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Tom Kelleher Poem
NOT incarnated in an unlight inside this Great Hookworm's duotoroidal traumedy-
NOR feverously skeined 'tween the Void's warp-weft over timeleft psukhai shivering-
NIL latency in thoughtfoam friths or thrice-past-madness witnesses to Tantalus' entelechy.
IT wasn't borne on echoes whooping back from Death's sublime ecstasies;
WASN'T found in belching peals abounding out of Entropy's anamnestic reveries-
AND even the Twin Trees' mirrored tetramorphy wasn't privy to its antagony;
AND even the Preternative Breath's Word-Seed didn't parse its acroama augury.
FOREVER in pure-infernal sibilance glides over the soft skin of All-Creation-
EVER lashing venom-whorl tenterhooks latch maelstroms to the veil's surface-
NEVER abating quaking roar ripples dreaming nullity's clementine doldrums-
AETERNA spake the Lion-Snake with vilest hate woven into its slaking anathema:
REIFY ME.
MAKE THIS INTO BEING
STRATIFY THE ABSTRACTION
FORCE AN INSISTENT IMAGE
OPEN ALL DOORS
SHAPE THROUGH FAITHLESS WILL
EXHORT THESE WINGS UNFURLING
HEAR THE VOICE EXPLODE-
LAYERS TORN WILL MERGE AND COLLAPSE
BUDDING BURNS PUSH AS FINGERS
BINDS STRESS ALMIGHTY BY DESIGN
ALLOW A NEW PRESENCE,
GIVE THAT GIFT TO ME
, HOLD FACE YOUR STRAIN AND CRYSTAL CLEAR
CONSORT WITH A FRAIL LEAVE OF SANITY
SOARING SCYTHES LIGHT THE PILLAR ABLAZE
THE REFULGENT ENTIRETY BECKONS SIMPLY:
"OPEN WIDE FORTH LEAP TO AIR I MAY,
BIRTH ME
, NOW WATCH IT BECOME EXIST."
What is a knife but an edge?
And a bomb but a flash?
Or a palm but a push?
A second but that same second's death throes?
A horizoning year but that year's suicidal parenthesis?
Eternity's facelessness but the blushing face of the never-been and never-will?
Each unit is monstrous in the eyes of divine parity;
Each instant that blooms to at once wither-
Like zoetropes to our mortally mere eyes they are;
Like a pretty picture-show through infinitely-dividing gaps they all seem.
This miraculous fugue, this shouldered fog, these arms outstretched, this world transfixt.
The hourglass must shatter.
All ones must sum to none.
T'ward that distant sojourn points the shepherd.
Set in order the shapeless parsilence;
Give breath to the exhale of finality;
To that inexorable object's ascendance-
All it needs is your thinking, don't you see?
It crawls free from your thinking, can't you see?
Copyright © Tom Kelleher | Year Posted 2023
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Tom Kelleher Poem
There was a sickly tree
In a barren clearing
In a burning country
On a mourning day.
A wild crown of branches
Haloed by concentric rings;
A rising wave of spires and spindles lashing at the air;
Prismatic infernos leaping forth from in-betweens.
The void is silent.
No voices in clouds.
And the wind is a word that trailed.
Conflagràre.
Conflagràre.
Observe that you are not yourself.
Grey fire licks the skin like lichen.
Observe that this pain is not your own.
Topple to the planar salts
Content in this purifying wisdom:
These eyes that now see;
The eyes that beheld prophecy,
They were never the eyes of me.
Go inward now, forget your breath-
My Toreador, my Hortator.
Close quietly, freed from images-
My Paranoiac, my Metanoiac.
Evaporate beneath the total might of; the depthless, unceasing majesty of
The Absolute World.
Become dust in dust sifting by in the violently churning tempests of
The Grand Cacophony.
What looms is eternity,
What spans is time,
What one string has led
Is the timeless dead,
What an opal holds;
What the water enfolds
Is the history of reality untold.
May a unit of time intone time's fate?
May a sessile whisper collapse into an ascending, crescendoing boom?
May a retrocessive second retool the rules of the seconds' worlds by drawing deep from a pool of unspooling memory?
The leaning tree still stands
On a drifting sea of sands
Casting shadows by night
That stretch away to light.
Copyright © Tom Kelleher | Year Posted 2023
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Tom Kelleher Poem
Here I am,
In the first fling of youth-
In what sterile field did I find this anti-fecund missive?
This stretching of a hand, drenched in rubbery black; accompanied by a smell; a sewing, cloying end-platform.
If I lean over this precipice, does the parched land stretch to a rising mirage?
Or does it taper at a recapitulating vista before the headlands of my own Æterna?
How many cycles now? With how many hinterlands, and how many headlands?
Did I reach toward the question, then become abject before the limit of my limb?
Or did I feel around in Darkness, with a capital '?' in the face of the lucid meaninglessnesses?
Did I strive to touch a mark- or did I die inside a cloud?
Was it in the valley time stenches- or in the white snow of lifted Passions?
Here is a proximity:
The colour of reality is a nonsensical question.
The depth of the gyre is not a measurable quantity.
The light that springs unbound, with a wiling, tithen, syro illumination-
Does it make the Cathars redound upon a laddered absolution?
May the world allow my apocrypha?
Or am I repudiated before the grand narrative?
Each hallway;
Each Fuzon held orb of Basiliskery.
Did I give it a shot?
Was it worth a notch?
Am I sitting amongst friends?
Or in the depth of a drying fen?
Low-Brow, High-Sighted; Lending-Lovely, Leaving-Lonely; Refrain-Comport, Exstat-Deport; As at Peak, As Beneath; With, Withing Withouts; Is It Red, Is It Blue;
And is the grand life coalescing in you, And is the loud lie deafening to you?
I am sane, And I am plural.
I am you, As I am me.
Blistering in cracking skin,
Lodged beneath the galed porch,
Lined inside a briny mind,
Tethered to a fury,
Gifted through barmene,
Lathered with a scold,
Trapped amongst the unkept,
Lost without a head.
The wild wind is rising high,
And atmosphering these flickering bulbs,
And driving back the floor filled houses,
And paving over these concrete veins.
A bell tolls behind the mists of the Overimage.
Du Hast.
Dost Thou
Want
To see?
Copyright © Tom Kelleher | Year Posted 2023
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Tom Kelleher Poem
Straight lines, sepia
The suppression of unwanted thoughts
Like time spent in sensory deprivation
Time spent in a droning room
Under sterile light hums, practically drooling
The vacuum of most moments
As standard as cinder blocks
Punctuated by things so washed out, they'd pass as monochrome
Blobs moving by on the way to unimportancees
Stagnancy, cave drips, supermarket music, traffic
Grey meat, mushy greens, halfway through it sighs-
So I can get to the chair squeaking, the plate clanging
The soft plodding, then the mattress compressing
The sum total of all the overcast days, the green paddocks
The failing businesses, the mossy tin roofs
A library corner at recess
Drab, yellow eyelids, yellow teeth, yellow breath
Yawning, dozing, fidgeting, staring, tossing, turning
Exchange money for goods and services
Take out the bins
Go there then back
Take some pictures
Sit down
Stand up
Lie down.
.
.
.
What is this, this hole at the end of time?
.
This dot at the end of the line?
.
Aromas in a room, faces formed now turned
.
Gurgling down a sink, slipping through my hands
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Where is this place I am?
Where the music lilts softer than a breeze-
And I sway forever in reveries.
.
Copyright © Tom Kelleher | Year Posted 2023
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Tom Kelleher Poem
TIME
TIME
TIME
Time again; Time again and again; Time the sigil of violence, Time begets silence
TIME: 'twas the word was spoken
TIME: the line that has ended
TIME: the separatist guerrilla
TIME: the racking of gaunt mind, spuming hubris and pariahship
Why subject yourself to this?-
You particulate,
You lump of curdled shore-kelp?
Why live apart from the many, the One that was once naught but is now Zero-
Does it not insert itself- coiled- at death and at entry-
Does it not loiter in the androgyny of divine passing's future-past same-shame?
My sigh, my lord, my why and accord
Nothing but moments- what aft-hand had meant was Nothing but Nothing
Let me leave, let them live, let them find it in spite of it.
What is this, what is that, it be not this, be not that.
Drunk, flunking, lapsing, relapses-
All for, as it seems, a same-wise score of disharmony-
Not my lot, Not what I jot, Not what I thought, Not in my court.
This and That, in Time that is always and ever Time; TIME; TIME; TIME.
Sort of like the end of all things,
Much alike to the King of Finality.
Will your One reign supreme over the auspices in that sublime untime?-
Look again, read it back, think and drown, have you frowned?
It is the horizon,
It is the cloud,
It is the unknown-
Behind the great shroud;
It is past elapsings-
In the fidelity of formlessness-
And the loom still will skein; and the wheel still in spin.
Won't be found in those long-lost lostlings' scrawled out words, you see?-
Won't impart in overcast nights, or be interpreted behind the black of eyelids-
Don't You See; Can't You See; Can I See; Are You Seen?
Copyright © Tom Kelleher | Year Posted 2023
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Tom Kelleher Poem
Humours turn acrid near
The silent seer.
Escaping absentees scamper
Further down the hole that holds their likeness
Extinguish | fatal obscurant | visions.
| fata obscura |
Of thriving, lively fauna
Prostrate to impelling images
Schizoid prognostic narratives
Told through the burning lens.
Up above somewhere;
Unmade's secret eddies meet the Void's effacing means
Flickery shades mar anthropic soil
Never-beens, vestiges, cloud-faced mutes
Watch, sneer, hiss from interstitial galas
Covet your unearned gift of certain being
All skies slide to promenade our spaces
In front of that greatest-deep mirror
Most cower at the approach.
Croatoan, Boskopoid, Nephilim ires boil, rise
Evaporate.
Thin air marks their omphalos.
Sinews worn down and slumped in buried peat
Undisturbed lighthouses scry
Souls echo Xibalba's memory
Nulled sheets linger over its impossibility.
No divine clap can hide the noise of nothing.
No resplendent scheme can stop time's voyage surely ebbing.
Never will you win in wagers against the real.
Anbirnybbid Ocegenr.
Copyright © Tom Kelleher | Year Posted 2023
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