That one waits for the rhythms to rise,
talk of crystals forming but
altogether a gentler yet more muscular geometry
of being,
getting its act together
and boiling up
to a fine old dance
full of whirligig
and ravishing heated limbs
within the eye -
THAT is the fire of life
the deep black sexy coffin-top, a view through
sham intellectual jam
to the most intelligent, cogent
view in all our world
the radiation of a blushing cheek
and thrilling jism leaking through
panic’s
brief empire
Love riding its spark!
Consider that heaven is not perfection, but rather the departure point and return from that which is perfectible: both potential and release from that which is really perfect, which so often is only rarely glimpsed but in which the urge for us to reach is built strong as lust itself. Life strings the bow of heaven
and only living
with a great
ecstatic pull
can we know
pregnant paradiso’s
infinite potential
even as it curves away
from us;
a story of two fixed
points
& a lot of tension
in between.
As God is my arrow
(& whose trajectory
is a total mystery; but who
starts his great journey
as heaven
and hell
are released).
The border’s
so sexy,
by what dullness can you live
by the prohibition?
The border taunts the
mating instincts
of every soul.
Ermine trim round tanned skin
or thong-tied fruits,
the soul’s no different,
my god, no
it cries out:
LET’S GO OVER!!!
The border!!
‘S so sexy!
A cadence across soft purple petals
steals the first alertness of the drifting
sunset-idle,
blown-down,
fluorescing, shifting
evening’s gaze
multiplying
thousand fold in
the wings of apple leaves
& asparagus flowers
(& all between
that the flitting things work)
and so begins
the place where feeling floods
and bronze flourishes
and sun-deserted cooling places
harmonize & await
the song of passing
madmen
& their gait
the song that is release
- we have made a prison
in that we tried to understand –
and so we sought
to ensnare everything we could
package under ‘truth’
that we should dare to cut the
wings off
something so fluid, so floating,
and yet so clear
has clouded
the tropic seas of beauty
with the blood
of jealous slaughter
and we know less
with every passing ‘more’ we add
and all our vision
spells confusion,
and all our reasoning’s gone bound
with fact .
The artist’s is an adder’s tongue
which tastes the blindness in the fears of man.
Let’s fang the cowards and the fools
with light.
Let’s MONUMENTALIZE our bite.
And all this while I’ve been a wild animal given up to his pen,
- well, the days are, you can see, that instant spark of alarm in their eyes who see you begin to BE, who can sense before they even know that you’re a danger to their version, the official version of civilisation,
which is only a fiction on
the face of the wild
courage
the sheer surprise
that is
the leap into the unknown
with no intention to make it
less unknown or big than it was before
but instead to learn to dance
with it & thus
to be elegant, wise
and rough
which is,
respectful, alert
& yourself
but above all humble
in the face of God.
At the end of the day you’ve got
to forgive everything
or something in your stand
one day
will trip you up.
BUT THIS IS NOT THE SAME
as condoning the ‘unforgivable’
or even standing up to say “this goes,
& no more.”
To forgive
is not to encourage
and not even
to tolerate,
it is to find the soul
& start around again
towards the light.
Death is the ignition of creation
daily attendant upon our every act
to seek change
is to agree to spend or depart from,
to offer up
that which will be transformed,
to resist change
is not to die, but a living-death,
without hope of direction
for to refuse the alteration of place or time
which only exist in the measurement of
movement, memory and moment
is to run to the ice-kingdoms of despair
in the face of meadows which transport us.
And so know
that beauty is elected
& achieves supremacy only
as a King
is elevated
not by shenanigans,
but by acclaim
that is,
that the powers of deceit and plot
are recipients only of
their own evil energy, are self-condensing,
and can never
stretch their toes
in the hammock of
eternity.
All my life the truth has come to me sensually, and not through thought: ideas have formed around sensation – if indeed revelation can be called ideas at all
So back-up onto the comfort of this elemental pivot & grip it!
the point is: I don’t have the personal temperament for the violent degree of offence I know this will cause when
IT’S UNSHEATHED
& so,
calmly,
diplomatically,
spiritually I go –
dressing the
wild ecstasy & energy
into the
repressed tidiness of
PREPOSTEROUS
Eloquent
Literary Priapism
ie. little cock and almost no crow!
But here,
things course in the air
and high-reaching acres of the soul
leap without fear
and already
there
in your white dusted
flowering blue-eyed ether
is a wild parking-lot
I’ve got my heart
set upon!