"cambrian" poems
A cloudless night like this
Can set the spirit soaring:
After a tiring day
The clockwork spectacle is
Impressive in a slightly boring
Eighteenth-century way.
It soothed adolescence a lot
To meet so shameless a stare;
The things I did could not
Be so shocking as they said
If that would still be there
After the shocked were dead
Now, unready to die
Bur already at the stage
When one starts to resent the young,
I am glad those points in the sky
May also be counted among
The creatures of middle-age.
It's cosier thinking of night
As more an Old People's Home
Than a shed for a faultless machine,
That the red pre-Cambrian light
Is gone like Imperial Rome
Or myself at seventeen.
Yet however much we may like
The stoic manner in which
The classical authors wrote,
Only the young and rich
Have the nerve or the figure to strike
The lacrimae rerum note.
For the present stalks abroad
Like the past and its wronged again
Whimper and are ignored,
And the truth cannot be hid;
Somebody chose their pain,
What needn't have happened did.
Occurring this very night
By no established rule,
Some event may already have hurled
Its first little No at the right
Of the laws we accept to school
Our post-diluvian world:
But the stars burn on overhead,
Unconscious of final ends,
As I walk home to bed,
Asking what judgment waits
My person, all my friends,
And these United States.
3.9k
Illustrious queen, set me free
from the chains of my desire
Though mere form, an eternal dream
relieved by bursts of white fire
A primordial odyssey
from ocean's novel progeny
Crawled out of Cambrian waters,
fish who yielded the first daughters
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC
The Cambrian period had 7000ppm of CO2 in the atmosphere.
That was a time of the perpetual fire.
Even though the solar luminosity at the time was 4% weaker than today, the earth was much hotter due to the free amounts of carbon dioxide.
Slowly chemical weathering and living organisms bound the carbon in the atmosphere so, at the time of the Carboniferous period, it had reached 180ppm.
The earth was much cooler. A wonderful time with 34% oxygen in the air.
Then after this period, flood basalt eruptions, such as the Siberian traps and the Deccan traps released vast amounts of CO2, and this caused the earth to heat up again.
That was an inferno. 90% of all life died.
This followed by slow weathering out of CO2 and subsequent cooling.
When the CO2 levels are in low and balance the earth temperature change due to the Milankovitch cycles. During such period the climate always changes.
We even had ice ages during this period.
Now there is no flood basalt eruption at all. This time it is we humans who released the CO2 in the atmosphere. It took us one hundred years.
Earth will be warm. It will be hot.
(Source: youtu.be slash r7aZ6vqCk2E)
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
We began with little mutations,
Harmless, or more so beneficial,
We adapted to our love,
With no methods of dispersal,
People thought we couldn’t get any closer,
But your behaviors changed and we began to isolate,
We were stabilized so I hoped for fusion,
But realized that overtime not even reinforcement could’ve helped,
We had our Kingdom set up,
And later we fell into a “Family”,
But you classified me too general,
Now I don’t know where I belong,
My feelings for you were like the Cambrian,
Sadly enough they became a catastrophe,
You started selecting,
Seeing me as worthless,
But I knew I am not one to select,
You looked at me like you’ve studied Phylogenetics,
I was at the most top,
But ended up at the bottom,
You were not natural, but neither was I,
What did our selections favor?
And our relationship turned into cloud and dust,
Sadly it collapsed,
And you left me imprints of lies and hurt,
And words preserved inside me like a cast,
You ingested away my feelings,
I was the pili so attached to you,
But you were an endospore resisting all of me,
You no longer knew what feelings were,
And to you, I was an annual,
Got replaced so quickly,
But I shed tears where the oceans have formed,
And supported you like the roots of trees,
But you were a virus,
A pathogen,
A parasite,
And I was the host,
Blinded by your toxins,
And my cells swelled in favor of you,
You offered me and I gladly took,
I thought I was an obligate,
Surviving off of you,
But I was too mindless to see the real you,
And I was like the Archaea,
Survived the harshest paths for you,
But with a single expression you crushed my world,
And like a Zygomycota you’ve molded our love away,
And sadly enough I couldn’t evolve,
With pain feeling like spikes inside,
I am no longer the magistrate of love,
And love is my killer.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
There is speak of latency
and pregnant pauses,
for epochs.
From Cambrian to Devonian,
and all things antediluvian.
The stone, the bronze, the golden age.
and the age of wood and wool,
Of wool,
and wood.
Of mahogany,
and mohair.
An age of comfort and kindness,
of nanas wasting idly in rocking chairs,
Knitting sweaters big as continents,
for the sons and daughters,
Of their sons and daughters.
with the loom and swoop and stitch.
While each toc and tic,
Turns grandma to dust
and to death
Then to be latent again,
in a universe of dust.
A star, with a secret harbor,
of virtue.
A constellation, lassoed,
in her honor.
Blessing all with patience
Shining benevolent,
and intentionless,
For all to see.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
The words that are thought but never shared between lovers
that's where I want to set my tent.
The emptiness of a piece of manuscript before a composer scribes their first motif
the rocky landscape before the cambrian explosion
the fabric that makes the dress that lifts the spirit of some lonely girl on a grey day
the clay between the sculptor's fingers
that's where I want to place my luggage down
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
the surface, frozen
in the depths, they rest
suspended among ice
crystals
we can't see through
the crust, though we
know they are there,
for simple hook and bait
wake them
within the fine folds
of their brains, the
accumulated wisdom
of a half billion years
guides them to the catch
the promise of full gut
they don't see us through
the ice, we two legged novices
in the kingdom--jesters who lull
them from Cambrian dreams,
to the white light of today
they snap the lure
they flap about on the frozen pond,
we witness their death throes, unaware
what the gasping future holds
for the wretched species
to which we belong
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
I know a land of salt
and pepper stalks and moss,
whose jagged, hazy coast
a thousand flowers bears —
of Ireland I boast.
Even now my heart is sick
for a home I never had.
If I were there,
what I would do,
I'll tell to you....
I'd show my love the mountain's nooks,
I'd pounce the foeman's daring rooks,
and plunder every dusty book,
and sleep in emerald vales.
We'd clamber up to a secret cave
and there we'd dwell,
away from the pell-mell,
and fast away in purple robes,
pretending we were noble-born
(for Ireland, we ought to be),
we'd in defiance hunger stave.
See now, her cloud legions marching in step
like flares emerging from the wood.
While horses roam her sunlit plains
and flowers shudder in her breeze;
while puddles form in shallow pools,
my watered mind accustoms trees
of bleak and twisted nature,
on the wild icicle river,
coldly biting my knees.
But here afar away,
there's treasure under every
glistening leaf,
'twixt frond and fern,
bristle and bramble,
and bounding stream.
By daylight,
Eire counts every rock;
at starlight,
assesses her stock.
I know a land
whose greenery bursts
in the morning dew,
and gives hopeful cause
to a hundred generations
of stoic sword-brethren
flashing down the coast,
singing their jolly tune,
as the oak decks are mounted
with freedom's guns
emboldening battle new.
Her amber-gilded name spears through
clouded sea and Cambrian cliff:
if every isle were touched as this!
by saintly light from Atlas' air.
She is the jewel of the isles,
the song of countless souls.
As men march down her
summer roads to meet their
tender-hearted lovers at home in
comfort from callous kings, the
breeze will bring news of another
christening or crossing... for then
each girl will spy him coming, and
make haste to alert the town,
and they will all turn out with joy
to welcome home their darling boy;
to herald the ending of famine and war,
and so they will shout for centuries more!
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC
he’s going to falter fold out like a staircase
in the face of
cambrian ice and you’ll hold yourself out like
you could have been absolution itself
you’ll be thinking about the ones that look like they’re comfortable
in their own skin and poked out light
and upward facing rays and upturned faces
and scattered papers
you’ll be versed in angel’s tongues
but paralyzed by syntactic blindness
silenced by the dome and everything thats happening
without you
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
Down by some babbling bank,
my past lives superimpose,
Upon my own.
And it was near,
toxic waters,
where I was born.
And primordial bubbles
unearthed a bone.
From which,
I was fashioned and formed.
Though ghosting tongues,
do bobble and flap,
In gaping cambrian mouths.
they are mute, finite and fixed.
Which does none to please me,
in my present state.
Stoic and unashamed
like a marble crying fountain,
whose tears reach to the saints,
The cobblers.
the warlords,
and snakes,
that I might have been.
So if I regress,
so far,
To the point of hatred
I will reserve it
for those,
Who deserve it:
Those preceding me.
because they never did give any good advice.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
Under Rings And Crescent
Meandering Down Stream
Through The Land Of My
Fathers
That Once Carried Their
Dreams
To The Wider Reaches Of
Silty Gravel Plains
That Are Fed And Washed
By Cambrian Rains
Here High Vertical Sandbanks
Crisis Cross The Valley Floors
Allowing The Wye To Empty
Onto English Shores
One Of The Most Scenic Rivers In The UK
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 2:48 PM UTC
A Cambrian explosion
That is what I need,
That might calm my troubled ocean
And beget me anew indeed.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
I'm worried about my heart
From the pre-cambrian period
To the advent of modern medicine
My heart beat with feeling in the mesoderm
Put your fire
With my fire
And we'll burn brighter
Burn brighter
And I feel my heart is weak
Maybe it stops when the beat drops
And I'll be dead on a stage
While the band still plays
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
I'm worried about my heart
From the pre-cambrian period
To the advent of modern medicine
My heart beat with feeling in the mesoderm
Put your fire
With my fire
And we'll burn brighter
Burn brighter
And I feel my heart is weak
Maybe it stops when the beat drops
And I'll be dead on a stage
While the band still plays
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
I'm worried about my heart
From the pre-cambrian period
To the advent of modern medicine
My heart beat with feeling in the mesoderm
Put your fire
With my fire
And we'll burn brighter
Burn brighter
And I feel my heart is weak
Maybe it stops when the beat drops
And I'll be dead on a stage
While the band still plays
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
the cambrian seas
are calm this mid-summer eve,
and shimmer the stars.
Feb 4, 2025
Feb 4, 2025 at 10:43 AM UTC
passive perception points out a small
visitor
just below the ***** window sill
as
dishes on the edge of biology are slogged through
the
[wet]
cerebrospinal tendrils cling to the thin line of wall behind the pockmarked metal faucet
like
far-flung dendrite fingers cling to passing notions : such as a soft-focused background sensation of the clouds moving by you in the sky beyond the confines of this room.
dark opaque eyes
first two, at the end of each antennae like the body-plan of a Cambrian killer
then four more present from the amorphous body
bulging out like dive bladders filling up with ambience
tracking you like leaves do to the sun much slower
thin
not-bug appendages get too long to be normal
then even longer
it is reaching for you in the camp kitchen as
y o u
back up to the light honeycomb
door
May 3, 2024
May 3, 2024 at 4:01 AM UTC
my body moves from point to point
- endless paths and promontories -
swimming cross-current
at the edge of a great fall.
consciousness lays wait below:
a sense of self;
awareness larger than itself,
older than my life.
traversing growing spheres from time to time
- moments made by difference -
racing at standstill
down a vast and shattered pane.
decisions marked in lines:
a shift in form.
evolving minds beyond our space
(a)part (from/of) all that is.
Aug 19, 2024
Aug 19, 2024 at 9:19 PM UTC
Alam Sayed
My dormant dreams remained in the primordial soup.
As an amoeba I dreamt about you eons ago.
In the sacred hollow of my mind lives your shadow.
Scrawny leaves of memory in the gutter of my brain
remain fossilized.
I waited for you in the Precambrian mud.
I roamed in the puzzling field of Cambrian jungle.
I dreamt about you being sheltered inside the body of a dinosaur;
Among acid rains my dreams were burned.
I searched for you amid the cry of stars.
My dreams were washed away during Noah's flood.
I wept for you near the stones of pyramids.
I reluctantly cut the throats of my blood brothers
in the Colosseum of Rome,
and fought the ****** battles with Spartacus;
and I saw our blood bloom as red flowers
in the reddened field of Capua.
I didn’t want to be a witch hunter
in the muddy medieval jungles,
and I didn’t want to be a gladiator of modern times.
I didn’t want to be a vampire of corporate age
******* the blood of my postmodern friends.
Perhaps, you will never be born in the craters of
ever hungry tyrants.
And, perhaps, in the world of fanatics and *******
you should never be born.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:23 AM UTC
Mrs Malaprop got away, a way, I mean, a way
wit words
she can say shitistic stuff as if stuffit were a joy,
when she says it, while
telling
still silken legs crosse demurely,
the delicate ankle
that made monks blush and blurt out
confession,
MY GAWD,
rolling, clockwise, as she sees it,
counter to my
FPS POV, but we both see the direction,
east, the earth is turning east from now
to then when
you become wel here in now.
Recall the lesson of flat land, whoever taught it
coulda been AE Wilder-smith hammered
Jael's nail home,
Couldabin, mightabeen Sagan made the killing blow
young earth shattered.
Fossils seeped their living substance into stone,
petrific, ter ific magnetic trick of missed percepticons
fired fully of the intention, I must mention,
stretching truth to cover conjecture when ideas
like what happened in the "Cambrian" being being
explosive become
purposeful in minds of men, wombed or un---
--- once
--- before you knew, that hapt.
--- and, god, did men make up storys.
on track. Back when men first imagined doing
making, art arose and
we all know
a rose, by any other name is a rose.
That's the idea in self evidence. It's a key to
the Declaration of Independence making sense,
at the level of we, the people, who know
self-evident non-thingables, when we hold them.
At first, they feel like sleepy puppies. These
truths we hold selfevidently right.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC