The Mandala With the Nipple At the Centre

Grogged, split into holographic shards: Hypnogog reveleations reflect One dreary dreamer. Divinity staggers to recall Itself in matter. Is God like peppermint? I think him more like meade caressing a breeze – just beyond the fresh whore. Bands of succulence orbit a soaked mind. The mandala, stony gravel out-stations brilliantly placed in the Logic, oddly so. In the centre the most divine Creation. The nipple more proud than unassuming more mirage-producing than drought. And all around the nipple children skip chasing fairies in the smoky glow. All around the nipple dance children, go. More ancient than childbirth. The cheek of Isis swirls itself into a Promise. Food was later, grown men (and women) don’t know. The milk erodes its own palace. The screen remains; like the silence in a scream. Art only, ever in the making. The sacredness of a breast more than Nature produces. Some on the outer, independent scriptute. Some more honest, after some lost inner elixir. I say: the world would not last long without a breast. Copyright. 2009. JLM.