Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.
Going within the shrine of my heart's hidden mind,
In things without, the truth I often do not find;
I dream of greatness. This I expect in others.
As each, in life, have individual druthers...!
The facts of my universe are truly well-known,
I should meditate on my true forms clearly shown;
'Cogito Ergo Sum' - Descartes so proudly said.
Mind and body are not one. Thus, he went ahead...!
I love dear Plato, for his world of ideas.
He gave us Platonic love, highest from above;
No flesh in it; none touches before hearts touch,
Only such love can free me from every grim clutch...!
I do love and respect Aristotle, the great,
Who reduced truths forms to a great idea- bait;
Knowledge comes from within the realism does hold.
To unrealities, often, my conscience is sold...!
Metaphysical epistemological,
Each philosopher, for me, has been logical;
Excellence in beauty and divine perfection,
Is there, to idealism, any exception...?
Socrates accepted the bitter cup offered,
For his idealism he did greatly suffered;
Who he did not ever in his life influence?
Each heart and mind should flow in his great confluence...!!!
19 January 2023
He slept under the moon
He basked under the sun
He lived a life of going to-do
And died with nothing done
The spring well and root of all vice
The canker of the mind
An appendix to nobility
The only refuge of weak minds
Discontinued labour is dangerous
They labour to kill time
And labour dire it is, and weary wore
The worst of all unrealities, an idle man
Man, the only being that can properly be called idle
But woe to the shepherd that left the flock
Go to the ant, thou sluggard
Consider her way and be wise
To do nothing makes one nothing
For an idle brain is the devil’s workshop
Life is full of care
We have no time to stand and stare
To do something- man’s inherit power
Absence of occupation is not rest
A mind quite vacant is a mind distressed
Why is man idle who can do something better
I am happiest when I am idle though
For it is well to lie fallow for a while
The lazy man gets round the sun
As quickly as the busy one
Eschew the idle life
Flee, flee from doing nought
For never was there idle brain
But breeds an idle thought
I am broken
my bones
will not endure
this sum of
memories
feelings
thoughts
under the
loveless sun
they are crushed.
Peer long
into this grave
this pit of
despair
this black permanence
no heart is
left there
snuffed out
by potentialities
by unrealities
all great illusions
die this way.
Deep is my
slumber
cold in my
chest it
suffocates me
entombs me
a gathered gloom
is frozen recompense
for all my
imaginations
hopes and delusions
now
put to sleep
I lie in
restless repose
rotting
no lover’s kiss
for me
nay
my woeful screams
are unheeded
unneeded
by anyone that
could matter
did matter
I’m forgotten
in this permanent
filth of despair.
I’ve chased my tail for thirty-seven years,
September. And I would do us all well,
my night of whittling wicks to waxen tears,
to blow my wish that truths be lies we tell
and birth a better version to review:
The song for birthdays all my daughters sung,
all three at once and all together, too -
(a glint of giggle as I’m backwards flung
and turned in somersaults across the room)
- I’ve never made it past the birthday song
when sung by conjured singers, once presumed,
where all is and was and all I am is wrong
to think September I’ve a right to face
while playing “pirate ships” in outer space.
Finger in the hole in the dike
Holding back vast volumes
Of raging emotions
Surely to sweep me away
I try some comforting
Favored music from my past
Grab a book
To distract my fear
Linger in the Black Hole
of despair
Reach out to memories
Misty unrealities
Sweet and sour
I pass another hour
Only the peace of sleep
And ultimately death
Will bring craved relief.
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