CONVERSATIONS with invisible friends 7
RIGHT WRITE EXPLORE IMPLORE
Defining our sense of edge:
where we withdraw, pull back.
Where we push through, straining to feel more.
Explorers, pioneers,
saboteurs, idiots, meddlars.
Subversive, perhaps,
because it is or is not art,
is or is not significant.
Itself. Ourself.
The interior of the earth.
Ignited cognition.
Will-o-the-wisp, ignis fatuus,
holy spirit, holy fart.
Tat tvam asi.
—–
KINDLING
Mind is saturation soup,
one seed crystal: emergent song.
Forked paths tuning.
Tallis motets up spiralling chimneys.
Drowning out, diving down,
profanity, cacophany, epiphany.
But, but, but,
to do it all unplugged….!
—-
FICTIONS
Camouflaged as no-nonsense,
the words pile up,
identified,catalogued, measured.
You look behind, simply to check the heap,
to review.
There is a horrible vacuity.
There is a revealing.
There is a snigger.
There is a challenge.
A virus, innocent,
infecting imagination.
Something placed that cannot now be removed.
Fiction?
A word that the deluded only employ.
Chased lines decorating mind, clothing real and unreal, weighing souls with feathers…..
—–
MINDLIBRARY
Admiral Psyche and the Wave Harvesters
His Admirable Psyche, Shades of Hades
The Admirable Admiral and His Frayed Hausers
The Fleet of Whales and The Ship of Fools
Kit and Kaboodle Cross the Equator
A Compass Never Lies
The Shaman’s Electric Fire
Return of thr Comedy Kraken
Shades of Misspent Chemicals
The Forked Tongue of Sunlight
Newton’s Little Secret
One Prism Too Far
An Elegance of Frozen Photons
That Insistent Voice.
——
REED
I, standing, upright,
Swaying
against a gale
Of word,
Buffeted- the squalls
Of intent,
The flay
Of image on
Image,
Somehow comforted,
Disconcerted,
Peeled open,
Warmed
By the existence
Of another’s breath.
—-
BLOOM
Your mind:
A city of flowers,
Drifting petals.
—-
EMBODIED LANDS
Bone remembered
Percussion,
Rock,mud, mulch.
Lung filled skies
Cloud shade
Blood song.
Step by…
Step by…
Winged,
Adopted, mapped,
Tasted.
—-
FEATHER TOUCH
Barb and barbel,
soft down
these weighed words,
noted, masked,
a slow cooled river,
our estuary minds.
—-
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simonhlilly 
Words Nest
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged art, boundaries, commentary, cosmologies, creation, edges, endings, existence, identity, Poetry, psychology, reply, words, writing on February 21, 2016| Leave a Comment »
But ‘we’ is not circled.
We have no edge ( though we think otherwise)
(though we think we think).
We think beginnings and endings,
we think words, breath, silence, breath,
intake the other, exhale the other.
cannot remember any moment beyond
a circumscribed horizon, cannot, even, the dreams,
nor the memories, for sure (was it, was, was it so, was it not?)
There are, of course, clues.
Vagrants, with a certain mildewed smell,
mutter slewed directions, their demon-bright eyes.
(but those we shun, as shadows,
as churchyards at night, as the insisting amoral voices in the mist,
peripheral, shuffled, ambiguous).
The long halls, the rooms, the chambers.
My dear Giordano, such equations, such equators.
So few and tired are the moronic habitual paths,
so broad the primrose paths
to Hell untrod, unstudied.
A rumour of damnation, like a roll of distant thunder,
a storm coming. Well, certainly, there is a storm coming.
From the edges to the centre, from the centre to the edges..
An ending ( of sorts).
And then it echoes around another’s skull.
Seed syllables.
The end of worlds.
The beginning of worlds.
—
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