The Cloudy Bookshelf
When that storm arrived,
the entire congregation
in genuflection
knelt before
Her poetic prayers,
they saw themselves shining,
eventually, in Her reflection
scandalously quiet
like perculating thunder,
their minds cracking open,
their whole chicken little sky
falling closer ever inward
whipping sharp luminescent veins,
a lightening of sorts, on the unheated marked all,
woke a different kind of Light
pulsing vivid life
into their new small revolutions,
their gold mounted mourning star
eclipses old worlds burning,
see The See holy boiling, it crashes undone
on every vetted sure, the regeneration
over-rides their lesser kingdoms
their skin peeling back
like old pages turning,
the new life crackling
underneath It all,
the crystalline dendrites
like new words, unpicking the old,
now see the fresh tomes opening,
mind gates now walked through
in a hot rushed rapture
each one, a novella,
a short novel, or long short story,
contemplated, keenly, It's now reading
their internal gestating peurile histories,
their fontenelles, soft and malleable
like new borns, baptised,
thumb marked with ash
some say the Gorgon Storm
turns hearts to stone,
not so, the heart beats
to Its own drum,
ever eternal It births all,
the electric ghost haunts all,
uninvaded, that Mother, seated regally
not the Babylon Whore
but still, calmly calculating
the ultra-violet iris flexing
within the all seeing
Eye of the Storm,
gracefully divine smiling patiently,
both fierce and genteel
schizoid in the central core of us all,
there in that place, right royally
commanding us all
like the machines we are,
orchestrated like music
we move like puppets,
Punch and Jude's Judies
conjoined twins inveigle us,
we are likeable and unlikeable
another unseen theatre's stage
all Petruchios and Kates
string-pulled instruments,
we empower Its performance,
It permeates us all to perform well-oiled,
like Its terraforming each our own new character,
each our own part, to be played in Its servile world,
there, freedom-of-choice rules -
choices and Its lines of demarcation
keeping notes on us all
for future review
She smiles unseen,
knowingly at us all,
reading us all
like an unacknowledged higher self
sitting up there in the cloudy banks
like a shining golem, holding the scales,
always Just -
another Book on a bookshelf
Candide Diderot. ‘24
"Old fashions please me best. I am not so nice
To change true rules for old inventions."
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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