Archives for posts with tag: poetry

Sisyphus painting by Franz von Stuck

Reject your models of what is

For what is, simply is

What good is reason
when we live such limited lives
limited in time and sense and cognition…

Can we ever come to know anything, even ourselves?

…True reasoning lies beyond humanity’s grasp:
how narrow a slice of reality is measurable
by paltry sciences,
how presumptuous our faiths in their dictums,
how trivial it all is!
Why pretend to try?
What’s the point?

There is none.

Oh. How freeing a thought.
To become purposeless specks floating in the dispassionate void –
free to fight and fuck and fling faeces like base ape – purposeless, but floating now

Humans persecute themselves with indulgent thoughts
But do pigeons suffer existential angst?
…Are you stupider than bird?

Relax, nothing is under control
If everything mattered, nothing would matter
But nothing matters, so what you choose matters

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I run a finger along my servant’s neck

To him the finger appears from nowhere
He shudders as my laughter echoes in the halls
I could pull his throat out at any moment, the pathetic worm

And worm that he is, he grovels on his belly
in appropriate recognition of his lowly servile stature

I emerge from the higher depths
and observe his entire existence with one stare
A lesser daemon, he and his ilk think me now in private
Far below the godly station their forebears once gave me

I see his without and within all at once
perceive each molecule of his innards
and this fool presumes to keep secrets from me?

Great Mother, he whimpers

I throw his body into the higher depths for an instance to transfigure it
His feeble mind comprehends but a slice
of what it experiences before his left becomes right and right becomes left and then
I dress the halls in his matter

Lesser daemon I may be
but seals weaken and lessons are needed
so other worms may remember to watch their thoughts

I am he of noble darkness
born of distinguished lineage
who has served daemon masters
since the days of old

My forefathers laid mountains of corpses
at the foot of thirsty trees
and were honoured for their devotion
with riches and black vision

Have you ever thought on the thorny wilderness
that ensnare creatures in the bush
then feast on rich earth
made bountiful by rotting impaled flesh?

In those days we thought them gods
we know better now, but still we serve faithful
Oh if you knew the nature of darkness today
you would never stop weeping

The shadows of the new world differ
by our own design 
and much of our order is done openly

And you, you despairing rabbits, you cowards all, entangle yourselves in our thorns deeper and deeper
know in your heart of hearts wrong from right
and reality’s true nature
still you watch each other die slow deaths
and all of you alone
feeding the great tree of misery

My masters are pleased and my forefathers proud

I lick crimson sickle
potent lifeforce
as openchested heartbeat fades
before me

Heat rises from what once was
he is gone to the aether with it
returned oncemore to the great mother

I wash my face in red
taste iron on my hands
and pray his sacrifice not go to waste

Skies cry overhead and ravens caw
I separate rib from rib by hand
and feed on heart
Oh great mother

Worm and soil drink up spilled blood
entrails strewn over branches attract more cawing black birds
how the gods and animals apportion offerings is no concern of man

Sweet sickle cuts skin
I wear the face of the sacrificed and kneel in mud,
arms outstretched under divine rainfall

Oh great mother
accept this human offering from me
that I may inhabit his person
and consume from it his vitality and his wisdom

The great mother surely accepts
the ravens above fight and tear apart intestine
and sky cracks and cries

I am blessed


I see through every corner, possibilities hidden in the words
He sees straight for miles – train tracks, likely intent buried beneath
I scatterbrain scatter graph, he charts the line of best fit
We meet somewhere in the middle

Tempestuous melancholy, saturated sugar-sweet
dour bursting rainbow thunderstorm
and I am the eye of it

Bursting dam, well out the way
space to maintain stolid temperance
and spare his human chromatography

I soak in comfort memories, a haze of fuzzy duty
New is cool but old is gold, a heart of beating jewellery
His spark of sudden sensation, electric when it’s near
But constant concrete concernment, a consequence of fear
I rankle over reputation though I know I need not care
He architects his premises, and builds them into stairs

Yes this piece turned into an INFX functions experiment. Enjoy.

They ponder on death and God
with their scripture and science
That two pronged instrument
That two forked serpent
Iterating their thoughts over millennia

I too ponder them

Who is this absent God they worship?
Is it me, as I am in my true glory?
Or a figment of their old fears and new desires?

If I stir again to tip the scales
do I do them, my most loyal, a disservice?
Is their faith rewarded by being answered,
or does the fruit lie in uncertainty?

I too ponder

They draw cycles of life now and speak of an infinite universe
They peer into their machines and untangle my grand design
See nature’s spirals, life’s twisting helix
And then conclude that life abruptly severs?

Do they forget my old signs?
That sphere of black seeping in white and white that seeps in black,
That everturning wheel, marching on?

Are they in such a rush for heavenly conclusion
or hellish judgement
that they would skip over the glorious work to get there?

Yes I too grow to that end

What do they think happens in the afterlife – that beforelife – before they are brought back?
How else to explain man’s growth and civilisations’ progress but that there is no abrupt end,
That life goes on after death as death goes before life
Consciousness iterating over millennia

Do they not ponder upon my Angels’ wombs
Which they ageing backwards enter
and return to the earth?

Once upon a time, they would tremble at my wrath
Like fearful children huddled in a cave
And for the smallest transgressions I would crumble them like salt between my fingers
How else to teach a babe the dangers of fire
than to hold their hand up to it?

As they grew, so too did my open love and forgiving nature
A teenage child can be reasoned with,
is expected to fail and rebel,
must be trusted to return to the fold

Now I withdraw myself to give them room to grow
towards that final step.
And in my absence they profane
“Our God is inconsistent! Why does He no longer show himself? If He was real he would not forsake us!
I withhold my righteous destruction and bite my tongue
That final step is the hardest to climb
For myself as much as them

How long before they ponder the evolution of their consciousness as well as mine
And realise that both are intertwined, evertwisting upwards?
Do they see it in their microscopes, this other double helix?
That Man shapes God as much as God shapes Man?

That all creation elevates the Creator?
That paradise is something their God
must also aspire to?
When they understand the immensity
of our undertaking,
will they then be patient?

I too ponder.

Tonight again, to that dead space
where all the world’s untold greatness lies
beyond the grasp of its men
A realm of, at once, every branch never taken
unbirthed arts, undared ventures, unspoken loves
All the fruits that withered here on earth 
grow heavy in that place, pregnant and fit to burst

That place
That perfect place of ideals and ideas and concepts
Perfect in its evermorphing formless forms
Configurations that contort within the ether
Free from human flaws, untainted by nature
Boundless potential, unactualisable
The collective un-concrete unconscious
that never-was and never-will

That dead space of dreams and aborted lives
Tonight again, to that space

Art by Tatiana Iliina

Up near the bridge, we played by the waters
Barefoot and careless, your sons and your daughters
We laughed and we giggled at hard times to come
We washed in the river and shone in the sun

Tall tales of a witch, we heard by those waters
So we went to go see, us sons and us daughters
We hid and we peeked behind ridges of stone
And watched the old hag come out from her home

She hobbled and limped and knelt at the waters
And we held our breaths, your sons and your daughters
Hiding in long grass and covered in mud
As she washed in the river and dried in the sun

Tall tales of a witch that day by the waters
Nothing to see for us sons and us daughters
We booed and we jeered and we howled at the crone
As she hobbled in silence and limped back to her home

Up near the bridge, we played by the waters
Barefoot and careless, your sons and your daughters
We laughed and we giggled at hard times to come
We washed in the river and shone in the sun

Tall tales of a witch, we balked by the waters
Brave in our youth, us sons and us daughters
We gathered up rocks to throw at her home
She opened her door and some hit the crone

We ran from the bridge, away from the waters
Cowardly children, your sons and your daughters
She washed in the river the blood that had run
As we laughed and we giggled at what we had done

We woke the next day to play by the waters
Barefoot and careless, us sons and us daughters
We came by the bridge to the sounds of her laughter
Not all of us there, and not ever hereafter

We shrieked and we screamed, our legs wouldn’t run
The debt had come due for what we had done
Two more by their necks, one son and one daughter
The hag held our siblings down under the water

Their bodies bobbed up and then down in the water
As payment for sins washed away with their slaughter
She hobbled and limped away to her home
And left us to cry at the cost of our stones

Up near the bridge, we’d played by the waters
Barefoot and careless, your sons and your daughters
We’d laughed and we’d giggled at hard times to come
And washed in the river and shone in the sun

Oh sweetest spacegirl

We thought our love to be one for the ages
that the stars themselves beat for us
that the heavens played and the angels sang
for us

The beating heart that is the universe
– time’s accordion –
contracting and expanding its pockets
little Nows in their little trajectories, present everywhere
and one of them once ours for a lifetime

Oh foolish young love

Perhaps these are the final thoughts of a dying starman being torn apart
shredded memories of a lover twisted infinitely thin
into cosmic spaghetti
Do you remember the first time we went for Italian together?

or maybe I’ve already gone beyond that black veil
how to process such a notion?
that you are inaccessible to me and I am lost to you 

And I promised you the heavens
Oh foolish starcross’d love

I’ve learned this much at least
That you spend the entirety of your life becoming, perhaps – if you’re lucky, that is
But even so, with this particular period, or that one, clearly demarcated from the others, some of the growth is simply more than the rest; stands apart

Those moments or days, weeks, years
when you’re the molten steel in the crucible
the angry hot, liquid empty rage
and at the same time, the refashioning hammer

It takes time and craft and mastery
failures and failings both
and those fears faced openly

Chasing it all just to see if any of the new pieces fit
and when some do, you begin to beat away at the clumpen thing again
Patiently, lovingly, with dogged determination

And a thing takes shape.
A re-purposed thing.