Poem: Alive Or Dead

dream

Raped by the infinity inside myself,
Each moment confronted by more than I am,
A turbulence of high strangeness, difficult to resolve,
The mystery of darkness in the marrow of man

Laying in bed cocooned in everchanging images,
Beasts from the underworld with ten million heads,
Temples richer than Babylon – starlight flashing in the faces
Of the angels and demons, neither living or dead

I want to make sense of it – yet yield to the senseless;
Explain everything – yet remain mystified,
I feel impossibly powerful, yet utterly defenceless,
A God and a Baby – dying and deified

She keeps me from sleeping, this relentless conundrum,
It tortures, burrows deeper, yet occasionally relieves
The same pain it triggers, unearthing in shivers
The answers and illusions I inseparably receive

I dream of a yellow dragon perched high in the mountains,
The grandeur of her age, immoveable and pure,
I film her with my iPhone, desperate to capture
Proof of the sacred certainty scientists so abjure

But it’s not about proof – hold fast the golden core!
The undying inspiration – the muse within the mad –
Is it possible to be a poet without always being at war;
Caught in the abysm between the good and the bad?

It is the highest vocation, most rapturous, yet hurtful,
A shit-bespattered surveyor in uncertainty’s mines,
A touchstone of experience -yet secure from its terrors
Can you ever hope to be as master of its rhymes?

I do not know – there is no grandeur of conclusion,
No closure, no judgement, no forgiving finality,
The adventure continues -but of this I am certain:
A poet, alive or dead, I ever must be

Poem: Writing Into Darkness

gustavedore_raven000

Music, baroque, I hear the notes

Tie themselves into lucid knots –

Labyrinths of spectacle, ravelling all things

In sequential spirals – I am

Not tied in – but enchained –

Where others dance and court,

 I am only Inwoven in ever

Denser layers of suffocating self – my

Petals too populous – my thorns, frothing

Foaming – orgiastic brambles, celebrating,

Denigrating riotousness

 *

I dance alone.

I sing alone.

*

My notes have nothing to harmonize with

Except themselves; what I sung before being

Destroyed, effaced, by what I sing next – arrows

Fired after arrows – notes attacking notes – melodies

Savaging melodies as combatant serpents, rattling and

Shaking in metamorphosis of self-murder

*

I sit in the abyss, and my scroll keeps on purling,

Tapering into darkness.

There is nothing here except:

My Quill,

My Ink,

My Scroll,

And the Words I write

 *

The Scroll is made from skin – my Skin;

The Ink is dredged up from the unfinishable

Darkness where I lagoon. The

Words are just passengers – faery-like thoughts –

Phantasms that pass through my mind like sightseers

At theme parks – what spectacle is

Today unfurling in The Land of Poet? Is the Ferris

Wheel still up and running? Or must we go elsewhere

To be nauseated by circularity?

 *

So, I carry on writing into darkness.

I don’t know if anyone will ever receive

These messages. I don’t know if there is

Anything beyond this darkness.

 *

How many different kinds of darkness are there?

How many gods are there in The Pantheon of Night?

Is Light just another form of Darkness?

Is a light-bulb just an immature form of Darkness

That has not yet learned to conceal itself?

*

III.

I learned to conceal myself long ago.

When the day is done, and the shifting tides

Of Darkness shimmer around themselves, I roll

Myself up in my Scroll, and sleep.

*

And, as I sleep, I dream – I dream of light –

I dream of Darkness no longer being afraid

To show itself – I dream of no longer Dancing

Alone.

*

I dream of landscapes, of friendships, of cities,

Of pullulating possibilities – that the knots of

Infinity are no longer just chains, encumbrances,

But beautiful pieces of embroidery in which I am

A purposeful, important stitch.

*

IV.

Then I awake.

Nothing has changed.

 *

I furl out my Scroll,

Dip my Quill into Darkness,

And hope, against the face of

All possible alternatives, that, maybe

One day, someone will finally be able

To read my handwriting.

 *

Then the Darkness will be Loved.

And I will not dance alone.

 

Poem: Shambhala

dmt_world_by_nomadicortex-d4ichkk1

My child,

I want to give you all the knowledge

I have gleaned from this lifetime

And others to come;

I want you to be executor

Of my indomitable will

That will transport the love I have for the world

Far into the future

I chant the holy name

And it is as though I have taken cocaine

Every second is so heavy, so final,

That I can barely believe

I’ll live out the week

Oh, this tender heart of mine

The cried at The Fall of Hyperion

Or the final resting place

Of an undeserved moth in wing

Don’t you remember your premonition

Of seeing me dead in the hospital?

But my beard is not long enough

And has yet to taper to the stateliness

Of a Chinese nobleman

Mahakala comes into my body

And I wonder how I can contain such passion,

Such ferocity, such raging immortality

Within these mortal coils

DNA strands

Plait the hairs of Lizard Queens

And the aristocracy of InterSpace

Plugging itself inside its own cosmos

Like a teenage escapologist

Uploading himself into the tragedy of the internet

I have seen Shambhala –

The king sits on a microchip throne –

His consciousness is imbued with the city itself

Reigning within all his subjects

By becoming his subjects themselves

Oh, beautiful hallucination!

Of stately mesmerism!

I cast aside habituation

And all I can feel

Is the terrifying madness of the moment

Charlotte Bronte

Transcending her small stature

By vandalizing the face of time

I have seen Shambhala’s Kingdom

I am become king within king

I kiss the Queen with the soles of my feet

Yet still long to let her in

 

Poem: The Sharpness of Life

sharp.jpg

You cannot shirk from

The sharpness of life

The guillotine in every atom

The poison spider of Karma

Crawling out her web

At the onset of dusk

To give you a razor-blade kiss

Persist! Persist!

That’s what life keeps yelling at me

Pain exploding in every pore

A secret fire

Committed by

The Arsonist of Time

As I just go on living and living

I am glad to have met you

My sweet friend

Until lover’s reunion

And lover’s farewell

Lover’s shrink-wrapping

And Lover’s Hard-sell

The uncertainty between moments

Is sieving me out

Into luxurious cocaine

For a titanic snout

I am unhappy with this

I shall not go on

But I’ll be here to the end

Thus runs my song

 

Poem: Cactus

cactus

The will to live

And the will to die

The will to create

And the will to destroy

Seem so closely related

That’s it’s impossible to uproot one

Without uprooting all the rest

I carry within me a womb

Filled with shotgun ammunition

And a bandolier

Of seeds to be sown

Your prickly cactus exterior

Only makes you more charming

But my thorns are on the inside

That’s where the bleeding happens

 

Poem: Taste of Death

scar

Nowhere feels safe

Everything tastes like death

There is a wilderness of promise

Where bones dangle from trees

Where the future doesn’t look

Like a coffin’s gaping jaws

Or the seductive flames of a funeral pyre

That singes all your nose hairs

Nowhere feels safe

Least of all,

This ticking time bomb body

The dearest faces just look wraith-like

Friendship seems far away

Once I felt like a prince

Now I just feel like a bulbous wound

That has grown conscious of itself

A scar upon

The breast of time

That the warrior self-inflicted

In grief

Self-mutilation

Used to be a culturally acceptable phenomenon

Of internal pains

That demanded to be externalized

How I wish we could live in such a time!

And I would not have to hide my pain

Like a lady in waiting

In the shadows of society

Before marriage destroyed her

The knuckle-baring torture of refinement

There can be no freedom of expression

In a country that worships

Commerce and Self-Loathing

As its two highest ideals

What am I doing here?

Why am I alive?

Nowhere feels safe

Everything tastes like death

So I’ll lather life in ketchup

To see if it tastes any better

 

Poem: Sarcophagus of Flesh

Chodpa

This horrible sarcophagus of tendon and bone
Atomic flesh for the spirit to contend against
With our swagger
And seasoned indomitability
Yet all it took was a blood clot
The size of a pea
To serve as the bullet
You eventually bit
In the arena of life
Mortality is the unwanted streaker
We can’t help gawping at
And in that moment
As the coroner’s answering machine dies
I can hear the cries
Of a millennia of Taoists and Buddhists
Railing against this flesh
As the Herb of Immortality withers