"irreducible" poems
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium
Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
42.1k
split the atom an we get fission
mass becomes energy
but can we split a second
enter the essence of the present
what would it mean to us
to be that mindful
ask your self doesn't your mind
only occupy past future
abjectly incapable of living in the present
in the true present there could not be even a ghost of a thought
theres no time to think
can we enter
an incalculable split second
and totally take in that instant
with a forgotten organic technology
is it the big bang in perpetuity
yet quiet as a mute
a raging ever expanding sea in a connected
but distinct dimension
if you entered it
would it not utterly erases all of history
the thinkers and doers along with it
the step beyond the alpha and omega
the great underlining reality
imagine the penetrated moment
an all consuming unimaginable
trans-mutational merge
omnipotent
yet forever imperceptible
to those among us
time locked
an irreducible limitation
like an ant in a closed paper bag
a fixated reflexive machine
wandering aimlessly
with an unknowable mission
and a relentless survival mechanism
with no chance of survival
time as a cosmic metabolism
its medium space
a vast cauldron
an infinite vessel containing endless points of light
everywhere
myriad phenomena
its terrain and the temporal creatures that inhabit it
both exquisite and hideous
an incalculable zoo
histories victors and victims
one and all vanquished
by the curse
consciousness of dis-juncture
a merciless countenance of limitation
yet could time be an illusion
rooted in a narrow awareness
bereft of an eternal
inexhaustible self effulgent now
the rapture
an eternal ******
if we could only penetrate into it
would it swallow us
and blot out the drama of creations theater
is the
now
conscious
illimitable
ecstatic
a perfect meta moment ?
we hear from sacred texts
like the Vedas... Bhagavad Gita.... and Kabbalah
that we may enter beyond the veil
passed time and its ravages
passed mind and its distortions
not to the heaven of religion
in its endless
closed system precepts
anthropomorphic metaphors
theistic gobbledygook
and
sophomoric social engineering
a kind of cliffs notes
god for dummies
we can enter
the eternal abode of the divine
a point between
the splitting of seconds
revealed through the simple act of mindful breathing
pierced by the effort of a focused mind
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 8:09 AM UTC
The great dialectic remains between fate and free will.
I'm prepared to defend the notion that fate has a bigger hand
Without seeing into the future we are unable to change it
The forms textures chiaroscuros and chromes are painted into each of us as we descend into the world soul
and discover we are not merely posing cameos
directed by each other's projections
All souls are evocations,
layer upon layer of archetypes
each of them
prayers and yogas
all irreducible fluctious desires
voluptuous nymph or curmudgeon
hero or *****
As depth accumulates
we give each thing a name
we live and unfurl destiny
both good and evil
This fate already forged into our souls.
Only in destinies weaving finality,
even beyond the grave
are we melted down like snow in divine rays
of effulgent light, and pure spirit
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
**** men
predatory *** hounds
chasing skirts and tights
aching **** idiots
disciples of Eros
Christs of fetish
reconciling nothing
veiling that principled demeanor
of feminist culture
"of don't objectify me".....translation
sensual form is not natures ruse
machine Eve must
override override override
well the id does not negotiate
the superstructure
of affected political tele-reality
starring
the liberal chattering class
who speculate male motives
to be some vainglorious power trip
while corporatized media personalities
feign out of control lust
as a mental disorder
and
sit up like shuddering Pekingese
yessing the lascivious
as a fiction
no ladies
its not just power
theories are not testosterone
it is pure unadulterated
relentless
irreducible
urge to merge
like the beluga **** channel
sea world as you've never seen it before
where male dolphins
batter and gang bang
the weaker ***
in search of feral harmony
in an overbuilt society
yet to become a civilization
are we
scissored between a wild ****** id
of the damed
and the Victorian sacred
of the damed
oh you silky damsels
makin men moody and humid
pure **** heroine
a poison ivy of ***
like a rash
givin men folk the itch
cant stop the twitch
rubber *******
in a rubbing frenzy
from your soaking heat and odor
we are a rumbling of muttering torments
for the forbidden taste
of you
oooow
oooow
we are pan in a mad dance
for glistening shanks
and buttery kisses
we are the early bird looking for the worm
hunters decreed by the liturgy of heaven and hell
a constellation of infatuation and lechery
mad with adoration
love slaves in a raging furnace of desire
*** addicts
that just say yes
turgid dogs
hole sniffers
voluptuous monsters
all johnny apple seed
and sometimes your salvation
as you are ours
knowing that sometimes
real eroticism eclipses morality
and yes my darlings*
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
NO MAN SHOULD EVER TRANSGRESS ANOTHER
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
There is a love that goes beyond passion. Beyond desire.
A love that is felt within the very fiber of the soul.
One with ardent, inexorable devotion.
A love of imperceptible depth, and intense adoration.
There is a love as unyielding in its fervency,
As it is in its sanctity.
A love that is immutable, and enduring.
There is a love that sustains and validates one's existence.
A love that is uncompromising in it's absolutness.
There is a love that leads one to their destiny.
One that is incomprehensible. Without concession.
A love that holds the heart in passionate seduction.
There is a love that is timeless and unending.
A love that is unyielding in it's conviction.
There is a love with irreducible and fierce conviction.
A love with immeasurable compassion.
And that love, is the love I hold for you.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
Spaces distance themselves--
to isolate the purpose of longing.
A depth where memory forgets
itself...spaces backwashed
lucidly.
Genuine seeing sets in--as if a
searchlight disconnected from
its lighthouse...swimming toward
the horizon's conclusion.
Longingly, as it is to bleed and
be bled for...the exchange of the
heart's chalice.
Eyes are lit by the asking of
salvation...so many eyes...tenderly
placed for their hapless duration.
Spaces distance themselves--to
isolate the purpose of longing...it
is therefrom a genuine seeing sets
in.
How else may emotion unfold...how
else may this temple stand amidst
the wilderness?
A temple destined to die into life...
as life is irreducible from a genuine
seeing.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
i
this parody of life beyond
a roaring loom of time
like an embrace
momentous
through the battled equinox of chance
the stirrings and strivings
born of earth and sky
toil, whine, whimper, moan
wait and tremble, hope and pray
then
the clear shining after rain
we sail the lifetide
on leaky bottoms
never to sight dry land again
ii
behind
the shards and wrecks
of innocent vagaries
of wayward plunges
that flee the point
beside
unobserved but observing
a sentient mould of slime
raddled
at break-neck hurry
before
is wrinkled wisdom
mellow laughter
a hand-made unborn
of a callow womb
hereafter is ever
now is gone by
past is prelude
iii
snowwhite or pitchblack
lowly or lofty
free-born or fettered
yearling or aging
worms shall feast
upon thy flesh
to elements irreducible
and in thy nakedness
come face to face
with thy maker
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Atop the frail ego she mounts her merciless machine gun with which she mows down any speckle of personality that dares flicker amongst her immediate surroundings, until only her presence alone can remain untarnished and unfettered by sadistic, sardonically summarized ridicule, luminous and majestically radiating with solitary supremacy. Oh, the splendorous grandeur of self-indicted superiority, the rush of power and authority from diminishing another's essence with ruthless categorical association, the incomparable ecstasy of using their own positive attributes as their rudimentary flaws. Viscerally volatile, the cocking of the mocking gun's hammer is to be recognized as the phrase "You're just trying to be______". This is critical, for all too well she knows to a certainty that at the most essential level, one is only simply trying to be. And when you attack a person's will to try, their will to be, then you are taking aim at the one vital aspect of their existence which they hold any discernible dominion over: their character. The slaying is heinous and orgasmically fulfilling, for how can the perennial, separatist worship of Self be indulged in among so many of these "others"? But oh how exhausting it must be, the perpetually cyclic nature of the task. How can she ***** a light that doesn't exude from a distant source, but is a brother beam of the source they share? How does she extinguish the reflection of a flame off the water? Like fireflies on summer nights they disappear only to reappear again, somewhere else, reminding her of the irrevocable, irreducible power of being born and reborn again in the new moment. The self-aware ******** audacious enough to love themselves. How much of it do they really think they can withstand?
Reload.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
The Forge
by Michael R. Burch
To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,
then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arm’s-length, something irreducible
drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool
of water so contrary just a hiss
escapes it—water instantly a mist.
It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ...
And then the driven hammer falls and falls.
The horses ***** their ears in nearby stalls.
A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles.
A sound of ancient import, with the ring
of honest labor, sings of fashioning.
Published by The Chariton Review, The Eclectic Muse, Trinacria, Poetry Life & Times, and Famous Poets and Poems
NOTE: This is a sonnet about forging sonnets. The gray "anvil" is the human brain. The fiery "glow" is the poetic imagination. The cooling and shaping are the process of revision. The hammer is the poet's pen, producing order out of chaos. Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, poem, indestructible, irreducible, hammer, anvil, forge, labor, fashioning, shape, smithy, blacksmith, ironworker, sword, pen
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
I was foolish, to have believed the lies your eyes told.
I never needed some sort of approval to explore the ways I felt
Drifting away in your eyes.
Those shameless lies that cared not what they told.
Not once did they reply to the things told in confidence.
Tied port side by dim lit lights. The fog smug, suffocating everything it touched.
The secrets I felt that numbed the pain.
The extra miles walked in untied laces.
The ease of feeling uptight, repressed. Gone whenever I felt your presence.
You were that light that I searched so long for, wandering around in complete darkness.
Learning to trust what I felt, I believed in you.
After searching for so long, that one beam to pierce through the dark and make everything clear.
At least for a moment.
And for that, I don't blame you for circumstances out of my control.
That irreducible feeling, watching you disappear then reappear.
Spreading your light in every direction but the one place it was needed most.
Things happen for a reason, and just as sure as I drifted away in your eyes.
I've learned that the stars shine the brightest the farther you get from port.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
(*i couldn't say more than enough, or
much at all. i am uncertain but
only ever-so-slightly and, overarching
paradigm, i'm happier than ever, even
if i'm still sad.*) we play
party to endless routines. bite our
own tails with startling frequency.
shudder or spark. most often both,
but most often meaning little, for
meaning is intrinsic, only where you
implant it. in patient hunt for
our exterior products, we numbered
blades, outside; hovering above and
without fields. writing the same
light motifs as always. nothing looks
like stars except stars, or sand, or
freckles in your eyes. everything
shines a little dimmer. something
about the way our hands brush
through stems. directed motions.
observable quantities. sentences
underpinning lifetimes. how does
one figure their actions or inaction
as anything but universal? how
does one decompose their patterns,
already found irreducible? from
either side, movements are local.
we reside in pure neighbourhoods.
all existence outside is asleep.
the hallways contract. water runs
from & over our skin.
shivered
and, as basis,
discovered this
world is just as dizzy. just in
new increments. not eating for days
sends you sick. eating for days
does likewise. broken down or
breaking down, we idle and
sleep and sometimes hope for
coalescence (or, at least, as far
as i can find). but, meadows, too,
still sleep, forests still sleep. all
alive is this room, or shadow,
or minute discharge radius. so, if
you aren't here or closer, how can
anything matter? asleep & passing
through city-light. tender ghost.
sweet summary. some days, even
i am discontinuous, but only for
passing swathes. field underfoot
& distance now mean little more
than nothing, and little less than
everything. and, as dual, i
could hardly forget. scale &
continue in each second. it is
cold & getting colder, and i've
figured out how to miss you,
already.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
The God of innumerable blazing universes
and every incalculable dimension
remains an irreducible fact of physics
as a point in space
beyond all human understanding
and religious precepts
yet remains
the ineffable source of all that there is
or will ever be.
.....
Meditate!
A no-mind contemplating a no-thing
understand each other perfectly
yield the gift of immortality
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 7:21 PM UTC
A demure river converges with the sea and turns into a scepter of intrepidity.
My eyes try to follow every ebbing wave into the strands of illimitable resurrection.
The wind carries the clouds toward a ruffled terrain and turns sunshine into rain.
Reckless movements seem to convey the act of solicitous tenderness.
A forsaken lighthouse on a deserted island tries to revitalize the ship that never arrived.
The enlightenment seems to brighten up its separateness
From the world of decreasing congeniality.
The resplendent pasture seems to absorb the colour from the verdant trees.
Scintillating dewdrops variegate the cusp of the grass like an exhilarating crown.
The inaudible murmur of pastoral life wraps the passing day in its tranquil impeccability.
The lucent stars seem to burn the vacuousness of night with its satiating fire.
Nature seems to have become the harbinger of my lost words
That long ago manifested my dauntless but wretched love for you.
The uncanny omnipresence of the unbarred memories seems to amalgamate
The unreciprocated past and the abeyant present.
Stirring thoughts in an invigorating mind seem to lose its scrupulousness
In the midst of these harrowing days of ruthless truthfulness.
The metaphors of nature seem to have juxtaposed with the feeble pieces of my fragile heart.
The ineradicable retrospection of moon-sharing nights seem to have emerged
From the irreducible darkness around me.
The twinkling shadows of inseparable hearts seem to converge
Into the enticing hills of the unlit valley.
The honest moon seems to have lost its sagaciousness in the night of relinquished lovers.
The closing day is enamored of the festering odor of onrushing annihilation.
The transcendental road to salvation merges into the heath of transcalent despondency.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
Uncommon are the necessary
Common denominators of thought
That can unlock the prison of mind
As is irreducible
This eternal enigmatic maze
As our personal stories unwind
Deity becomes accessible
In the privacy of heart
But lost upon the multitudes
Of religions so far apart
And this too shall pass
Is but wisdom of the weak
As we're locked in a free fall
Hoping to land on our feet
And perhaps I know nothing
Of tears that fill your eyes
Or hearts that beat in suffering
Or the arrogance of human pride
But I will not lie to myself
Or pretend that I am special
I am but a molecule
Just a single particle...
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
[Author's Note: These are song lyrics.]
Distracted
Restlessly inactive
Desperate for the formula for joy
Attracted
Recklessly reactive
Rescued from the silence of the void
(Hearing everything)
From under the frozen ground
You walk on by
I explode
Without so much as a sound
And then you're near!
Trembling like the earth
Inside
The ice that disappears
Blown softly open
By degrees
As slight as deep
Morning tundra yawns
A filthy whine
Disturbing the soil of years
A product of my environment
Skeptical and wired
More than a little irrelevant
Always so tired
Of tragedies already written
Of competition for roles
To survive, win or lose,
To pay the price for repetition
I vow to leave this spectacle behind
But then you're here!
Barer than the trees
Outside
Your buzzing, breathless fear
Blown softly over
By a breeze
As light as sleep
Budding blossoms weep
A minted sigh
Releasing the doubt alive in me
(Please)
Baby come for me
Let me know your zeal
Let me know your greed
Let me know you feel
Even if you may not love me
Baby come for me
(Born of the urge
To devour what is beautiful
Favor the nectar of a queen
Torn by the surge
To divide the irreducible
Savor the subtle taste of spring)
Into everything
Over fertile ground
You walk on by
I explo-
© Michal Czechak 2010-2016
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
Art is working within a frame. Knowing and exploring that frame, using contrast, drawing attention across the field.
It’s an extension of language. Which is metaphor. The default art of language is the frame we operate from within. The words we collect along the way, to place along the veritable canvas of open air.
You need the frame to create context, but it’s also limiting. And it’s only when we understand where our context collides with other broader or more pervasive contexts that we can reconstruct our frame. Transcend it, and paint a newer, more comprehensive picture within a newer, more robust, frame.
So how big should your canvas be. Smaller frames require concision. Bigger frames allow more expansive exploration.
One would think, by those descriptions alone that a larger canvas is better, but it also requires more discipline. We can easily lose ourselves in the expanse and be left with nothing but irreducible chaos. Jungle. Space. Ocean. Not because these expanses are truly irreducible, but because we haven’t developed enough to place any kind of conceptual frame around them. We can’t place them into a useful metaphorical context, besides pointing into the void and reveling in its mystery. Dreaming up monsters or messiahs that only reflect our fears and ignorance.
But this isn’t a canvas it’s a concept and it’s hopefully a clear description of why overconfidence in our understanding can lead us to creating a frame larger than we can effectively navigate. Painting ourselves into the void, swallowed by reflections of our own shortcomings.
It’s not pessimism.
Each person is a natural artist gifted with the capacity for communication and supreme adaptation. Very fortuitous developments compared to say; ******* ants out of a tunnel with an incredibly well adapted snout, or establishing mate worthy dominance by bludgeoning a competing male with large outcroppings of bone. Music, written word, spoken language these are the result of our creativity. Our propensity to shift the scope of our picture. Capture understanding from depth by reducing it.
Language only has the frames we construct within it. We must place the borders around our picture somewhere, and playing within each arbitrary space is what creativity is. The self limited but transcendental use of ones space or time.
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 8:01 PM UTC
a black and white
photograph of her
posed demure and *******
smoking a thin panatela
in a silver and ivory baroque studded cigarette holder
she looking off elegantly aloof
with soft sienna eyes
tender feet brushing legs
under tables of flowing wine
at
Maxes Opera House Cafe
with miles of smiles
and pink fizz giggles
lips that talk in kisses
and a voice like fondled blooms
that was thirty years ago
dark edges of anger
like knives through walls and hearts
cold touch-less nights
caressed by shadows cast
the bodies alchemy, deranged
silences punctuate arguments,
make up *** vanquished,
antediluvian
souls bleached in the kiln of war
rattled moons
brittle hides
abandons dance
we've both gone our own way
and running out of patience
yet at the core
an irreducible bond
fused
by history and memory
we cleave to whats left of life
and each other
last grasp in retrograde
remembering
soft sienna eyes
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
At seventeen I stepped out of the cloud
and into a clearer knowledge; an atypical
viewpoint skewed by my heritage and
stubborn willingness to always be right.
Some kind of British tolerance has kept me
from howling 'injustice!' in the streets,
whilst some idiotic notion of love or truth
presides, to keep me invested in this life.
With knowledge comes the weight of knowing
and it wore my shoulder down to a chip,
causing me to walk in hurried strides
in order to keep balance, to make my way.
With clarity comes a more potent love;
all features and laughter amplified
to make you forget the sound of silence,
until you cannot deal with its return.
Some kind of solace has been found
in reducing life's events to a plot device,
whilst some irreducible desire causes me
to wake, to persist with a purpose.
At twenty-three I found that better sight
only illuminates the complexity of existence,
the fractal nature of the developing foetus;
echoes of evolution: a better self each day.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
“Transcendence is dead”,
He remarked,
with hollowed eyes enlarged
“There’s no exteriority to this existence,
no object not rooted to this mind,
no experience to reach to alleviate me from this pain”
Words uttered in vain sentiment,
like riches given by a desolate
“- and there’s no interiority
to this existence either,
no refuge untouched by extrinsic hands,
no truth untainted and grazed
by worldly sands,
etching indelible marks,
serrations upon the purity of what I envision, oppressive symmetry bounding my condition”
Echoes unbridled to the night made by folded wings
of the hungriest crows,
a reality smirking upon this man
encased in noxious snow
“-only immersion,
only implicit truth,
only sensation,
that’s all that’s left when flesh is torn,
arteries spilt,
and bones broken,
when my fantasies are the whispering
of the death of lives yet born ”
How unfortunate,
“I once remarked that
„abstract are the lines of my conscience„
how false I was,
there is no conscience,
there is no line, there is no territory,
no irreducible components of self,
no elements,
no world,
mere immersion, mere immersion, mere immersion, mere imm-“
How unfortunate,
“-ersion, my plane of immanence,
thought is not real,
only the image of thought,
people aren’t real,
only their representations,
this is not real,
only my description of it,
I’m sustained by this illusion and I am content,
for content is not real, only stationarity,
to suggest my autonomy
suggests a piece in a game,
an agent in a relation,
a designated power,
but power is not real,
only my laughter and spite,
only the former iterations of myself I
walk over
so I may tell myself I am content where I am,
consciousness is not real,
only the playthings of my inner demons,
and my unconscious is not real,
only the results of my outer events,
I am not real,
only the set of eyes that overlooks me”
How unfortunate,
a child who instead of a soul,
an unhealing wound,
but don’t feel upset for this child,
he is not real, only the representation of him, only a disembodied set of eyes describing his flesh left behind
|
Now I must close my eyes, this child of hollowed sight is beginning to cry, then so will I
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 7:01 PM UTC
When neurons shut down
What will be left
All we've forgotten
Remembered at death
What if we've lost
Our minds long ago
Will we somehow
Finally be Whole???
Synapses fire and spark
lightening, in our heads
so utterly uncontrolled
it's a wonder, we're not dead
Sanity and clarity flow
as does the blood in vein
pumped by, heart and soul
as if by magic, so arcane
The governing factor
That sustain our souls
Is one and the same
We can never know
Blinded by world views
Folk lore and fable
Straining to see past
Titles and labels
No fetters being strained
no chains, or restraints
just thoughts, inside our brains
words, our hands, then paint
Simplistic yet irreducible
The building blocks of knowing
A thought so deep
Is a seed ever growing
Manifested in mind
Imagination the key
What is, and what will be...
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
You can’t swallow the truth
No matter how hard you try,
In every bite the seed remains,
Of meaning, irreducible,
That sticks forever to your tongue,
in darkness, undeniable.
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC