Silly Satsang Lilac Leela

Silly Satsang Lilac Leela

Brickman: Well, gentlemen, we are here today because the author who is creating us seems to have expressed a wish to understand the very root of all human agitation.

Waterman: He believes that a dialogue is necessary between three distinct characters to accurately represent the varying dilemmas that crowd and disturb the human intellect.

Tripman: By all means gentlemen, I must confess that I strictly adhere to my opinion that it is a futile effort on his part to create us, three confused men sitting in a room, to reveal a problem that is as old as perhaps the species of man itself. However, I am interested to observe how the three of us are developed and how our non-existent knowledge of matters relevant to this dialogue can be used to discuss a non-existent problem itself.

Waterman: Non-existent problem? Why is it that you seem so convinced that human agitation, or suffering, as the professors of dogma prefer to call it, is non-existent? Is it not clear to you that men and women are in pain every moment of their lives? And, if a few seem in solace, it is only an entirely temporal thing. There is deep pain inside everybody.

Tripman: Are we to wander away again into these talks of human thought and ancestral conditioning? Should I waste my time again to shine clarity upon the sources of human suffering? The author, as I can clearly deduce from the state of his mind (since he is my creator), has wasted time immeasurable on contemplating the fallacies and eventual vanity of all human thought. As a matter of fact, it is very possible that it is his frustration with his own intellect built of vain thought that created us. It is possibly an escape from his own madness.

Brickman: Are you sure it is not the whisky that speaks through you Tripman? Seldom have I seen you without a glass of whisky resting gracefully in your hands. Perhaps the perpetual numbing of your own intellect has bestowed upon you such a reckless attitude toward life.

Tripman: And am I to blame for that? Look within yourself. Our creator boasts of a voracious attitude toward whisky. Perhaps, it is that attitude that created me and my reckless perspective toward life.

Waterman: Why do you call it reckless, Brickman?

Brickman: I have studied the pain of mankind for years now. I have known several people who share an enthusiasm for such loose carefreeness as Tripman harbors. It is naught but a futile effort to escape from the inevitable tragedy of human existence. If you excavate patiently into the darker corners of Tripman’s imagination, you will find lurking there, a very regular and commonplace fear of death. A fear that we all share with trembling fervor.

Tripman: Death? Escape? I am not the Buddha or Lao Tzu my friend, but I can quite easily proclaim that all ideas of death are faint illusions that the human intellect wastes its brilliance on. Even on my most sober day, I can proclaim the very same. You speak from what you have heard from others. Tell me, when is it that this fear of death first came upon you?

Brickman: It is as old as my memory. The oldest memories that I have are of things that I fear. At least, they seem to be more in number than memories that please me. But, then, you will say that all memory is illusion, right? You will say that memory is nothing but stickiness. It is the pointless trail left by human experience that serves no purpose at all except survival, and according to you, survival should not be the primary existential concern of human beings.

Waterman: You assume much, Brickman.

Brickman: Our creator is the same my friend. You should forgive his inability to perfectly distinguish his characters from each other. At times, my mind might reveal that which is intended to be revealed by one of you two.

Waterman: I am curious now, about this whole idea of illusion. Often, I have heard men say that all of life is illusion, maya, color, glorious play, lilac leela! Is it not true then that illusion, which by itself is a concept, is also part of illusion? Language as a mode of communication simply cannot reveal such a complex situation since whenever it aspires to state something that is beyond it, it is limited by itself. Language is an aspect of the very philosophy of illusion that it tries to deny. Tell me, the best you can my friend, what is illusion?

Tripman: That brings us to a very basic question now, doesn’t it? What is not illusion?

Waterman: I am blessed with five senses alone and every truth I am aware of depends on these senses. What my senses perceive are not illusion.

Brickman: What according to you is not illusion, Tripman?

Tripman: You gentlemen seem to be making a very fundamental mistake. The five senses, of course, create a very tangible reality. But, they are awakened by the awareness you give them. And, if you draw that awareness away from them, where is the reality?

Brickman: How can I draw awareness away from the five senses? My existence is these senses. In a way, I am these five senses. I see no separate entity that exists outside of these five senses.

Tripman: Your awareness is not an entity. You are drunk on your intellect. You are drunk on the content of your imagination. Whisky is but a little joke of an intoxicant if you compare it to the thoughts of men. The greatest addiction is thought. You see, gentlemen, I am in deep suffering because the author seems to be in deep suffering. I represent the dilemma that is causing him this suffering. You on the other hand, represent the aspects of his intellect that give him the very cynicism and critical attitude from which his heart draws security. Now it is clear that among the three of us, I am most dear to our creator. This conversation between us is meant to bring a little token of solace to him. Instead of delving deeper into such spiritual matters like suffering and awareness, will it be alright if we move this dialogue into a more tangible dimension?

Waterman: What is it that you wish to discuss?

Tripman: The hypocrisy of individualism. What does it mean to be an individual, Waterman?

Waterman: I do believe that if a person can learn to be entirely self-reliant and live without allowing his personality to be constantly influenced by external forces, he or she could be an individual. Individualism implies nonchalance toward what the world considers righteous and immoral. An individual sets his own standards for morality, productivity, education, spirituality, and so on.

Tripman: I am torn, my friend.

Brickman: Are you referring to your personality?

Tripman: I behold an ever-sincere grudge toward the ways of human society but simultaneously, I also harbor a deep love for human things. You see, this is my hypocrisy. This is my mediocrity. My thirst for individualism led me into an abyss far from the common boulevards where my human companions built their lives. But I have strings that help me climb in and out of the abyss on a regular basis.

Brickman: You must know that we all harbor this form of split, my friend. There is no one who entirely enjoys the human world. Everyone within themselves builds secret dimensions that they frequent for peace and silence.

Tripman: I had silence. A long time ago. When our author was much younger, his naivete led his heart to be infatuated with meditation and prayer. His entire being quivered in gratitude as the spring breeze blew across the city harbor. His youth led him deep into the hills to discover the fruits of the earth that drove his intellect into uncertain planes. He discovered new dimensions of being. But, you see, with great awakening comes a very great responsibility.

Waterman: What is it?

Tripman: You become aware of the hypocrisy of your regular life. The hypocrisy of social manners, family, friendship, love, marriage, wellbeing, wealth, promise, glory, sweetness, success, joy; everything becomes hypocritical before your eyes.

Waterman: I would say that these things might still hold value to our author. They are definitely very valuable to me. In discovering the truth of human constructs such as society, civilization, and the systems that govern our world, one who is wise can learn how to be more understanding and compassionate. And, if you are even wiser, you can learn to live in this world without being of it.

Tripman: I cannot fool myself my friend. While I proclaim that pain is illusion, this endless agitation that pricks away slowly at my heart feels more permanent than it did yesterday. But I carry both opinions within me. That pain is real and, also, an illusion. You see, this duality is the root of my suffering. But seeing this duality also implies duality! It implies that there is something being seen and a separate seer. The fact that reality is split into two gives me immense confusion. When I look behind my eyes, I do not see anyone there.

Brickman: If your life seems to be so futile, why is it that something as meager as human society bothers you? We are all bothered by the restlessness of the human mind that has been bestowed upon us. But we must learn to do it right. Adapt to the mind, learn to answers its whims and keep it in a balance so that one part of the mind does not overcome the other leading to eventual insanity.

Tripman: Isn’t it this human society that we live in? I both loathe and love it. And the existence of time makes me feel like I am ten different people. I cannot exist in this way. I have gathered too much knowledge about what it means to exist. So much that I feel it will consume me.

Waterman: What shall we do about it now, Tripman?

Tripman: Can you not see the whisky in my hand? Humor and the high plane is my answer, my friends. It is in humor that I have found at least a tiny degree of sanity that can help me stand on my feet.

Waterman: Whisky and humor cannot save you my friend. And, neither can they save our author. Even if this world is undeniably an illusion, an escapist attitude implies that it is real and something to be escaped from.

Tripman: Whisky is not an escape, my friend. And neither are the fruits of the earth an escape. They are blessings from the gods to aid men when they dally with the darkness in their souls.

Brickman: I am beginning to feel that you are not sincere at all in your search for truth, my friend.

Tripman: And at which instant did you first feel that I was sincere?

Brickman: What then, are we to leave our author, our creator to burn in his distress? Are we to leave him to manage his hypocrisy with drunken sleep and candlelit dinners with pretty girls by the oceanside? For how long can we escape the agitation that lurks in the heart?

Waterman: Perhaps, it is only right to adopt the attitude of escapism to allow our hearts to rest awhile, my friend. Man is after all an inferior creature before the glory of the cosmos.

Brickman: I beg to differ. The glory of man lies in the fact that he has the ability to contain the vastness of existence in the smallness of his intellect.

Waterman: The intellect only contains an idea of the real vastness.

Tripman: Waterman is right. But then, neither of us can deny that man is the sweetheart of mother nature. But such a judgment cannot be held valid when we as men make it ourselves. However, I do find it special that as a man, I can be aware of such a thing as hypocrisy.

Waterman: Is it better then to be aware of one’s hypocrisy rather than simply being hypocritical?

Tripman: Perhaps, it is my friend. Maybe that was our gift all along. To be aware of the things that torment us.

Brickman: And is this awareness stained by the things that is becomes aware of?

Tripman: The purity of white cloth is easily stained by the weakest dye.

Brickman: How is it then that this awareness is a gift?

Tripman: You see, we are aware that we are aware.

Brickman: Who is it then that is aware of awareness?

Tripman: Who is asking the question?

Brickman: You have changed the direction of my enquiry, Tripman.

Waterman: Perhaps, this new direction might lead us into a more silent place.

Tripman: Perhaps. It seems like our author has found solace; at least for now.

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The Other Side

The Other Side

We need to write imagining that no one will ever read us, because that liberates you, because that frees you from the public’s necessity for correct grammar and appropriate punctuation; that frees you from the enslavement to decent words and appropriate imagery; that frees you from the expectations of people who have previously deemed you to be a good writer, a fantastic writer, a decent writer whatever. We need to imagine that nobody’s reading us.

Pick up that paper and spit it out. Let the music ring out from whatever instrument you have clothed in dust in your messy room and let your heart break before your monitor, your notebook, your friend, whatever you have. What liberates you is the very thing that the appropriateness of society loathes and rejects; humanity is a very subtle prison you see. Every artist needs aloneness to liberate himself. Every artist needs to bleed out the manners and acts of decency that have been cultivated within him by the people he has dearly loved. You need to walk to the places that no one else has dared to tread, you need to find the courage to let your heart bleed when nobody is watching. That’s the hypocrisy of most men you see; they love to bleed, poets love to bleed, painters love to bleed, but they do it only when everyone’s watching. You need to do it when nobody’s watching, that’s the point of liberation that lasts forever, free of time, free of yourself, free of everything.

They’ve created art schools to imprison the few of us who are remaining; don’t go to art school, don’t let that little part of you that is still alive be converted into political vomit and embroidered literature in the museums of the world. Don’t destroy yourself sweetheart. Don’t go to art school. Look at me, a young man who already sounds a hundred years old. School destroys you. Don’t go there. Instead, go to the Himalayas, go someplace faraway, let your heart break into a million pieces when you meet the reality of loneliness in a city that is home to more than a million people. Don’t go to art school, go to the places that you are afraid will kill you. Don’t go to Paris, or Rome, or New York City, or Tokyo. People have been going there all their lives. They’ve been telling us the same old stories; they’ve been regurgitating the same old tales of cultural excreta that every honest man has grown to become tired of. Don’t go to those places. Go somewhere else, anywhere, but those places. Go to the places that you know will kill you.

So many people are sitting before their monitors and begging their minds to shut up for one minute so that they can complete a verse of poetry. Don’t ask it to shut up, transform it, transmute it. Let your confusion become your art. Let your writer’s block become your novel. Let your dysfunctions become your orgasms and your tragedies become your redemptions. Don’t believe in god, believe in yourself. So many people have believed in god; god is yesterday’s delight. Today, you are your delight.

If you write a novel in fourteen days, they won’t believe you; if you spread it over fourteen years, they’ll put you on a pedestal and praise the work that you supposedly strived to complete at all odds, even though your heart kept forcing you to go the other way; if you write a song when you feel no pain, they won’t get it; if you take too much LSD and tell them life is beautiful, they’ll tell you your high; nobody wants to touch roses that have thorns, nobody wants to kiss a woman whose lips are dry, nobody wants gold that doesn’t shine, and nobody wants to be told otherwise. Everybody wants numbers, reason, and solid facts and if you ask them to play with you, they’ll call you a child. That’s why, learning to bleed when nobody’s watching is the artist’s great abode, his temple hidden from the impurities of the perfect world. Don’t listen to them; if you have to go to school, go to school, if you have to love a woman, love her like there’s no other, and when the time comes to meet your broken heart, drink your whisky, smoke your weed, drop your acid, and be on your way whistling on to a new tomorrow that offers something newer than yesterday. Nothing sticks and everything moves like frames on a movie screen; if you have to get a job, get it, work it, lose it. It seems to matter a great deal now, but when you’re facing death a few seconds away, if you’ve let nothing stick, you’ll greet it like an old familiar friend, and that will be your moment of liberation. What everyone considers their damnation, will be your liberation.

Don’t go to art school, go somewhere else. Contradict yourself, cheat yourself, hurt yourself. But in the midst of the chaos, remain honorable. Not perfectly honest, or kind, compassionate, or honorable in a cheap noble kind of way; remain honorable to yourself, that will take you across the fire to the sunshine that you so desperately seek.

Go away now, to that crazy place, that’s not Rome, or Paris, or New York city. Go away to that place you’re afraid will kill you; and when you’re back, I’ll be waiting for you, here, on the other side.

Asleep in Paradise

Asleep in Paradise

I dwelt for days,
On what I thought I missed the most,
In my hollow existence
I seem to have discovered,
That deep in my memory,
Lies a confused desire for paradise
For a place where I’d feel parented,
Without parents,
Pruned and gardened to exquisite maturity,
Without education
It’s as if an old archaic land,
That cradled humanity,
Has been lost to history
And all our futile efforts at love, care,
Open-hearted kisses to change our culture,
And our endless striving to grow as a race,
Is only so that we could have one more moment,
To dance in that forgotten paradise,
That lurks darkly in our minds; in that paradise lost

It feels, like every verse I bring to bleed,
Speaks of the same feeling
But decorates it with different words,
You see; you mustn’t leave your heart,
To dance too freely with me,
I might break it twice, and forget to fix it
And you might be left drowning in an ocean of thorns and flowers,
Unknowing of who left you there

Our earth dances proudly in her middle age,
A woman with the most nutritious bosom in the universe
A princess clad in green, who endlessly feeds her offspring,
Forgiving, equally accepting, of that,
Which creates and destroys, homing both beauty,
And ugly alike
A queen that will soon enough, be older,
Than history can remember
What will the space around us remember?
Will they remember the pride of our mother?
The magical human race, that dealt violence,
With violence
That even in all its ugly endeavors striving toward eternal life,
Remembered to stoop low enough,
To believe in kisses and roses.
A race that dared behold the treacherous illusions,
Of delusive self-consciousness and cursed sentience
And still make time to mourn and weep at its imminent mortality,
What shall the space around us remember?
When our mother meets her deathbed,
Chiseled with cold rock and sunless winds

As humans, we seemed to have cared too much,
For the victory of good, and the perpetuity of civilization
We have spared too little time,
To understand the nature of all ugly things
To bring our vision to the wisdom of evil,
And the delicate balance of light and darkness
Have we strayed too far in one direction?
Have we lost our senses too much to daylight?
So much that we seem to leave our intelligence,
To rot in the delights of wonderful things,
Chocolate cake, love-making, champagne,
Expensive watches, carefully-pruned bodies,
And perfume made silky with orchids and lavender
What of tears? And the ugly faces of the contorted unfortunate?
What of the cold skin of the dead?
The painful memories of broken love,
And the fearful sights of tortured animals,
The ignored impoverished, and the un-delightful?
Do not wait to care for the delinquent nature of our existence,
Instead, behold it; don’t beat it to your meek intellect,
Instead, understand it.
We seem to waste much in grasping life,
When all we were born to do, is experience it

When we meet hurt, we seem to fall asleep,
Like a little child that closes its eyes,
When it sees its skin torn by a gruesome throne;
Hoping, praying, that this pain is just a dream
But like humanity is made of men and women,
And the earth dances between the sun and moon,
Life is a waltz between bliss and brutality,
Delight, and moroseness; faith and fear.
And we, so that we might be the gods we always were,
Need to open our eyes, when the day seems dimmest,
And the worst of our own selves is made plain,
Before our waking eyes

If you look hardly enough, with a mind sharpened,
With humility, and a tinge of compassion;
You might just come close enough to see,
The playful nature of all things; even death,
The greatest player of them all.
I cannot spare even a wink as I kneel,
Before the simple wonder of it all.
The wonder of my own self,
And my own doing,
This whole immortal universe,
Seems to be nothing, but a playground,
That I create in a secret sentient way,
That is of such glorious intelligence,
That even me, the creator,
Always fails to see it.

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

The Art of Psychedelic (The Midlife Melodrama of Wit Warrior)

My name is Wit Warrior,
83 years, 13 months, and 32 days old
The world doesn’t seem any older to me,
Than it did, when I decided that I was bored with it
The many myriad images,
Of desolate forests and broken souls of flowers,
Are but a tiny flickering to me,
In the endless expanse of space that I access

I broke the boundaries with old friends,
All those many years ago
We, like kids in a candy store,
Having a go at every molecule we found colored,
With even a tiny ounce of rebellion
I’ve seen things, heard, loved, and hated,
Opened avenues within me that,
Only the skies can know the true nature of
That sweet word, REALITY
I stitched the fragrance of it fibrously onto,
The deserted canvas of my imagination
And how I’ve danced with its many meanings,
Throughout my years

I’ve seen so many children in the sunshine,
Making choices, that broke them, that made them
To live on omelettes, chai, and rolled cigarettes
To scale the soft cushion covers in high penthouses,
Drinking bourgeoisie wine and making love,
To plastic dolls and rubber toys
Men drift too much to the east, and sometimes the west,
Some choose principle, honor, patriotism
The others choose love, madness, dancing, and rum
The few choose polished shoes and trimmed beards,
The many choose daytime jobs and evening whisky
Men choose too much, but me,
I’ve been as clueless as the sea waving blindly,
With open eyes, at the sky

There is a dimension to living,
That my way of mind has opened to me
It is, a kind of secret door in the psyche
There are two intelligences
One made of numbers, analysis,
Endless counting, metallic, perfect
But the other, is mine
It is untouched, yet entirely felt,
Ungrasped, yet so tangible
There is a kind of style in this way of life,
To groove on the edges, of risk,
And yet stay unbitten, unsmitten,
By it all
To notice the leaves dancing in fall’s death rhyme,
Is one aperture for human eyes
But to see, the sweet untold songs of death,
Being sung in the silence of red and yellow leaves,
To see the sweetness of death’s ugly feminine touch,
To waltz along with the absolute meaninglessness of existence,
That is the other aperture
Through which all men find a strange,
Lasting peace

The language of poetry only creates walls,
Around the sting of life’s true touch
But all men must write, for it is the only medium,
Through which our thirsting aches for expression,
Find fruitful waters

When I watch the news,
Have a little conversation at the grocery store
I cannot help but perceive,
The separation of my soul from the rest of it all
It is not, that I loathe it,
Or that I wish it was otherwise
Perhaps it was meant to be;
The flavorless tunes of loneliness,
The dull vibrancy of a settled happy life,
The absolute security of a lovely damsel,
And the cherishment of fresh, beady-eyed children
I construe this universe to be a great chaos,
Through my melodic explorations into the endless psyche,
With molecules, shortened breaths, and simple silences
I have seen this chaos, and the choice to find melody in it
Men are too lost in choices,
Our confusion is too great to truly communicate
You see me? I walk the middle, the inside path
I am neither this, nor that
I have no principles, I am bound by no reason
But I am reason

I watch the dabbling noisy ocean of humanity,
Striving to induce meaning,
Into their words, their treaties, their theories
So many men who are so convinced,
So sure, that death can be avoided,
By chasing some great dream
I saw it the day I opened my eyes,
With the molecule, without it
It didn’t matter, my eyes were open
I was looking at an old friend,
Death, dissolution, end, finale,
And it felt good.
All men must die, that is what they are born to achieve
There are some things, however,
That last forever
Like questions, born from old answers,
What is man? Who dies? What dies?

“The seeking must stop!”
We’ve heard that before

And all those many years,
As I swayed into those dangerous realms,
Of clear tangible beauty,
And little sweet droplets of tormenting wisdom
I felt it for the first time,
I felt the weight of being alive
And it released me,
Into a blissful corridor of absolute delight
And I saw the origin of this entire cosmos,
It came from, why ‘ME!’

There is an art in life that too few men find the time,
To discover and master;
This art is ancient, so ancient,
And yet so timeless
That drives us to live with magic,
Crawling and battling at ease,
To birth ecstasy in the concrete manors of mundanity
And find fullfilment in the smaller perspectives of movement

We set ourselves goals so high,
And parameters too unreal to be tuned into our realities
Men live with such delightful theories,
Of perfection
It is not that we need change in this world,
You see,
As it is; this cosmos is splendid
This little earth with its little germs,
Creating war, endless murder,
The perpetual social catastrophes in our communities
Lovers appreciating intricate architecture,
Thieves and rapists, terrorists, and masked bombers,
Milkmen and prostitutes,
Drunks and drug addicts, conmen,
The children of midnight doing business at dawn,
The machine maker, the code cracker,
The marketing maniac, the suited salesman,
The suicidal, the ambitious, the artistic, the calculative
I see them all as one creative movement,
One explosion of life
Ah the several aspects of living,
The numerous creaks through which we find expression
These are the lovely little acts of living,
Are sweet scenes in a delightful drama,
And it makes no meaning,
To proclaim the elements of this drama,
Within the drama itself!

But well, that is the folly every poet must turn to,
Every artist, artisan, and engineer of innovative living,
To proclaim the drama, within the great act

We must, so that a few men,
Might wake up to see,
That life after all,
Is quite an intricate thing
Quite a complex thing
And, is quite worth living
Whether entrenched in meaning,
Or abandoned to oblivion

It is not, my friend, that these things,
Might come to your understanding,
One great eventual day
Most of these things are left to die,
Without finding the halls of universities,
And worse, the hearts of living sentient beings
But, what drama is there in understanding alone?
What adventure will we find in complete revelation?
What joy will we discover in eternal clarity?

The dance is in the chaos,
And the truth in the laughter,
That erupt from our untouchable innocence
My friend, it is sweet when we look at the colors of living,
The delectable opportunity for eternal exploration,
Answering the mating calls of the unknown
And yelling, “That’s fucking psychedelic, man!”

artwork: Archan Nair – Alchemy Resonance

Touch It

Touch It

It takes wounds to write,
Several. And if there are none,
We must hurt ourselves to create;
Through wounds the light can come out.

From what glorious futuristic vision,
Does our elation stem from?
It feels like that good feeling,
Which we chase our entire lives,
Hoping to touch someday,
Forever eludes us, cheating, escaping us.
It seems that our imagination is discontinuous,
With the heat that operates our bodies.
We have decorated ourselves with job titles,
Expensive suits and beautiful wives, husbands, whores,
Jeweled our invisible images with neat talk,
Defensive vocabulary, heavy wallets and hearts,
Spyked with the endless thirst to be emperors of our world

As we build elevators to glassy penthouses,
And leave our eyes in the basements of our dreams
We come to hear the toll bells of our honeyed hells,
Through the streets of our cities, that like garbage dumps,
Harbor and nurse the whims and what nots of our erect penises.

We are a “touch it” world, where we need to feel,
Our toes wringing in maddening glee
Every inch of our feeling selves dancing,
Every cell mourning and dying to ecstasy;
There is nothing more than that
In all our endeavors;
Our chivalry, our righteousness, our goodness,
Our poetry, our dance, our glorious revolutions;
Everything is a “touch it” thing,
And if it isn’t worth our mental erection,
We will abandon it by dawn.

Two types; one the suited, the other—the nature guy,
Both don’t know and both are right, both wrong.
They will battle till this chapter of life comes to naught

Our wounds will be ointmented with whipped cream,
Made from steel butter and urine ice.
Our world moves toward a dark time,
When hell will erect its massive edifices on our lands;
Our endeavors flourish only for entertainment,
And death comes racing; greatly motivated,
To move this wheel of time into nature’s deepest abyss

Our satin-saffron clad priests will perhaps survive this descendence,
Chanting their verses in praise of their Adiyogi.
But they would’ve missed, they would’ve missed.
Life is no great thing without the darkness,
Without the hurt, without the fear,
Without the knowledge of possible annihilation,
From a very un-enlightened perspective

I will come back,
To give you better renditions of our mysterious fates.
Until then,
Bask in sweet sorrow and drink to our demise,
Chasing the dreams that you can touch,
Relaxing in crisp and clear sensation,
In confident erection, eyes open,
Tongue tucked behind gritted teeth,
And a loudly beating heart.
We crave all things that ask and beg and plead,
Mourning, “Touch Me.”

Screamjack

A Current of Reflection

A Current of Reflection

This morning, we shall chart our hearts,
And find the few pearls of memory,
That wage war with our destinies,
And win to our delight

Inside sometimes, little drops of heaviness,
Bring a milky solitude to me
Like cream that tastes of infected phlegm,
There are many ounces of regret in me
Through the rays of endless remembrance,
I cannot know if in this life or beyond
I feel a weary ache that decorates me with loss
A fiery torment that rages like the waves in an ocean of fire,
And me, a simple soul stranded in chains of tears
In surrender, in sorrow, in mindless poesy mourning,
At the glorious delight of humanity’s tragedy

If you look hard enough through my sweetened words,
You can find a broken soul, vulnerable, fragrant, yet broken
It’s all yours to touch, for you to break more—eat into my spirit
The currents of reflection come like a storm,
To tease my tired mind out of idolism to elation
We’ll keep on teasing ourselves into this wondrous game,
Of love, rejection, denial, and laughter in autumn forests
We will forever drink from the chalices of friendship,
Finding connection in mutually adored vulgarity
Seeking touch in the palms of our poisonous counterparts
Craving their tenderness when we know that all comes to naught
We will still sell our hearts to our women,
And love them in winter and nourish their wombs,
With more than our seed, more than our hopeless romanticism

We will shake ourselves from our anxiety,
As the winter reveals its treachery in the summers of sunshine
I pray for that hour of redemption,
When our non-existent dreams are exiled into the abyss of awakening
When we look into the eyes of our children,
And see the tricking secrets of our older selves
Tonight perhaps, I will come to see that our children,
Are our older selves
And life moves backwards, not forwards,
Returning to an age of accepted imperfection,
Where we let our fingernails grow into the soil,
Leaving our cheeks to tan themselves into a dark peach,
Allowing our hair to smell of all undesirable fragrances
A world without mirrors, an innocent world

There lies, a whole world of madness and brilliance,
Behind the multi-colored irises of you and I
A secret world, a drunken world,
With fairies and alien whores, with magic
And if we transcend our addictions to touch,
That world attracts to itself the mantle of reality

As I lose myself to perpetual abstraction,
I will put up my hands to bring you along
The absolute place does not exist,
The promised land is here
I am your milk, and you my honey,
And our blood the water of this fragrant soil
I must forget the delightful offerings,
Of this selfish society
I must reject, your ambitious plans,
I am a child of the Earth, a prophet of blasphemy
And here I am, offering myself to you,
To crucify me,
With the nails of your limited understanding,
To the cross of your own demise

There is no word that can awaken the world,
There are a few sounds, a few visions,
But these are too few in this age.
So forget awakening, come smile with me,
And we shall go dancing into unknown galaxies,
And make love to the stars,
And birth more dreams and more eternities,
More words and more numbers,
More wine and more divine,
To feed the curiosity of our future selves.

Tea today, no wine.

The Endless Dawn

The Endless Dawn
Behind my eyes,
Lurking beneath every feeling
Hiding behind all form,
Expressed, yet unknown,
Backstage, yet the showrunner,
Endless, yet momentary,
So groovy, so secretive,
Forever unknowable, yet existential
Whisky brings a bit to light,
A little herb shines it more
Some chemical revelation,
Brings it to dawn
Fungal fruition, seems to tickle it
But yet, there it lies,
Unknown, unknowable,
Unseen, unseeable
That nameless miracle,
That is life
That is I.