Poem: Limestone Dreams

limestone

The limestone here seeps into your dreams,
Pebbles embedded in quartz-stricken seams,
You can fall into empty air where the peregrine flies,
And coppice your own thoughts until a new forest does rise

Then out of the enchantment of swarming gloom,
A bat creeps out of the netting and circles your room,
With omens and prophecies, relinquishing strange jewels,
Singing to you, oneirically, in inaudible mewls

But to her, you are as a thousand shards of a mirror,
A rookery of sounds – the netherest of nevers –
There is no spite – only a refreshment of feeling,
The parishioner plants kisses that are ripe for the stealing

These flowerbeds are not earthly, their colours betray
Tones that are not possible to see in the day,
Creeping slowly through them disguised as shimmering petals,
Green fingers of bracken – teeth of precious metals

With sapphire smiles, turquoise, magenta, and gold,
The most luxurious things to be so wretchedly old,
But the soil is their pardon, the only Bible they read
Is written in the language of wildflowers and weeds

With Green Men in pews, thoughts eroding to silver,
Nothing is as enigmatic as The Wye River,
And with weepers of autumn bringing their evensong chants,
I will reap of the kisses The Parishioner plants

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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