And having divided loveliness from desire, would desire not be (should desire not be?) utterly overwhelming, and all consuming, and devour? Not the lover, but the loved?
And that the half-loved are the living dead.
But ‘caritas’ alone may touch – caress – the living with the blessing of loveliness, as a wand might spark its magic, withdraw and not destroy – the gift and not the act of love. So must we know, by some angel’s touch, when to grow and when be grown by love. If you would live you must kill or give. Do not maim, do not be the torturer, guardian of the half-dead in a half-life.
Flower! Star!
And you shall not, thank Olson, bury the dead, but let the parentheses open
Open!
As an ejaculation in the phosphorescent sea, your time-net flowers in eternity, and there you are!
In a river of stars.
And that the band-width of humanity be kept forever wide. What one uncovers (creates) simply widens the band-width, sucking the sky, blowing the sky just widens – goes widening – the
song (the band) width
in eternity, drinking a milk wildly trailing light.
Give me stars – live
& sing, sing boy of the wild dance, SING!
Where the moon talks across the sky with Mars, above some small white clouds of ours; open brackets
the family of all time shines upon the bubble
o so soft, evanescent all our
chameleons’ paths
as lips to fingertips in rain, skins touch and lick
it is your bubble, or beyond, it is a flower
whirling in your wake, or your sights, it is a flower
o forever, forever, forever, it is a flower
And if you will consider, the great mass of humanity’s restless ‘good will’ and ‘kindness’ produces… what?
& yet, chaos & clarity of personal desire might be bed fellows?
& lead, nonetheless, by conflagration & suffering, to personal heavens…
that we may have to embrace the paradoxes of violence & domination
to remain modest
& not tamper with the living light
to treasure the voids
in which stars may flare
to be small enough to find paradise.
For I saw, when I was a child, and I walked too near alongside in after years, the steel fibres (no, not lead) of the ungenerous, and who despair. Till I can only tally, only sing, in worship of every humble lovely thing outside our darkening schemes.
There’s nothing for me in the halls of your ideas. No light, no soul, no air, where language echoes its formulas of recycled fears
deadening desire,
taming lust’s beauty.
The Great Cathedral is built
in high order
to crush the holy ground where flowers grow
so sowing the soul of man
that nothing
may ever refresh
or be whole,
save it, the Great Cathedral.
Who, thinking of things, destroy them
& that your only truly articulate language
is your sperm & eggs, depending, &
that you had as well dance the fandango around them & their animal and human brethren,
as you had build all the lesser marvels of your mind.
Treasure alone the capacity to wonder and enjoy in your body and soul
the community of Time
& in flowering therein, to be lost, as a dancer, above wave tops and spray, wheatears and cloud-ridges, fields and folds.
Ideas! Sod ideas! We’re talking luminous THINGS, whatever the reason.
Whatever our choice of words.
Heaven. Not architectonic. No super-structural enclosure. Nor in the mind of men. Nor of it. The great anti-edifice.
So “civitas dei” is absurd, really, and the church to boot, saving only that they might mirror, since we seem incapable of not building empires, the other side, which is that
it is (heaven that is) small and kind and smile inducing, an animal essence in things; the life of life; and death, insofar
as the sky,
or rocks, are dead.
Ach the world! (mankind, that is) You long time no good son of a bitch! You have
taken me a lot of energy
I could have GIVEN you.
But still you tease who you
cannot release. Only the sexiness of this relationship,
the God given beauty of all of you in your
Worst, as your loveliest
stokes the fire of my heart
beyond capitulation.
For the love of all that’s wrong in the world
you might nominate my songs, calling me
to crescendo of affection for that signing of
the rogue’s passage on earth
to deem
loveliness is buggery today
or cancer tomorrow
for lovely is life
and the turnstile of its progress,
which we know to be holy,
has a spindle
defying downgrading,
or ascendancy
in the face of fear,
Smile
bash it
& Chime!