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Posts Tagged ‘the unconscious’

ARCHETYPAL

The hunter father transgresses;

The mother suffers unjustly;

The child is taken.

What was wonderful, vanishes.

The light disappears, no one knows where.

Roads, veils and mirrors –

The mechanics of universal dance,

The momentous, minuscule choice.

The bright, eternal child brought low,

Brought back to the wrist of the falconer,

Brought back to rule in glory,

Brought back to catch the uncatchable.

And all the time

It is she that saves the day,

Who bestows and restores balance,

Who names, who summons, who moves

Like a moon through darkness

Sorrowful and joyful and blissfully full.

And the child, neither here nor there,

Neither this nor that,

Tricked by innocence

To reveal the weakness,

To discover an impossible death,

To wait endlessly in the wings

For the lines of the last act,

The resolution.

I ask to know the truth

So that there may be understanding of power.

That the maps are unfolded

And the well-trod, invisible roads revealed.

Because we are free only to follow the well-worn ways,

Because there is only one plot and one story

From the beginning.

Because, tried and tested are the grey chains.

Because, tried and tested is the only freedom.

The rules of falling, and of redemption.

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SGRAFFITO

Eyelids turned translucent,
The walls of flesh dissolved.

In utter darkness a pool of mercury trembles.

He should place the day upon his forehead,
The moon’s taste upon his lips.
The music of crickets he should place
Upon his ears,
And the music of starlight
Upon his breast.

These veins: bright rivers that knit a certain landscape.
Blood red are the hills in sunlight,
Rust, the slopes, in rain.

Falling beyond breath and beyond sleep.

His two eyes should both behold
His best beloved.
In his left hand, his cares.
In his right, his passion.
Upon his feet
Strong wings of lust.

Small, dark, is the day.
Fevered and wan the sun.
The crow’s wing coughs.
Withered is the hill.

Swells the beginnings and endings, bright burning, dreaming names.

Let him be surrounded
By a great host of angels and demons.
Let him observe as they mutually engage,
Rise and lift, conjunct and consummate,
Until they fall apart slaked, becoming satisfied dust.

This scatter of farmsteads
Glistens white as quartz
Washed desolate,
The cold stream
Of winter’s winds.

In utter darkness an impossible music shapes words.

Light from a billion years
Pours from the sky,
Not casting one shadow.
It sinks to a core of iron and gold,
Filling silent caves to feed a petalled tongue.

In utter stillness everything waits and forgets to wait.

He should focus upon his own coming and going,
The last bright moment of his breath.
The sudden possession of valley roads,
The heralding wing-tips of hill hawks.

His wish is fervently to disappear
From the sight of all men,
So he shall contemplate
The paradox of rainbows.

He shall write his name forwards
And backwards
Until it become a single,
Unutterable line.

Diamond backed
The pines at dawn.
A burning roar,
A stormfront clamour.

Rests within these moments of choice, the fall of dust.

This heart a bowl, a harp, a bird.
Weightless, filled with hope,
An open sky is all it lacks
And courage to give it all away.


Sgraffito – a process of scratching through different layers (clay, paint etc.) to reveal what is beneath.

2016/01/img_1785.jpg

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lingam1

RAG AND BONE MAN

 

Misdirection.

Frantically waving

The world tries to warn :

Going the wrong way!

Looking out

When you should be

Looking in.

 

In the palace

Broken debris accumulates.

 

(Holding a red, wriggling

Worm of thought.

Articulated, reticulated,

Sinuous, slippery.

Transfixed now,

Sectioned.

 

It oozes

Phonemes,

It oozes

Pheromones.

Colours of, shapes of,

Moments of, pain of,

Pleasure of.

The demon (daemon)

Of Meaning,

No Archon this,

Nothing but Choronzon –

Crowley’s chaos beast.

Bright bubbles of edge

Bursting into void.

Clasping reality:

The cliff-face, wave-foam,

Everything

And nothing revealed.)

 

In the palace,

Silent, deserted,

Debris put by:

Collected are souvenirs,

Remembrances, clues,

Identifiers, histories,

Reasons, threats, excuses.

 

What has been rejected,

Labelled unacceptible,

Exerts as much gravitational pull

As the central proud combustion

Of signposted identity.

At the edge

We place the dark gods,

The Titans, the giants from before.

The ones whose names

We have all but forgotten,

The ones of the earth,

The child-eaters,

The self-generators.

 

With stick and staff

The thick-lensed caricatures,

Bewebbed stuttering scholars,

Chemical smudged whitecoats,

Steadfastly measure and dissect.

Never looking within

Never stirring the dusty dragons

The leering, prancing obscenities

The brilliant but quite mad molecules.

For, tell me if I am mistaken,

Is not the person but a bombastic dictator?

No democracy there, no credence given

To heart or lung or liver.

A hijacking by a handful

Of slick, white myelin-sheathed johnnies,

Serotonin spivs, smart mouthed,

Cocky seen-it-alls, know-it-alls.

 

These our trusted advisors,

These our judges, our jurors

Pretending po-faced objectivity,

Arbiters of reality,

Politic grandparents

Guiding us away

From the dark corners

The guts in the cellar

The stains and axe marks

The awkward questions

The nightmare realities

Of distinct extinction

Irreparable re-examination

Of priorities.

 

The patient sublimates.

The patient projects.

The psychopath, quite reasonably,

Believes a distinct view

Nothing but a gift, a duty.

 

Fearing that anathema

Of the Irrational,

The horror of insanity,

The embarrasment of pettiness

That dwells within,

A roil of unscientific, subjective

Oddness

(we all know it, we all know it

How can we not know it?)

Sweeping the dirty

And the improper continually

Under the carpet,

Rearranging the tired flowers,

A quite flick of the duster,

A spray of masking wholesomeness.

 

Spending nation’s worth

Probing the fractions of matter,

Qualifying,

quantifying statistical expectations,

Mathematically generated creatures,

Galactic searchings,

Subatomic manhunts

Whilst

Heroically

Ignoring

That one thing

We can call ours,

The architecture

Of thought,

Pulse of Memory,

Symbiosis of consciousness,

Monster of imagination,

The flicker of

Inward sound,

Power

Behind the throne.

We cannot, m’lud,

Declare the patient sane

Nor their acts judicious

Nor their perceptions true

Lest the evidence is forthcoming

From the Defence.

 

Is the ghost a demon?

Is it a god?

By their acts shall ye know them

By the world they allow

Not by their advertising campaigns,

Not by their multiple-choice questionaires

Not by their glossy manifestos.

 

Not by anything

But the evidence of their own,

Lonely, determined dive

Past the mechanoid elves,

Past the phosphorescent jellyfish

Past the trembling glory

Past the irrefutible

Past the last possible excuse

Past the only reason

Past the words and past the silence

At last to the bright halls,

The shining paths,

The alien, familiar gardens.

 

I hung for nine nights

I hung for nine days

Upon the World Tree.

Naked, I reached downwards,

Screaming I took up the runes,

Word upon word

Word to wellness

World was woven,

One Eye am I,

One view, completed.

concentric5

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