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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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Drfiting

The mechanical heart, welded from extinct locomotives
Purges fiery wings from its valves and arteries.

All this in memories like tar and softened, footloose windowsills of time.
Where was I? Black rocks in my boots,
The bed of ancient lake and the dust of downed meteorites,
Now a suburban sprawl like greedy steel hand.

Skimming like a smooth button of trousers unnameable.
Stacks of linens, just well-pressed affairs, soiled ambitions
And truant cares. Balls of lint and electricity deep in the
Cave of my navel and some gypsy cleave.

A stowaway, desperate for a snapped crowbar, a break from the
Production line.
A job in a bean tin warehouse, ‘frijoles!’ Jazz release at night and quarts of
Cheap whiskey and sometimes takeaway
Downtown and steaming far from New Orleans.
Casual.

Just another poisoned paper cup chalice in the industrial labyrinth
Of cogs and meaningless maniac machinery,
Chewed up by the decaying teeth of cheap addictions.

(When Hank on a stool met the stare of Daisy holding a jug of coffee in the Fat Cat Diner, like two star crossed guppies, sad fish with sagging skin, something lecherous was born above the stained apron and name badges. Retiring to a cave in the fish tank, they made mechanical non-love on the passion devoid, the non-bed creaking like a toothless Cajun’s rocking chair and non-hope was shared in the non-light of day. Cigarettes. Salty silver light dilutes, car horns and sirens peeling off into the non-scape mingle with crackled sax and skiffles. Hank reflects that skyscrapers are gangs of loveless digits stretching into the limitless greed and folly born of the non-Men. Something had been poisoned but the thought of charcoal purity was too intoxicating. The ether awash with despairing glitches. Hangover grips, bone weary, deep and nauseous tyrant, hot pokers for eyes. Phones tapped. Tap drips. Cigarette drunk. Watery vomit. Kiss. Lets hit the highway, see where we can’t go in the Nontagon Infinitum.)

“Cuba Libre!” the landlord cried
With eye bags like a communists punch bag.
Our heroes left before dawn in the back
Of a farmers pick up heading to Venus, Illinois
And a single brush sweeps past the cat, clouds of red dust jump the porch onto the bed of that ancient lake which hides the fragments of meteors beneath the hills that some locals still call the sleeping woman.

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Moonchild with the Sunny Eyes

Watching the night pass by the bus window,
A reminder of how bleak things can grow,
Under each lightbulb hangs a theatre of memories
And chaotic visions,
In the day we create, in the night we are created.

Here, where not one has fully let the light in,
We may believe that love saves but
Our many shades of love leave us wondering.

The distant piano drifts down from the dark and still house,
In it the lonely shiver of not knowing.
I saw the half gold moon fall past the crumbling concrete
And sleeping crows,
Felt the nervous stirring of the dreamers and the lost souls
Wrapped in blankets within their family of shadows.

Sins inflamed at the dead of night and yet
Somewhere, tucked away, we know there is singing
And dancing.

Innocence, we surrender beneath the arc of stars,
As the universe cycles through the spiralling fingers of trees,
Strength comes from knowing the lost and wandering,
Just another moonchild with the sun in their eyes.

So much of this becomes overgrown
As we all return to nature, rubbing ash over our bodies.
But looking into the night, the light inside tickles
And here I am, growing closer to dawn.

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Silver – Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Dedicated to Arna, the wonderful Silver Poet, who’s first poetry book is available.  Arna is a beautiful poet and superb artist.  I feel very lucky to have Arna in this blogsphere and multi-dimesional mystery –

“I deeply love and believe we are not a multitude at all, but one massive beast of pure conscious awareness.” The Silver Poet

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The Child

This process in which we are transfixed
By the lacy mirage of happiness,
Finds us constantly befuddled by a pressing,
Yet distant engagement.

Like wine poured from a clay jug
We are falling crimson sweetness,
One day to wash away the grieving, sticky
Shroud and see things clearly, as they are.

I was not born a wanderer in these
Industrial fields, a marginalised rage
In the gutters of mechanised truths,
We alone are here to tell our story,
We alone will rise or fall.

We may lay back and view the synaptic
Firework show, the arabesque commotion
Of the dreamers eye, freed now a child
In creations infinite arms.

The echoes of imagination are the conduit for joy,
For love, for finer twists of life,
To bring our souls down here and
Tuck it in at night, then study the many
Faces we hide.

There are new ways of living, new ways
Of loving, and as time wears us down,
Whittles us away, we are born anew
In the darkness we gave away.

The child, returns to nature
In the timeless language of laughter.

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Mother’s Fire

She risks her life to give us life
She cannot know the depths we cry,

We tear our flesh to prove ourselves
When all she wants is a lighter spell,

When killing is a memory
Where we may sit in symmetry

And smoke ourselves into a dream
Of natures patterns and singing streams,

We cast shadows on her light
For the sake of broken love,

Painting ourselves into her womb,
To bury our hopes in a fearful tomb.

She gave her heart to him for life,
With faith she fell into the fire.

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