Delusions of the written form

I.

We are always wanting

to be

 

that little something

 

More

 

Always turning

and in turning

turning from

 

I guess this is thought

 

walking forwards, towards

the hope of horizon but

sloping back down the walls

of a circle, reaching for

the abyss Freedom

and coming up short

 

distraction, distraction

 

bottle, action or

drug of choice

 

attaching fulfilment

to the finite

body, love, will

or even

these paltry words

 

ringing in my head ‘don’t

don’t – O do, you

fool’

 

we sing and dance, mask

ourselves and perform

 

but who for if not the truth

of self?

 

We aim for this that and the other,

make lists and twist ourselves in delirium

and oh always this or that other we come

to miss

 

is this existence.

 

II.

Can I say something?

 

what happens when then becomes

another then,

then then becomes no more

more and more the course

 

must reach all

 

and before you know

we are old, mute

and reborn

 

but are you so sure?

 

At what point does discovery turn to ruin

Surely we either become nihilists or

we remember

to bloom

 

Life may never reach its goal

its only purpose is to be self-curious

only then we may enjoy

and truly discover universes

 

III.

You should not listen to me,

I am only still learning

And you are still only your own force

 

 

Turn and evolve

this oh so insatiable motion

inwards, revert the current

condition, compulsion in-

to consciousness – song-

bird swallow ocean, comfort

your beaky bones, the water

slows, holds before and

beyond the shore

you are already

already born-all

 

 

Let ego

follow

 

and fall

 

do not blame it

but observe yourself

how the shadow

can no longer pour

into something

whole

 

The eye, now so hollow,

bald and dormant

will journey, sponge

and blend rawness

 

Spontaneously

a longing will

un-form,

re-open

the storm

 

morning will spread, lend

the socket

its vision, O

lost volition

 

oh who am I, what is place

what is circumference

if not space

 

and what of today

 

no more

 

than a mote, a cell

a magnificent emerging for us

once more to soak in up

 

 

IV.

Fill the

reality of this orb,

ye old namesake of sensation

 

yes shed and shake snakeskin

voyage, voyage, journey down voice

all the way up the angles and chords of

your own throat

 

 

until there is nothing left

between it and dream or

this belief of the imagination      imagined things      ideology

 

nothing to separate life

from the poem

 

yes commence,

eye said the I will open

 

the echo will sound

its source

 

 

One must only know the process

of nature’s invocation

and respond

 

to this oldest liberation

 

The unknowing cure

that germinates shapeless

as breath

at your forgotten

Core

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s