The External World of The Internal
Become a
Premium Member
and post notes and photos about your poem like Candide Diderot.
“The External World of the Internal”
when the Internal
finally woke up,
it was like all the words
in that book, flew at It
like flaming arrows,
an external barage, a tale,
of trading 10 for 50,
a poetic hot mess of words
it was a rude awakening
from the comfort
of that internal place,
where once it slept,
sharp shards flew at It
pricking and piercing It, until,
like a chrysallis, It split - Open;
the soft invisible,
genteely ensconsed
other side of the page,
overcome by the
complex codes
dumbstruck, is
waking up, and
the Internal emerges
with the many Other words
like people and their faces
hiding in trees,
slithering seductively down
branches to root systems
that never leave -
hmm, one big happy
dysfunctional family
looking for new words,
new fruit,
the old stories burning,
too many unread
for fear of scorching -
the breath of life
offers more fuel to the fire,
it eagerly turns the pages,
we continue,
to burn -
in the beginning
there was one word,
and from one,
the many
words arrived,
but not as one, did they grow -
for what relevance,
that one word? Its purpose?
it is as if the singular
would be the One before
all Other words, but,
before the better of it all,
the external world
must needs be first,
re-programmed
to crack
and come undone
to truly tempt the reader,
and all the Other words with faces,
to be singularly possessed,
enough to walk across a page,
as if to walk across
a Body like water,
their tongues
all speaking babel
outstretched for adderall,
hungry for that manna on request,
now fed to the One World gone
all adhd narcolept’
the language, peculiar,
foreign and unexpected,
eventually lands amongst us all;
written automatically
through the hands
walking with the legs of Man,
tracing curves in the road
taken by way of Trees,
the woods go very deep here -
at that table, witness
the seated now all lost,
their last suppers scattered
competitive and warring
like rabid hounds - of course,
this is not entirely alien -
this Lot have been
tearing each other to shreds
for ages, drinking blood
and breaking bread, but
it’s all more -
lab rat territorial now
at that family tree
the marking,
of minds eating chips RFID
its once strong Oaken legs,
now rapidly being chewed away -
the apples, which were good,
all consumed long ago,
the rotten decomposing -
the core of All,
just pure lies on the floor,
the politics of a wormwood world;
let us start
from the top of the “T”ree
Trouble with a capital “T”,
where the best apples are found,
a vestal woman
plucked and bound,
the rib of man inside her,
like sister made
from the dust
of a brother
what produce
from that ripe harvest
rolls down and out
that bone of baculum
into the world of Eden?
out through the gates of Eden,
We, all the excommunicated roll,
like rabbits, “I’m late, I’m late”,
running out of time,
we all take our time
(usually 9 months)
to ruminate, but we are
on much different time now
the internal,
excommunicated
are cast out into
the incestuous world
like the many sorry words
in a bad story
and there we are -
rudely re-awakened
to confront the lessons
that our esteemed teacher
set out for us de Sade like -
drawn and quartered,
we are thrown out
into that lost future world
others’ bones are
thrown out for us to eat
like words
the phropetic place set
and the stories of
an ancient Word and
its fledglings,
just old chapters now,
lost in the burnoff,
largely unread by many unconsidered
the invisible internal
in the external world
considers,
We are dancing around like
wild eyed Nebhi’im
We are all undressed
like loose tongues
at the frightening
Table of Nations;
“This is their Lot”
the prophets project
to those in missionary,
“when witchery is at hand, afoot,
beating time with the bone of Man”
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“And the rib,
which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman,
and brought her unto the man.”
(Gen 2: 22-24)
“Pull you in before you fall,
Not as sweet as it appears
Someone tell me why I'm here”
(Slipknot/Adderall)
“In doubt to deem himself a god or beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little, or too much;
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself, abused or disabused;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world.
(Alexander Pope, 1734/Poet)
“What is Man that you are mindful of him,
and the son of Man that you visit him?”
(Psalm 8:4)
Copyright © Candide Diderot | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment