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.
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