Clean Up
I dislike the implied mess of violence.
Peace is more tidy,
clean and inviting.
Why waste precious metal
in deadly intent
when a kickass party
can pay the rent --
a rant and rave relaxing
pent up pain.
Where’s the percentage of gain?
The perception that rage requires
release against this people cage,
to ease some agony of feeling less
accepted,
Reflex flight or fight? Psychobabble hype?
No one needs to violently die today.
The Pandorica opens at 5 am.
And what will we see in there?
Soft beams of stars from phantom seas/
Colliding kaleidoscope mysteries/
The waft of your hair in a warm Spring breeze/
A confetti parade of prayer
The wall of your sockets demagnetized
The warm of your pockets turns chill
When each of our membranes goes fragmentized
Drifting beyond while or will
Gifts of penance lose all appeal
Too traumatized to whimper or feel
Denial replaces the space we called real
Seared to an awestruck stare
Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn
Formerly someone, lost without form
Back to that question you asked being born
and the answer that started when?
The Pandorica
opens
at
5
am.
Sacred Calling
Cloistered for warmth in this area between.
I've learned its scenery, like lattice worked into my eyes.
Slowly turning toward wise belief, pausing at this door,
portal to awesome wonderment, pure radiant bliss
dispelling knots of pain and betrayal.
Magnetic psyche searing brand,
archetype of mystic revelations carried through
into the world of Man -- I come to the promised land,
potent stream of prophecy.
Commanded, I lay down my burden, weight against my back
of gathered assets I was certain to require.
Freed to meet my mission, to accept desire,
immortal pleasure, the opportunity to sketch,
to draw out beauty, to paint leisurely upon prism glass.
Have I reached the bridge upon the crossroads, the glimmering?
Magick's sea through which I now may travel, native soul
returned, having earned my keep, my long journeyman's
wage. I have looked at age, a deep reflective pond.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold, sculpted by
oceanic power, rifts and meteors. I feel self-created destiny
shudder slowly, seismically, move me as I prepare
Medical Model
Do not pity the addict -- life simplified to nullify fear of dying.
Fantasies of flying, ecstatic skies dressed in silk-soft cloud
better to be sought than mere shrouds to deify lost faith in
human kindness, in mythology of romantic love, in heretical
heroics or epiphanies of peace.
Do not spite with words or deeds to mollify some social creed.
Do not expect to enact a cure in legality or morality, nor
gratitude for uplifting heathen from their street of shame into
degradation by naming their retreat an effect of poison,
denying the deadening preceding.
If treason must be decried at seeing crumbling of
overridden lives, respect need be paid -- true attention
to lies so urgently held dear that when
bleeding cracks appear, torn by desperate scratching for relief
from sins by belief unsalved -- respect for the seeking of
the Source in medication.
In closing moments of late Winter light
Clouds sinking afire into horizon's shore
Visions shielded by day from instinct's sight
Creep into focus, relink to nature's core
Peace is more tidy,
clean and inviting.
Why waste precious metal
in deadly intent
when a kickass party
can pay the rent --
a rant and rave relaxing
pent up pain.
Where’s the percentage of gain?
The perception that rage requires
release against this people cage,
to ease some agony of feeling less
accepted,
Reflex flight or fight? Psychobabble hype?
No one needs to violently die today.
The Pandorica opens at 5 am.
And what will we see in there?
Soft beams of stars from phantom seas/
Colliding kaleidoscope mysteries/
The waft of your hair in a warm Spring breeze/
A confetti parade of prayer
The wall of your sockets demagnetized
The warm of your pockets turns chill
When each of our membranes goes fragmentized
Drifting beyond while or will
Gifts of penance lose all appeal
Too traumatized to whimper or feel
Denial replaces the space we called real
Seared to an awestruck stare
Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn
Formerly someone, lost without form
Back to that question you asked being born
and the answer that started when?
The Pandorica
opens
at
5
am.
Sacred Calling
Cloistered for warmth in this area between.
I've learned its scenery, like lattice worked into my eyes.
Slowly turning toward wise belief, pausing at this door,
portal to awesome wonderment, pure radiant bliss
dispelling knots of pain and betrayal.
Magnetic psyche searing brand,
archetype of mystic revelations carried through
into the world of Man -- I come to the promised land,
potent stream of prophecy.
Commanded, I lay down my burden, weight against my back
of gathered assets I was certain to require.
Freed to meet my mission, to accept desire,
immortal pleasure, the opportunity to sketch,
to draw out beauty, to paint leisurely upon prism glass.
Have I reached the bridge upon the crossroads, the glimmering?
Magick's sea through which I now may travel, native soul
returned, having earned my keep, my long journeyman's
wage. I have looked at age, a deep reflective pond.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold, sculpted by
oceanic power, rifts and meteors. I feel self-created destiny
shudder slowly, seismically, move me as I prepare
Medical Model
Do not pity the addict -- life simplified to nullify fear of dying.
Fantasies of flying, ecstatic skies dressed in silk-soft cloud
better to be sought than mere shrouds to deify lost faith in
human kindness, in mythology of romantic love, in heretical
heroics or epiphanies of peace.
Do not spite with words or deeds to mollify some social creed.
Do not expect to enact a cure in legality or morality, nor
gratitude for uplifting heathen from their street of shame into
degradation by naming their retreat an effect of poison,
denying the deadening preceding.
If treason must be decried at seeing crumbling of
overridden lives, respect need be paid -- true attention
to lies so urgently held dear that when
bleeding cracks appear, torn by desperate scratching for relief
from sins by belief unsalved -- respect for the seeking of
the Source in medication.
In closing moments of late Winter light
Clouds sinking afire into horizon's shore
Visions shielded by day from instinct's sight
Creep into focus, relink to nature's core