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Past our past,
Yours and mine,
My soul yearns,
As I walk by silver clad trees; 
A favourite parked orange vintage Saab;
And memories newly raw, too.


Then quite extraordinarily,
The Cosmic Whale,
Stirs in my solar-plexus,
And my objectivity dissolves,
As conscious consciously hears:
The song of my inner Gypsy,
And look!
My Narwhal,
Up among the stars,
Beyond days and nights,
Roaming free,
Scything milky ways in half,
Fireballs disrupting,
In infinite timelessness,
Beyond the pull of gravity,
Where no vortex holds:
The 'othering' whirlpool,
That keeps us compressed
- as a collapsed star -
At last my Cosmic Leviathan blows
- ALL is released and falls away.


Such is my Cosmic Behemoth:
The funnel *****
And inside out,
Is turned.
As at last on course;
Whoo! Whoo! Whoo?
But no-one replies!
The navigation station is empty:
This is motion without traction,
And no acceleration,
Slipping atoms would only slow!
The flow,
No windows either on the view,
As even visual truths are but fleeting,
And words muddy the clear unconscious streaming,
As the journey beyond mind begins.


The worldly maze recedes,
A bird's-eye vision steers the empty ship;
No harbours are plotted,
From here on
- endless flight in night,
Without end,
Wings blaze occasionally nearby,
A host of fireflies pattern the cosmic pool,
A whole immensity in which to dance.
Expanding outward,
Not as we would have it, but as it is beyond our eyes.
Where space is born,
Again and again,
And so!
Exults in nothing,
A self beyond understanding,
In silence thrives,
Where sense logic makes no waves.


The Cosmic Whale is off,
All attachments gone,
Like a flake of skin,
A fold in time -
Falls off.
The anchor dropped,
Is not retrieved,
What use is I -
When the clock's monotony no longer counts!


The surface disappears,
The ocean depth submerges,
In the cabin
The lights are dimmed to monochrome,
As navigators know,
Blind sees the furthest.
Charts are soon forgotten,
The imagination leads:
Ueah, the Cosmic Mind,
Vast and free
In all directions!
No need to plot a line,
Instead like the humble earthworm,
Who in darkness fertilises:
Beauty, how unimaginable, how unknowingly,
Is by all that envelopes guided,
As from the cracked ***!
Which in Reality was suffocated,
The source is nourished.


As my Cosmic Whale plunges the deeps,
Look to the expanse:

     The eternal behemoth whose flight
     Everywhere provides,
     Guileless and unobjectified.
     A subjectivity that knows no
     Is unto itself unknowable.

In brushstrokes.
The universe,
Is as it rolls Created.
Where logic has little to do,
As all,
Already simply is.
This poem is actually about the ego's death. How I will mourne it, and how the fight to let it go will be immense as it is for us all. Death in life comes in many shapes, not ultimate death, but our relationships, *le petite mort*. Of course, there is life beyond relationship death. Beyond a sense of end; and yes, ultimately all is good preparation for that all consuming final death. This poem was inspired by untenable love for another; by the paintings in bold, almost lurid, but zen-like brushstrokes of a fellow Tunnel member, Genevieve Leavold; and by my mate Chris Godber who alluded to whales. It also has to do with my Gypsy heart and Celine's Salon, in Soho at Troy 22, where we celebrated the traveller's soul. Finally, a YouTube clip of a talk given by Guru Mooji in which awareness is being conscious of conscious.

Bon Voyage!
Khoi-San Oct 23
The unsuspecting bow splinters
harpoons leap at qualms
determined to savage the bounty
glory from night
sob limb and lung
watery grave
tugged by rope on spear
the creature pall bear It's captors into the dark bellows
the cruel sea
stuck to the whale
  of a thousand tales
I wish this was a true story
in fact the opposite is true for WHALES
Very few countries still practice whaling
Killing around a thousand Whales per annum
After decades of protection
This is dedicated to all nature conservation
Efforts protecting this beatiful mass that is so important to the ecosystems around the globe
Tommy Randell Nov 2016
Safe in the wet nest's rocking
I listen, with a passion. to a conversation about passions
Rising muffled from the party's tossing to and fro, below, below,

While a world away, upstairs on a huge expanse of white cotton,
With one gesture becoming an origami whale
Breaching silently the smoked-glass horizons of dresser-mirrors

She and I, remembering some tricks for odd half hours spent alone
Travel tides not knowing what needs destroy our hearts.
The Party's ceiling, our bed's floor, hardly creaking with our pressing.

But just as the Ocean's creases can become too fine    
So cruising her body my hands have no future    
Await the tragedy of the ******* to fly true and strike home -    

So, at the moment of our coming, killing the whale    
Only I know the enormous guessing it takes
Striking the blow personally in a spiral stupor.
Does the whaler harpooner dream of his girl or does the young man with his girl imagine harpooning the whale? Ah well, who knows ...
Brooke Davis Sep 2016
S • Skin tight, skeletal cage
both ribs and mind.

K • Keep a strict diet, never break it, always hide it from those who would disapprove, so I learned to suffered in silence.

I • Internally a growl would emit, I reveled in the power I would get from it. To know I was structured, I wasnt a jumbled mess. Like the mass jiggling, clingling to this withering carcass.

N • Never could the fat girl come back out. carve her, choke her, starve her till she lost the will to shout. Shout for help, shout for freedom, shout for love in this life. Useless, everybody knows only fit people have that right.

N • Nobody would believe if I told a soul my struggle. "You are huge, big blue
whale how can someone like you have a disorder?

Y• Yell, scream "I WANT TO BE ME"
But I can't because of our society
deeming people like me are wrong,
why should my weight define wether or not I belong?

But because it does I hate myself.
I live this life with a wish to die,
all because my body is not
JG O'Connor Sep 11
I peep through the stars,
Past the Moon to the Earth.
Where the shadows of the morning,
Define the boundary of the day.

Where the oceans swell,
Rocks the land to sleep.
Where the humans work,
To make the rot so cheap.

Where throw away things,
And know away rings,
Slips to tow away strings,
Of paper Mache Kings .

And the ocean’s lonely whale,
Sings his saddest song.
He is alone.  
Soon to be gone.

He sings of the reckless,
Of the planet helpless,
Of the air breathless,
And a future defenceless.

But then nobody is listening to a 52hertz whale.
The 52 hertz whale is unique in that it sings at that frequency. It's a much higher  frequency that any other species of whale . This individual  has been detected since the 1980s but never seen. Some think it could be a hybrid or deaf, but at 52 hertz it cannot be heard by any other whale ......maybe we are the ones who are deaf to the warnings of climate change
Micheal Wolf Aug 22
We tried to be better with each new cause.
But while we tried to save the whale, we polluted its home.
We tried to save the tiger but its home was used for lumber.
The orangutans deminished for Palm oil and crops.
Now the globe is warming and the oceans rise.
They're full of plastic and everything is dying.
So now we have only ourselves to blame for plastics, Monsanto and wild hurricanes.
The next great cause will be because of effect.
No one to save mankind, as he killed everything else.
Matt Shade May 2015
Culture Study: The Xambams

        The Xambams are a race of two-foot tall furry frogs
from the planet Nambar Oomph- A dark, hot planet second
in line from the green apple Sour Star. It's a very round
little place, mostly water save for 50 mile long lily pads
where Xambams build their slippery smooth stone fortresses.

        Once per triple moon or so,
The strongest and keenest Xambam
in every hollow hill of stone
that two or three million or so call home
will squeeze out SURFACE EXIT 74
(known locally as the front door)
into the dark, wet unknown
where he or she will swim away all alone
to see whats beyond the fog and roam.

        Once or twice a season cycle,
amid the howling sea storms
which terrorize the entire southern
surface of Nambar Oomph
and wail like the sore tail of a Surface Slapper Whale,
A scout among the hundred
thousand seaside stone scoutposts
will spot some free floating funny thing,
usually floating far away-
so out go the Xambams all swimming
in bright yellow wet suit, tightly fitting
to see what strange thing's in the distance a' sitting.

        Equally likely
its a message or a gift
or a blanket purposely infected
with every Xambam seasickness known to Nambar Oomph
or a dilapidated shipwreck
or the hollow shell of a
seasick Acid Squid
or a strange new Xambam,
the strongest and keenest Xambam in all his land
(dead, 100% of the time).

        And twice per lunar eclipse or so
the gigantic lily pads on which all of Xambam Society is built,
(known to the Holy Royal Galactic Hall of Names
as Sleeping Xambam Killer Lilies)
will wake up and snap shut like bear traps,
swallowing and dissolving all Xambams
commuting to work atop its round, green tongue.
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