firebath

firebath

A voice once told me of my beloved.
It told me my final path was through relationship,
that transcendence or peril would be mine through some Other.
This declaration of coming union sent me nearly mad!

Propelled by flame and disbelief,
I barreled back into the fountain of prophecy.
All the while remembering that from my mother’s womb
there dawned a haunting glimpse of future love.

Years later I emerged from the waters of hell
with naked starfish in my hair, startled, but eerily bathed of conditioning.
The slow trod forward of putting fresh limbs back into gait
re-grew a teacher in the place where mind once heaved.

The emergence of victory over death came as life,
the invitation, the acceptance, the reacquaintance, and nothing more.
Simple, clear being, bereft of wayward voices and fidgeting inner fight,
the flight to nirvana wontedly an hourless breath away.

Basking in the plentitude of signs over vast ages,
detachment had brought me so fully to the precipice.
Meditation, my complete existence. Loving, my one action.
And wham! The Other stood there.

No sooner had I said “How could this be? It is impossible!
I am unutterably alone and whole in my aloneness.”
than you appeared.

How could it be that attachment was begging forgiveness for my misgiving?
Just when I had so contentedly painted over the scars of oracles past
with fearless living and relentless discovery?
I became dismayed at the thought of becoming whole again through love!

No sooner had I laid my soul down to the earth to cry,
than I looked up in rapture.

My veins turned to canals from which harbingers of union sprung tall.
Through meditation, I took a blade to them;
and they gushed forth a tsunami of paradisiacal creatures’ mindfood.
Parrots flew by on giant great waves, asteroids landed in my freckles,
lust in my lunchbox, and embodying this world a must.
I saw the future. 

No sooner had I said “You have a magic in you that is only yours”
than I saw the very same magic was in me too.
The apocalypse of visions would not stop.
The avalanche images of completion shattered down on me
growing my heart organ into a universe.
You stood in the center of it; and I opened my arms to it all.

No sooner had I said “I am ready. Take me to my lover”
than I saw my own sex rising to meet you, then running ahead of me to the bay;
and there you were again in the curve of the shore, embracing my breaking body.
I saw galaxies of stars through the icy sea,
mountain peaks of vine-laden planets rise through my tea,
snow leopards bounding through strobing breakfasts.

Fire-capped treetops seared the pawpads of ecstatic lemurs
as they joined fingers with rings of rejoicing.

It turns out I had forgotten who I am.
To love had become the easy truth,
until love became a temporal reality.

How could I have known?
The ultimate kindling had just begun.

No sooner was I,
than you were too.

The firebath still yet to be.

Photograph by Tom Clark

Views: 127

Left to the World

Still the two neither coalesce nor meet.
Their axioms both too close and too surprised
to take the distance as threat
or the netherground as reality.

Yet all I know is unity.
Not a single noble utterance can be displaced
by the dying breath of the indifferent.
It’s not my birth, nor my gain
and the two will not be confused for a tryst.

It’s all in a choice not taken,
an ostensible best, better left unturned.
But how could this be?
To not bake the caress into the calamitous now
leaves you no totem to stand on.

We each had that tensile birth placed before us
with the best of its inextinguishable suns
and hindsight becoming the greatest fortune of all,
even for those left unkind, cowering behind the pale of bliss.
For them, there can be no sharing of rest.

Truth becomes disabled by mercenary duress
and fullness too often oversounded
by the derangement of certitude
and rabid prowess, misgiven to venal gest.

For it’s not here that they squander.
It’s nowhere! Remember that.
For you, its only grasping significance is barren;
one cannot fall and tear the whole world down.

Furrowing backwards had lost its sense
a billion saturnine moons ago.
Initiative had its gall, but not its mission,
following the interlopers home too soon
and lost its victims more willingly to gallows.

Only propulsion of gossamer egos into the light
can mercifully take from you what you had,
released from the stifling cavities of self.

 

Views: 316

the echoes of cosmic union

the echoes of cosmic union

It is true; I have heard the love songs
of formless longing for form,
of essence longing for breath
and life longing for birth.   

My own life has been an echo of cosmic union.
I’ve danced the subtlest melody of courtship with ever deepening self
and a wordless longing for no more than divine unfolding
cradled always by the intimate peal of the sutras. 

I have been Shiva, I have been Shakti. And both I can never not be.
The map written for me is the same etched on the face of every soul.
I have met you here before, on the singular path of infinite celestial polynomes.
with eternal mind galloping through our every manifestation and choice. 

We were once of the same constellation, gazing at each other from across the galaxy
upholding a seemingly singular Universe. Until a new one unfolded.
You became the zenith to my valley, and then I the fog hugging your foothills.
I was the plum you once ate. And the mother of your cubs.  

I have known of the eternal realm of love,
it has even lulled me awake at night whispering secrets into the ears of the unborn,
kept scraps of my soul hanging on through the darkest of days
and mortared my poetic vision to a muse I had not yet met.

Even on my deathbed, I kept long-beaded mantras of faith wrapped about my neck
tightening karmic strands one by one into flesh of cosmic confusion, desire, and despair
blindly endowing my own fitful engagement to the legibility of future seekers
whose minds today eagerly read the last notes from my skin. 

It is true that I may be possessed by the madness
of unremittingly falling in love with the transience of the moment, any moment
of instinctually despooling the farces of trend and order
and knowing ecstasy to be the brightest umbrage echoing inside each breath. 

Yet I certainly did not know the flesh of eternity
until I tasted your face.
Until I unraveled my tightly held expressions of affection
into new forms of poetry.

It is not an easy truth to settle into,
as the bliss of true aloneness has been good to me.
As with all rites of passage, the recognition has destabilized me.
The more vast heart becomes, the faster mind unreels. 

And the sooner sanity becomes the last measure of bondage.
We can move into anything with our eyes closed
but choosing love over loss frees even the sleepiest nightingale
from her silent burden.  

Now that the cage door to my soul has been torn off,
I cannot look away from your face. It could be that I do not dare. But I do.
Every day I dare look at the simmering fragility of the world as is
and find the ocean of my sight pours relentlessly through your love.

Photograph by Tom Clark

 

Views: 181

The Sandstorms of Tomorrow

Viking premises can no longer handle
the newfound promises
which roll along the water’s edges
without any bearing,
without plush safety vests
or helmets.

There are some things
I’d like to say
but still cannot find;
because they are stuck
where they cannot be known,
in the grey corners of even greyer sandstones.

Expecting the sandstorms of tomorrow,
which were promised long ago,
to whip us up,
to flip over the sandy chariots,
the sweetened maelstrom
that stays buried beneath
tired conches and flippant shelves of kelp.

The last whale already passed by.
On his way to the shore.
The mating season has expired,
but a new one is on its way.

 

Views: 45

Fortune

Fortune sits on my feet.
The weight of Her massive buttocks
presses Destiny, my toes, into the earth.
Squeezes their bulbous toe heads,
impressing into the formidable earth clay
their Bursting Point.

Almost squirts out their thick strings of flesh
exploding streams of red chocolate blood,
my chaotic mindscape all over The World.

Hanging from trees my disjointed idea,
lopping over branches the slop of my Love
for other creatures to divulge,
invest their lips upon,
gnaw off my willing chops-
since they’ve no place to sit of their own.
Have you?

Views: 118

misery

misery

Misery
roams deserted alleys.
Is gorgeous
in every city, blanketed.

A seductive gravity
ravishes, standing alone on a street corner.
She does not draw crowds
though every passerby and wall
slide her a sidelong glance.
Tall and willowy statuesque,
a voluptuous silhouette from collar
breastbone to pelvic pleat.
Her clothes are a sin.

Cruel confronting barriers,
she’ll climb your wall
before you heed wanton chances
to re-navigate Adam’s fall.

This girl is a woman who knows
why she pants and stalks the street,
what perineum beholds,
how to slacken her stack
then retreat.

Though when she enters your mind,
you alone in your apartment,
she is naked
for your scalpel eyes only,
bared rags of pristine flesh.

Why so prevalent?
Her bloodstains bereave smooth flesh.

As you shrivel into a plate of wrinkles,
all you can do is bemoan
that she did not come sooner.

unknown painting source

Views: 234

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.1 –– unnerving (the master)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.1 –– unnerving (the master)

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

Sex
pathological,
pathologically lacking impetus, beholder,
you, Love.

Eros, settle, disarm.

Patience eludes the grand master
with the lightness of eloquence
and weight
of all the mores’ profundity
interpacked,
brimming with botulism
and you, Love.

Etiology
smears passion
across spokes of wheel,
spreads legs of soul
through soggy white of eyes
bleeding with

dishonest passion
denied,
not you, Love.

Joy is dead,
and with the sacrilege of sex,
the heydays of former lovers
fall away
like flakes of winter skin,
and finally
there’s you, Love.

photograph by Gia. Goa, India.

Views: 85

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.2 –– foster girl (the medium)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.2 –– foster girl (the medium)

 


from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Chasing on coattails of sex,
the animalistic bride
               gravitates
into the ring cycles
of her own spiraling sanity.
Time.

Erda warned her,
               “continue to believe,
               breed courage… ”
Smiling, she continued her gibber
into the wayward funnel of inner ear syndromes.

Mysterious gurl leftover from childhood,
gleeful peace spreads legs of mind as
electric blue heels
               assault
cobblestone streets
in neat click-clack patterns,
click-clocking to other less attuned orbs,
along international side streets,
               the earfuls
               of what they want to hear.

Executing perfect stares,
she refuses to fan or giggle,
nor will she release
her spent maidens of yesteryears.
               They’re in restoration.

The Norns already crawl her city-
too Madrid, Lisbon, Vienna, Seville-
in shattered bridal gowns,
floating gossamers
               soaked with red,
laced with brown.

               Barstooling alongside rectors of drink,
               her cross strands erect,
               betwixt
               legs of maidenhood.

Eyes pricked,
she eats at their sex holes,
scooping out fingerfuls,
and sniffing up the rest-
               addict that she is,
through laden conversation
and neat tricks.

But no one knows,
no man or woman could tell.

Their repressed chunks of sexual dough
yet unformed,
congest her filter
               with apathy
and funnel through, unchanged.
Left as dribble for the masses,
vomit on a bar-room floor.

She reverses her stride,
revert, retort, restore,
chiding all the way out the door.
               “Chill your feathers
               in ice water please… ”
Brunnhilde growls.

And her divine palindromes
did not release
               their exhaustive streak.
It was 2002.

(references to Richard Wagner’s epic musical drama
Der Ring des Nibelungen, a.k.a. “Ring Cycle”)

Painting “Saba with Red Wine”
by Fabian Perez

Views: 284

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.4 –– in waiting (patience)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.4 –– in waiting (patience)

 

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycle 1-8

Patience is a woman who walks far ahead,
knowing too well what drives us,
connives us into
the brothels-of-mind.

We stew in her solace,
unable to forage meals without toll.
She shows us, six feet ahead,
how dawdlers get themselves
goosed
every time
for their troubles.

Clinging to sycophantic trance,
we’ll be our own pallbearers before
wisdom conjures up
the next sculptor’s hand.

“…patience is a woman,”
we wait for her.

image source unknown

Views: 263

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.6 –– peregrina, variation 1 (still roving)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.6 –– peregrina, variation 1 (still roving)

 

from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

Pergola on fire;
the reminiscent coalesces
with breathless robes of doubt.
Honeyed covenants
perfuse,
lacking preemptive right.

Devout and impetuous,
demanding restless unquiet.
Premalignant perfunctory
consecrates, sanctifies
reams of abyss to exist.

Reminisce.
Resist.
You are dismissed.

a variation on peregrina (the rover)

Views: 1089

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.7 –– the rope of fate (burn it down)

CIRCADIAN CLOCK NO.7 –– the rope of fate (burn it down)


from
The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8

Interbred, interspersed, and denied–
the Valkyrie children
go about
life,
running the wheel
towards death
as their godparents warned them.
They clench between their tight, mortal teeth
the rope of mistrust.
Of distaste
clothed.
Love!

Cog by cog,
the Rhinemaidens desist.
They cease their breeding device
to drink
from banks,
banned to hiatus
from scandal,
from what was torturous about
her id, his.
Greed. Love?

The rope of fate has become
sodden,
wet with the lust of drinking lips;

the rope of fate has become
frayed
by the maidens’ tease,
by glutton’s grabby paws.

Scorched by the fires
never to burn Valhalla down;
the embers
of the frayed, soaked, the charred
can no longer bind.

Succumb to the promise
that takes you
away
from you and your path,
and the rope of fate has been
broken.

 

Views: 17

gestation

gestation

Sweetened lightning leaves streaks
          Of your essence on my skin.
Paper memories leave us behind,
          Panting, and wrung out of words.
Our future, pivotal and immediate, trusts the moon.

Still, logic betrays beauty with expectation.
Have you ever seen a shooting star
          Through the lens of impatience?
Chameleons do not change
          For the entertainment of others.

Petition my heart, not as a dying entity, but as renewal.

 

September 2004

Photograph by Tom Clark

 

Views: 136

Gereghty #4

Deep pockets of secret refuse the game,
despite premonitions of their likely involvement.

A procession of figures with tortoise shells
thumps out the options.
To solve a life denies pristine presence.

They played the game, and left for dead,
washed up, scarless and incapacitated.

Choice quickly tumbled away,
left again in arbor hallows,
for the nymphs and fairies
to decipher and re-dole out
to newborn hearts.

 

Views: 17

spirits

spirits

We have lived and loved
from the privacy of our reserve,
               that reactive space
               just above the surface.
We inhabit the physical place
but abide by the passions
that govern ancient spirits
               afar.

In the playground of the knowers,
the lovers, the givers;
we are creators,
the authors of life,
               monkey-barred minds
               and sea-sawed hearts
               with sandy-floored souls.

Fueled by sensation,
we are those to whom
fear is only a myth,
               a story told by
               the Others.

Photograph by Gia. Vindhyachal, India

Views: 48

salvador

Fantasies of those lips,
the mouth of that Bedeviled Creature,
have sustained my cravings
since their Leonine Inception,
when the Twins brashly recognized their destiny,
but Artfully Reserved this prized knowledge.

Seasons have passed.
In which a Millennium of Addictions has prevailed,
all in pursuit of that Consummate Intoxication
that those lips once promised.

Tales of Debauchery and reckless abandon
tread on the heels of the Mythical Beauty.
but to the dismay of her suitors,
her Fate was sealed long ago
by those Exquisite Lips.

Although those lips never dared
indulge in the Savoriness of your Lovely
since pre-conscious restraint once dominated;
the Haunting Images of such Union
refuse persuasion to vaporize
from my Enduring Imagination.

Sultry scenes in which
those lips, your Lips,
become my Portal to Oblivion-
my eternal Pass to Ecstasy.

For within Those Lips
Lives the vital flesh
of my Undying Devotion.
If Only slick with my dampness,
that tongue would be our Rebirth,
our revival into a world

of Unfathomable Love.

Views: 22