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"hypostatized" poems
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆ Dearest Count, I know you watch and listen. It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts To you, to whom, I christen. These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane, but seldom in vain. In antediluvian silence drawn, manifests in hyperborean dearth a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth. Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate, the omphalos of matter, still inchoate, where perichoresis in vertiginous tide the fractal that doth assuredly bide. A palimpsest of null embrace where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns, and time itself forgets to turn. Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin, in circumflected aeons spin, converging on the cusp of naught, where paradigms in silence rot. A chrysalis of paradox, enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks, that chime in fugue, then dissipate beyond the hinge of latent fate... The pericombobulatory grand design deliquesces in auctorial decline! (Syncretic palingenesis unspools, within the aether’s epistemic pools, a syzygetic parallax unweaves the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.) For naught but vacuous profundities remain, a simulacrum of the arcane mundane, where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise. Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design, circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign, as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse. Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse, catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse, whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite, obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night. A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast, consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage of our shared Jungian past, germinates within the syntagmatic— Ever relaxed or ecstatic, Coalesced to pragmatic, Lugubriously emphatic. Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire, where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire, one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam, an ontosemantic palinode to the dream. The Archetype realized. The Alchemist mystically re-materialized. Count, oh Count. "Wherefore art thou," indeed, in this : our time of greatest need.
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Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC
OldeMrHoover
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴
⸎⟆⥉⦕⫯⟴ Ode to the Count De St. Germaine ⸎⟆ Dearest Count, I know you watch and listen. It is through you I set sail upon this ship of thoughts To you, to whom, I christen. These polysemic effulgence do, alas, waxen, wane, but seldom in vain. In antediluvian silence drawn, manifests in hyperborean dearth a logos, sir in autochthonous rebirth. Their, hierophantic murmurs will obfuscate, the omphalos of matter, still inchoate, where perichoresis in vertiginous tide the fractal that doth assuredly bide. A palimpsest of null embrace where these false augurs drink from hollowed urns, and time itself forgets to turn. Perfidious orisons, whisper-thin, in circumflected aeons spin, converging on the cusp of naught, where paradigms in silence rot. A chrysalis of paradox, enshrouds the fey, unbridled clocks, that chime in fugue, then dissipate beyond the hinge of latent fate... The pericombobulatory grand design deliquesces in auctorial decline! (Syncretic palingenesis unspools, within the aether’s epistemic pools, a syzygetic parallax unweaves the thaumaturgic spoor that time bereaves.) For naught but vacuous profundities remain, a simulacrum of the arcane mundane, where in sesquipedalian grandeur lies a syllogism clad in grandiloquent guise. Ouroboric concatenations of antinomian design, circumvolute within paracryptic paradigms malign, as obmutescent theogonic vestiges coalesce in the eidetic zymurgy of aphasic largesse. Metagnostic palimpsests, fracto-linear and obtuse, catachrestically wane in hyperchromatic profuse, whilst locutions, effulgent yet contrite, obumbrate the paramorphic tautology of night. A transcendental abecedarium, paralogical and vast, consanguineous with the inexorable umbrage of our shared Jungian past, germinates within the syntagmatic— Ever relaxed or ecstatic, Coalesced to pragmatic, Lugubriously emphatic. Within this hypostatized ratiocinative mire, where sophronistic axiom and non-being conspire, one finds but an echolalic, chimerical gleam, an ontosemantic palinode to the dream. The Archetype realized. The Alchemist mystically re-materialized. Count, oh Count. "Wherefore art thou," indeed, in this : our time of greatest need.
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59
My depression had become hypostatized. What had once been an apathetic disquiet That trapped me in a chasm of my own despondent mind Like a listless anesthetic Was now a minatory wraith. Haunting my every heartbeat and permeating my sanity, Feasting on my solicitude and Lusting for any coruscant yet scarce threads of faith That held my hope together. Like an avarice. This assault on my being enervated me. Paralysis. Coupled with sporadic bursts of frenzied nerves. When I felt that insidious gnawing on my humanity, Sending spasms along sinew. Brutally awakening this cadaver from the endless malaise. I used to dance in the wind, but never like the others. Branches heavy, Floriferous with empathy, Roots delving deep to drink in the truth, Trunk dense to defy the gale of calamity. Lost inside the thicket of deciduous oak, I danced against the others, Against my brothers. Accursed willow. I wept as the winds tore at my blossoms And the worms nibbled at my feet. My river went dry. My knees went weak. Infernal rampike. I mused bitterly that if a tree should ever fall in the forest, Not even his brothers would give audience to his demise.
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May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
Jopal
Ramblings of a Bleeding Willow
My depression had become hypostatized. What had once been an apathetic disquiet That trapped me in a chasm of my own despondent mind Like a listless anesthetic Was now a minatory wraith. Haunting my every heartbeat and permeating my sanity, Feasting on my solicitude and Lusting for any coruscant yet scarce threads of faith That held my hope together. Like an avarice. This assault on my being enervated me. Paralysis. Coupled with sporadic bursts of frenzied nerves. When I felt that insidious gnawing on my humanity, Sending spasms along sinew. Brutally awakening this cadaver from the endless malaise. I used to dance in the wind, but never like the others. Branches heavy, Floriferous with empathy, Roots delving deep to drink in the truth, Trunk dense to defy the gale of calamity. Lost inside the thicket of deciduous oak, I danced against the others, Against my brothers. Accursed willow. I wept as the winds tore at my blossoms And the worms nibbled at my feet. My river went dry. My knees went weak. Infernal rampike. I mused bitterly that if a tree should ever fall in the forest, Not even his brothers would give audience to his demise.
Continue reading...
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