Monday, June 30, 2008

What is not Under Discussion

somewhere
in your wet
moist
jungle regions

in the undiscovered mystery of your skin
in the beckoning
in the squalor
in the given heart of everything

in your dark parlour

lies the mystery of becoming

a thing activated by and for
the endless expressions of itself.

sinuous and langorous
unique and
infidelitous

incestuously congressing with

the infinite permutations of itself

Saying hello

Waving goodbye

running its hand up your thigh

why?

for the perpetuating image making
congregating pressure to become

and

to expand

to live in temporary splendor or

in the pursuit of one thing after another
as a veil upon the truth..

or...

and generations of imaged beings overlay

and overlay

the white hot starlight at

the sweet silent center that keeps the kitchen warm
and puts the heat into your jeans at alternating locations.

Can you feel it?

Hmmm...

Yes... it's a mystery.

It parts its legs and the world appears.

The dynamics insist that the attractive impulse should be for the thing

magnetized

apart from... and then...
into communion with elements and compounds
cooking up fiery chaos...

but rather does wisdom suggest
you keep your hand close to your chest
and your heart single
when division is death

Massive impetus...

incalculable pushing out and sucking in
that web of sunlight can grow sticky
and dense..

denser yet....

down into carbon oil and diamonds...

Wow! Look!

It comes out the other side again.

How comes the fire to be fiery hot?
What is the sensation of burning?
What makes water wet?
What is the nature of pain?
There are as many kinds of fire and
motivations ...as definitions of gain

Yes it is a mystery

Things fall and things change

Things hurt and heal

Buddhas shimmer where the sun hits the water
Jesus glimmers in the virgin mind
Mohammed makes a tapestry
and all of it divine and moving on

sense and nonsense
thinking and feeling
pleasure and pain

and

Time

It's a lily pad
It's a lotus
It's all hocus pocus
Its a lie that depends on the I
see for yourself.

Sticky... sticky taffy.... sweet incandescent morsels of murk
flypaper... amber...

screams frozen in Time
Laughter, screams, laughter, screams
You pay for what you get
You get what you pay for...

You are the currency
the moment looking at itself
devoid of understanding the thing on which it rests
it seeks security against the inevitable

instead of shelter
beneath
the incomprehensible

Herein is the wicket and the key
and you're on a Busman's Holiday.

All of this
so simple and so intricate
hiding in plain sight
with or without light
does hinge on one thing...

one question...

is it conscious?

Are you?

Well then...

Nothing more need be added or done
Either it is or it is not

If not... then from where comes the capacity to question?

Ah..

uh huh...

precious, precious jewels draped in cobwebs
tracked by ghost spiders

blind groping round the corners of the mind
while the buffeting distractions go on
without end
where? where?

slippery as a fish
elusive
monumentally present
overarching and
groined

penetrating
essence

oily

luminous

There where your treasures be
is each personal conclusion
at that point where the teapot
pours out the paisley and
makes a Persian rug or a dungeon keep.

6 comments:

kikz05 said...

bravo!

*

notamobster said...

Wow! At the risk of seeming a sycophant...I must say that was incredible! Gripping, I think is better suited... I have purposely stayed away from your poetry section, as I tend to revert to a darkness of spirit and become overly introverted when I write.


Reading good poetry inspires me to do so.Thus, I have avoided your poetry.

This is phenomenal.

Visible said...

Well thank you both and I said to myself I would wait until I had a couple of comments till I put up any more so consider yourself responsible.

flash gordon said...

The Dead Flag Blues by Godspeed You Black Emperor

the car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
and a dark wind blows

the government is corrupt
and we're on so many drugs
with the radio on and the curtains drawn

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
and the machine is bleeding to death

the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are all leering
and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles

it went like this:

the buildings tumbled in on themselves
mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble
and pulled out their hair

the skyline was beautiful on fire
all twisted metal stretching upwards
everything washed in a thin orange haze

i said: "kiss me, you're beautiful -
these are truly the last days"

you grabbed my hand and we fell into it
like a daydream or a fever

we woke up one morning and fell a little further down -
for sure it's the valley of death

i open up my wallet
and it's full of blood

doubtingneil said...

thanks les, that was quite possibly the most illuminating poem I have read in a long time. as I read it I felt something deep inside move and turn to the rythm of the words it lifted my spirits in the dark days we find ourselves
neil

savior self said...

Thanksgiving Prayer by William S. Burroughs

For John Dillinger in hope he is still alive, Thanksgiving Day, November 28, 1986

Thanks for the wild turkey and passenger pigeons destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts. Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison. Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger. Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin, leaving the carcasses to rot. Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes. Thanks for the American dream to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through. Thanks for the KKK, for nigger killin' lawmen feelin' their notches, for decent church going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces. Thanks for kill a queer for christ stickers, thanks for laboratory AIDS, thanks for prohibition and the war against drugs. Thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business, thanks for a nation of finks. Yes, thanks for all the memories, alright let's see your arms, you always were a headache and you always were a bore. Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams (image of NASA rocket launch).