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.

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Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Forgotten Skies (Reminiscence of a Trippy Young Man)

Old friend, sweet friend,
You might remember those sunny afternoons
After having our chicken rolls,
Laced with egg and ketchup
We lay in that old famed tropical garden,
Smoking things that made us remember
Of fantasy, and lost angels, and genetic memories
How we looked into the endless expanse of blue,
And wondered of nothing, and everything

While men were titrating acid in large halls,
We were drinking it and pressing buttons on the sky
Revealing to ourselves stories of the moon,
In the shapes of clouds
We saw the clouds for what they really were,
Story tellers, painted by someone we never met
Maybe, it was us who painted those clouds,
Who forged the figures that told our minds,
Stories and histories of things,
Most people would seldom care to care for

While men read and wrote about the Earth’s endless green,
We smoked it and sat in wonderment
Speaking of things we never understood,
And laughing for things the world cared a little too less for
Do you remember, my old funny friend?
Of those summer skies we painted,
Sitting on that elevated terrace tank,
Smoking and joking, drinking and winking,
At the fact that we were alive, that we are alive

I’ve learnt so much and yet it feels like I know nothing
Memory is a cruel thing, a vile thing,
And yet, it makes me smile,
And drink

I wonder if those buttons in the sky still lurk about,
Waiting for us to explore,
To open our wanderings to unexplored meanderings
The world is a large place, and the universe larger
And yet we only think of what lies at the edge of it, and beyond
And much too less for what lies within it
I can’t care much for aliens and spaceships,
I’m a color man, a painter man

My wanderings always sought mystery,
In the beauty of little things
In the movement of ants, that trippy old fool,
The moon. In little words and pointless poetry,
I’m a color man, a painter man

Do you remember old friend?
Of how we tasted the sweet delights of teenage women
In our minds and much too less in our flesh
Dancing to the curly departures of our common sense,
Selling our souls to the breasts of young girls
Leaving our wisdom to be absorbed,
In the moisture of their lips
But you know what old buddy, you know what I learned?
I learned that the heated pleasure of a sweet damsel’s legs,
Give you heaven and sweetness in a simple moment
But the weary sting of her sudden departure,
Gives wisdom, that lasts eternity

Do you remember, bro, do you remember?
The songs we sang in the long summers of May,
With the produce of the short winter,
Green, smelling like mango,
Cherishing true comradeship in the blaze of our youth
I remember, but it’s true that sometimes I wish to forget,
For these things were beyond ecstasy
And to carry memories that have such goodness in them,
Is heavier than carrying those that foster sadness

Together we treaded the edges of the world’s finest music,
Wizards who forged sounds that nobody heard before
And dam, sweet brother, that music was good,
And it still is, and it’s been the greatest discovery,
We ever made.

Gandalf told me,
The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass.
He was a teacher to me more than anything this world could offer
And hey, as funny as it is,
The teachers of our imagination,
Do us an ample more good,
Than the folk who teach us,
The ways of this world

But old friend, this will all be gone
You me, the endless summers with green and gold
They will be gone, the gifts of the prophets,
That sobered our violent minds,
And gave us wisdom incomprehensible
We will become memories, but memories to whom?
Without us, without me, without I,
Is there a world?
Is there this life at all?
This summer of ecstasy, this winter of agony?
Will it last?
Who’s to know?
That’s why I choose to listen to the wisdom of the rain,
The whispers of monsoon’s drizzle,
They tell me tales of myself, and make me smile
And I think of you old friend,
And how we smoked the finest green,
In that lovely young summer,
So many years ago