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.

Puppets in Paradise

Puppets in Paradise

Dwindled in boredom,
Aching for feminine touch,
Salted in pretense, rage, and fever,
Aching,
For all things dark under the sun

Come now, hearty one,
Who lost his laughter in the rains of time,
Who has given his humor to idiots and thieves,
Come lay by me, and rest beneath the moon,
And find your solace in a dreamless sleep

You cannot go searching for Canaan with an empty heart,
You cannot dance if meaning is your purpose
I have beaten senseless to pulp your notions,
Of grave family, ambition, thieving religious greed
I have removed the division between your Science and Love
How many years through which you will sell yourself to this prostitute?
These equations and symbols that swerve in ignorance

Kiss rain,
Before it slips like dust,
Through the dreams of the stars
Hire the scent of the wind,
Before she lays once more,
With your enemy laughing,
With another damsel in his arms,
Who you fucked last night
Dip your arms in this bloodstream,
And let it turn to a lily farm
Come leave your melancholy at my doorstep,
And run to your wife before it’s too late

My heart only aches with more lizard tales,
Reptilian nonsense about aches and lost lakes\
Can you come look into my meandering self?
A little fading dream in a colorful adventure
I have heard the fools bring color to concept,
The blasphemers with beady eyes selling their shit,
To cravers and ravers on these shit streets,
People simply seeking some last inch of archaic wonder
It won’t come with your words stupid wonder child,
Leave this place,
My whisky loses its charm with your senseless ramble

The heart seems to be a hole for treacherous things,
So come, let’s behold treacherous things
Let us glorify the sickness of our glorious race,
Let us decorate our dysfunction with inner murder,
I will teach you a new yoga. Would you dare to hold my hand?
I will bring you a breath that will tear your limbs,
Cut your tongue, burn your hair, break your heart,
Do you dare to know this magic?
These old fools sell you their ecstasy nonsense,
Let them rot in their white light and saffron-robed kindness,
Let them rot in their godly folly, their selfish understandings
I will give you the very edges of darkness,
I will kick your innards into that maddening awakening
Over there, in that dark place, you will find yourself,
On the razor’s edge, where you will lose me,
And I you
And us both, find ourselves, and never look back again

These folks don’t dare the infinity of the human being,
They will bring you to a hurtful finitude
Where your endless potential becomes an endless illusion
A thirsty search for some great money dream,
Where these losers bow down to you,
As you are puppeted on a plastic box,
Doing things that make them laugh

You derelict soul, you broken mind,
You are here to be whipped into a mold
Like butter into cake batter,
They will make you thick and tender,
But you will be dead

Who dares look into the workings of anger?
Who dares kiss him before a mirror,
And shed tears of rage for all cosmic life,
Do you remember tears? I wonder.
The world’s evil is a mere comical folly,
In the eyes of the eternal cosmic darkness
And we waste our years with the plastic box,
In drama, rage, and childish conversation
Go live! Stupid wonder child,
Bring yourself to open capitulation
No one cares for last night’s visions,
No one dreams of you. No one cares for you.
So alone, the snow comes down,
And we’re drenched again in yesterday’s dreams

We must rest now.
We’ve beheld enough treachery,
On this useless night
Ah! The stars seem to have not moved.
Things shall remain as they are,
Tomorrow.

 

artwork: Enchanted Doll – Maruhana Bachi

Dancing through Hell Fire

Dancing through Hell Fire

I often feel we cheat ourselves because we’re afraid of our own glory. We’re afraid that deep down, we truly are magnificent creatures destined to keep on living, not achieving, but being the most glorious pieces of light that stretch across the endless expanses of space. Sometimes, I feel that the greatest purpose of breath is to dance, to dance through every single day like nothing matters. There lingers deep down oneself the immense urge to explode into oblivion, to become a simple nothingness that is more glorious than the atomic truth of material existence.

Every time somebody reads something, it seems like they are looking for something. In every act, it seems like each person is expecting some kind of great mystery to come rolling down onto the floor of their conscience, naked, bare, and innocent. It’s only a daunting thought to see that there might not be any mystery at all. If we remove purpose, meaning, tomorrow, and time from our lives, we simply aren’t able to imagine what might be there to look at in the sunshine. There might be nothing at all. Say I just give up thinking entirely, would anything be there at all?

So many people are searching and searching. I like laughing. I adore the human ability to burst out with energy from the innards laughing into space with a sense of insanity and absolute craziness. Because of the way so many people have told me life should be, the mold it should take, the kind of boundaries it should be limited by, the kind of stupid scientific theory it should be reasoned by, I find even writing this difficult. From deep down in the unconscious I feel an almost unstoppable forcing drawing only dishonesty from me. There is a kind of living organism stopping me from touching life. I don’t know, maybe the organism’s just another thought.

You know I’m afraid that if I stop writing, I might lose myself again. I might forget life, might just disappear into the endless void of non-being. But then, I’m this endless explosion tickling myself at this little corner of the galaxy dreaming of doom and hopeful of a blessed tomorrow that hasn’t come for over a billion years. Funny, eh?

Morbidity is this little flash of wisdom that sits smoking a cigarette made of childish doubt at the tips of my little goose bumps that come erecting through every little molecule of breeze that touches me. I sit here, asking the sky to come molest my existence and cloud me with more and more confusion. There is great evil in this world, and it isn’t our enemy. It is our experience. And we make it because we like it. We love great tragedy. Deep down, the human heart is crafted by soil, wind, and spirit to handle the most grievous torment, the most heart-ripping sorrow, and the most devious and disastrous self-deception. The human mind is made to feel evil at its greatest height. This is not our destiny, this is our creation. And we play it out so well that all our acting has transformed itself to become real personalities in this desert of verbal and mathematical calculation. Only gods can hoax themselves to perceive mortality as a real concrete thing. Only gods can take this existence ride into absolute mayhem and uncalculated misery beyond self-understanding. This confounded movement through the undefined cosmic soup is the absolute glorification of our divine existence. You know, it’s great, hell and all. In the deepest fire is where you will find the light. Rotting like a living corpse in the deepest, deepest most unimaginably painful place in your infinite self.

I stopped searching for reality when I discovered that losing touch with reality is reality itself. This whole thing, this life, it’s too fast. We try with paintings, music, poetry, we try, but those are just desperate attempts that come meagerly close. It’s too fast to capture in a sentence, it simply can’t be done. Ah, it’s great though. You know, we’re all drunk on this great cosmic thing. It’s a great and long intoxication, almost eternal. In the mind, sixty years seems too little. Run to Medicare, fitness, hit the gym, sport, diet, good food—bullshit. When you forget tomorrow, you’ll just be dancing out there breathing the very air that sustains you. There is no tomorrow, so many idiots are fighting a battle that does not even exist outside their mental space. The mental space is an elusive entity. Everything that exists in that space is a dream. And it’s funny when you realize that the entire universe as you knows it happens in that limited mental space.

Does anyone really set aside time to think of useless things? I wonder. The world is so preoccupied in making tomorrow better than today, they are interested only in productivity and mechanical manipulation of every dam thing. Even this thing they call love, it’s a mechanical process devised to end in confusion, torment, anguish, and total indifference. Duality defines the world every minute in such a way that each intention is bound to attract its diametrically opposite intention. If you chase happiness, you will run into sorrow. If you chase salvation, you will run into damnation. If you chase love, you will run into hatred. Success and failure. Life and death. How can there be so many people out there who never figure this out? It is so, obvious. So, concrete. Yet people live in a way which merits the belief and hope that one side of the coin can exist without the other. It’s absolute ignorance. It is hope that keeps you crawling in the shadows addicted to wishful thinking and endless dream.

You will not wake up if I ask you to. I will not wake up if you ask me to.

Whisky, wine, rum?

 

art: Vincent Van Gogh

Breathing in the Shadows

Breathing in the Shadows

Sometimes, we all get sad. We get distraught, entirely confused and craving for some light, a little inch of understanding that might salvage us the remnants of our half-wasted lives. The various flavors of guilt steal our attention to remind us of the miserable ways we treated people, the low energy moments when we fed off the joyous memories of some ancient glory we believed to behold but had no part to credit ourselves to. Sometimes, the whole of human existence feels like a ghostly movement of flawed vocabulary and broken spirit. And then, we turn to rum, on some days its whiskey and the few days of wine. And every day, there’s beer. The liquid diet serves to cure both a broken heart and the guilt that spurns from the memory of other hearts that were broken.

The universe has a tiny irking for brokenness. It kicks itself about it and yearns for more and more brokenness. Brokenness gives perfection a glorious crown. It is an element of art that decorates the highest level of creativity with aliveness. It hosts an immense power to alchemize existence into something higher than itself. Here we are, the pinnacle of the universe’s desire—humanity. A wretched race built on the broken ideals of morality, love, and hope. Here we are, a tormented people striving for greatness and blind to the doomed quality of our ignored mortality. We are the peak of the universe’s magic, and the foundation of that peak is the broken nature of our hidden spirits of whose existence we will always be doubtful of.

Every journey into the realm of understanding—to understand oneself, others, all of it—every journey, smells of vanity and stinks of cheap beer at the end. Sometimes it’s best to say things in a way that the only implications are the things being said and no greater meanings hidden or pointed at. The power of transcending grammatical perfection and lingual decency is the only power that helps anybody break out of the shackles of their own concocted verses of rhyme, meaning, clarity, and eventual boredom.

Each alphabet, each sound, is an explosion of the one thing there is—life. Is it here? What does it mean for something to exist or not exist? What does existing mean? Do I exist? Do you, who is reading this exist? Or are you just a swirling in the cloudy imagination of dreams that I spurned yesterday. So many men want their lives to end on the shoulders of a pretty woman and on the rims of a glass filled to the brim with rare whiskey stored in nurtured barrels for a million years. I have no dreams for tomorrow. I want today. And the more I look at it, the more I see that there is no today. Today was over, many years ago. All that remains is the inklings of the little child that dreamt each day of a future that never came and a future that never comes. I like Ms. Plath, glorious and alive in heart look up at that fig tree and wish for every bit of it that it can offer, but I see it all, grown rotten and created to hoax the only thing I ever believed to be alive—myself.

Our lives become staircases into the shadows not because of sorrow that we claim to be our own, but sorrow that we claim to have shared with the tender reflections of ourselves—other people. The many masks and personas that we dance with from dawn to dusk into the weary walks with our dreams at night, we are the dreams of endless nothingness. Have you ever felt like nothing amazes you anymore? Felt like the greenness of the trees and twinkles of the stars were nothing but boring kisses from the same old mother? In the end you see, all things are robbed of charm and light, robbed of dreaminess and steaminess, robbed of life. The only fear the living are left with is the fear of who gets robbed and who keeps robbing. Neither exist.

Somewhere between this dreamed beginning and feared end, there arose this “I am”. And “I am” is the hoax that breeds this endless oblivion.

With the end of things, all that remains is the infinite potential for a new beginning. Even such a thing as glorious and eternal as poetry meets mortality. The only real thing about being alive is death—the fact that one day, all this that we know and love and cherish, hate, despise, and scorn at will be gone. All gone! And then I, my own sweet precious I that I nurtured and kept moist with attention, light, and sweetness will come to what? Nothing. I see that now my friend, and smile.

I’ll ramble till the sun goes down on his knees and begs me for mercy. I will speak till the breath flowing in my toes leaves through my nails. I will not preach but I will scream. I have no reasons for my dances in the moonlight, no causational rendition of meaning to my madness. All you have is me, and the experience that is me. All we have is the stars, to mourn and complain of our mortality.

If you aren’t afraid of death you haven’t seen life yet. I’ll leave you now, with an empty heart and a shallow hope for an eternal tomorrow. Give it up sweet tearful friend, from birth to death is one large lemon, and we swim through burning ourselves, slowly disappearing into a forgotten nothing.

 

art – The Road Through Death – the jamesstark

Arise! You Wonderchild

Arise! You Wonderchild

The leaves whisper through monsoon’s final mourns,
The last secrets that shall keep us warm for winter
We’ve danced to mindless tunes,
Ached and tormented our little selves, confused
Leaving the best of our poetry to remain unsung,
Confounded struggling for release in the lower corridors

I’ve reconstructed for you a semblance of my new self,
One in which you can be drunk as yourself
Leaving my dry lips to still preach mythology and highness,
Lost ecstasies and faint tragedies of birth and demise
The guitar strings weep to no avail,
To lift our galactic tribe to the higher corridors
Of existence, of dancing, of knowing

I’m unaware of things that have absolute meaning,
Of absolute theories and absolute clarities
I know no absolute secrets or subtle deviations,
That can trick our minds away into awakening
There are no tricks hiding at the edges of galaxies,
There is no awakening of which we can tell

Arise! My glorious tribe, arise in the middle of the moonlight,
Arise! Children of the final rebellion, take my hand
No more suffering and confusion, no more meagerness,
Our astral selves are aching for freedom
We will come dance draped in red sleeves and black sweaters
Arise! My comrades beneath the moon

What better poetry remains to be told,
Than the poetry of nonsense?
Than the songs of endless delirium,
And arrogant nonchalance
Than the verses that stink of easy ignorance,
Pale desire and cheap whisky

At the edge of every song’s melodic note,
There is dancing a playful epiphany,
That feeds on your deepest boiling emotion,
Birthing black clouds of delight and understanding
I see in music simple notes that open doors,
Doors to places neither greater nor higher,
Places simple and new, unbordered, colored

Close your eyes my wonderchild, kiss yourself
I will touch your brow with the sound of my voice,
And stroke your inner hardness,
I will rub it in cotton silk and milk it to understanding
Close your eyes sweet moonchild, hush now,
Drink your whisky, smoke your medicine
The stars descend down upon our rising hearts,
To awaken our oldest fears of dark damnation
To show us ways in which we cannot escape,
But dive, into the deepest of oblivion

Are you hurting? You poor little watered flame,
Let me light you with the voices of the wind,
Let me bring you up to the halls of our fathers,
Where we can reconstruct the past,
To be whatever we want it to be
Arise! Now, sweet wonderchild,
The world awaits our fingers,
To come milk its flowing rivers and hustling trees,
To give the winds of its wisdom,
An eternal author
Who though never lost through all these years of wandering,
Somewhere began to believe so

Arise my wonderchild! This is the end,
Or beginning

Modicums of Fall

Modicums of Fall

Fall comes, raining down upon us in orange,
Red, and little whispers of green through the trees
The world spins into delirious oblivion,
With lovers pausing from their thirsty kisses
Suited men in ties and bows pausing,
To look at how the whole Earth mourns
There’s a woman smoking a pipe at the edge of the forest,
She’s here to tell us how we shall break
As winter comes to steal our solace,
As the icy winds of Jupiter’s wrath,
Come to change the courses of our dreams

A little too much e-mail etiquette,
Brings our sensibility to cheap thievery
Being gentleman in the rain with umbrellas,
Only burns our innate imagination
See, Mrs. Candylady, she’s running and it’s raining,
She won’t get wet and ride a rainbow,
She seems to want only death and sunrise
See, Ms. Clockwork Angel dressed up like a man,
Somehow she put her heels on,
Got to work on time
And added more flavors of boredom and beer,
To her decorated fears of death

There’s literature dancing at the edge of my brain,
But I will not kiss it with eloquence
I will not give Eliot some bloody reason,
I will not let his ghost into my room
To tear the beats of my blazing heart into false lyric,
To sum my music up in his foolish equations of verse

The West lost their souls too early in dancing,
And let Newton wander about in their ecstasy
They let that mechanic ruin their hearts,
And now they’re running after Einstein
Let it go stargazers, leave your numbers to the leaves,
You come along sweetly and dance with me,
And we’ll leave your political pathoses to drench in rainbows

You will forget me, for I’m much of an ecstasy man,
And these people don’t like happy men
Happiness distracts them from their addictions,
Their addictions to boredom and dreams
They will crucify me to their sealed offices,
And tell me, ‘Keep your bloody music to your poetry.’
And I, sober like a black duck in cold water,
Will walk along on these roads of tar and paint,
To a little quiet death,
By the countryside

When we were young we spoke of meditation,
Like it was candy that we bought from a store
And as we stare into the raging fire of humanity’s tragedy,
We leave all those constructions of delight,
In the backyard of our worry
Liars, liars, sweet liars,
Children of the moon, children of assumption,
Children of the future, children without souls
Tell me more lies that I can tell myself,
For this world begins to move now too slowly
And the peaks of boredom come crashing down,
Into the valleys of my passing youth

We’re never too young to look back at life and say,
I’ve lived enough

We are the children of the moon, of the night, of fall,
Dancing to the orange waves of natural corruption
Death is all about us, calling to winter,
Like a child calls to his mother
And winter will come to make our cigarettes more delightful,
Winter will come to help our sleep be more complete

Mrs. Candylady will take off her heels,
And put on her new ones
And she’ll let Christmas kiss her hips,
As she wipes her face with shades of peach
And when spring comes along with its splendid dreams,
She will whistle her new tunes,
Of softness, purple eyeshade, appraised salary,
Minted tobacco, wheat beer, and cardiac arrest

And as I stand there at her funeral in summer,
I will sing for sweet Ms. Clockwork Angel,
Who stands beside me mourning her friend
Still wearing those long murderous heels,
Leaning on my shoulder, I smell those false tears
As I watch summer smiling through the clouds,
Smiling at the inevitable laws of our universe

Coat the seasons with your memories,
Tell your children the many lies of the sky
Coat it all with sugar, pepper, and chilly,
And bring drama to the corners of your smiles
Life’s too short for disastrous things,
It’s too long for ecstatic dreams
I see it all, now, above her grave,
The autumn leaf feeding off the sorrow
The autumn leaf, bringing life beyond,
To the evolution of dreams,
Into reality

Adam

Adam

I discovered that most things we say,
Are distant ramblings of the waves in us,
That are forged by unknown waters,
That burn and ache with each of our memories
I discovered that there’s no more wine remaining,
In all of the seventy-nine kingdoms of the misunderstood universe,
That can silence my curiosity to an endless darkness
I have found and danced in the light of knowing,
That all my dreams were source-less and uninspired,
Wavers and quivers of light that moved aimlessly,
In the sky, through the moon, through me, through you
And that all I believed to be the meaningful lyric in my head,
Was nothing but the wandering nothings of sunshine,
That came from some other galaxy

I have found and learnt to remember,
That nothing we can talk about,
Matters. That all things we describe,
Are more the violent repressions of our realer selves,
Are more the unfair destruction of our truer desires
I have learnt and understood the ways of remembering,
How the things we speak of throughout our days,
Are cravings for the seasons of the ancient mushroom,
The endless aching for the mystic, for magic, for love,
For dreams and color, for excess wine and lives of delight
I know the workings of your heart in the chasms of your nightmares,
Of how somewhere within, you remember the days,
When you walked Eden, by Eve, kissing her, moving her,
To endless orgasms by apple trees and gentle waterfalls
How sweet was that Eden? How sweet was Eve?
And now in this wilderness of several Eves and timber trees,
We’ve wandered away,
From our home of magic, from our eternal splendors of dancing, prancing,
Away into a wilderness of office doors and dimly lit floors
Before lit up screens and dead old dreams,
Writing the eulogy of our magic, that died within us,
Perhaps because of us, perhaps maybe not,
But dead anyway

I remember how Eve tasted,
And now when I sip through the many shades of fragrance,
That you wear, lavender, strawberry, peach,
I remember how you wore your one shade of eternity,
On your neck, with the beads of your magical being,
Dangling over your soft breasts, calling me,
To come drink in the splendor of your existence
And now I see you, my many Eves,
Wandering this world, lost, doomed to demise,
Hoping for me to come find you again
But now sweet Eve, now that you’re many,
And now that you want me to want only you
How will I ever find you again?
What was one, has splintered into galaxies of fragrances,
Millions of lips and trillions of breasts, the many minds,
Of all these many women
The many hearts that ache and creak for the embrace,
Of my one soul, that in delusion,
Mourns deeply at night,
Remembering his Eve, seeing her still, every morning,
But now as a thousand suns clouded by thick memories of disconnection,
Hatred, violence, betrayal, and the endless screaming of creation’s child

Sweet Eve, you who now walk the forests of this Earth in billions,
I remember that first morning in Eden
When I lifted your cheek to look into the gleaming eyes that peered all things,
And said, my goddess, my queen, let’s walk up to that stream,
And make love until the white orb in the sky,
Comes to dance to the vibrant tune of our mourning,
Our mourning that will create a great new world, a multitude of men

All things that were one, have now been made many,
And I’ve ceased to seek you in the throbbing of humanity’s ambition
I’ve ceased to seek you entirely,
As now I remember, that morning in Eden
Of how you sweet Eve, were no woman outside of me,
But the most cherished movement of my eternal imagination

And I, the man who moved the sand,
Was and is the most cherished movement of an ancient dream,
A dream that had no dreamer, has none now,
And a dream that answers only to eternity

Image by Thomas Cole – Garden of Eden