Self,
in exploration,
     transcended the limits,
                          became one with cosmos.

In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the

Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern

Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the

Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a

Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it

For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes

To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny

Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country

Carrying a somewhat cliche heartbreak on her shoulders, she climbed the hill. She figured that all the men in the town would be able to see her up there, so high. Climbing, she contemplated her past relationship and how it had ended. She then tossed it off the hill on her way up, ready to receive a new presence from a new man. Knowing she deserved better, and knowing she would receive better, she had high hopes, but still, a gray aura surrounding her.

She knew that when the sun would set each night, it would glaze her silhouette with vibrant colors of passion and light, reeling in her new mate.The excitement aroused her. Waiting on that sun to go down each night, marking the end of each miserable say of waiting, she sat at the top of the hill.
The first few weeks were hard to watch. She planted a garden and sang and danced around its crops, from day to day. When she became tired, she would stop and sit and close her eyes. Sometimes she would open them, very wide at first, as if expecting a change of scenery. Her eyes would then droop in the realization that nothing had yet changed, but her tomatoes ripening.

I think it was about two months when the flowers in her garden began turning brown and dry. Her sister had stopped carrying water up to the hill for her, from the well. Whether she had asked her to stop, or whether she stopped on her own account, is a mystery to me. But she did stop. This water, was of course, for the girl, not the plants. There was plenty of rain, it being springtime and all. It was the lack of water that the girl was receiving that finally caused her to cease gardening.

Not only did her flowers grow brown, but her smile grew blue. It was that of a forced expression. It looked as if she was trying to convince herself of happiness, when in fact things had taken a volatile turn, downward.

After a long period of thinking herself silly, she began to sleep more often. Her mind was asleep when her eyes were closed; she found this  much easier. When her mind was turned on, she only thought about her past dreams sinking away. Hopelessly, she continued to sit on the hill, now in silence.

~

One early day, she woke to the sun blinding her. A small bird dropped out of the sky and landed on her shoulder. The bird sang songs into her ears and circled her for hours. The bird was doing for her, what she could not. During this time, she began to think deeply.

She thought of all the things that had happened to her. She thoughts of love, and lust, and hate, and life. She thought about the bird that had the strength to sing when she did not. She was ready to sing now. She was ready to dance again. She thought about how selfish she had been to her garden when she had stopped caring for it, because she could not even care for herself. She thought about all the time she felt she had wasted on this Hell of a hill. None of the townsmen had ventured forth; none had even called up to her for her to come down. They must have thought she was crazy!

Only three more days passed, before I looked through my telescope in awe. She had begun to walk down the hill, slowly, but surely. I thought, this must be a trick. Maybe she dropped a shoe. But both shoes were on, and the rest of her clothing, for that matter. She had a determined look on her face, as if she had transcended over night. It was beautiful, really.

As soon as she met the precipice of the hill and the meadow, she ran. She ran toward the trees, where the stream flows so elegantly. She dove in, headfirst, and played like a child, almost. She then got out and lay in the sun, on some grass nearby. She thought herself lame and unjust to spend so much time looking for another man, when she had had herself all along. She was happy alone; I could see it.

After a couple of hours, she got back up and walked over to the water. She crouched down in the kneeling position and then furthered her body toward the water, gazing in, as if hypnotized. She looked down at her own reflection and then screamed with joy. She jumped around and danced and sang. She was so ecstatic, I couldn't help but smile to myself with the utmost joy. She had found herself again. The one thing she hadn't been looking for, had come. And now that her soul had returned to her body, I could return to my life. In that moment, I knew that she was ready for me to go and meet her.

My dear, do you want to know
why this stream shall never cease to flow
why this countenance shall know no smile
why in vain you realease torent of bile
for eternity shall my face tarry behind the sun
and ever shall be till this ugly scenario run
cut off from every string joint to my mind
to recall no more that gruesome day
Limbeh turned a cadavar awaiting decay
how my heart tremble while my tongue relates
the incident that turned an early widow late
the night before, cried a owl across at nightfall
grandpa beheld and discerned the mysterious call
tapped he my shoulder and opened his phangs
look beyond the pregnant night in labour pangs
waiting to birth a child as mysterious as the cry
Ekumbo! May i live not to witness that melancholic night(he sighed)
a thing unheard of in Aweh beyond countless centuries
worth plunging a kingdom into an endless misery
frightened, departed me with my ribs to my cradle to fall
holdin his words to await he upon whom the lot shall fall
so as the pregnant night did flipped
departed then this poor widow to her field
to gather bread for her fatherless kids
then in agony their lips they bit
as their eyes rained in torrent
and their sobs grew even fervent
when the fatal tiding was unleashed
a thing which feared hearts and andrenaline released
how she bent beneath a dry iroko gathering yam
in her distant and lonely farm
a branch uphigh cracked
turned she to see the source of the crack
behold a log fell on her skull
pouring out what was left of her brain- all
keeling rightward, she fell as her spirit transcended a plane beyond
a place so gray, so blund
now poor orphans, as poppies to be shared
departed they to various kins to be rared
and daily this dirge about her goes
as villagers their drum beat and lyre blow
forget not the story of the unfortunate widow
who for the door, took the window
and drank not from the spring of old age
nor for her maternal labour achieved a wage

I was a tiny fragment of darkness, struggling to find my way in the light. I was evolving, and metamorphozing every minute. My particles broke up into smaller particles and soon I was to become a mere speck of nothing, in this universe of light.

I couldn’t find my way. I was lost.

It concealed me in a shadow of pain. I could feel as it consumed me bit by bit.

Pain, I didn’t know what it was, except that it left me in distress and ice cold tears.

The light seemed to fade.

The pain disappeared, and the mere speck of nothing that I was transcended into the darkness where I really belong.


(lunarlullubies)

and there it was, a statue
maintaining hatred
glowing with demands
forcing structure
atop a pyramid of
filth and gold
and mountain rock
gliding over the city with
outstretched hands, a superhero
corrupting the coast
reality transcended
against the sand and wind

There should be wings of a hundred birds
to churn this scorch with breeze
to dry sweat
shade glare
to soothe the ache
of a post-noon day

There should be varied
and a thousand greens
with all betweens
of innumerable trees
till the blue of sky
blends their deference

And the river heaves its way along
ever on
eternal mission of earth
and...

...Heaven-- sure misses so much some days

Cool remote
Transcended as it be
Replete with rains
and relief of clouds
The Angelus in the distance....
with its affluent affinity for air

Revelers leave their party debris
for those making sure
not a sign is left....
We sort and fold, collapse and pack

Somehow between chairs, tables
cans and bottles, assorted trash

They come--

crouch on the levee
wander and stare
aimless amid tall dry weeds
Inhabit a bench, a moment--
Wild
filtering through our fabrication
Wind to dissipate our purpose
Trees invading abandoned fields

“The poor you have with you always”

“I'm not drunk,”
she drunkenly proclaims
to no one
except maybe….

Leaning over her opened beer
seated on bench adorably painted
with joyful hands

Who fondly held or hoped for her?
Before....
days of dirt troweled a shadow
in the sweat between her *******
Filthy tank that barely covers
derelict denial

How they find themselves established
as we make to leave
WE, of our homes and cars and jobs
and plans of escape

They--

of always

We did trespass, deface, vandalize, mace all manner of things, frequently, selflessly
What is noble, the non-aristocratic definition:
"having or showing fine personal qualities
or high moral principles". I saw both in places you'd never suspect,
-Anything abandoned and everything unintended
In faces I came to greatly respect,
-All those friends who moved us towards the transcended
In choices I don't (and cannot) regret.
-In what I consumed and with whom I slept
It amazed me,
-That dusk sky
It stays with me;
-My longing mind
What I witnessed,
-From way up high
What I experienced;
-Life and/or death
I never would have guessed
I could be a part of living like this.
For that I am blessed,
Even if only temporary
it's bliss nonetheless.
-Shivers down the back of my neck
But enough,
What tales have I to tell?
I fear mere words would be woefully inept
at describing how I feel about the times we've kept;
My city and I, and the people we adore.

Drizzle descended on the park's benches
but foul weather couldn't stop
our journey through the intoxicants

The night was cold but she was warm,
Under gushing orange lamplight
we were in each other's arms

All a fraction of a shard of that which occurred
beyond a sonder veil, yet I fear even this
shall remain an unspoken tale.

What truly captured my gaze
were not the drugs I've come to glorify
nor the women that caught my roaming eye,
It was the communality of it all; identifiable to a teenage.
We formed clans, became family; now we Grow Up and Blow Away.
Sometimes I do miss those subtle days.

Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous  eyes on the skull of  historical future
on my pykitonic   torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical  balance for wondrous poetry.

Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense  dwarfism  of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,

From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.

A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of  Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****,
bordering on the  teutonic greatness of  ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples  in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite  of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human  neurosis an equation of perfect art.

Lo! I lament. Fallen is the sixfold Star:
Slain is Asar.
O twinned with me in the womb of Night!
O son of my bowels to the Lord of Light!
O man of mine that hast covered me
From the shame of my virginity!
Where art thou? Is it not Apep thy brother,
The snake in my womb that am thy mother,
That hath slain thee by violence girt with guile,
And scattered thy limbs on the Nile?

Lo! I lament. I have forged a whirling Star:
I seek Asar.
O Nepti, sister! Arise in the dusk
From thy chamber of mystery and musk!
Come with me, though weary the way,
To bring back his life to the rended clay!
See! are not these the hands that wove
Delight, and these the arms that strove
With me? And these the feet, the thighs
That were lovely in mine eyes?

Lo! IO lament. I gather in my car
Thine head, Asar.
And this -is this not the trunk he rended?
But -oh! oh! oh! -the task transcended,
Where is the holy idol that stood
For the god of thy queen's beatitude?
Here is the tent -but where is the pole?
Here is the body -but where is the soul?
Nepti, sister, the work is undone
For lack of the needed One!

Lo! I lament. There is no god so far
As mine Asar!
There is no hope, none, in the corpse, in the tomb.
But these -what are these that war in my womb?
There is vengeance and triumph at last of Maat
In Ra-****-Khut and in ****-pa-Kraat!
Twins they shall rise; being twins they are one,
The Lord of the Sword and the Son of the Sun!
Silence, coeval colleague of the Voice,
The plumes of Amoun -rejoice!

Lo! I rejoice. I heal the sanguine scar
Of slain Asar.
I was the Past, Nature the Mother.
He was the Present, Man my brother.
Look to the Future, the Child -oh paean
The Child that is crowned in the Lion-Aeon!
The sea-dawns surge an billow and break
Beneath the scourge of the Star and the Snake.
To my lord I have borne in my womb deep-vaulted
This babe for ever exalted.

Repost for Nelson Mandela  

In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the
Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern
Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the
Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a
Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it
For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes
To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny
Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country

A heavy-hipped roll busts out of my skinny skin
I am too thin and thingish to keep being so mean

I walk hard, long in stride,
having feet clad with iron
and black Chelsea boots,
stomping on hearts, hard

Deep, rushed, I howl into the city's summer fog,
like a hound with no home, no master, of his own
with all the flourishes of my cursive jarring scrawl

I am too ****** up, I am too ****** up dude
too ****** up to go back home. Toast?

For now, life,
but I will be dead by morning
still I am alive, awake, and sharp as a tack,
I die then six o'clock in the *******-morning-after
sober as the screaming birds, and I will rise again.

So for now, while I still care and can,
dance with me drunkards, but don't call me baby.
for I am sweet and clean, but belong to nobody,
with the exception of my dear vain reflection.

Then I have to kiss somebody that makes me laugh.
I have to kiss them because I am very compelled,
to do so now. I need to kiss you.

BAM.

Get in bed with me,
under the sheets,
but let's only sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­---------
IN BED, CUDDLING, WHILE HIDING HARD THINGS, LIKE HOW I WANT TO KISS THEM
------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-----

Okay, well maybe, makeout a little
                                                          ­      but I swear I won't sleep with someone
as groovy as you because I like you
                                                             ­   and want you to stay a little afterwards
but oh, look, here we are, goodness,
                                                       ­         it's hard because it feels so ******* nice
when you, oh my neck and you, oh
                                                              ­  why are your pants and socks still on!?

-----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-
YOUR MOUTH TASTES LIKE ME AND YOU FEEL LIKE I WANT TO DO ALL THAT AGAIN
-----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-

All rumpled and giggling, tousled hair, smiling
Kissing your back, holding you closely, sleepy.

Light a candle, stay, pray with me, in our way,
through smoke and soft chatter, light touches

spilling secrets into the scruff of your neck
where I've stained you purple with kisses
affection for the aficionados, I love them
the boys and girls, who kiss me hard, back.

please do not judge me
for loving people before
you, if I love them a little,
and if I do not love you all

But

maybe I love you,
maybe I love them.

But

probably I love neither of them.
probably I love their memories.
probably from what I once saw of them, all made up in my head, from that one time.
probably, even though it hurts a little to talk about it.

But

I would bet my life on the fact that I am over all the individuals I have kissed before.
I would just say that I am in love with their embellished, immortal, and unblemish selves.

I painted all these romantic scenes in my mind, with all the boys and girls in my brain,
where we'd be in bed, frittering the day away, talking and joking, kissing every so often, unexpectedly.

They would look pretty and I would look pretty, both naked and all freckled, flushed, with smooth skin, holding hands and telling stories of ******* and bravado where they did some vandalism or something, and they'd be impressed with my tales too.

Then we'd just spend the day together making food and flirting, having *** in every way, and exploring each others bodies and listening to how everything we both say is endlessly fascinating.

My face would hurt from smiling, from how they'd make me smile, and from how happy I am from making them smile, and that they smile for me.

They would inspire me within every part of my being to not ******* them, but to truly be kind, and love them unabashedly, and show them the best of me, and be the best for them.

I can't force that, though, it has to happen naturally.
I had that, I don't love anyone anymore but I had it when I loved them emphatically
with new and whole innocence that transcended everything I knew about everything.

But
stop,
stay, please
because that was then,
this is now.

I miss them/that,
but I want you, here.
I want you to stay please stay
I will be yours, and care,
forever

till the end of this minute.
Kissing them until they comply, please

XxXxxXxXxxxXXXxXXXxxxxxXxxxXXxx

they stay,
a little while,
and I pray

that the sun will rise, again, on today
that we won't get too ugly when we're old,
that we will find somebody in the bed that is cold
that the sun will set in the east one day, that when we'll see it die,
that everything will be real quick and fast, and feel a little nothing.

repeat it repeat it repeat it repeat it
until I am scared and unless I am scared
and then until we're old and really that dead

until our youth is d-e-a-d,
then finally,
we can steal the contents of our heads,
that wouldn't go down on the paper
like my hands wanted them too,
so very badly

                                                          ­            then finally,

                                             we can curl up and we can sleep                                    
                                                                ­                  and we can

                                                            ­                            get some rest in this

                                                               ­                 very

                                                               ­               big city

In the moment just before wake,
The last fragment of a dream eludes my grasp.
As I cannot distinguish thought from memory,
I am astounded that my imagination could conjure such bliss.
If only at will…

Not every night, but some,
I see what I am capable of.
Mind at ease and running free,
Latching on to these ideas
That exceed my perception.
And my attempts to recall or review,
Are but failed attempts, futile.
Deemed too beautiful for consciousness,
But from what I can remember-

I fight, I play,
I sight, I run from beasts.
I find, I make,
I lose, I have the world.
I live, I breathe,
I meet, I die sweet deaths.
I fly, I kiss,
I smile, I love it all.

The fluidity of instances, the current of time,
No-these do not exist in my mind.
Or are rather transcended,
Bent, broken, then mended.
Allowed in my altered state
To transform and create
A world where everything is designed to please me,
While, simultaneously, my fears run free.
Ah, but not too much to handle.
I have fragments, puzzle pieces, crumbs…so little.

Oh sleeping self! I beseech you
Spring alive and come and teach me
All the wonders you have known,
But sadly do always withhold.
Revise my mind, what poor creation.
Have mercy on my indignation.

Am I really to believe
That you are so wiser than me?
Smiling, sleeping beauty, I
Foresee the dangers of the eyes.
Masterfully handicap
My body to this nightly trap.
Thus looming possibilities
Of habitual retreats,
Delights in excess to relieve
Me of my duty to receive
Signals from reality,
Abundant sensory deceit,
Of forlorn mental interactions,
Of achieving distant affectations,
Obtaining hopes and admirations,
Beholding nonsensical perfection,
All this, too more, are so designed
That my mind can never wholly dine
On the enticingly addictive
Highly imaginative symptoms
Of the body’s hidden fluid source
That rarely tends to make its course.
But holds great power menacing,
As well as gently flowering.  

I envy you, my resting mind,
My well worthy unconsciousness,
Whose power is tempted unconstricted,
Whose fascination’s limitless.
Who teases me, a window shop,
An ocean reduced to a drop.
The very inkling I most relish;
Waking memory’s a feather precious.
Delicate and dancing ‘round,
High hopes, in journey, treasure bound.

You are my last breath
the final pocket of air
I keep buried inside
before I die
a martyr
of the brutality of your love
transcended and
transfigured.

The first time I shot dope
My mind bended
Transcended
This ******* existence
I rose out of my skin
And took a good look in side of myself
I elevated
I saw everything at once
Evaporated
And allowed myself to become nothingness

The first time snorted speed
I watched my entire life flash before my eyes
And got bored
I felt the vibrations and manipulations of every neurotransmitter in my brain
Went literally insane
Chasing rain drops
Off of roof tops
Because I believed I could fly
Or at least that somebody would catch me

The first time I smoked ****
I got so lost in my own metaphysical thought
That they had to send someone in after me
My sticky fingers cradling a bowl like an infant
As my cotton lined tongue spewed insightful nonsense about homelessness
And they laughed at me
Didn't they know I was changing the world?

The first time I drank
The warmth of whiskey cover my body like a blanket
I felt safe in his arms
And for the first time I could be someone other than myself
Many keys can open the gateway to hell

For years
These friends of mine beat my body black and blue
And I would crawl to them
****** and bruised
Begging for more
And to this day
I still miss them
I hear them calling to me
Pulling me back into their game
And a part of me
Still wants to play

Beckon unto me with thine
Angel-voice so soft
In heavenly song that doest
Elevate mine soul aloft
Amongst the myriad of blissful
keys I rejoice
Alas!
I've transcended to God's kingdom
by the sweet sound of thine voice

You've got the biggest smile on your face but no light in your eyes.
Your ******* are over-exposed, and you're slightly less than flesh but much more than bone.
Nobody remembers you now except in black and white,
In headlines and articles; your existence summed up in a single sobriquet.
You're the Mona Lisa of tragedy, a painting created with camera flashes,
And your nakedness is clothed in speculation and mystery.
The scandal of an era; defamation and declarations of promiscuity,
Ripping away your personality, tearing off your integrity.
Left even less than the mess your artist carved you into
After the insatiable appetites of the vultures picked your image dry.
A mere carcass where once there was a body of hopes and dreams,
Posed to perfection; you're the model everyone imagines you to be.
Beauty personified, everyone is an admirer,
Everyone wants to take credit for creating a masterpiece,
Yet there is only one person that can take credit.
Only one person responsible for transforming you
From the ordinary beauty to the extraordinary artwork.
You were transcended into eternity.
Only your artist and his methods remain secret;
A sculptor, a painter with an eye for an eye-catcher.
You're the flower that was destined for fame,
Even if your petals had to be cut up first.

Is it wrong of me to be sexually satisfied,
merely by the expansiveness of your mental capacity?
Intrigued by your complacence.
See, at first you were just this figment of my imagination.
But now you've transcended,
into this complete sensation.
No matter the misconceptions that others may have about you,
I could never replace you.
I could go on and on about the metaphors
that compare you to the sun,
or other gleaming objects.
But really, my attraction for you is far more complex,
to just subsidize you to comparison you probably already met.
I no longer base my relationship on ***,
I now seek intelligence,
an intellectual, oratorical genuis - one who knows what the birds say,
why the ocean waves, why society emphasizes self-hate.
And ever since I've sought all of those determining qualities in you,
I've since, loved you.

I did not **** that hour.
The hour--- killed--- me.
Yes! I died in that hour.
Dead of terminal ennui.

My soul left my body
And transcended into heaven
On a scale of one to ten
It was totally eleven.

I was almost able to ask
Jesus all my queries
But then the Earth pulled me back
And here I sit, still weary.

I can’t take this 
It’s purely indescribable 
Pulses racing 
Mind going blank 
Feeling like
Out of control 
Stop doing this to me 
Never mind, I love it 
Don’t ever stop 
I need this feeling 
The euphoria 
Can’t be real 
What’s going in 
I swear I’m in heaven because I feel like I’ve transcended 
Doesnt take much 
How can you do this 
Funny thing, you’re oblivious 
Utterly, and thankfully unaware.

I can still remember the weather, it was your weather, as the whole day was yours as well.  

You called me Tuesday lunchtime. I tell you this so you might know who I am. I expect you call many people on a Tuesday lunchtime so I am nothing special to you. The cup-a-soup chicken dust was in the mug and particles were floating about in the light. The kettle flip was down and the water was just at that bit, post bubbling before the flip kicks up again to show it’s done. Butter out and open, ready and still messy with crumbs like some cross section of limestone showing its history. I could smell the toast was nearly toasted too. Everything was coming to a head, even the clock was crawling close to the exact hour. All these processes were funneling back together into one task, like streams regrouping in a river. I was focussing hard enough that I could feel seconds, and that is when you called.

“Hello, is this Mr. Innes-Jones?”
You said it in one of those recycled voices, and that hurt. I could already see your eyes in my head, I'm a fast visualiser, but with the way that you spoke, scripted, I couldn’t see any life in them. I could see your finger wrapping and unwrapping itself in the phone chord and I could smell complimentary coffee on your breath.

“Speaking,” I said, muting the television, cutting the talk show’s announcement short as to who the father is. He put his head in his hands and the woman opposite stood shouting and pointing downwards at him like a dictator, which, on this program, usually means he, is in fact, partaking in the wonderful adventure of parenthood.

“Are you the homeowner Mr. Innes-Jones?” God, if you could only call me Andy. If only you could say my name as if you were asking me what’s in the fridge, or telling me to move my legs so you could get in close on the couch. I know it’s two syllables but it’s still not too difficult a name to say and in my wildest dreams, sigh.

“Yes, I am and call me… tell me what this call is in regards to.” I’m sorry to be so rude and direct, it still kills me that I may have cut some of your voice from my life by getting straight to the point but I realised it was far too forward for us to be on a first name basis, when, to you, I’m a stranger. I was like a car that swerves and then has to control itself. You could hang up any moment and lose a sales deal, but I could lose you.

“Of course sir.” Sir is worse than Mr. Innes-Jones.

“My name’s Christine.” Christine. You said something else afterward about solar panels but I was still stuck there. Stuck there wondering whether you looked like your name, as some people do, or if you transcended it and it paled in comparison to you, just like when a star is named a number. Christine. Maybe your parents are people of faith and their conservatism in your upbringing has given you a bashful streak. Might you turn in your rotating office chair and blush in the face of a wink or a half smile? Are you a Tina in the world off of the phone? Or Chris? this is important, what is it about you which might influence people in that decision.

I focused back into your voice. I could always leave wondering for later. I’d most likely have my whole life to wonder and knowing how the memory would fade, how I would eventually have to fill it in with my substandard vision of your voice, tone, and intonation, I couldn’t let any more of you slip into static, the hum of space.

“Might you be the homeowner sir?”

“Yes, I am indeed” I wanted to ask the question back and delude myself that this was a conversation and not an interrogation, but I didn’t. The saddest three words right there.

“And you make the decisions there, correct?” “Yes, certainly do.” I’m sure that women like a man of the house, our house, though I doubt your imagination was working as hard as mine. I was still finding it hard not fall into it.

My silenced program finished on the television and you went into my electric bill. The women in the adverts disappointedly displayed their appliances, fell off ladders, came in suits to save people who did, and a myriad of other things, but they all spoke in your voice, spoke to me. Some were called Tina, some called Chris, depending on which name suited their faces. It was funny, I felt that I slightly loved all of them, in different ways, as they attempted to be you. Like this woman with the wonder-mop for example. She had a checkered shirt, and despite still being quite pretty, time had separated her jowls slightly from her chin, so I decided on the more androgynous name Chris for her, Chrissy at best, she has a life away from wonder-mops. She doesn’t spend her days in perfect lighting demonstrating to her husband and kids how, however hard you shake the thing, it still retains it’s liquid. Though I expect she probably gets one for free. I hope she does, they look quite good.

“Sir? Sir?” Chris on screen tells me, like some kind of backward echo getting louder and more real. I gave you my attention back and bear in mind I always will.  “Sorry?” “I said, are there any large trees nearby your house that may obscure sunlight to the panels?” “No.” “Any tall properties nearby to the same effect, sir?” “Can’t say so.” In my mind you were asking me for something in that way that wives do, establishing with a series of questions that there’s no real reason why we can’t have solar panels, so why don’t we. A really subtle supplication, and I played along and allowed it, just for you. I kept it to myself that I live in a basement apartment and the only light I get is when no one is walking over the grate above the front window.

Café for Cats

Take your shoes off
and close the child-gate
we don’t want the cats
out in the street please
thank you : our cats
your pleasure their purrs
together
make for a blissful moment
in a hectic world
on this busy street
don’t leave without
taking a cat on your lap
stroking their pedigree fur
all for you and coffee too


Street Art

Prevalent in these parts
the impromptu sketch
the wildly alternative mark
on arches grand designs on
construction-site hoardings
and take this side of a building
here untouched by windows
a canvas blank of brick where
Gulliver’s sister lies gagged
and bound in a Lilliput house
her knees poking through
the upstairs floor


tokyobike

in pastel-green apricot-pink
a lithe machine of delicate frame
and slim-line wheels
would look well in the hall
and out on the street
if properly socked with
your oh so short skirt
the gym-honed thighs
the custom rucksack
tight on your back


Whirl of Leaves

The breath that blows
these notes across the page
the murmuration of fingers
against those resonant strings
up and down to and fro
on music’s path go
the flute and the harp
pursuing the ground
into the autumn air
chasing the wind
until . . .
at a passing wall
they are stilled
into motionless
their rise and swirl
emptied of breath
no more to blow
or pluck these dancing
murmuring
wind-driven notes
but into fermata’s
grasp    

(where despite
a futile final flurry
a long bar’s rest
takes hold
till Spring)


St Paul’s by Night

From across the river
an unexpected view
not just that gracious dome
but the building below
substantially whole complete
for once not hidden by proximity
or an errant developer’s whim
the progress to the great south door
unimpeded when we walked
the well-tempered bridge
as high on the lofty cranes
bright red stars guided
our journey home


Askam Square

In this London square
the trees hold still
as sculptures in
the nothing air
no breeze to animate
their leaves except
a steady gaze might catch
a gentle oscillation
here and there

La Maison vert foncé

So very green this perfect Hoxton house
it could be in a petite ville Française
incongruous here – but such a treasure
geranium-filled window boxes
lace curtained attic rooms
just-have-to-have-a-look inside and see
the dress-maker’s table the library of books
the posters artists’ prints and all
a purposeful lady sits typing at her desk
costume directions for a Pirandello play


Daughter

Last year she’d bought a boat on the river
this year she’s in New York for the week
Keeping tabs on daughters can be wearisome
you hope for hug and to hear that certain voice
see eyes that haven’t changed their depth
since a child when you marvelled at their colour
so - it seems you won’t be seeing her this time around
but she’ll be in touch when she gets back she says
and ‘we’ll talk’ . . . she says.

Urban Fox**

dogs don’t have such a brush of a tail
a flattened skull or triangle-like ears
one was about to cross our path
thought better of it and retreated
behind a bush content to wait
till we’d passed on by
I
writing just the other day
about the fox of Chinese lore
remembered this celestial dog
had nine tails, four legs and a golden coat
served the Palace of Sun and Moon
transcended both the yin and yang

Adrift in dark and foreign tides of time
I sought to live among the winsome stars.
Between the shadows of the elder moon—
In mountains lost from any source of light—
I wandered lost below the purple sky
Unmoved by that well-expected night.

Oh fate that leads to live the dawn of night!
Oh life, that filthy pool to squander time—
But what a joy to see the starlit sky!
The sun consuming dust from foreign stars,
To see the ocean's mirror cast out light—
Project an image of our lovely moon.

Indeed I feel I hide behind the moon,
In shadows cast by dreadful ghosts of night:
And curse my eyes if I walk into light.
Forgotten shores of childhood lost in time,
Embracing seas of solitude in stars—
A well-known fate in death of burning sky.

Will death thus raise me to the highest sky
Or drive me to the loudest raging moon?
I’d rather find diversion in the stars,
Forsake my wisdom of that sacred night
Than face the painful claws of passing time—
I find demise when I stare into light.

I was revealed the mysteries of light,
Yet hide below the comfort of the sky
As I transcended boundaries of time,
Forever hidden in the woeful moon
And blind upon that everlasting night,
Hunting pleasure in the short-lived stars.

Illusionary joy, deceitful stars:
You guided me to death away from light!
And whence was born this novelty called night?
I thought that safety reigned below the sky,
That I could hide from truth behind the moon—
I curse the painful wings of passing time.

When sunless time arrived upon the sky,
And Moon became a frozen lake of light,
Woe to me, whose night devoured the stars.

I still can't go there.
To that little swatch of grass
bathed in sunlight
without even a dappling of shade
It seems like a  green field of memories
with almost no one left to remember
Even the words  subscribed on the tiny brass plaques
seem somehow belittling  
With them set into the ground
for the convenience of mowers
to pass over
It makes her seem
so inconsequential
that she shouldn't trouble the groundskeeper
with her monument
It makes me think of the mundane consequences of death
that overshadow the greatness of life
Like the simple economics
of  maintenance
I can't look at the life of such a beautiful women
summed up in such a small way
it seems  so common
so trite
I know that she would have told you
that she was common
but she wasn't
She had a greatness in her soul and being
that transcended the normal
that transcends death
I am overwhelmed by that little plaque
and it's insignificance
Enough to paralyze me from going there
I know that if I see it it will push
the other memories from my mind  
and supplant her
She will become a place in a cemetery
with a little map on the grounds keeping shed
gridded and numbered
number 6 in row B
a little part of the order in a small field
and I can't have that

We were washed in the dim glow of moonlight,
Our heartbeats calm and tranquil,
Serenity beat around us,
And soft melodical jazz that thrilled.

It was a beautiful night,
One that transcended the bounds of reality,
We felt as two stars transported,
Into a sweet magical galaxy.

I felt your soft satin skin touch upon my hand,
And a innocent desire took hold of me.
I put your hand upon my shoulders and grabbed your waist.

We twisted and spun to the sound of jazz,
Our bodies synced in rhythm and grace,
As if two stars that burned for long,
Had collided in a charming embrace.

Your moonlit body glided across the floor like a graceful swan,
Practised and perfected in its movement and poise,
As I looked upon my fate with head upheld and flashed a grateful smile to it twice.

And we whirled and twirled,
Every second abuzz with magic and delight,
Our bodies weary and sweat drenched,
Yet, our soul's thirst unquenched.

As we slowed down,
I had an ardent desire to never halt,
And In that moment fate immortalised us,
And we became the two dancing stars who never stopped.

Cooling air, the senses assault
Done is the day, I’ve earned my salt.
Daytime light has turned on me
On moonlit streets such trickery
The pleasant splash, those leaves on foot
Make drunk these nostrils, nectarous soot
Pensive mood floods the mind
And of their beauty I’m truly blind
I do not think of Autumn whole
Only alms within my bowl
As you’ll see I’m leaf inspired
Though their rudiments I have mired
Autumn ring, the chilling tenors
Rejoiced and played in earthly manors
That icy rush makes cold the spirits
Yet conflagrates ye adherents
That festive smell, incense the air!
No motive o’yours ever err
And though the day leaves more hastily
These changing leaves get the best o’me
Transient seconds plump and inspir’d
Of your natural portraits I’ll never tire
The mountainside, my most treasur’d mosaic
Whatever great works, it’s more archaic
Falling to the ground, like listless colorful rain
Whether as the nemophilist, or seated behind a pane
These little souls returning to earth
Fill me with the greatest mirth
Though they exemplify an age ended
Verbiage they have transcended
I’d fill my days with gallery mileage
Gladly glut with their splendid sillage
As they flit, the stuff of dreams
In their midst, pure sophrosyne.
Day or night I’m overcome
Eyes wide open and stricken dumb
Overcome with words and tune
Bursting forth, this ideal plume
And like a flower, complex in bloom
Can’t be captured, hemmed and hewn
Vapor these words, though fall inspire’d
No due medium, pen or lyre
Untouchable this golden essence
Wealth of ideas, gone in seconds
Appropriate, it seems to me
My head, my thoughts a leafy tree
Arrives the autumn, gold and dun
Thousands escape when I reach for one
So I’ll just watch in quiet awe
The beauty whole, no hem nor haw
Not try to make that art my own
Won’t reduce it to rhyme and tone
I’ll simply revel their naïve lull
Ephemeral, yes, but never dull
Shout out happily in leafy halls
Marry to words what return my calls
Leave thou ******, in pulchritude pall
And question not what comes of fall.

If the eyes are the window to the soul.
Yours is powerful & captivating.
In your eyes it's like an Egyptian sunset.
Not knowing you I regret.
A unique soul of purity & gold.
Lyrics sung & told.
Your body died before it got old.
Millions of albums you produced & sold.
Music you left thee earth.
Perfected and rehearsed.
An unpublished memoir.
Transcended & soared.
Wish you had stayed to give us more.
"A slave to money then you die".
The sudden end of your life made me cry.
I wish alive in the flesh you had stayed.
Too early sent to your grave.
The way to independence you paved.
I think of you all day.
And dream of you every night.
An end too soon was not right.
Rest in peace.
Your spirit was released.
I hope your soul is alright.
Descended from flight.
A private person but a public figure.
Generous never a gold digger.
Your voice & music was a gift to all.
You stood 5 feet two inches tall.
Your angelic face & in your high heels.
Your performance made us feel.
Happy or sad.
Too bad you couldn't have been my daughter's dad.
You would have been the best husband or father.
I was too naive to be bothered.
Heartbreaking.
Painstaking.
Forsaking.
Unchanging.
What­'s remaining.
Take care.
I wish I had been there.
You had gorgeous hair.
Soft hands.
A talented band.
Thank you for the entertainment.
It had been a pleasure arrangement.
I have never been to a concert.
Large fanatic crowds going beserk.
Not my scene.
Sorry if I was mean.
I didn't mean some things I said.
An apology I could've wrote for you to have read.
I wish I could've married you to share your bed.
You are truly one of a kind.
Too bad time can't rewind.
Our spirits each other will hope to find.
Your life was thee most precious.
To bring you back the most is what I wish.

The whole of the visible universe appears to be just like the tip of an iceberg floating in the ocean of Infinite Consciousness; the body of God, expressing itself as space, time and matter, which converge and are fully integrated in the universal mind of the person who has achieved Cosmic Consciousness. That person stands at the very forefront and pinnacle of human evolution and existence, as it were; master of them self and their environment without any ignorance or doubt. Within that person human ignorance and limitations have been purged and transcended in the fires of the Divine Bliss, Knowledge, Love and Power of God Who alone exists and Who thereby also realises Himself to be, through that very rare individual, in essence and with absolute certainty, the One Infinite, Almighty, Eternal, and Omnipresent Being.
That Cosmic Conscious person is no longer aware of being just an individual soul with a physical body but knows and experiences life on  multidimensional levels including subtle, mental, supra mental and spiritual states of consciousness and can move between physical and non-physical dimensions. Having attained a fully developed sense of intuition that person sees into the hearts and minds of all and can influence others and events for necessary outcomes in line with a higher purpose or Divine Plan that they have become an instrument of and in accordance with the karma of the persons they are dealing with. They can know and have a clear insight into the beginning and end of any situation they themselves are confronted with, or for that matter other people find themselves in, and can offer timely advice for the benefit of one and all. They are continuously established in the perception of Truth or Reality as that is the underlying eternal unchanging Cause and Essence of all existence. Their very physical presence exudes an aura of love, peace, wisdom, bliss and power that becomes tangible to those who are in tune with them or have somehow been guided into their sphere of influence and acknowledge their unique attainment.
Although they have achieved all the above and have become a truly remarkable person they are however neither boastful, proud or prejudiced nor do they harbour any ill will towards anyone and may even keep and maintain a low profile in the world. They live and teach by example and where possible through compassion, provide support and help to others that may be or are experiencing the vicissitudes of daily existence and caught up in the web of illusion or Maya which they themselves have overcome. They have become the very epitome or ideal of the human being everyone aspires to be in one way or another and unwittingly and unequivocally act as a mirror for those who have accepted and acknowledge them for what they have become and represent, seeking their guidance and benevolence in daily life. They are the very embodiment of the Divine Supreme Being and use the Wisdom, Power, Bliss and Authority vouchsafed to them for the good of all mankind including, needless to say in various ways with considerable empathy even those who oppose them, because they see and experience themselves in all others; and of course depending on the nature of the situation; where it stands in relation to the current scheme that is unfolding and is also in keeping with the overall Divine Plan. They can also bestow a spiritual awakening and even that of enlightenment to one and all who come before them either by a thought, word, touch, deed or just by being in their physical presence, which is a rare privilege, but this depends in part on the readiness of the aspirant and usually comes at a cost. This procedure is known as the transmission of energy or initiation of the master otherwise called “Shaktipat” and can also be given through an agent of the master – an appointed dedicated disciple or follower.
Some examples of people known or attributed to have achieved true Cosmic Consciousness throughout history are the founders of all the major world religions including a person by the name of Meher Baba in the 20th Century, to whom this thesis is dedicated, and also the numerous Perfect Masters (those who have reached the highest stage of spiritual attainment on the 7th plane of consciousness) who may have themselves, over the course of millennia, also founded or established their own respective religious based institutions, sects and spiritual organisations. (See note below)

NOTE: It should be noted here however that not all religious based institutions, sects and spiritual organisations have been founded or  established by someone who has achieved true Cosmic Consciousness no matter how appealing or widespread they have become even though they may claim to adhere to and follow the tenets and principles of a major world religion. Nevertheless, if the tenets and principles of a particular religion are followed sincerely with devotion the Grace of the Founder of that religion is available and flows through to the aspirant irrespective of time and place. It should also be noted that over the course of millennia some of the written accounts and records of those major world religions have probably been changed or altered in various ways by their respective clergy either due to translation and modernisation of the original works or for the sheer sake of maintaining authority and power over that religion’s followers. Hence, we have today so many diverse views based on dogma and doctrine regarding what has been handed down, particularly in regard to those professing to be knowledgeable about that religion, without themselves having experienced or achieved that state of consciousness (Cosmic Consciousness of the main  Founder) but are just quoting the words of the Founder and others in that particular religious tradition.
From the above it can be stated that there have been throughout history complete and major as well as also partial and minor examples of people attaining Cosmic Consciousness. It also seems evident due to a Cosmic Universal Trend regarding certain factors influencing human evolution and concerning the progress or advancement in knowledge and technology through the current understanding of the relationship between science and religion that there is a general increase of people who are finding a greater interest in the pursuit and study of the subject in one way or another.
Cosmic Consciousness is also known variously as God Realisation, Self Realisation, Enlightenment, Nirvana, Sahaj Samadhi, Liberation, Christ Consciousness and by other terms which indicate and point to an irrevocable union of a human being with a Divine Supreme Being or state of consciousness that is indescribable, except perhaps by those who have achieved and experience it in every moment of their daily fulfilled lives, immaculate and the All-in-All of Everything and Nothing; the repository and Source of all existence and the Eternal, Infinite Unfathomable Absolute.
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