Opus Lastman

Something crystal in the waves that lost me,
Something loosened in my waking daze,
Something in the earth and stars that burnt up I, a molten eyelash
Of a long forgotten sky. A sea, so orange, a man so ashen,
Just a black snowflake,
A paradise island where a toxic thought had never rut.

Something stinks, the way light bounces for the crashing Mr Man
And the echoes of many cymbals of death
Escalate like cancerous cyclones sucking down the innards
Of what heavens destroy; lead pencils, dead angels, broken hymns
And esoteric symbols,
Bring it all down. Lay it out so we can see.
We want to know these things. We need to know these things.
These things are what have made us. The lost tribe
Where spirits don’t roam or gather.

I was reclined and easy like a song went;
Western, fresh fallen; cracked coconuts scattered over the
The mediocre meniscus, the planetary watchers
Sit idle as watery memories churn,

Shades up, broken webs tangle bodies of a widow
In the washed out radiation,
Bowling ball Russians do flap yoga,
Sat soft child watching the wolf pack disperse
Like hungry ghosts,
Seeking junk, then more junk.

The bright fishing boats return like empty rainbows
From the pillaged azure depths,
No one is waiting, or watching,
As insects make haste in the soft powder of my bones,
The sappy sawdust in my skull bucket,
Congealed and beige. Day dreams, palms sway,
As I’m dragged into something else,
Someone else’s idea of paradise.

We scratch our heads as sweet flesh litters
The trans-dimensional highways, some other’s sand lines
My pockets
And we are denied entry to divine madness
By the consumer fantasy that leaves us cracked and cold teeth,
Jittery, in the lay by with the divine junkies.

I am there with new sensations and appointments
With the million eyed monsters,
Those kind of freedoms dictate a glancing contact with
iceberg tunes and
Deep, rich hollows of chaos flute
Over glacier and glacier and glacier.
It seemed lucid enough as dark elegant shadows
Silently sweep past aye down in the seas of
My subconscious frozen projection.
Just the tip.
A drowsy concrescence.
The brave mariner, coughing, chewing,
Spitting blood again.

The earth is a sacred being estranged,
There is no harmony in the mind of man,
Only in silence or the ease of oblivion,
The luminous ignoramus.

Behind shades, UV perforates my sense cloud,
To be plant and live for the sun.
But I witness the inevitable breaking up of rafts in the
Violent swell,
Beach littered with last nights beer cans
And broken bottles. The pelicans, in formation, bomb the
Sparkling carpet of watery illusion, unaware of branding.
This is my moon tribe, and it is here I am hung.

Dusk. Is it not human to live for greater subtlety and
Bold migrations?
(‘If the doors of perception were cleansed……’) I’d drop.
The change’s change and death twists it’s tale.
We have no vision of the future, our highs are lows;
Half lives, half time. It seems we thrive in
Deconstructing private despairs, seeking the drugs
We need not to dare.

Over mojitos: to be branded gently, with care, and
taking into account an
Inherent singularity with the hot coals and steel,
The volcanic grumbles deep in the belly of Indonesia.

The fibres of my ripped and listless sail;
On this mirror, who likes me?
The cosmic energies that make me tick
And itch,
The upturned fishing vessel where now families of
Crabs live and occasionally young lovers disappear to chart
The courses of new loves voyage.
To fall in love again, this is the confluence.
The only mystery that matters anyway.
Where love meets love again.

Each raft is petrified beneath the sun without
The greatness of uncertainty lapping at its form,
Their components like camel rib
Cages lost to a Saharan mirage sweep,
No love lost where nothing can grow and we all flirt with the
Caravans of archaic mystery,
All shades of the same confusion.

Even on beaches locked up in history, we would do well to awaken
And get deranged, crack open the watermelon,
Become masters of our own
Personal discovery; we are the conquistadors
Of the internal oceans and pregnant jungles,
The savages we seek to subjugate are the very
Essence of truth we overlook.

The only wars worth fighting happen deep in our hearts
And minds, somewhere mingling with soul, spirit
And the elementals,
An adventure into the nucleus or personality.
How we cling.
Human. Being.

The psychic realities we reflect from the
Aliens we harbour. The inner realms of perception
Unlocks the flood gates to momentary transformation,
The complete humiliation of realising who and what we
Really have become.  Pale, imitations.  Pastry.

For we are tired and gnarled wastrels lingering too
Long in the shady suns of our own ego-sphere.
Chew on it. Spit it out. Howl like a mad bean.

Lastman.  39.  Drink up.  No one is watching.

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