Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Paradise

Through the sliver of the dark dungeon
comes the light atop the hill,
the passable wind of the hollow trees
gushing throughout the plain of sand,
and into the thorns that thrive
on the other side of the hill,
coming from beyond the bodies
of the shivering, cowering animals
in the everlasting blossom of the sun.

Proudly the heads lift,
and grinding, the legs shift
plying into motor-call,
all living and pulling beasts
woken up from the slumber
of beauty.

The smells of the garden flowers,
however reminiscent of the womb
must be left behind.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Mother and Father

Your music is not the pulp of your existence. In the evenings when you are totally gathered around your body and sitting up in the darkening airwaves of your past, you have the tune playing into your ears, but then it’s not your person who participates in the musical activities of your brain, it is your consciousness that dims when you are listening to the words spoken into the microphone with the lightness of the night which has gone away.

Now, the intensity is invisible packed inside the body, the brain is falling sideways coming nearer every Sunday afternoon, please tell me when it arrives so that I can come back and sit with my legs crossed below my abdomen and my head inside the memories of a time when I needed dreams to feel alive.

Your navel is the proof of your birth from your mother’s womb in the same way as your father looks like you, and look at him, he has lines on his face from the time he shivered in anticipation of your birth, of your coming to the world, you ardently supported death in your first few moments but then you thought maybe let’s carry on for at least that amount of time that it takes for your father to realize that you are as worthless as him in the doing of the diminishing art of beauty – he is not beautiful and he needs your mother pretty much around his ears and her hair touching his eyes when he is absorbed in the sounds of his mind playing out his fantasies.

Your father is like you, again and forever and bound to the little music which plays between the two of you even though you hate him and he despises you, you are the same core, the same skin, the same glowing carbon of pure feeling, the same beautifully carved apple shaped head aligned between the ears which hear the same minstrel songs and the same hair which feel the air gliding through as you drive on into life.

Your mother is not like you, she is playing out the tragedy of your would be life, even before you know how she acts during the months your sister is born, but please don’t caress her, or touch her, or scold her, for she gave birth to you, and died in the process or did not die, and lived on to see you live your life in freedom and utter straightforwardness, when all you could do was suck and play and let tomorrow be damned, and your books she hated, and your eyes she loved, and your late nights she hated, and your eyebrows she loved, and your music she hated, and your legs she loved, and your trips she hated, and your glasses she loved, and your secrets she did not know, and she surmounted your being because in the end she is and you are not, she is and you are not.

Roll in the dust for some time for your mother, the gift she wants.

Young is old when you know your purpose, because young knows no purpose, and middle age is life after death, young is diamond, young is lake water flowing after the thaw, young is classic in the time of now, young is fleeing your sight when you are sitting and waiting for you at the top of the roller coaster when you are running. Young is free and old is hard to get to know, because young is not knowing, but playing.

Playing and knowing are the only two activities of the soul.