Art

Everything beautiful dies. Everything pure is corrupted by entropy or wisdom. Poison, it seems is the conscience that screams at the blazing edges of photons in the sky, that knows beauty and suffers for it endlessly.

Trajectory

We are all just little ashes from the embers of a fire,
heaving our lungs to the milky stars,
always on the verge of luminous and darkness,
as we ride back into that cold blue flame...

My God, My Heart!

Midway into the core,
we see the broken wings of God
spilling in large red goblets into the stars that,
for no reason,
burn as gelid glaciers into the pulsing mystery of space!

My blood raves,
my heart ignites.

I will not chop off my ear,
but empyrean has shattered,
submerged me into a calloused dream of arctic light;
an aphotic stare of an ocean reflected with
silent shards of

murmuring milk and
malachite mist!

The murmur, like a cannonade of meteor bursts
across the eastern sky, reverberates
through my veins.

The mist, crepuscular and dense with the thoughts
of a billion tiny and ethereal lights, jingles
on down plasmatic lanes.

Rationalize

In the dark the floor boards rattle
and the wind creaks through the rotting wood.

You live,
you die,
and in between
the fury is the stream the animals drink from
as decay sets in
with the dirt and fog and poison,
the bitter worms,
the swamp swarming inch by inch
from experience
up the clearing
where the structure stood.

It rocked and bent to the bog
saluting it's fierceness and greatness
knowing it was more than it could stand.
Like an old moral,
or an old truth,
sacrificed and let loose
for some great cause,
or some great lie.

Origin

And she drowns

The interconnected wave of nothingness
washes over her lips
in smothering strides
fatigued
from shouting words of poetry at the
dying stars
exploding ever so quickly
too quickly
too slowly
outwards:

And she said nothing.
Perhaps there was nothing to be said
on strings,
on life,
on stars,
on big bangs

or sea breeze,
oak trees,
spring leaves,
or salmon tracing their paths back up the stream
from whence they came.

The Curtain, the Play, and the Opiate

If God be for us, who can be against us?
- Romans 8:31

The voice was thundering against crumbling bricks in the deepest dunes of the desert, fat and slurred like pigs, were tipping a crystal glass to the sound of filthy grinding insects spitting out a thick, black passion for power from the Earth's entrails.

It speaks! does it think as well, of the crypt or the raven
or the decay she stares in the face from day to day!?
Economy!? What now?
The voice of Queen Necropolis!
Let flow your bitter loathing upon the walls of this latest Iron Curtain of ignorance!
How close will she come to destroying it all!?
To launching off her missiles of self deceit and grinding her teeth as she chops off her own hair!?
By the gods how it falls to the floor!
Terribly lost like autumn's terra-cotta leaves swirling in the sunset of what is to come!
RELEASE!

RELEASE your hand from that damned trigger!
We're all hovering on emptiness,
repetition, rhetoric,
and running on nothing but perpetual shadow!
How many times can we play the same play without the epiphany?
This is no time to play Russian roulette with our lives!
It's no spectator sport. Stop damn ye!
Stop cutting off those strands of hope and honour,
and take the bitter bullets from your mouth,
and gently from those hardened eyes.

For as long as I've known you and your sweet lies of
between the trenches,
hidden and puffing with flaming disease
and sickening poison gas carving out the flesh of the lungs,
over a loudspeaker,
in the hearts of the ant piling in infinite rows upon silver rubble
against the heat of the sun,
laser guided meteors,
even between the old gallows!...
And even now, in the desert, bubbling up from the Earth the black cancer of our reminder:

The shadow of politics is still hot and seething from your lips.

Transient

Death in Beauty
Beauty in Death
they dance together in the tapered rose garden,
eyes shifting between syllables of their twilight song
merging for the chaos of a dying sun
and its crimson light.

"If only I could die," says Beauty,
her smooth arms around his shoulders,
quivering,
like her pain streaked eyes lost in the raging whirlwhind.

"Oh darling," says Death,
switching his clumsy feet with the dusty times,
"you'll be there soon."

And no one could explain if there was any purpose
in dancing,
if there was any purpose in moving at all.

Of Life And Death

The vibrations are screaming between the margins of the paper as he writes like a desperate madman; possessed by the margins of life and death. And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head. He must get up and pester the drab of the tide. He must sink and swallow whole the flame of living, though it smells of life where there is truly death, the ashes burning his eyes all the while. Against his brow there is contempt for the aristocratic fool! Who shall know of music if no one knows of that candle against the mahogony desk in its meager flame? It could be killed at any moment! Its life is a testament to will! It must get everything done, must burn out everything it knows!

And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head, and moving his brow to descend with the tide in his heart and the ashes in his soul.

Breathe.

Never, ever let the flame in you subside. Never, ever forget the fuel that drives it, or the wind that contorts its shape like the winding of a cliched road, or the keys of a piano, between the margins of Mozart's own immortality.

Rapture

I passed by the sunset with its sclarlet silhouette
wasting the day's last light on the barren earth before me,
springing alive against the winter's sinking snow
it caught my eye in a sparkling reflection.

On the horizon was the cold pale moon
and I had forgotten the salty warmth of the equinox's air.
There it glared!
Solitude, indirect, a soothing yellow light,
a full circle of memory for the silent starry night.
Did you rock the Earth to sleep a billion years or more,
and surge the silver ripples to a lonesome sandy shore?
Did your rays cut through the twilight atmosphere,
and stand an eternity of the sun's savage sear?

Oh, it doesn't matter how many times the seasons change,
I'll stand in rapture at the moon.

Storms

(hope you don't mind my posting this, Lex) ;)
"And so the storm does brew, out of sight and out of fathoming. Does that make it less the danger? Does that stop the worst from coming? Ponder, oh sweetly brooding philosopher, why the sky grows dark. And ask thyself, with rain downpouring, how this came to pass. Wonder so, to proceed in life, why you are struck by lightning arms. And wonder so, sweet dying soul... What brought about the first dark storm..."

And if the sky grows dark, as it has so many times before, will it be the end of us? Will we drown in nothingness and sink below the tide? never rise, never rise, but she can't help but look upward and study the patterns in the stars. how they form shapes, and we give them names, and how lightning never changes how they constantly arrange? think nothing of it, but that all storms do end, and we could live a thousand years without ever seeing them move. Orion can be your saviour, even if he's already dead.

"Ah, but what is a savior when they cannot help? When you are caught in the eye of a storm, that you may have created. Who can be saved from what is inevitable? It dies yes! But in time, so do we! And would not that be truly tragic, to die in the storm you were saved in."

What is there under the moon that cannot be torn? Rise, I say. Rise above it or plunder through it. what is there that cannot be worn from effort? Be vigilant I say, and smile when you reach the eye with another silver lining, for but half you've done, and yet another half to live another day!

Circuit

And she sways to the beat, the one she knew had again assumed control, like mangrove trees in the heat, like Toth laughing at cancer, like thunder clapping its noisy paws at the moon, like rain drops against the window, slowly, slowly but to dissipate, like a purple mark on a fragile arm, like a bitter word flying through the mouth of a careless man.

Spiritual Armageddon

Hark, now, the beast is marching on to Israel
and there's a star in the east burning my eyes,
wormwood falling, falling for this rotten mercy
like a downward spiral playing a mourning orchestra for something without ears.
And Jesus Christ is on his knees
and the beast laughs because no one believes in anything anymore but their own apathy.

I drank to escape it's morbid disarray,
to find the best tasting wine,
but half of it was too diluted, losing its reassuring answer,
and the other half would make me so drunk on answers I'd be lost in ignorant bliss.

But I don't want it... No... I just want to listen to my phantom orchestra.

Ether Lost

Air pierces fire pierces my will to escape your holding cell of sagging dirt; I'll consume you, I'll crack the plates and open hell on earth, will bathe in poetry, and scrape the ocean with the sky and merge the stars with no alibi but loneliness piercing all the while my winding path, elements will leave no trace but one, will turn her face, because I have no nature left to give.

Hold the Fire

She keeps putting her hand over the candle,
waiting for her blackened skin to remind her where she left the moon waiting.

She keeps pouring out sentences between star light and waste,
not knowing where the line should be.
Blurry was never a word to describe her fictional little world.

If she was dying surely there would be plenty of signs,
more than midnight and empty dreams;
more than the hurt of the sun in the morning.

Surely there'd be violent shivers and screams.
But to her surprise, it had none.
Just a mild crackling of a dimming flame.

An oxygen starved beginning is all anyone ever had.
A hand encased. An ocher fantasy playing itself out in shadows on the wall
like children grasping at something other than emptiness.

Goobara Returns

Derricke 3:16
For Goobara so loved the world that he gave his only hippie son, Fred. That so whoever believeth in him shall receive eternal beer, pizza and weed in heaven! But whoever does not, shall perish at the centre of the sun where it is not lukewarm, but blazing hot! So is Goobara's eternal and unconditional love! HAIL!


PAsalms 4: Death to Heathens

In the depths of darkness seering
all the white trash rap fans peering
like a snake in pit with god
we'll slice the arm, impale the dice
till nod, with equal sword and equal haste
give all those fucking heathens taste.
.....

Of what it is like at the centre of the sun!!
HAIL GOOBARA!

Save It

(Something old and unedited)

crimson: weirdo

wait...the Annunaki are coming!
theres a crop circle forming in the dust of the midnight sun
in twilight expectancy it waits for remembering
the silence of the coming shade of aurura blue

we all knew it was coming kelly
we all knew it
but it didnt matter
because violence is a genetic set up synapses
so dont bitch to me when its all over

but under the bed
There is a loud speaker who spoke up and said
'SLEEP IS ANOTHER FORM OF PRO ACTIVE PERCEPTION'
and I didnt know what that meant...

until I fell asleep and the laws of physics started bending
in a wormhole seeing mending
all the little colours being sucked into one

and do you know the colour it was kelly?
it was....the colour of chaos
shifting through street lights to find order

crimson: seem to be typing pretty fast

do you know what spirals are?
On the way to nirvana one night
I saw a spiral
etching into the grass like a thousand different shards of yellow
in every economic living class and the LOUD SPEAKER SPOKE UP AND SAID

crimson: aaahhhhhaahahahahha

'ALL THE FILTHY WORKING CLASS PEOPLE ARE JUST FLIES BLEEDING INTO SUNDAY'
and I didnt know what that meant kelly..
until I saw the spiral
glowing above the steeple of the church
and jesus said 'come inside my son'
and then ZOOM to a million different cities all looking for another way to glow

and then my mind it keeps on racing looking for another trace of just
another light bulb to find a statement in the mess of the late night show
and finally as I sat down in the aisle ten million babies crying
looking for a mother that just didnt want to show

and then it hit, I was too crying in the silence of the morning
when the loud speaker just spoke up and said...
'ALL MATTER IT IS DYING'
And I felt like sleeping instead...

crimson: well, write it down, save it.

Musings of Unity

Once the first piece of prose had been etched into a stone somewhere, humanity as it was born into that imagination, was faced immediately with the inevitable impossibility of knowing itself. What is this consiousness? How detestable it does seem! What cosmic purpose could is possibly have!? And a bird does crow above one's head, and useless rejuvenating rain does pour from the sky, and we are but atoms to this planet; tiny and insignificant. Then what of the ball this imagination has sprung up on? Is it not an electron zooming around the nucleus star? Is not the star a mere molecule burning into time like the countless other stars in this galaxy, and the galaxy merely an atom to the countless other galaxies?

We are composed of infinity, how could we ever know ourselves? I am trapped somewhere on a plane, and all I perceive is composed of my perceptions. With my eyes, I see the composition of this atom Earth. But my eyes are made of atoms, and electrons do zoom around their nucleus, and they are indeed composed of quarks. Well what is a quark made up of?

All the universe is but a quark or worst of all something far smaller; and I a mere connection of some entity we call energy bursting towards some reaction. When I imagine an atom, I see it as something without breath and thought, lifeless and un-imagining; something without poetry and music. And musing over calculus, and how an endless equation could represent an endless wavelength, and how an endless wavelength might just contain the notes of some infinite song: From quark to quark. From snowy medieval village to alien landscape. From the rise to the fall of waves on a star lit beach. From Mozart to Nietzsche. From cave drawing to Rembrandt. And it, under microscope, consisting deep down of all of these things and infinitely more, whispering a message of identity we are unable, in our equally giant and minuscule minds, to identify with.

I've broken my cerebral cortex

A street light shines on a bench, and a cloaked boy is wondering why a reflection in his eye makes him feel as though he should find the centre of something. A clouded puddle. A star explodes and blurrs its motion outwards, recollecting something from oblivion.

A convicted killer in her cell is slicing her wrists and writhing on the cold floor to the rhythm she'd rocked her daughter in after giving birth. Did Hawking predict that? The moon is rising somewhere, a beach darkens. An atom must be another universe, so small, so small.

She has become grey matter.
She's become useless awareness.
She's the essense of something and she doesn't know what.

The silver lining of her hair haunts me like a ghost as I crumble into catatonia, across these barren brain cells whispering strange things to me, as if she wants me to quiver from remembering the electricity of her touch.

To The Beat Poet

You fool.
For thinking you could weave yourself
into a poem that actually had any merit of meaning.

There is no beauty in colour, its just light hitting your eye.
There is no meaning in metaphor, just mere association,
like a dumb bird recognizes its food.

There is no reason to write,
surely someone somewhere has written it better than you,
saw it more clearly than you.

There is no word you can use to describe your pitiful emotions,
surely someone somewhere has felt them more strongly than you,
has suffered far more than you can scratch on a piece of paper.

There is no expansion of understanding,
no matter how much the cosmos explode,
you're still just a dumb animal thinking you're something you're not

just because you've travelled fast and talked fast over meager distances
and saw men walk on the surface of the moon,
doesn't mean you can be a poet.

But then again, who can be, if no one thinks anything is beautiful?

Drown in something worth drowning in

His smile spoke volumes of the Northern Lights. And just glad to be alive, to feel your ears crisp with the cold November air. And you realize you can't be a child anymore and cry, because what you see is so beautiful.

Syntax. Imagine a wave so large and so great that its covering the world,
cleansing all suffering.

Electric curve. An ivory dance.

Photonic dreams. Sway to a beat that no one knows.

Shiver. A rising tidal wave.

I open my arms to you. A meager dot of molecules.

Fill them with water.