is concerned..."
the rest is lost
but he can fulfil the words
". . . unnecessary. . ."
now here at your grave
my fingertips trace
the curves of your name
as a lover might
trace the taut
muscles of a back
a ladybird pauses on
the H of Huxley
as if learning its letters
their metal inlay
glinting in the sun
"...it isn't a matter of forgetting..."
your words scattered
across the years
"...what one has to remember is..."
"...how to remember and yet
be free of
the past..."
I still grieve my lost book
eaten by the weather but
glowing in my mind
I laugh and tell your grave
"Give us this day our
Daily Faith but...
...deliver us
Dear God
from Belief."
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
Remember Wyoming?
Those two days find their way to me, and it always seems so vibrant.
How it hurt to breathe with the constant cigarette smoke in our mouths,
and how hard it was to light one in the windy cough of the night.
I remember us and the others drinking some tea,
and seeing myself in its ingredients.
I remember looking in the splintered mirror for half an hour,
exploring the wonderful fluke of my face.
I remember feeling every ***** of you in the prickly light of night.
The desert howled at us and we howled back, not caring if our sounds would slap the others in the face.
When we stumbled back in afterwards, the space was silent.
Someone took something and they heard their own voice,
but they didn’t like that echoing clatter.
Their hands were over their ears; they writhed on the floor like their skin was a size too small.
It was then I realized that our cabin had no windows or doors, but just gaping indigo gashes,
and I felt so defenseless against the angry emptiness of those American wastes.
Eventually his body slacked, indicating that he was stuck in himself once again.
We stayed inside for the rest of the night, keeping our eyes away from the spaces in the walls.
We huddled together, me and you, on the concrete floor, and tried to keep the fire going.
I remember someone through in that Aldous Huxley novel, and I thought it was a waste.
I, for one, always liked the ending, with the feet rotating like Columbia Mall’s carousel.
But I’m sure you’d beg to differ.
The next morning we and the others shook ourselves awake, and shambled our way into the Dodge.
I sat in the flatbed, and as we hollered down the highway,
I watched a single cloud slip across the sky at the same rate we were driving,
and lied on my side for those 8 hours; the cloud looked like a tired blur.
But when we arrived outside Omaha, and everyone and you jumped out to ****
I realized that the cloud I thought was still must’ve flew about seven hundred miles.
It could’ve fooled me.
And then you kissed me on the cheek and took a Camel out of my pocket,
skipping into the soda shop like a child, two days younger.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:50 PM UTC
The tube, the box, the artificial world
sat squarely in the corner of the room
where once a conversation had unfurled
now stagnant silence peering from the gloom
in want of fun, folly, artificial joy,
no thoughts created, only thought consumed,
where once the pen was our most cherished toy,
now stands the box in which we are entombed.
George believed control through that which we hate
Aldous through bombardment with things we love,
The threat of this electric ******
I fear much more than Orwells famed Big Bruv.
So turn it off, take down a book and find
the thaw to melt the snows that freeze the mind.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 11:18 AM UTC
a deep chthonic rumble bids me re
read
Aldous Huxley, Ape and Essence. See it, beyond the doors of perception
Brave
New World Apocalypse,
now retold by the last of those old carp,
using modern magi-tech to tap
Old intel, informing conforming minds of masters,
each holding certain truth servant but they
mention no slaves, as we imagine
all men were by right rich in time to read
and speak of things read or said
in writing found in hidden places,
lonely,
all by my self places,
said to be, places in the mind, while
places in the heart have others of our kind.
We make up a mind, we say in thought
I see
the old wise men were not all wombless eunuchs,
though many
of the idle words they left as
landmarks, lost all meaning over time
being folded up and put away,
for future perusal with intent to improve
whose angst is only felt while beating their own drum?
whose joy is wishing and hoping and dreaming the best
is yet to come?
Not mine, in my future, your now.
Now, take a thought, a non stature increasing one,
ignor the basest of
us,
the beings once mated with actual gods
Ignacio's right use of wrongs, to foil the enemy...
that thought
that evolved into,
lying for the good of the corps social structure,
the mould… formed from thinking that thought
the shape. the frame, the footing under the cornerstone
the builders rejected,
get that straight, the stone rejected for valid masonic reasons,
genuine geometric unorthonicity, not right, not straight
from one point to another,
not smooth as glass,
level as
any
still pond, still lake of your one time experience
seeing the meaning of still
water
that remains the measure of stillness,
by which all further stillness is judged.
You know what I mean, by the measure you use.
Selah. Shalom. Nothing missing, nothing broken
meanings tie us to our measure.
Truths held in trust rust through boots of iron and form the dust on Mars visible from Venus,
as we all bear witness
everything under the sun is much older than any
New World Order, on fractally every scale.
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 4:26 PM UTC
This Strange Thing Happening
What is this strange thing happening?
An opening, acceptance broader than before,
Love as chaperone.
Sights, ideas, sounds,
A seeing to the core of things –
Gradual, ongoing; every morning fresh.
Things foreign, new and unfamiliar,
Things outside my mental door:
The whole as if I’d had a drug of one or
other kind,
So new one thinks about one’s state of mind.
Mad?
A chemistry?
Not bonkers, loopy, cuckoo, batty.
No!
Perception changed:
A little bolder, unafraid –
New thoughts sprung from the hubbub of the old;
New sympathy - rich empathy,
And there’s the rub -
Unused to, as it were, to stand up for…so openly,
Articulately, stating what one thinks is true.
One wonders if the people round have noticed too.
One thinks of Huxley*
Will it stay?
Settle down or go away?
Does it have a meaning?
A broadening, one hopes – but frightening -
A bit.
One’s entering an untouched land.
One hopes one lands just right.
The Strange Thing Happening 7.2.2016
To The Child Mystic II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative; Pure Nakedness; Revelations Big & Small;
Arlene Corwin
*Aldous Huxley (see The Doors Of Perception)
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
ALDOUS: ”Stead fast you poor soul,
Ha! Luck shall know no bounds, bestowed upon the youth who only dream,
On the path, how drear to men and hearts,
Seldom should i know that begger’s start.
How age grasps and pulls apart. The gray too will pass on your chestnut seam.
So you too young Icarus will fly close to sun.
But Before those days have come ride the stage and fill the crowds with Belief.
Remind them why we Live, breathe, cry, laugh, and grieve.
And Go.
Bard,
sing along by yourself.
Let the men pile themselves just to hear.
Bare-witness.
For your brothers must be brought out of their pits.
Broken might he be and the err of many days weigh upon him.
He was stricken down. Speak to him of fresh earth,
the harvest and blistering plow..
On sweat, the Sun ,and drought. Lament with him on summers wings.
Brought from his lonesome cell he has prepared his chains, tears, and blistered hands as an offering.
So strike away.
Your strings must be the alter
.
You are his keeper; speaker against and for Kings.
Like Mercury carry your rod and branch. bring peace.
Take him away to these good things:
Sing song o’ God and far by the night,
lost in smoke.
Impart the verse and tune.
Forget not your words and wounds, and play them through.
Beget fresh memories laced with wine
In these things, the now that so often slips by masters of time.
Halls and circles where drunk men have lied and spoke, casted tongues and tales of old and young.
These too are righteous to memory, art an woe.
Wither your voice on spirit, soul,
And Ear.
Tie up his boots and coat, dance on yesteryear.
Paint god’s wrath and grace, esteem his deeds.
bring the morning star and remind us hunger and why we need.
Oh how it will burn at your belly, and brand the oak of your throat
You will breath again.
And so shall they shovel the callous and coal, brought back to fire by the warmth of the afterglow.
Chase the beer with happy thoughts, or you’ll always be lost.....
Smoke to reflect, sing to feel and yelp your jeers in good taste.
And Go.
Bard,
sing along by yourself.
Let the men pile themselves just to hear.
Bare-witness. “
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 10:14 PM UTC
Terence McKenna claimed
both psychedelics and travels
to be very affective and similiar
tools that help expand the mind.
Connecting these claims
with the observations of Aldous Huxley,
who proposed the mind and the
physical Earth(terrains, continents, landscapes)
to be conjoined with a shockingly strong bond
We can see Terence's idea
making Huxley's words fuller, more clear,
and more credible.
You can see, one's mind is in a great part shaped by
his everyday environment & actions. Repetitions lead
to the creation of bonds. Revisiting these paths
without a doubt creates a map of some kind.
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 8:48 AM UTC
War & Peace
We agree most of the time war is caused
By capitalism, nationalism, in fact, any isms
Demagogues and murky propaganda
These entities can't fight wars without soldiers
And there are too many young men who
Simply love the idea of wearing arms and fight
They go to war the survivors are veterans
They know now they have fought for nothing
In despair, they take to drink and drug and sink
To the bottom of the human heap
Aldous Huxley spoke of something in the water
That takes the aggression away….Good!
Only one has to be careful not making them into
Zombies with no ambition to the point the world
Disappear in the morass of apathy.
We can't stop wars happening but we can try to
Prolong peace and make wars more infrequent.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC