Long Insubstantial Poems
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1.
A red helium balloon
I float above myself,
Watch the ritual unfold:
Gather the sharps
Lay them out
Roll up the sleeves
Enfold the world in silence.
Then, with infinite concentration,
The Not-Me begins:
Draw the lines
Open the flesh
Let out the hot red
Pain and Poison;
Inscribe another testament
To survival.
Then the balloon drifts down
Sleeves roll down
The Not-Me steps into the balloon
And floats away,
And I become myself again,
Purged and Whole
Until the next time.
2.
A wraith,
I live on air
Insubstantial as the Winter's mists.
I am colorless
Blank as perfect ice, as cloudless sky
Yet I command all appetites,
Control my ghostly shape
Against all outside assault.
My Will is wind,
Invisible and Absolute.
A reed,
I bend but never break.
I may be fading, fading...
But the steel rod within the mist
Shines true and will not yield.
3.
Peel back the flesh
The flowing flesh,
And see the Void within.
I am large but I am empty,
Hollow as a gourd, a husk.
Tear me and the taut surface
Will collapse upon itself.
I hunger, ever hunger
For the things that fill others up
To keep them satisfied.
And so I eat.
I eat Love, Acceptance, Self-Confidence.
I eat Hate, Loneliness, Rejection.
Ultimately,
I consume myself.
After all,
Who else could stomach
The taste of me?
Travelling upon the dusty roads of finite unwinding existence,
Grit seconds embed in the treads of ragged unstitched shoes,
The day turns to night with resigned, mute inevitability
And night turns to day in return with no other way to choose.
The present is either always here or never here at all,
For it arrives and fades out a sub-atomic second split,
The snap of a finger, the blink of an eye, the crack of a whip,
So the present doesn't really exist, in any way you look at it.
The future is the time after the present or only the present in waiting,
This being the case, which it probably is, then, the future may not be,
In a perpetual flow of fluid disintegration and leaving alone,
And then becoming the past, and left for dead, recombinant memory.
None of us have a future, not as the term of substance we use,
As if it were a promise of opportunity and life of living treasures,
When it is nothing more than the present to be, or that which has ceased to be,
A belief process in occurrence, recurrence and insubstantial measures.
Yet, more so, there is love and faith and hope, yes, these gifts
Establish our philosophic future more than the passage of time, land and sea;
For humanity is as humanity does, and the only potential future it has
The only substance possessed of it, is to be the best it can be.
No matter how fleeting the cosmic arc through time’s relativity,
The enduring and transcendent nature of cycles of birth and death
Allow for the chance, the evolutionary drive, to better what has been,
In exacting change, no matter how small, no matter the depth and breadth.
Now the grit seconds embedded in the unstitched treads may be
Diamonds or dirt, depending on the way we walk or the pressure of each foot,
Our trajectory across the landscape and surfaces we step on,
Characterises our being by how we move or how we stay put.
We may stray from the path, and we will, and we may stumble and fall,
It is the getting up and moving on when all is done and said,
The direction we take and the way we conduct ourselves in approach
Defines our lives, those in our wake, those by our side and up ahead.
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Let's wax poetic - wax on..
We’re in for it
When we enter
the insubstantial country of love
That secret theater, in an invisible mansion of moods
it’s a resort that houses its share of speechless monologues and sore disappointments, all lovers know that, but there are infinite discoveries too—secret, intimate delights and sensual confidences.
Ok, wax off.
My horoscope this morning said, “any tension you’re experiencing now is just part of the process.”
Peter (my bf), flew in last night. When we’re separated too long, remembering him, remembering us, can at times, seem like a memory exercise and I find myself wondering if I’m wasting my bikini years on a handshake deal. Then we’re reunited and bam, I’m reminded why it’s a ‘dub-u, dub’ again.
He’s a delectation—in a Christmas bauble kind of way—shiny and dangerous because I want to touch him—but not be loud or showy about it. Leeza (Lisa’s 14-year-old sister) whispered to me, when I was getting some ice, “You watch him with the too-still poise of a cat about to strike.” I smiled at the complement because I love cats.
Every once in a while I’ll pinch him, to make sure he’s real. “Oww! Stop that!
“What?!” I ask, pulling back as if innocently confused.
I got him a room at the Marriott Essex House. It’s 400 feet down W59th from Lisa’s building entrance to the front door of his hotel. I measured it off, with urgent steps—then I helped him unpack. We unpacked a lot.
Later, we joined Dave and Lisa for a Christmas light tour—Manhattan’s flexing its wow-factor for us.
I didn’t get to sit on Santas lap this year, I’m a little old for that,
but I did get what I wanted most—I’m sure I’m grinning like an idiot.
It’s not quite Christmas yet, but thanks, Santa.
Merry Christmas - Happy Hanukkah - Merry Kwanzaa - Happy Festivas!
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Same Songs by Kelly Jones
.
.
Two days until Christmas.. how ‘bout some Christmas playlists?
www.daweb.us/xmas/
.
dub-u, dub = a big win
A bright star shimmers over once still seas:
my final destination
treks across troubled waves
and over seething storms
my instinct is heightened and honed
far from suffocating cold
northern climes
On the final ascent,
over the last bruising steps,
gasping...grasping for air.
Now I'm breathing
with consummate ease.
Once more I taste the scented air
and sense the cool ocean heaving.
As Trinita Dei Monti marble
beckon,
a dark figure in the doorway
is veiled steeped in shadows
lifts a white hand,
parts the mask,
shows a pale face
aged wrinkled;
as if fated with a tragic task;
but in an instance
illuminated cold flesh
radiated by golden braided beams;
pale eyes by azure blue brightened
as all darkness dissipates in a flash.
Do I dream? a face
transfigured
transmigrated.
remembered with maternal smile.
unable to speak in this mortal world,
words silently mouthed, not uttered
like magenta moths caressing air
with fragile wings flinching close
still unsavaged by care
and disease,
opening the door
into the church.
its perfumed aroma seems a perfect release.
relinquished
now a warm hand
welcomes me
to this insubstantial tomb.
Is it an illusionary monument?
poetry has written
my name into a fountain
of dreams in eternal water
etched ripples that ruffle
a lake's troubled surface
skimmed by pebbled words
if you too dare to dream,
let these Spanish Steps
be your stairway
your path
your pilgrimage
to the high windows:
below, the square;
above, stark bright stars
vortexing
shuddering
shimmering the night
my life mask now a sharp new constellation.
9.1
“Opposing forces,
duties done and left undone—
when does it end
and for whom?
Considering this, be ever desireless,
let go of all things,
and to the world turn an indifferent eye”
9.3
“Seeing all things as threefold suffering,
the sage becomes still
Insubstantial, transient, contemptible--
the world is fit only for rejection”
Sacrilege but we beg to differ
Based upon what we do infer
Detachment not indifference
Why anaesthetise sentience
Celebration not rejection
Exuberance not dejection
Pain may be but suffering imaginal
If we feel it is real not conjectural
As for the rest and reading between the lines
We do divine
That being not the doer there is no doing
In dynamic stillness too the Divine alone is moving
If we are here it is of our own choosing
Let our stillness then be our consciousness so accepting
Surrendering the illusionary ephemeral to the flow
Erasing negativity within to reveal our presence aglow
In stillness slow
(20-August-2019)
~~~~~~~~~~~
Verse revisited on 29-October-2021
Earth life manifests sharp contrast
Leaving even fearless hearts aghast
We are here to energise our potential
That we may conjure our love parable
For in the domain of light our soul rests
Facing adversity triumph earth life tests
On reaching exhaustion get to recognition
That desire cessation pathway to liberation
So ceasing thinking, we meld head and heart
In the void of stillness we feel bliss ignition start
Our emptiness magnetised by bliss in fullness
In time time we merge with the That oneness
We are then in but not of the external world
In silence we celebrate as soul is unfurled
Spiritual heart, here now within our form
Enlivened by divine bliss currents warm
Layer by layer we see identity vaporise
In boundless measure does bliss rise
Negating nothing exiting stagnation
Flow of life itself is our meditation
"and don't forget the pretention"
###########
everyone nodded along as
the first line Hit
cut w-/ Posh .. chugging
stars , throats end to end slit.
Schemes o'er everything
I realise now that you need
these 'things' ,
imaginary or other wise. Anything
to keep the Belief that
Life is worth living.
By their ridiculous Forgery
to emphasise insubstantial shapes , mutilated
text , colour & breathing connecting Heart
to Pen under strict obligation
to remain Nonsense
Above seperate Action.
I just want to be Honest
o'er the vicious Cycles of Trend
inspiring by reflection
We replace real life as we all
like Motion Pictures
Lost within Code
he might be you or me Beating
the walls as we try
out these twillight eyes switching o'er
to Terra's Remote viewing
zoom ignites thy Bone's hollow Fractures
happening, pure & simple , we errode
in a sudden glass moment ...excuse me
& my obvious slander .. Keeping it real may soon dismay
at a pulse of Cheekbones ; Paper artic traces flickering on
nervescreens before our pristine chords reciting
"Nobody's story" revolving round
nothing really ... simple words.
Oh Lord its so clear
All Places & All Times
its just us
trying to make faces in the sky....
and scream no more dropping
for
your daily optic reset calibrating
BRAND NEW
Our CCTV standard view
declining to smash utterly as Minute
Splinters
prevent such ink immediate
between Mind & Matter ,
Powdered Charcol , meaning the whole
Legal Judgement satisfied
Logic there in
Personal reasoning & Multi - simplicity
Leftscreaming up the curb
as if
you were just walking by... Society's Needs
cackling inhuman . Adverts scattering w-/ only One
Purpose rocking aby sentence.
Cast Calm to Create.
"Doughnut Man Seeks Insubstantial Woman of Substance"
Doughnut Man
seeks ghost whole
to fit his missing peace
Chimeric Dream Girl
seeks holesome man
who has her back
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Perfect” (12” … Remix)/ The The
https://youtu.be/ttKdwTDtifU
"People turn around with unseeing eyes
They're looking for something that doesn't exist
The world you once knew is being eaten up by rust
No-one has time for the past, but still, in God they trust
The future is now, but it's all going wrong
Bodies good for nothing, but it's to nothing they belong
People say their prayers and some work hard
If you give them all your money, they'll give you their hearts
This town ain't going like a ghost town
It's going like hell...."
chimeric
adj.
1. Relating to or being an organism, part, or molecule that is a chimera.
2. Relating to a monoclonal antibody produced from the cells of a nonhuman organism, usually in which a portion of the antibody has been replaced with a human sequence of amino acids. This is done in the laboratory by replacing part of the DNA sequence in the nonhuman cells with a sequence of human DNA.
chimeric
adj.
1.Of, relating to, or in the nature of an illusion; lacking reality:
chimerical, delusive, delusory, dreamlike, hallucinatory, illusive, illusory, phantasmagoric, phantasmal, phantasmic, visionary.
2. Existing only in the imagination:
chimerical, conceptual, fanciful, fantastic, fantastical, imaginary, notional, unreal, visionary.
LYRICS/ “Perfect”, The The
https://genius.com/The-the-perfect-lyrics
The black hole was enticing me,
The mysteries lying past, its sensuous obscurity,
All the lights behind me were waning,
And the gloom spreading all around me,
I saw a few reasons to turn back and seek the fading lights,
But I saw millions of explanations to enter the luscious dark horizon,
Because I fell and found no purpose to get up again,
Because I was tortured and had no energy to fight back,
I was branded by a hot iron cast of societal rulebooks and I did not resist,
I was capitulated in agony, yet did not hope to heal.
I was numb, sore, crippled and mutilated,
Torn and worn out, denying to nurse myself back.
My mind had cut itself from the rest of my body,
My heart implemented some remaining beats to keep me going.
My tears flowing like the despondent river that lost its urge to join the sea,
Aimless, insubstantial, desperate, I decided to seek asylum in the dim,
That assured peace.
But then someone whispered from behind,
Some formation too feeble like the distant fading beams,
But strong voice it had, its manifestation intense.
It asked me to come back, to the light,
Where everything was genuine, unlike the mirages displayed by the darkness,
Love would be found, hope reborn every time it died,
There were more moments to be experienced,
More memories to be made.
There were them who loved you, them for whom you must live,
The life that you got, it’s a gift from God,
To make your soul more resilient, chiselled into perfection,
Unlike the false promises, forged emotions and impractical faith,
Being offered in the murkiness,
Because if you were lost in the brighter side, the lights would guide you,
But if you got lost in the black hole, you became endlessly lost.
K.S.Lakshmi
The autumn sky attunes itself to hearts,
a sour grey murky wash where lost eyes tire.
with insubstantial dust it affects so,
that vision blurs and minds retreat to when
those aged weary organs last supped hope;
and still they seek to quaff before it fades.
Mere dregs they hunger as the last joy fades
to quench beyond their volume broken hearts
and rehydrate that desiccated hope,
rejuvenate the goals before lives tire,
that minds may ponder not upon the “When?”
but concentrate on “What next?” and “How so?”
To take uncertain step, and take it so
as not to fear the fall if stair it fades,
would stir adrenalin so’s not to tire
the fragile confidence of tender hearts,
that they might respond quickly, those doves, when
presented opportunity to hope.
This then the grace of God, the wisp that’s hope,
which we in arrogance might dismiss so
upon our slightest whim and if and when:
an employee who on our command fades.
this grace exists beyond the grasp, the hearts:
phenomenon which will not doze nor tire.
See now how eyes do genuinely tire
as surcease emanates from new-found hope,
providing respite for those weary hearts:
hammock of restful sleep delivered so
the love embattled souls may rally when
their combined lumen some dark agent fades.
Thus through harsh winter flare as daylight fades
with fuel of ‘the multiverse’ entire,
the essence of which Lazarus lit when
his sisters had begged balm of Only Hope.
Such embers must be stoked to fierce blaze so
The Darkness may not touch creations’ hearts.
Faith should not tire when allocated hope.
Our God heeds not the ‘when’ of our say-so,
but stokes each heart with love that never fades.