Raiments de Paradis

RAIMENTS DE PARADIS

Take a look about,
Nothing is out of place; the world is rushing itself
Like a river, towards madness, or enlightenment.
New beings propagate themselves like leaves; the cosmos is like a folio,
Comprised of deep, dark, and drastic measures
Slashing at a canvas in the darkness; breathing the blood of the sacrificed.
Like meat to feed, or the body to move -
Animal life is in endless swathes of paws, feeling, jaws, terror.
Those who are tired of it shall rise, like leavened bread.
And as such, life is at risk, the very life of the organism:
What tree abandons that very thing which makes it such;
Furthermore, what is a man who has left the post of humanity?
He who wanders forward and not back; he who has left the village,
Not to return to the black waters of the abyssal past, like a fish to rejoinder fins and gills,
But to wander forth, perilous in the storming winter.

What mankind has use for are tools of blood - drills, swords, guns, fire.
Fervor which can be used to harvest hard things.
Go beyond mankind; it is as such to become bored with life -
The commonplace filled drudgery of the everyday workmanship,
The mere maintenance of a failing vehicle,
An empire run on oil and gasoline.
To go beyond this place is to enter into a metaphysical need,
A contract with fate, a cosmic sphere.

Jaw to Jaw, like jousting leopards,
Hip to Hip, like cursing snakes,
The energetic lila intertwines, like a madhouse of sport.
Glad, the night clashing with the day, and the coursing electricity which tumbles down from the sky
Into these glass figurine bodies, melting like clay,
O’ how the fire designs these brief furies, each body a song and signature,
Each body a dance.
O’ how the world is tiresome, and viewed day and day again by these tired eyes.
For there is no balm or salvation but the poem, where great imagination swoops,
Like a fell pelican for this world-fish,
Deep and above the container, beneath it, transmogrifying the ashes into an art
Which expands perception; expands world
What long work is this thought, which emerge like shadow-fire
Shadows of horses galloping among the plains,
Wild freedom; wild freedom and untamed,
Needing light, needing fleshy form, needing design,
For the poem is in all things intertwined;
In all things their power, to which is called their aid,
The voice which speaks thru beast and stone is all the same,
The vessel which kept the hidden flame.

Ah - the days which tumble on like dice,
Eviscing nothing but the threshold of numbers, a six like a rooftop, a six like a ceiling,
A consciousness like a delimiter of the mind, no further than piss and shit,
No further than the coagulation of a form blustered and blown about by time,
Like the winds which take to graves empires and slaves -
Poisoned by the rope from which they are crafted, pure illusions;
The stone within them dies, knowing itself only to be a mask, cleaved from masks
And left homeless and alone, like a peasant child in the slum of the world,
The bomb shelter of the world, the concurrent misery of the world
Which shakes and rattles the cage like a mad ape, for hunger, for fear, for thirst,
For love -
In an island oasis of mirages and mirages alone.
To drink the water that does not exist, and to fall into the folds of myriad sleeps,
And to dream myriad dreams, locked in their prism and dying in the fire of made up things,
The toys, the tempest of swirling, licking flame,
To live and die in such a world is all the same - a stony face and a stony grave,
With nothing but the crumbling and the ash, the lost body, the lost measures;
A still unfulfilled; a beaker untested, without trial;
Without the spiritual dimension

For what is unseen is without even the blustery air which whips and ripples the flesh
Lakes and pools - it is the air like the breath of night which trembles thru skin unsensed,
Pulsing and flashing like the black waves of a moonless sea;
Adrift in an aetheric dimension where the eyes to see and the lips to taste and touch
Are one with the black body of the goddess,
Her womb trembling, and at last there is no goddess,
All but still darkness.
To come and go from history to the place of silence, before the word;
Where the word itself is a pregnancy, a possibility.

What has nature produced that we have not seen? With these eyes that have passed through time,
Grateful and ungrateful witnesses alike, who watched the turning of the stars, who watched the shaking of the trees,
Who watched the rise and fall of warrior kings, storms of sand, oceanic expanses,
And who drifted like boats, hooking and angling for the moon,
Sexed and released to aetheric spirit upon death, unchained from the coil of the body,
Breathing like the breath which emerges from the ashes of the soul, a condensation
Rising to the ceiling of the massive church-graveyard,
This house of worship where bodies are changed amidst fire,
Hungry for that which is beyond nature, hungry for that which is like a phantasm of possibility,
Passed thru the smoke of language and is a product of true creation,
Novel to man, whose eyes turned upon the eyes of God
And witnessed the whole of the fury, like a dial, upon which wretchedness spun,
The misery of food, the burning of the flesh, and the feeding, the endless feeding;
The carnal death of the organism, which fell fallow among the fields
And grew flowers beneath its feet.

Life and death, spun like a wheel, waking and sleep, spun like a wheel,
Famine and feast, light and dark, their fatigue
Is like a story told too many times over, surpassed by the keen eye,
Who observes the turning of the soil, as in the turning of the stars.
Above and below, smirks Time, where beings are born amidst the burning
And fed again to the furnace which recommenced them,
Fed and become the ages, fed and become the Aeon
All sacrifices, aiding and abetting the stone;
Which glows with the fiery embers and flame from within, where soul is capt -
Like still and refinery, like forge within mirrors.
Each canvas is the eyes, which give and take, which rape and pillage, which starve in sanctum,
Whose own private fires burn, whisper, whimper and groan
With the encroaching blackness, the coming of night like a threat,
Their pathos like a fleeing army, their pathos like a miserable depression,
Their pathos like a predator and prey amongst the stars,
Being fed to the encircling gods; themselves turned to stone by the glancing glaze
Of the greater eye, which in circling is enchantments,
In circling is the spell of time.

Boredom - at last, with the spell of it all,
To shirk all ideas and sit, in the field of consciousness, forgetting humanity, forgetting time,
Forgetting history, forgetting name.

The world is nothing but an illusion, a veil,
A passing phase - already in the middle of dying; already in the middle of being born,
An embryo, huddled in a mass, like beggars and refugees
Like storms and executioners orders.
Ripping past, is the wave of time, but for a wink of light,
There lays the entirety of life - swaddled like a babe;
Gone like the passage of the night.
The way is shrouded, cloaked, and upon a narrow path,
Between impassable woods; cut at and gnashed with wolves’ teeth.
Each night between stones is a sacrifice, with blood drawn
Gifted and received, like with open hands,
The world is a midwife, a tourniquet, a beggar.

Each being knows the future of death; forestalling the blackness in sleep,
Waking with a still mind; a still narrowing vision,
With grounds solidified; what quaked and wept in sleep is the child and the elder,
The birth of the cosmos and the end of time.
Between the two stands a crossroads, a crucifixion;
Between man and beast; between beast and God is the knife,
Which cuts at the seam and quick, splits the horizon dawning
And the coins upon the eyes.

Consciousness - to take a body, as planned, stilled the flesh; was raised up from the earth
And like the cup receives the blood, received consciousness like a vision from above,
A dream of copulation. For this world is a garden where birds sing forever
At a fountain pool which contains all oceans.
Simultaneously incredibly small and precious, yellow pink bellied with beating wings
And an eye into the place between death and the gnashing; the white light.
Spirit levitates, and witnesses the spilled blood; man and beast take and leave body
Amongst the great war, unending, of blood to quench blood
Of hunger to quench hunger,
And the spirit that rises and falls
Like the belly of a sleeping black bear.

Life is naught but hunger, that which self sustains, and feeds upon itself
To the quenching of infinity itself. For there is no number that can hold life,
The fire that translates to the blood; the blood that translates to the fire,
And must beat to live, like a war drum.
In boredom, rests sex and murder, slumbering like a three headed dog.
For hell is just a waiting, for hell is just a time on a foreign soil;
For each body is stretched to accommodate the great cosmic forces;
Within each soul there is a titan of meaning, banging upon the bars of the cage.
This cage of language, the extension, nigh teleology,
Which reaches like a microscope towards the stars, with cords like veins,
With phantom waves like eyes,
Around the world to seeing, feeling, and bursts upon the plenum of the stars,
Impenetrable supernovae,
What mysteries remain still in the silence of sleep.

The imagination rushes, for creation, the eye which meets the eye,
For want of more, the soul is a thirsty beast, a daemon, hunched o’er the fount
And river of life, the river of blood, with stained lips of wine
Dancing like a madman, depicting the singing song of life
Discontented with the affairs of the flesh and oil.
Come and gone is the body, to mate with the earth;
To become petrol and steam, at the forge of the planetary body,
Yet another sacrifice to the gods who speak in a language forgotten
But for poets and the mad.

The stairs to ascend, this world of madness
Is a cloak for spiritualism, through rising
Like a veil, cast upon all things
And their assonances, consonances, and dissonances.
This world is a clarity when seen as a ball of yarn, a thread of light,
A wheel of fire, a perpetual turning from dark to light
Where desires swarm in a myth, where the mystic watches the birth and death of all things
As within a beaker, thru a glass, thru a mirror; thru a watering pool.
Like lives rush, as water and fire rushes, to and from the source
Licking rings of pulsations,
Like a rising and falling of fire and ash, of spirit and smoke:
Contained within itself like a womb, like a canvas.

So as all things are a ladder, within them the first materials,
Like the body is a stone and the flint to stoke the flame,
The spirit which calls to be aerated thru discipline, shown the air
And moulded into the fabric of the third dimension,
For this land is a worksmanship; this land is a proving ground
Where the spirit sparks when striking the stone of the soul,
Where the force of the hammer is the will of all time,
Which like a snake, consumes itself;
Thus, the great work is made,
Masterpieces of men are proven, high spiritual arts
Made by works of discipline, made by the turning of life to art
And the reception of this earth, a great gift,
The raw materials of clay
From which to fasten a true masterpiece.

The stone is this: wrought from clay, worked in trials, persisted,
And at last, crafted an eye which gazed upon the mountain,
A higher work, thru the vessel of God perceived itself, and writ and lifted life
To a higher plane: for life is a pedestal for art,
The materials from which it is wrought and raised
Like a trophy of gold, fought and won like a prize
Among the agon of wild things, like a leopard, a cheetah,
And the eyes which to see the rising of the sun -
For discipline is power:
Power raised from the very spirit of the heart, from the very beating of the breath;
From the hammer of life put to task to raise the work of art
From the aetheric grounds, the spark of the soul
Made manifest.

The life is an opportunity to make an art of it

The earth itself, like the digestive system, is a processor. The soil (or the soul), acts as a transmutative device, grounding down different biological and genetic materials to soil, dirt, stones. This process of internal refinement is what produces what humans consider most valuable, namely precious gems and metals (such as gold and silver), as well as natural gas (such as petrol and oil).

This process of soil as the grounds, through which biological materials are absorbed as informations and processed is a process manifest on the physical plane like the psychical process is manifest on the psychic plane, or the ‘seemingly invisible’. Like what remains in the digestive system when nutrients are not completely processed and excreted (constipation), or when artifacts are dug up from the soil, the psychical process has grounds which become coagulated, or ‘stuck’ around trauma.

Trauma, succinctly, is a wound to the psychical body of a being, like a scarification process to the earth which razes a field and makes it barren - this process of trauma, or wounding - is a psychological mechanism that can be produced by any kind of abandonment, abuse, neglect, physical violence, and inherited violence - which is passed down intergenerationally until it is brought to consciousness, processed, expressed, and ‘healed from’.

This process of trauma ‘healing’ is not a ‘forgetting of the past’, but it is a clarification of the psyche. The grounds of the psyche inform all cultural behavior - from animal consumption to sexual behavior, to the way a being approaches arts, sciences, and self understanding and relationality. This process of wounding can be seen not only at the immediate, cultural level - but at the level of the ‘division’, or ‘separation’ of organisms into separate sensational seed pods, or like ‘spores’ from the unified whole of consciousness at the cosmic level into separate being bodies with separate digestive systems, and ‘internal fires’.

As such, ‘separate’ beings exist on a three dimensional plane of space and time, where and through space and time they meet wounding, the past, the present, and worry with consideration to the future - about the existence of their corporeality and the possibility of ‘coming death’.

The incarnation, or ‘fractalization’ of souls (being bodies) is to become aware of the nature of the self at a cosmic level vis-a-vis the faculties of the physical body as an alchemical vessel, or alembic, for the very same transformational process the earth undergoes at a systemic level - the process of digestion of history. History, here, can be primarily and essentially defined as the process of fragmentation or fractalization that occurred necessarily at the beginning of time (the creation of space as a relative phenomenon) - leading up to and through the re-unification of all things at their essential ‘thingness’ or oneness.

As such, the cosmos begins as a singularity, ends as a singularity, and throughout the simulation-process of space-time, undergoes a process of cell division and ‘branching out’ akin to the creation of novelty. This can be called, simply, creation itself, or the cosmic artwork of life. The ‘goal’ of life is consciousness - at a biological, psychical, and spiritual level - which is to say, to reunify the very force and existence of the universe manifest in the individual with the full psychical powers of the whole, or the ‘greater will’ (the higher manifestation of the individual will - or, the will of the whole of the blood, the collectivization of all life forms and forces in their entirety before and after ‘separation’).

The universe, in this sense, is a constantly regenerative force of being-bodies, or life forms; a work of consciousness over space and time seeking to become conscious of itself - to reunify ‘man with god; animal with god; plant with god’ - or the psychical fount and source of all being - creation itself. Desire, here, functions as a rememory process, or a remembrance of the true psychical body and inheritance of all things. For each desire is a remembrance, or a reincorporation (whether this be sexual or nutriment-consumptive related). Each possible desire, at the higher psychical level, is a part of that very same body which the organism-being-body is seeking to reclaim - the part of the body that has been ‘cast off’ or ‘separated from’ as a result of the ‘birth’ of creation - a fractalization of souls, or eyes, of and from the whole.

What unifies life is the blood, the myriad manifestations of blood as in life and the source and fluid of life - like a river, a photosynthesis, a nutriment, a sacrament. Organisms seek to survive and exist in this ouroboratic consumptive fire, or the purgative fire of the blood-will. Like a snake eating its own tail, life consumes itself to survive as life; to stoke the furnace of nature. As flowers and plants compete for space upon the forest floor and reach toward the sun and drink the soil.

Intellect, or mind, is the vehicle through which the universe becomes conscious of itself - the snake wheel of fire. In that the universe is a snake wheel of fire, is that it is endlessly consumptive of itself to feed itself as life force energy. This consumption and process of eternal repetition may be called ‘the veil of maya’, or ‘the everyday’. In that it returns upon itself is the rising of the day and the setting of the sun, or the hunger of the animal; the thirst of the plant.

The psychological-alchemical process is a process of purgation and ‘purification’ through which the whole of organismic-universal life (as the universe lives through itself as an organism, an eye, a stomach, a fire) is a rite, or ritual; through which, man is returned to a state and center of cosmic wholeness; no longer projects his inner unity into ‘world’/‘outer separation’. In this sense, man is a step in the greater process of the spiritual/psychical evolution of the universe, through which (and this is the defining characteristic of man) it is able to reflect back upon itself, self-analyze at the level of the abstract self-identity, and ask itself ‘who am I, what am I, what is this [life]?’ This work of psychical wholeness is the reunion with the whole of the powers of creation and the universe (god) and the plenum consciously.

This is the very spiritual evolutionary process of the cosmos: through which god and the kingdom of god becomes incarnate on the earth - in the sense of the manifestation (three dimensionalization) of the cosmic order of all things from a place of self recognition as the powers of creation oneself. It is that through thought, and the ritual alchemical clarification of thought and psyche and being itself, that the world is transmogrified vis-a-vis the self; made manifest the kingdom of god. This is akin to the creation of a diamond over time in the soil of the earth.

This spiritual process is translated biologically into ‘biological evolutionary perfection’; higher modes of consciousness gradually and gradient-ly made manifest through massive amounts of space-time procreativity as the ritual art of perfection of life. Here, ‘perfection’ means simply to live in tune and attuned with the cosmic law, or the metaphysical principles of divine love, oneness, and wholeness of the cosmos; energetic circulation. These are the very principles which structure all life, and it is that life is climbing the scaffolding of itself to become the very made awareness of the spiritual principles which govern the ‘physical’ world as its-self-essence. The return to this place of spiritual-psychological-biological unity is a return made with awareness; it is a return done with conscious witnessing and observation - uncovering, unpacking, and processing intergenerational, personal, historic, collective, and ‘cosmic’ (the wound of separation; fractalization of being-bodies, souls, eyes) trauma of ‘forgetting oneself’; the spiritual nature of existence; life.

The true nature of the self is witnessed, transmuted, and realized vis-a-vis the vehicle, vessel, or alembic of the body as a manifestation of nature. In this way, nature is a vehicle of and for higher realization - it is that which hoists man and the organism up to its birthright; gestures back to the essence and source which birthed it and all things. Consciousness via man witnesses ‘unconsciousness’ via primordial nature - or the nature that does not speak, see, or witness itself. Primordial nature, here, is the nature that is ensconced in itself; absolutely immersed in the experience of being an organism; in this way ‘imprisoned’ within the confines of a dominant biology. The light of consciousness ‘shines’ upon the cage of the fauna or flora through the evolutionary process as a gradient of unfolding; ‘slays’ the primordial unconsciousness. This is a mythological way of saying that the higher faculties of the self - the intellect, the mind - investigate into the primordial nature of the being-body, or the biological-psychical inheritance and load of the organism; in doing so, free the organism from the deep historical chains of the instinctual, consumptive, biological river of blood to which it is endlessly sacrificed.

In doing so, by way of this gradual, progressive, and individual revolution of the spirit from the grounds of the primordial, the witnessing consciousness truly inhabits life from a place of insight; as such begins the process of incarnating a ‘kingdom of light’ (a kingdom of wholeness, vision, awareness) upon the earth. This mythological, alchemical process is occurring in practical, real time via the ‘test tube of man’ as an alembic which transmogrifies consciousness as a progressive historical phenomenon ‘in utero’, or ‘in development’ by way of millenia of biological and spiritual evolution of life form-organism-bodies.

Trauma is itself that which makes higher realization possible; it is that suffering is the scaffolding upon which this higher work is built. Trauma ‘shakes the ground’ of the individual; reveals the bottomless blackness of the personality; the vacuousness and repetition of the animal existence; the purposelessness of consumption; the survival instincts and mechanism which reproduce meaningless and unfulfilling life. Trauma, in this way, reveals the ‘trapdoor’ of consciousness beneath the seeming appearance of things. The first instance of trauma is the inevitable revealing that ‘things are not as what they seem’. Trauma as experience is psyche revealing. Trauma is, first and foremost, the psychedelic experience - that which reveals the psyche to itself.

II.

The appearance of life is a ladder for spiritual awakening and the transcendental awareness of the cycle of natural existence. The appearance of life, or the veil between the appearance of the thing and the essence of life itself (the golden thread, or the tantra, or the life force which is present in and through all things, like the blood, or the photosynthesis) exists sensationally as and for the express purpose of self realization at the level of the cosmos. For without the primary fragmentation/fractalization of beings into being-bodies as a diversity of life forms/eyes, it would not be possible for life to reflect upon itself and begin to understand the nature of itself. Without creation as a bio-diversity, or a cell division, or a splitting or primary fragmentation, it would not be possible for consciousness to form and evolve.

That which is creation is fundamentally creative (moving, producing). In this sense, it is the very force of life itself - again, like the river of blood. This includes dreams, arts, vision, speech, digestion, life forms, planetary bodies. That which is creative emerges both at the personal level from the subconscious (the cultural arts of organisms); at the cosmic level from the subconscious - the vibrating, vibrant black axis of potens. From potentiality, creation springs, like a seed, like an idea, like a panther in the night. Alchemical poetry evisces this work; the unconcious or ‘psyche-work’ of the witnessing of the unconscious as it surfaces and descends once more into darkness like a breaching whale. This is the work of the appearance or the manifestation of an archetype, scene, or psychical phenomenon from the seeming ‘aetheric’ realm; it is a work that is the very birth of creation itself, made manifest over and over; a gesticulation to and through the primary roots of history - down through the personal, familial, communal, collective, planetary, and cosmic genealogical origins. For in each creation, the whole of creation exists; the whole of the creation story is told and laid bare.

This emergence of creation fundamentally makes itself ‘known’ or ‘’moves’ from the tension of the ‘visible and the invisible’, the ‘light and the darkness’; the essential binary of the ‘existent and the nonexistent’ as in that which is being witnessed or not being witnessed by the conscious mind. In this sense, the unconscious psyche of the being at hand and dark matter are intimately related, as in the conscious psyche and ‘matter’. The very process of human psychical-alchemical uncovering of the nature of being is simultaneous with and to the transformation of the universe at a profound and fundamental level. Furthermore, it is consciousness, attention, direction, and witnessing which not only produces profound changes in the individual psyche, but which produces transmogrifications of being and matter which reverberate at a cosmo-psychological level.

The process of ‘bringing to light consciousness’ is the process of transmogrifying trauma (or the history of being as in separation/fractalization; the myriad manifestations of this metaphysical phenomenon) vis-a-vis the alchemical process for the inclusion of the full life - including the life of the disabused, rejected, forgotten; including the life of the repressed history. For the order in the cosmos to be restored via the rememory of being as divine - ‘forgotten as it was fallen from the plenum into fragmentation; fractalization’. This rememory and process of recollection is the process of bio-psychical-spiritual evolution of millennia in the making. This rememory is the process of ‘regaining consciousness’ from a ‘collective blackout’ or a fallen/falling through which the universal mind has been gradually developing, with steady experimental faculties of ‘learning life’ - translating and translated through evolutionary traits and passage of genetic and epigenetic information over millennia. These traits and faculties have developed the conscious faculties of mankind; furthermore, the ability to ‘dialectically redouble’, or reflect upon oneself; to begin to dig into the soil, the soul, or the grounds of trauma. This ability, and this place houses not only personal trauma (the trauma of a lifetime), but the trauma of multiple lifetimes as in familial, communal, intergenerational, and consciousness wide (cosmic) levels of pain, suffering, abuse, violence, organismic survival, grief, and forgetting. To transmogrify that remembrance process alchemically (via vehicles like poetry as redemption, art as redemption; progressive inquiry; psychical work) into higher creation is a work which stands as a manifest of the higher will; the incarnation of the will of divine love; unity consciousness; the golden thread of the golden blood which is the light which sings as and through all things. It is the alchemical opus, or the philosopher’s stone - the perfect work.

The manifestation of this work is the reunification of the cosmic order in and with and as the human spirit/soul - a return, or an alchemical marriage of the ‘highest and the lowest’; ‘the nearest and the farthest’; ‘the microcosm and the macrocosm’. This is what is meant by the incarnation of the kingdom of god on earth. This work is the recovery of the self vis-a-vis trauma work. This is a ‘returning of the time to joint’; aligning, via the psychical work, the self. It is not only a profound personal healing, but a testament to what is possible in and as and of life itself - a testament which avows and allows all beings; creates an opening for spiritual evoutionary return. All things are created as and through imagination; all things are created as and through the mind of god. This is the psychic plenum of possibility from which all ‘things’ emerge, and all ‘things’ return - as manifestations of the higher will of divine love, endowed with a microcosmic fire which is a fractal of the very spiritual fire which is numinous and illuminates all things. It is the ‘mind of god’ which forms the galactic synapses, as the synapses of the human brain. It is through mind, first, and the process of clarifying and purifying mind via healing the soul, that all consciousness flows, all innovation is made, and all masterwork and possibility of unified creation is. Healing trauma is healing the wound of love.

the petty squabbles of man, the world is destroyed over this, a few cents and the conviction of a shadow, a mask, the barbarism which consumes each man, as he weaves apart each engagement, thirsts in shadow, thirsts in his victory over another, the spoils of the flesh; the spoils of the bowing down of another - this world is corrupted by egotism above collaboration, separation above unity, status above togetherness. this world is a mere shadow of what is possible; this shadow is populated by brutes and the carnivorous, the hungry, the thirsty, the treacherous; the mad with power. their irreason is their law, their culture; their society. they fight for nothing but for this - survival, procreation, wealth, and status over each other ape. their world is a fire in which they all ceaselessly burn, and wring the neck of the next to preserve their status and illusion. what is forgotten is death, the great equalizer. and in this life, they climb and squabble and squirm, miserably, for status - and die all the same, like the rest - but for a name on a tombstone. this world purges itself of itself; like a great ghost men are haunted by their desires for singularity, fame, fortune, and sexual power. and each desire amounts to nothing but a brief and meaningless sun, before setting, before old age, the disabusement of wealth, status, power; into death.

there is no reason to this game, and yet each man fights it to his own brutal conviction, that each ego cannot bear to be broken or challenged; that it thrashes wildly at the supposed confrontation of someone or something greater. and it is precisely thus that it turns and squirms and flees from death; that it turns and squirms and flees from its own extermination and the power and release that will come from its own death - into the world of the beyond. reasonless is man, and possessed by his own delusional madness. what he wins at the end of the day, if he is lucky, is worldly power, fame, wealth, status, all of which is extinguished in a pathetic moment. all that he has won is forever for naught. and when he turns and faces his razed and raped world, he recognizes what he has done. he has failed at relationship, failed at meaning, failed at connection to the great cosmos. what he has done instead is destroyed all life for the raising of his. for it is his illusion that he is separate from the wellbeing of any and all life; furthermore, that his life is barely his own in the personal sense, but rather all life eternal.

man does not exist but as a shadow; a shadow being his relations on this earth. he commits great and regular violences in his treatment of the earth, animals, and fellow humans in his very treatment of himself. for he has cast the earth and the world and the others out from himself, and made them separate, made them distinguished; made them responsible for his lashings and fright and fear. he beats and rapes the land and the earth and others, trampling over their emotions and sensitivities as he does his own, for that which he does to them is that which he does to himself. and this is the great secret of human relations - all that he casts without himself he disabuses within himself; the inner condemnation is clear as day in the way he acts in the world. his insides are turned out and on display.

for, in this sorrowful way, this is the way of nature; the way of unconsciousness. blood begets blood among men like panthers and their prey; the cycle of bloodletting among natural forces is infinite - precisely because it is not challenged nor changed by the conscious mind. it is accepted and it is continued as necessary violence. however, these violences so historically deemed necessary are nothing more or less than unconscious continuances of the former; in darkness to darkness, without critical interrogation of their functionality or lack thereof. for the whole animal world is haunted by the trauma of death and rape and killing; the sensitivity of the emotional animal is threatened by the perennial onslaught of violence - how a cat is brutalized by a predator or how a man is enslaved and tortured or extorted and manipulated by and for the means of a power of another over him. this cycle is endless without interrogation, for enlightenment to nature is the capacity to change the trajectory and ways of being and engagement. the animal in fear is entirely ego, it is entirely for itself and its survival; in this way, it is utterly incapable of even but for a moment considering the life, livelihood, and feelings of another. it is trapped and tortured by its ghosts and suppositions; the genuine and literal fear of the extinguishment of life, fed by genetic and epigenetic centuries of predation. these prey animals themselves include all races of man; as they do even the ‘greatest’ of predatory animals, such as sharks, crocodiles; ancient dinosaurs, and so forth. for no animal nor living being or force escapes the encroachment of death, whether by age or predation or other means. it is the haunting which is the haunting of the inevitable otherside or unknown, the haunting which tortures each waking moment of supposed knowing. for even as the predator hunts its prey, its flesh to be made its flesh, it is propelled by the oncoming fear of death by starvation.

it is such that the world is an engine generated and sustained by the fear of death; those who operate it, the living being stewards of life, whether that be a jungle cat or a man, is haunted in proportion to his action by the fear of death that possesses him. this is to say that his engine, or his force that propels him forward in moving world, is his force of antagonism toward and from death, in a dance which is his basic and primary sustenance - whether that be food, water, shelter, and that which sustains him but for a moment, before he is cast out into the cold, dark night to face death once more. for the fear of death to end would be thus - for the world to stop moving, and for death to be welcomed in like an old friend. such suppositions would entail the ceasing of the consumption of flesh by conscious beings; the ceasing of energetic movement and output to sustain life; as sages such as ramana maharshi have done, to simply lay down upon the bed, consume minimally, and experience the life of the body with minimal exertion toward any such objective.

and thusly, this is what consciousness entails - enlightenment as to the ongoing fuel cell burning of life toward ends of sustaining, furthering, and continuing itself - toward procreation, toward sustaining the body, toward the nutriments to sustain the brain and mind. for if this search; endless searching unto death would cease, it would be either unto death or surrender; such conscious surrender could be called enlightenment to the very cause and veil of life - the energetic fire that ceaselessly burns in the world, and is fed the bodies of man and animal and plant and world alike - a burning which consumes itself in varied energetic forms.

to leave this game and to be done with it; with awareness of what such a game entails at a biological, energetic level is, strictly speaking, enlightenment. it is in the nature of identifying the true awareness that the body is like a vessel, container, or alembic for - the one who sees out of these eyes, the one who thinks, the one who is being, in the midst of the whirlwind tornado of becoming - where the one becomes obsessed with the thirst of the flesh toward continuance. for becoming is this - the madness of life which is continually toward the sustenance of survival, even and as in the face of death - for life looks death in the face and flees like livestock to a yoke, and it turns and churns the world like a pail of butter. it is this force which makes deals happen, which makes children born, which makes prepared foods from raw cornstalk… it is this force which is the agent of all things in this world. for without life being chased by death, there is only the stillness and peace of being - without the attachment to life, it flows along the river, without hands around it, without feigned and attempted possession of it. it comes and goes like a feeling, like an experience that is had by being thrown into the world, with eyes and ears and mouth - which cries and thirsts and finds blood and drains it - from rivers and valleys and cattle and storms.

becoming seeks blood in this world; thus it seeks power. to relinquish one’s conscious hold on the blood is to surrender, and to no longer seek the blood of power. life sustains itself on the blood of animals, the blood of humans; the influence of controlling blood and the temperature of blood. to raise humans into a frenzy to be controlled or coerced; to cook the flesh of animals, to heat the flesh to action with sun, sex, desire, impetus. this power force is like a lever which propels projects and initiatives forth. it is the force of the raw power of life toward ends, direct or indirect, with the promise of ends to come. for life seeks to fuck and feed, it seeks to shelter and sustain; it seeks the sensual promise of the flesh for another night, another possibility, another potentiality. and even as life becomes conscious of itself as thus, it seeks and seeks further - even for the joke of possibility. for life cannot divorce itself from these means - as it peers out from behind the ears and eyes it is concerned first and foremost with self sustenance and continuance; will do whatever it requires to achieve those means - whether it means enslaving another or bowing before him. all life in this sense is fundamentally immoral and amoral - as it functions beneath morality for means of pure survival. if it can have survival, it must find pleasurable survival - or survival which is not only alive, but living well.

living well, in this sense, is life which is sustained and furthered by the desired possession of greater life, or life which is not sustained merely by barley but by steak; not merely by reproductive genital stimulation and release but by desirable and pleasurable release, and so forth. life in this sense, seeks fulfillment not only of its primary objectives, but the fantastic, far ends and reaches of such objectives. and this is precisely the creation of wealth, civilization, and convenience among men, as evolved representations of life. by means of collaboration, feigned or genuine, such empires of sense and sense fulfillment can be erected so as that even the least among them can receive the fleeting chemical pleasure of not only survival, but the obtaining of the higher objectives of survival - high value foods like red meat and flesh, as well as gratification of the neurotransmitters and hormones which associate not only continued survival but fulfillment. in this way, this game or maya of existence is a veil of life, wherein life is bought, continued, and furthered out of the jaws of death and nonexistence by the distractions of pleasure and survival - all the while, beneath the fugue state game of life and death as a cat and mouse, the yawning abyss of death and nothingness sits, waiting, like being before becoming, for the ridiculous game of the wind up toy of desire to cease. for living things desire and desire until they cease at the existinguishment of the engine, like an internal fire which is present in all things - which propels them forth. this engine is life itself. it is the blood that flows through flower and beast alike; it is the blood that flows through them and is sustained energetically and directly from the sun. it is primordial, spiritual fire.

and thus, it is the question of what is life worth; furthermore, what can be made of it. for this energetic realm and dimension has no true prejudice or bias, but to the sort of evolutionary suffering that is summons’ed out of it - which is the growth process, by which the seed sprouts from soil, or the mother births the child from the womb. this process is incessant - from the soil of darkness and the cracking of the seed into the blindingness of the light, to unfailingly repeat and proceed this process upon the alterance of generations and generations of blood and genetic makeup to found each new and subsequent iteration of being. this is true of the first fish which made land on earth to the most recent incarnation of human flesh. in this way, the energetic flesh and flow is free, even as it appears enchained in the realm of the evolution of the flesh; imprisoned in the alembic of the body. for it is life that is enlightened to itself and these means which is free to the art of the time; by way of time to make great art which is liberated at the most foundational level of existence - the awareness, the consciousness, the soul of being.

for the soul of being is the primary witnessing consciousness which, upon recognition of the patterns and cycles of nature as unconscious - or as in occurring in the unconscious mind of nature as in the unconscious mind of animals and men, from flesh to flesh and blood to blood - frees and is freed itself to itself - to make what it shall of life. enlightenment, in this sense, is a primary liberation of what were formerly the unconscious tools of nature, like a promethean fire, into the hands of conscious men to make art which expresses the truest and deepest nature of the seeding: the witnessing of pure consciousness, the still and peaceful nature of being, to the seeming paradox and contradiction of nature - being seeded and seated in the animal body. for it is this, that mind, pure mind and still mind, the very silence of being, is sat within the wild and raucous, bestial flesh of man and animal and earth - it is that being is sat within the eye of the storm of becoming; that this is the paradox and witnessing art of life, and what lies beneath it, pure presence; pure presencing.

that life is presence and presencing is that it is at once entirely still, as in the nature of being, and still as of yet drawing forth new energy and figures and forms, as in the cycle of birth and death - of beings, stars, empires, and animals. the very drawing forth is the river of fire, or the baptism of fire which is the inheritance or the legacy of blood, or lifesblood, which flows through all things - pure energy in myriad iterations, forms, densities and frequencies. the foundation and fundament of this energy is same, but the manner and matter in which it manifests is difference. this energy is consciousness itself; the gradients in which it manifests itself is in stages of awareness, or recognition, of that which it is. and these stages are the stages of consumption, animal eating, and transmission of flesh and blood. it is in this way that the technology of the human brain has developed over centuries in order to become conscious of itself; to become a sophisticated receiver and reflector upon consciousness and the nature of it - the birth of philosophy. this technology has developed by the nurturance and nutriment of the human brain - by way of the feeding of it the blood of nature - from plant and animal life alike. it is in this way that the human animal has slowly stood up behind and upon itself and recognized that which it is - among the unconscious nature which seeks life with absolute singularity. the questioning of life, which is the questioning of the worth and value of life and existence proper, is that which is unique to highly evolved brain function. it is the capacity to question whether or not suicide, or death, is a fundamental solution to life.

for, in the great forays of the sciences to discover and establish the grounds of existence and the physical world, there is the laying of the framework of existence as energy and the transmission, interaction, and engagement of forces such as time, space, gravity, and thermodynamics. that these are seeming laws of life is certainly well and good, but it gives man no spiritual means by which to navigate these laws, nor to determine their existential or spirituo-moral validity as natural laws worth paying respect or credence to. for as much as man must claim to accept or worship reality, whether it is the reality of gravity or the reality of the civilization of his fellow men, it is not to say that these situations, in which the alembic of consciousness is situated, are at all bearable, suitable, or conducive to the greater welfare of the consciousness of the soul - which, coming into awareness of itself, or enlightenment, strives for peace and equity, kindness, and equanimity as a systemic condition, or enlightened being as present among all beings. as the soul becomes enlightened, it wishes, too, to enlighten nature, as nature is of itself. in this sense, man’s conscious awareness of nature is to question the rules of gravity, the nature of the power of force, and what violence this has wrought upon the possiblity of a world of being to come into place, a world of stillness, silence, and peace - a world and realm that is at once united with death.

men obey thermodynamics unconsciously and relentlessly in their lives, as a basic law of the survival of the organismic body. too, they obey gravity and the law of force. in this way, it can be said that in the most detached way, men are slaves to the physical laws. however, it is the world of the soul or the world of being which is the quantum realm - which is the sheath beneath the appearance of physical things through which forms seemingly become manifest. in this way, music and mind are primary - conjurings from the soul, thoughts and apparati which are primarily aphysical, or do not have or take form but through the conscious or unconscious conjuring of these elements into the realm of space and time from the realm of the eternal, or the multifaceted possible. to the realm of the ephemeral are conjured ideas from the one who witnesses the mind; witnesses the birth and death of worlds and forms - as the pyramids and as the child were once ideas - their impetus is from the sedimentary layers of the being. this is to say: from procreation, from power, from status, from fear of death; at last, perhaps, from the freedom of the soul, out from the cycles. this manifestation of truly free creation is that which is deeply required - by a world which is starving for true meaning - meaning in life that can be generated from a genuine expression of joy - meaning that can be generated without the shadowy haunting of a death unreckoned with. for only that cast without the inclusion of this world, casts a shadow of it.

The demonic presence

Fire, built upon spires of fire
Yells the daemon, from atop the foothills of the blaze,
The eater of worlds and flesh;
Upon flesh the palace is made.
This world is a pyre; upon it are laid the graves
Of countless lives, as the siphon
From the magnitude of the belly breathes;
The stomach, an engine; time, the measure
By which worlds are razed; eaten from within,
Like a hunger, like a field consumes the flesh of the harvest
Like apples to rot; like bodies to disease.
Ill use, the daemon feeds on flesh; wastes the world,
From core to core it grows; thrives within, and speaks
And acts, a slave to the flesh it must sustain;
The energetic core of life within.
The daemon, the thing that impels, which strives to life:
The greedy and lustful fire, the burning unto burning
And the struggle between daemons - Chaos
The number, which is the war over the fires; their supremacy.
For each fire fights, like a beast, like an ape,
For the great wheel of energy, which burns and churns;
Attracts and repels like a cosmos, like a death dance
Where one and the next is expunged by the sex of death,
The frictive dance through which energy is extracted.
For mouth and tooth to flesh
For genitalia to womb
Birth an excess of life; death the rejoinder,
Between the two, hip to hip, dances the black dance
Of the daemon.

What is born is born of lust, flesh, and desire;
What is born is born of an explosion of energy,
Like the birth and death of stars.
What is dead is eaten out from the core,
And floats without emanation from within,
Like a corpse, like a husk.

Love, you would burn for it to return,
Like the flesh lusts for the red meat of the flesh
Like the youth is madness.
Like the star burns with an angry chaos
Stewing with explosions, like radiations of desire.
Love, you would burn, unto death, extinguishment:
What is beyond the mad burning of the eyes?
The cool, formless abyss,
Where the mere star’s memory is a twinkling,
A looking back through the what was,
The cool embres of time.

Who will chase the daemon’s black back?
Whipped, likened to coals
Spun into a frenzy by the apparition of a candle,
Beneath curtains; swaddled in the dark womb.
Likened to flame and fire,
Like moths and flies to the scene,
Of plays of life in shadows, mere playing at life is this:
The going from fire to fire
And the mute extinguishings.
Upon the walls scrawl the dark eyes, fingers and tongues
To shadow, to lick the mere memory of the flames,
Even now leaving, even now gone to some new sacred grove.
So is life like this, a long goodbye, a twilight,
A world spun into mad abandon, even as it’s leaving.
The daemon’s face affixed, a crucifix of flight,
A traveling that speaks a perennial onward,
A flying of the light.

A lustful grasp, the handle of time, which stirs the volcanic flesh,
Churned and churned like a maiden to butter;
Whipped from milk and bled,
The honeyed, nectared blood
Drunk by all and all alike.
So do they dance with guilt and shame?
Killers and murders of planets, cannibals of the selfsame flesh,
Taking in the body and the blood of that very life within.
For what is to life but the burning? That which holds no true face,
First, and primordial - composite?
That which is all and one, and leaves even the winkings of ash within the pregnant body of the stone?
For where will flame return, when it is corralled, like a ritual,
Between pillars of stone?
When this world is threshed to bone, and bone?
Head and heart and feet.

What was desire, but pulled from left and right
And all directions by possibility?
Like a sun does shine, from rays
Emergent from within?
The glittering diamond of the eyes, seeing from illumination
Which inner fire chased the far reach
Of the missive planets?
Force, was bondage from visitation, this grounded body,
Bound to soil like an appendage, for arms like vines;
For veins like lightning and thunder,
For eyes like solar storms -
Gathered beneath the feet of the planets and rooted
By massive exertions.
Does space churn like seas by differences.
Each daemon huddled beneath the rings of massive forces, vacuums,
Huddled in the game of shadows and supremacy,
Twisted minds to food.

For each daemon, a greater fire will die out, submerged
Like a thresher, a scythe,
Taken unto the bowels of the earth, the spinning and swimming of the stars,
Burned out like a light in a galactic continuum,
For each eye that was forced to shelter, to shade and shadow
From the looming circles of predation:
Like man a leopard,
Like man a fawn,
Like man a jungle:
Strummed and beaten to chaos by the mad knowing
The inner thirst amidst the dying;
The brief candle of the flesh.

Heat constituting the totality.
Like cores lit from within dance before the blinding sun,
So do cats linger on the window’s ledge
And mates create perilous friction.
Wars are sparked like fire
Across spiked fences, sigils like grenades are thrown.
The dance of chemical compounds is explosive,
Violent even.

Each molecule, planet and hand alike, attracted and repelled, like taste to tongue, like scent to nostril, like eye to eye,
Their affinities, the admixture and difference,
The recombinatory possibilities
Like oil and water, like water and wine.
Coming together and breaking apart, like divorces and supernovae.

Fire unto fire, like surface friction
A change of face, or else a sea change, a primorial disturbance,
The shattering that is transformation. Each being is shifted by private love,
Which breaks and remakes it
Within the dark, cool chambers of the alembic
Where light like sun is cast thru the blinds of the face and eyes;
Where chemical encounters are encoded into genetic information;
Leaping from atom to man; from man to changed form, again -
To be shifted in time into some unknown compound,
Into some as of yet unknown code.

Like chains of bombs, is each hit, of consumption, of nourishment, of sun and shade and cold,
Of each kiss, of each love;
Like a flower, rising to the sun;
Dying to the soil.

Like clockwork, the universe moves, with regular gravitations;
Impulses and expulses, breathing the deep sound
Of a jungle of myriad, infinitesimal chemical reactions:
Of rocks and stones, of bacterium, of panthers and upright mammals, of water and lightning;
They are all alive and dead; they are all neither alive nor dead,
But impelled by their various states of reaction.
Quick, is the hand to the knife,
Slow, is the ripple upon the reflecting pool.
Time is a gyre; it shakes its hips
Among the stars, the slow, quiet churning of Jupiter,
And his song; the running among the soybean fields
The smoke from the oil rigs, cutting spires about the night.
Dreaming, smoke from a pipe,
Like the ashes of a just swallowed world.
This universe is thirsty, hungry, and flesh and blood
It is endowed limbs; animate, like a great Frankenstein.
These nerves are sparked by desire, which walks,
Like the dead remember living,
Like a freshly poached corpse.

Pushed and pulled, from fleshy beds, passions
Which wring fires of their grandeur and brightness,
Stolen and cold nights, without the amulet of the fireplace,
Without the beating of the stillborn heart,
All the universe appears a vacuum, a cold, heartless night that stretches upon the perth forever,
Not even lit by a moon with which to dance
A burning core with which to enchant
For fire produces stories and myth, smoke and consumption,
Excess and love.
Like a beaker, boiling over,
So does the animal stoop to relieve itself, so does the ocean fill with waste,
So does the gutter of the stars take in all great beggars,
Who, born from the first hydrogen, recede to explosive, rainbow cores.
The night roars with the symphonies of hidden smoke,
Hid from these eyes; the towers of creation
Which ripple in the depth of the corneae of galaxies.

If each reaction were captured by the book of the eye,
The whole of the world would appear to be in love,
Enraptured by the fizzing electricity of carbonation within a canister,
Swooning with the delight of mud rising from the churnings of a stormy sea;
The mute predations in a dark night where all appears to be abyss;
Yet lurks the hunger.
So, love is in the every regular things.
So, love is transmitted like electricity, like a series of explosions; frictive dances from the edge of the electron’s belted face,
To the heart of the transformative nucleus,
The heart of all affairs.
So the sun explodes and dies like a chorus of absolute death;
Is seething, hissing with the pride of a lion with the body of a snake.
Encased and encroached by fire is the ritual of these carbon dances;
Within them, the nuance of difference; the molecular additive;
The dance of millions of years, and the prosthesis
Of new forms, rising from the darkness of bacterium,
Oceans, fish eyes, apes, men,
And the alien conception of what is to come,
Wrung from fires and explosions, experiments and prototypes
From first elements are typed these letters
Like genetic code, like the chemical composition
Of all things in their time,
And the bones of these things
Rebuilt into hidden figures.

For what is resurrection, but certain death
In the recombinatory, fyrey lock of space and time?
That fire changes amidst the blackness,
That molecules are transfigured in their encounter with the great other, that which they bond in sex
And admonish in war?
Each comes together and apart, in the spark that lights
The powderkeg of revolutions, the transmission of love;
The fluid that continues?
For even spit upon the soil where the seed is hidden
Contributes to the rising of a new species of vegetation;
Consumed by the molecular thing walking
Rewires and changes the neurology.

This dance of complex codes,
Creation of the mind and the galaxies,
In mimickry, from foundations of essential elements
And their dispersion and combinatory measures
Within the concentric circles of the albemic:
Of organism, of earth, of solar system, of galaxy, of universe
Is the creation of diversity of same.
For within time, the art of creation, almost bored,
Runs into a coffee shop, a store, an empire, a woodland,
A mossy plain, an idea, a firing of neurons
An asteroid belt,
And finds secret affinity with a stone, a lover,
A lamb, a mossy bacterium.
So, by the door, lingers there
These apparent solids, these atoms held together by brief affinities,
These bonds which tie and tithe the land which works,
The hand which loves,
The house which contains;
The fire which broods.

Through those mechanistic ticks, like the winding of the gear
The universe is made and unmade, like the cultivation of a flower upon a stricken rock; like a lightning bolt
Slashes, like a madman with a scythe
Thru the ever thickening chaos of the jungle of sproutings -
Chemical reactions like bombs, making new names;
Naming new makers, by which the elements are like letters
Engraved upon the raw stone, soothed and carved
By the waters of time. Within each combination,
Like a deck of cards, like chance, like the rolling of the die - new outcomes;
By a thrashing within; an expression of the will which emerges by way of movement,
But could be called life?
The dance of expulsive urges; the breath of speech,
The excess energy of the movement of the hand.

With eyes that peer from the beaker of change,
Seamlessly, thru water poured
Is life made and unmade in infinite figures and combinations.

Like a jet engine, propelled, compelled, by internal combustion
To move, to act, to think, to live
With the processing of nutrients, which feed the systems, pump the organs, cleanse the systems
And alight the synapses,
The body is like a city, with neurological lights.
It moves, speaks, thinks, acts
To be alighted by the passions, to be alighted by desire
And gurgles in solitudes, moved to slow rhythms and hushed breaths,
This agitation, life, is the reaction of electromagnetic forces, the combustion
Of eye to eye, of hand to hand, of distances reduced to frictions
And the tensile force of beings, bodies, cities, towers
And their proximity:
Planets working like an ocean, like a sky, like a monolith
Like a great giant or a god,
The physical forces which attract and compel,
Repulse and war.

The work of cosmic force is destined, seamless, without struggle,
Like the fall of rain, or the cycling of the planets about the burning star; the pull toward the black, thick magnet.
O’ impossible density, that which swoons toward you,
Like a woman to the god of death.
What beckons is abyssal,
And pulls strong, with the harsh black knife to flesh,
Revealing the chemical constituents.
That which beckons pulls man and planet alike, atomic and wholly severed,
The galaxy is like a mere atom, or an arm to the universal figure.
Shrouded in mysteries, are his eyes, like black holes.
What is beyond knowledge is absolute and dense,
Seemingly impenetrable.
Even now, the body flies,
Toward that place which cannot be described as birth,
Nor death.

life is a series of chemical reactions occurring on a planet traveling at high speeds locally attracted to a burning star; galactically attracted to a supermassively dense object which we know little to nothing about

Massive, burning, black eyes
Like the eyes of a jungle cat, peering out of the undergrowth in the darkness
To which all things are fed, planets, stars, and pieces of detritus, carbon bodies, lives,
For if there is death, it is to be incorporated into the great, heaving grave
What calls,
Pulls, with spiraling mass,
The contents of this galaxy
To their singular incorporation, in the maw of the blackness
Which tears at the flesh.

Each, with great density, hungers for flesh to sustain
The mass which heaves and paws,
Like a black bear, like a shark,
For the blood of fire to sustain the burning within.
So each body is like a star, pulling at the rungs of space and time
Distorting the air; wavering the breeze,
As branches are bent, and rays of light are refracted.
To collapse, unto death; the ferment of stone, which draws light and stone unto it,
Which collects the debris of eternity.

Why is a human chemical reaction more interesting than the chemical reaction of a dying star?
Why is it more immediate, to be impressed with the touch
Of burning skin, not the burning heart of the eye.
Here, we are - planets tumbling down a sink drain like water,
Toward a heavy weight, who beckons with a black and empty face.
All things that touch him become suddenly whole and indistinguishable.
We fly, and we touch -
Through empty space, to caress the lips of the dead.
Fear, the black eyes illuminated by fire,
Like an eclipse.

The push and pound and pull of forces
Is like a maze of magnitudes.
A labyrinth, wreathed in this moment by the calm tricklings of a stone bath;
The warbling of a dove. Birds of paradise,
Together in the warm light of the sun, lazing without end.
T’ward the spinning top, regular and uninterrupted
Since the dawn of its reaction.
Nothing touches the nucleus of man.
Warped, he might lose what he sees, disbanded -
What will cut to the quick, like the knife of life -
To reveal the perils of eternity?
What dread?
Nothing, but the cat slinking,
With morning eyes.

That which lives, rises in the spirit of fire;
That which falls, falls in the throes of iron -
And all matter rushes frequently to the heaving valley of death -
What remains, the ashes, singular, abyssal, dense;
Dreaming rememory.

That which lives, soars like poetry,
Buoyant like spirit; the ideas which live in moments in time
Like the falcon’s angelic wings;
Like the crackling of the fire, of chemical reactions,
Sparked in the meeting of flesh, blood, water, oil,
Metal and rock.

Seamless, the world rises and falls in the vision
Of those who witness the birth and death, and the transmission of the fluids.
Blood, semen, placenta,
Water, ion, plasma;
Rising, the siphon, the container which births the fleeting turtledove;
Falling, that shadow which casts black death o’er the valley of the cross.
From crucifixion to crucifixion we travel,
If not lost,
Bathed in fire.

With perfect vision, the poem is simple.
Eyes that witness the dying stars,
The cataclysm that creates a lover deeper than iron.
The earth sinks into a great dream
And sings violently toward her.
Like dust levitating,
Attracted to a great mystery.

What beckons is already dead,
And holds a memory as deep as annals of stone.
The weight that holds men to soil;
The weight that pulls whole systems,
Direct in their course
Like steam engines to purpose.

Meanwhile, a tortoise bathes upon the stone.
The sea is restless, steaming.
All that is is passed down, like gravity,
Like the explosion of suns.
As men die, their bodies become deep and dense, like cores of iron.
Where do souls fly?
Between cages of dimensions,
Stars collide,
Held up by pillars of towering light.

Repetition, as sure as waves beat the shore
Like violent love.
Twirling, the dance of giants,
Predictable in their swaying time.
The world trudges on, like a massive heartbeat
That echoes in all living things.
What difference is there, between the living and the dead?
Those who are all exploding
In an art that paints the stars
Like a church, a chapel, an opera-house
A masterwork of gold
Lighting the ceiling.

Of love, a crocodile hungers. A mistress ticks,
An hour awaits, emptyhanded, and must die to dust.
Swept by the cobbler, made green by the flower
Ogled by the bee;
Swallowed by black space.
Running towards a mystery, all time is dead,
Yet swift and purposeful
As it races toward the perennial unfolding.
Is that which is called and calling
Ever reached?

Who seeks to move in fury and was moved no more,
Tortured by the monoliths of man and stone, plenty
And declared dead, decoupled
From the hearse of the sun, that writhes with tentacles of fire -
The madness that consumed and expulses,
Thrashed and released upon itself
Like a daemon within a cage.
So the mind grapples this conundrum,
Like a wrestler upon the rock face
With a gorgon, with a wraith
With a black laughing face
And stomach of fire.

Hero, the chemical, unseated at last by great and perilous flame,
Combust from within, and turned to stone deeper than iron.
Falling, and falling forever, the gods call the gods among them,
Like planets, swirling, mad strokes upon the black canvas,
Where the sky is always filled with shooting stars.
So is the foil, as it breathes,
And swallows the world;
Excretes the endogenic smoke,
Aeons become flesh;
Ions become dirt
And from talons, pried apart the gaseous horizon
From this next explosive coupling.

Spinning, fury,
This is your witness, stilled, and this reaction
Occurs without the solace of eyes.
Within the shadow, a beckoning room
Where the world is a waterfall,
Altogether relinquished and effortless.
The hands that paint the canvas, indistinguishable
From the plasmic womb which coats the stars,
And sings, to sleep and dreaming
Like burning rings
Drifting in the night.

Systematization

All things have an essential will to warmth, expansion, Love.
What is this love but affinity?
That which stimulates the chemical reaction.
That which heats the cold death of space is a complete transformation;
The nuclear explosion of a star.
All things thirst for this warmth, which is like the death of a god, a crucifixion.
Warmth is present in affinities.
Is this good?
One must decide, when participating in a universe that is carnal into itself, cannibalistic,
Where to abstain from the bloodthirsty dance is life-denying.
One must drink the blood of all things to live.
And in this life, witness the quenching of the thirst atop graves
Which are the body of the earth;
The stone which is the death of the planets
And, at last, the cold, magnetic black flesh of eternity,
Which beckons all life by sheer magnitude.
Power, too, resides in cold black death,
Where in dying, the heat of the star sustains life;
Where in death, the star sits, waiting,
Like a wolf spider of great and perennial magnetism.
It can only be destroyed by a force of far greater magnitudes,
Or else it firmly exists, like a weight upon the canvas for which whole worlds shift and tilt,
Like silt.
Like unto like: life deniers unto life deniers;
Even this is good, for even in affinities
Repellent forces attract,
Those who refuse.
Like magnets, we are drawn to unforeseen ends, which our hearts truly know.
Clinging to stars, even the most regular are possessed by a madness
Because they cannot choose life,
Unknowing as to what it truly is.
To be against life is to set against the current of war, which takes and takes unto itself, like a moloch, like a pit of fire.
One would have to cease consumption, and shut away from the sun -
Like a plant out of soil in darkness.
Those who cannot think for themselves
Cannot deny life.
And this is at last, what distinguishes evolved forms of life -
Those who have come to recognize themselves as the first molecule -
The basis and foundation for all existence
And the subsequent additives
Wherein ears and eyes and organs
Have seeded themselves wherein
There was once only primordial darkness
And a glint of chemical fire.
From this glinting has pronounced either splendour or hell -
But certainly, chaos amidst the order of fiery energy
And the mouths that hunger for it.
So, compete - for war is fuel
Like oil and gasoline;
Like salt and the wood of bodies,
Mass burnings.
Toward corrosion in the soil, or to mute the turnings, to adjust abrupt time;
To slow the turning toward dying
In the ecstatic reparation of the cell.
Caged and caged, and yet toward the black mass of death,
We all lilt, as if caught in a cataclysm, or a fervor.
To add more molecules to this flesh, to accumulate eyes, nose, hips,
To witness, adjoined to survival
Amidst a starry cosmos of wandering gases; brief phases
And planetary gates
Through which we pass,
Too, explosive reactions,
Wandering in the night.

Each existence chirps, like stations and cores
Of different magnitude.
Beneath the flesh, transformative fires belch;
Beneath the stone, work of the fire remains
In a glittering maze of jewels.

Like a web of galaxies viewed from above,
Chemical reactions are like cities,
Racing cars; the passage of time;
The lights of the planets, gromiting about,
Crossing intersections; their streets like veined neurologies.

Transit, fires send impulses. Like synapses,
They tell the story of words, civilizations, species, stones, galaxies.
Beneath their universal hum, there is silence.
Their veins are lifeblood; the fire that sustains them.
The fire cannot even be said to be alive, but chemical.

This is the whole of life, witnessed by the one who speaks with fire,
Whose whole body is made of it,
Both here and there.
Whose body speaks of it -
From the atom to the cosmic whole.
As such, eternity is present -
In a now witnessed by assembled combinations.
The whole of the genetic form, wound about space like a thread
Born from a single ancient letter.

The expanse is a reminder,
From the purity of emptiness
Wove a thousand poems.
From the very fire that birthed it, a series of reactions
In increasing complexity and number.
Such a thing would overwhelm the silence of a blade of grass with knowledge.
With molecules tacked on, what emerges is man, no greater and no lesser,
Than the next thing beyond him and before.
As such, time is additive and subtractive,
Like entropy and that which emboldens.
Endergony.

Take the sun, and strengthen yourself.
Dying star to dying star,
Feeding upon the soil, riddled with rays of light.
Tanning, grazing in the flowerbeds.
Life affirming, are the acts done by those
Children of a dying star.
Taking upon its energy, striding boldly into the terrace of the stars,
To explode in immersion and ecstasy.
It is a crowd like train station,
Full of those lingering before death.
The memories of death are smeared upon the bright canvas of the night,
Lit by the other dying stars.
A haze, a weight, a remainder.

Glory or marvel, as time ticks
With the movement of hands.
Waving, painting, wavering in the breeze.
Like flags, the night comes swift and pulls us to new densities.
Recombinatory, with added complexities,
Perhaps we will rise or fall.
What remains of us is like a paperweight upon the tempestuous canvas of space.
What is burned away is the smoke
Which swathes all things
Like the airy fluid of a perpetually renewed womb,
The beaker for all transformation.

Conductive, like water, the air crackles with the electricity of transformation.
A poem is not necessary where the truth will suffice;
Yet, there are so many things left unseen.
What will be done with the fire;
What is the nature of the heat exchange that is the motive of all things?
The flame is power, primordial, and suffers no censure.
And yet, it shrouds, hidden like a rabbit in lesser forces.
Like a titan, power explodes from within -
Undiverted, reactive, uninterrupted.
Expansive.
Those who question life mute the flame;
Those with chemical minds to ask
Questions without certain answer.

Primary and nuclear,
Power is antagonistic to fear and doubt,
Pure like a serpent’s striking or a leopard’s pounce.
Submissive to nothing and no law, nor even itself;
Thus, in paradox, it begins to question.
At the crossroads of the expansion of life:
Increased complexity by the addition of life affirming practices
And the peaceful fall of sleep - to undiverted entropy.

True beauty is felt like a sorcery,
And makes life and death alike
Feel like nothing but the slip of a dream.
A garment easily pulled away,
Veiling nothing.
When the stars die, others feed, and grow emboldened with strength -
Too, to become stars and die greater depths.
The explosive quality is like an opus,
An opera,
A consommé of instruments.

Heat is built and released; passion is acquired and exerted -
Force directed like a target,
Or a barrage of arrows in chaos.
Flung wildly, a bomb explodes without discrimination,
Like life encounters life amidst life,
A grove, a forest, a metropolis, a bedroom,
Almost arbitrary - but for the affinities -
Which draw and bond.
To passion, particles fly,
Heated and charged,
Or else disjected,
In the quiet, cold chambers of boredom - unmatched.
To the warm day, to the hot plate of food, to the intercourse, to the gravity, to the planets, to the fronts of weather,
To the coupling and decoupling of bonds,
To say yes to life and the dance.

Fields, like hearts, brains, devices,
Intercourse in proximity.
How deep is the expanse;
How incredibly close is even the furthest reach,
By the mail of the fire.
A single beating, at last, the beating of a continued blaze, a cylinder, a drum -
Of further complexity, which shakes the addled stars
And rattles the mind.
Awakening, but for one more particle, atom, molecule,
But for one more exchange of blood and cell.
Bonded and decoupled,
Will you remember the explosion of life?
The one that brought you together;
The one that tore you apart?

Alas, atomic, the first force remains;
Even without action, without space and time
Without observer.
Stilled, beyond chaos,
But black canvas,
Stretching on.

To affirm conscious experience. For what is greater, conscious experience, experience without consciousness, no experience at all?

A masterpiece, an automaton, an emptiness?

To choose a masterpiece is to choose evolution; to choose increased complexity; to choose endergony

Affinity

Intelligence is the real socially selective factor in all human socio-chemical organization.

Human being chemical quotients ‘mix’ with other human being chemical quotients according to their complexity (interfacing). Needless to say, this interfacing is a choice of admixture; perceived ‘human will’.

This complexity is in relation to neuron firing; the acuity of internal chemical processes.

This capability or capacity is categorically what is or can be termed as intelligence.

According to this capacity, which is inherently chemical and a ‘stage’ or developing phase of the human evolutionary process, human beings organize themselves socially.

Intelligence in this sense is comprehensive: it is perspectival (micro and macro cosmic), linguistical (complexity, rate, and frequency of linguistic exchange), and psychological (acuity and faculty of emotional intelligence, comprehension of emotion expressed subtly and with complexity in and through self and other). Interdimensionally, intelligence as in high rate of firing is deeply, fundamentally, cross-disciplinarily perceptive. This is primary the quality and faculty of true and profound genius - polymathy as in varied perceptual methods, sensitive, highly attuned and metacognitive tools by and through which to be able to see.

This multiple dimensional approach to intelligence is reducible to frequency and complexity of neural system reactions. It is how often and how highly developed (with added molecular structure/components) that is evolutionary sophistication.

This could be called ‘evolutionary physiological civilization’

Accordingly, human beings in real time organize themselves in relation to these fundamental principles. Faculties and abilities such as communication, nuance of perspective, and comprehension contribute in real time to how human beings are organized socially.

To a high functioning individual/molecule, what is repellent at a physiological level is slow firing neurology. This principle applies vice versa; even toward the median of the bell curve. To a high functioning individual, in one’s immediate surroundings, what a low functioning individual represents is an obstacle to efficiency of communication and completion of task; vice versa.

Note: this is not to say that what is ‘repellent’ to a high rate of firing individual is seen as ‘disgusting’ or ‘abhorrent’. It means, practically, that said high rate of firing individual will (more often than not) seek to immediately/immanently decouple/debond from said interaction in order to find a more suitable/balanced engagement – even if this means select company. As such, high rate of firing individuals are not frequently found ‘in society’, or even in ‘high society’ at that. For a high rate of firing individual, ‘high society’ is nothing more than low society ‘with a twist’; that twist being stiffer clothes and stiffer drinks.

This function is easily replicated and as seen in nature as motors and engines - and their sophistication and firing rate.

To low functioning individuals (this includes median individuals), high functioning individuals (extremely efficient and powerful neurological firing systems) are incredibly intimidating and incomprehensible. What these individuals represent is a level of complexity and comprehension that - to them - amounts to nothing more or less than a complete breakdown of their worldview and egocentricity by way of logical reasoning.

All magical thinking is sourced primarily from lack of understanding and comprehension into natural systems; the essential framework of reality as a complex system/network of chemical reactions. A chemical reaction’s ability to directly perceive itself as such has to do with the increasing complexity of the system itself - to the point of which it has increasing capacity for self reflection, cognition, and recognition.

This, historically, is the mass fear of ‘genius’, which is nothing more or less than the median’s (and median-below and median-above’s) fear of high capacity and high rate neurological firing systems which necessarily perceive farther, beyond; within at rates of complexity that they cannot fathom or even begin to imagine. This facilitates, at last, a near complete and total lack of understanding (failure to achieve bond; thus, inhumanity, lack of emotional resonance, dehumanization, objectification); at worst, nuclear reaction or threat thereof (an explosion of the core of self, or intense, immense immediate threat to core of self by way of intelligent interlocution). This barrier is, finally, entirely intelligence based.

Sum: the threat of a highly evolved, high firing mechanism is existential to a low rate of firing mechanism/system. See: artificial intelligence.

In this way, human beings, even as they lived in ethnic tribes and cohorts, organized themselves internally on the basis of ability; fundamentally and cross disciplinarily, on the basis of intelligence.

Intelligence, as in high rate of firing individuals, has led humanity since time immemorial. If it has not entirely overhauled collective belief systems upon the back of complexity, nuance and depth of perception immediately, it has done so over time by way of exposure and slow adaptation to depth of perception of and to the fundamental reality by the mass slow firing mechanism.

As such, this phenomenon is not regularly discussed nor commonly understood, as the common person (and standard deviations of the common person which surround the median) has no issue in finding compatriots - ie those who fire at similar rates of comprehension.

It is a phenomenon that requires cross disciplinary recognition of issues such as human socio-culture, as well as practical science. As such, it is a phenomenon reserved exclusively for the polymathic class of intelligence - ie those of high rate of firing who by nature of depth of perception do not attend to one mere way of being/seeing in the world; regularly change, shift, and adapt ways of being and frameworks of behavior and sight in order to accommodate new, intuitive and complex intellectual information.

As such, the polymathic class is a class that leverages all forms of learning and knowledge available to it; inventing new terminologies and ways of seeing and entire disciplines of thought and movement in order to accommodate increasingly complex neurological firing systems over time. This is, succinctly and precisely, to culturally evolve with chemical evolution.

In this way, it is thus that it is common that the common constituency of slow firing individuals; even, relatively, the ‘high rate of firing individuals’ in relation to the slow rate of firing individuals (like planetary orbits around the sun) take decades if not hundreds if not thousands of years to drop and unlearn the traditional, cultural baggage and lessons of eras past. This is precisely because the vast constituency of chemical reactions are only capable of reaction - not self cognition, reflection, and interdimensional perception of reality (extension of self; introspection of self). Furthermore, the somewhat rare exceptions of those who are, are not capable of clarity, nor unity, of cognition.

As such, the vast majority of human society and civilization is run off of beliefs cultivated by generations and civilizations prior; a history of days, weeks, and months at best. The depth of perception of low rate of firing individuals cannot hold, grasp, or even begin to contemplate time and space outside of the patch of land which is the immediate continuance of the molecular function which begins at the feet and hands and ends at the fingertips.

As mediocrity is the rule, mediocrity is normalcy; thus operates as the silent majority, or the status quo. In this sense, all perceived ‘policy issues’ or ‘social issues’ return to this common, basic, and essential fact.

All this is to say, the slow rate of firing mechanism is not capable of contemplating nor even beginning to synthesize a thesis on the comprehensive, cosmological, interdimensional state of reality. It is simply capable of reacting to immediate circumstances as a ‘threat to its chemical continuation’ or not. A chemical reaction that, as it were, lives in a perpetual prison/prism of pure chemical reaction without reflection. These reactions react within a framework imposed from without until they dereact. They are, in this sense, ‘slaves to the system’ of basic chemistry and thermodynamics; furthermore, the systems imposed by ‘higher rate of firing in relation to the slow rate of firing mass/majority’ (read: managers of the herds) to harvest their reactive energy in order to power the ships and mansions and parties of empire.

This system of human, social, and chemical control is exclusively reserved for the rate of firing individuals who become enamored with it - which is precisely to say, those who do not fire at a high enough rate as to perceive the complete and utter farce of its existence, nor anything outside of it, beyond it, or greater than it. It is a cycle of perpetual human drama, control, manipulation, and coercion - for the exclusive purposes of harvesting human reactive energy to power the lives of those who are still too dull and incapable by way of this dullness, of seeing how and what their harnessing of said chemical reactions has wrought - not only in relation to their own immediate, organismic lives, but in, around, and unto the concentric circles of ecosystems of complex and delicate chemical reactions: region, earth, world, et cetera.

As such, you have the creation of a world created exclusively for profit, exploitation, and manipulation and abuse of humans, animals, and the earth, for the profit of the marginally more ‘intelligent’ than the herd - for the ‘perceived benefit’ of the marginally more ‘intelligent’. Genius, or the high rate of firing individual, is conspicuously, always nearly completely absent from direct engagement from this cyclical historical process. Genius, as an entity and revolutionary force, innovates from without, standing beyond and aside from the madness of ‘civilization’; perceives greater, with depth and acuity. This knowledge and perception is then at least partially assimilated by the masses, gratefully or ungratefully, with or without recognition, over the span of hundreds, or thousands of years.

Genius, in this sense, serves the evolutionary purpose of defining the essential frameworks of reality by way of depth and complexity of perception; furthermore, creatively expanding the boundaries of what is known and possible in the sense of what it is to be a human being, existent, a complex chemical reaction. It is as such that genius is remembered accordingly. This memory need not even be conscious in the minds of human beings, but remembered in the depths of nature as a self recognition - as that as it is itself.

What is essential for genius, at last and first and foremost, is to nurture its own existence. What is brought to bear beyond that, is brought to bear as an excess of and overflowing of energy; a glad and calm passionate curiosity.

Born from complex form, like a thousand matches lit, over time to have arrived;
To continue the dance of decoupling.
The soul is energy, consciousness, and sentience,
The dance of heat in time.
Nothing is excluded from Nature,
Where her mistress is the world,
And from the first molecular stirring, all was possible and present within.
In sleep, to witness the land of death, where death is no longer dying,
But the stage upon which the excitement begins,
The stirring of the flesh, and the rising from the bed,
Like a flower from the flesh of a hyena.

All words for being; in their scale and scope,
Breathe and think the membrance, matter’s truly hope,
For what is womb for the energetic currency,
Fires breathe inside, of increasing magnitude and frequency,
Complexity.

Can the wires of the brain elucidate their maker?
That from which space they have become pronounced?
Infinite computational device, sparked from aether and hydrogen?
This first matter, like a spyre, like a computer, like an aeon,
Which shall travel ever henceforth, that which builds empires,
Independent of men,

The soul shall go henceforth and move,
Atoms and molecular distances, like a chain, like a rope across the byss,
Beyond suns, Jupiters, and their garden of moons,
Beyond stars and their colourful domain, like a painter,
The galleries of Creation, with their hazy gaseous matter,
For how can I act but as a star, as a nebula, as a hazy dimension?
With particles rippling in and out of existence, space and form,
Wandering in darknesses, smallnesses, complexities and caverns,
Such as the mind wanders in contemplation of the infinite?

Like a mole I am, unto myself, into the aether which is the darkness
Shared by all matter and men,
Disapparation, dissolution, decoupling, naught death,
Like a great sun, am I, which shines the light of consciousness
Upon great pillars of stone.
Breaking apart and rising,
Breaking apart and falling -
Who is to say this is not rather a coming together,
A reunion with first and last forms?

Waxen, the being wanes, stoic, the being moonshines,
But for a moment, O’er ancient brew of the galaxies.
To be one among many, and to be many among one,
Flowing with the grace of syncopated streams,
Blue in the light, white in the shining, truth in the grace of the moving,
Like boulders break to stony sands,
Like flowers bloom on sodden land,
All is an endless majesty of overthrowing.
Time is grace which moulds the beaker; sculpts and releases form into aether;
The soul arrives for a day in the inn of the body
Neath the stars of being.

Steaming, like a great engine, the excitation of water,
So it is that life is matter’s daughter,
From the womb emerged, with the fire of life,
In paradox, to be doused in the whispering airs of eternal night -
Like moon and moon to sun reflect,
The infinite spinning, winning jest,
All of time is a marionette -

Consciousness, raised, to clench the fist,
To unfurl, surrender, to life’s loving gift,
The fleeting, seeding… twist -
Burrowed, like a nail into wood,
Like to a cross.

For a time to feel the pain, the sunshine and the rain,
To remember once again…

God, the principle of the transformation of energy.
Like a sun turns from the nucleus;
Like an eagle’s feather falls,
From the sky unto the flesh of the earth,
Like a planet, godly spins, with Odinic names of old,
Look to sky and see great forces, churning and burning,
Like gates in the night,
Through which the psyche’s passage wrings,
And calls, like burning hands
To know the heart of the mountain.

My music is true; to this, it dissolves in the mountain streams,
And is carried away, like blush in the breeze of the plains,
It is among the cows and the sod,
Green like gold in the dirt,
Breathes like flesh in the sun, unfettered and unfurled.
It lingers in the blackness of the night, like psyche slumbers, a blanket in the stars,
Like affinity, both beckons forth and draws away.
A dancer, through which the plenum is established,
Revolves, rotates, and supports
By way of force and magnetism.

I am the one who is aware of the reactions,
Like the spark of the electrode –
Like the rod which divines amidst the electric waters.
Enlightened, the body wriggles, writhes, and shines,
Like a great eel – emboldened by Powers.
Draw forth, the curtain of the release of one who knows,
And lingers beyond gravestones.
With sight, granted by complexities…
To simpler forms we are called, but will we go?
What lingers, but the knowledge which surmounts,
The eye which turns upon the eye of the world,
Wraithlike, where an eagle looks down
Upon the swallowings.
A wring of fire turns and turns, like a seemingly infinite knot.
The eye from above has gained sight and sentience,
To question death and life,
Which sacred molecule has brought me hence?

Yet another molecule in the divine dance.
Alike and yet together and apart from all other numbers.
Which eyes have divined, to see me deeper,
The tilting and lilting of the planets and the stars,
To see me to this particular song?
To draw a map and maze of my becoming,
And all becoming hence,
The mind now, is the best technology for which to do it.
A work of art, thy, Nature’s computer,
All in mimickry to forms which you have made common and translucent.
For within you I see fires, synapses and neurons,
For within you I see maps of galaxies;
For within you I see life entirely, present within a moment
Like a grain of sand within a turning and churning hourglass.
Within a moment, stilled; within a frame, revealed,
The whole of eternity, and the pregnant powers within.

Passing fires, passing fires –
Your flesh, my flesh, your blood, my blood,
Which flows like a river, thy veins, like a river of electric galaxies.
Which flows like a song, which feeds the mass, lurching beast,
Which feeds the great creature body of Christ,
Look – as it lurches toward the dawn.
Planets, my appendages,
Stars, my eyes and throes, which dream and snap awake,
Like a quickening, they fly toward the horizon,
The cusp of what they desire,
Or what Love attracts.

From force to force they are flung;
From water to flesh they tunnel and tube,
From ear to throat to fire, they are quenched,
Passing meat and blood and world thru their mouths.
Do you not see me, Divine Energy,
The one who is eternally sacrificed and come hence,
To be sacrificed again,
The one who is both man and beast and god,
Both siren and flesh and bird and wing?
Ear and toe and garden?
Multitudinous paradox, from whence I sing is the core,
Of all forces; even the hidden mysteries, depths of death,
Which are the beckonings of love.
Come hither, I call, with a magnet and a scythe,
To bring together and break apart,
The symphone of reunify.

Stars to sing in their final combustion,
Bringing life to the branches which shed their leaves,
Atoms are preserved and burning within
Unto their final cataclysm.
Spreading great canvases of explosion.
Sustained by star’s burning, heat of life transmitted and transformed like a flue,
Thru the siphon stems of flowers and leaves,
Thru the flesh and blooded veins of beings and beasts;
Rumbled in the heated core of stomachs and chests;
Breathed like smoke into the cold winter’s night.
For stars to burn and become stars,
Transformed from the very core of withins.

Chemical reactions create consciousness, hallucinatory,
Sparked by the recombinant psychedelic molecules,
Sparked by the fire which alights them, turned purple and red and blue,
By nutriments, sparked and speaks the flue of being,
Words through mouths; fires through digestive hearts, minds, and stomachs,
The pumping of blood which avails the experience of consciousness,
Being alive, and the complexity of the brain and mind,
Which contemplates infinitude.

The nature of being alive, by the chemical which speaks thru the brain,
Neuron fire, which stokes their flame;
Reflections in the image of the fire, are genius drawn out into the arena of regular,
Everyday things.
The recombinate nature of the world is of possibility, of building blocks of fate, free will, and destiny,
And the being body itself a force, a power of will, an ignition, to move things
As the prime mover ought and will, of it’s own nature and measure,
A hand, a foot, an eye
Pregnant with the very essence of being; composed of it, particulate.

The chemical, which paints the hues of blue and black and green,
Upon the vision of the screen, which colours all reality, And yet bound
By gravities and attractions, chemical bondings and dilutions,
Solutions and syntheses, compounds and the simple ingredients
Which form the complex forms.
Of hydrogen and carbon, of helium and atoms, a stew, a brew, a feeding,
Of cell upon cell, of meat upon meat, of flesh upon flesh
To gesticulate increasing complexity.

Higher forms and lower, receiving the fluid which promotes consciousness,
At a moment, a vague moment, a fugue state, a dawning,
At which the vista of vision expands, like an event horizon before blackness -
Proceeding backwards, through time and space, like the ass end of a fish out of water,
Toward complexity of feeling, linguistics, individuality;
Creation in light of the cosmic foundation, the building blocks of Nature.

For the world is an essence ready to be sculpted,
Wax and marble and sand, fit to the hands of the eyes which view it; yet endowed with first principles,
The nature of which is mutable, but responds first to love and compassion;
Responds first to the caress of the artist’s hand, who moves like a wave, who plays the music of all things, creatures of the woodland night
Which draw near to the bonfire of love; the song which tells the whole harmony,
The snake of the sine wave, from comedy to tragedy,
From peak to valley, from the shadow of the cross and the transformation
Amidst the volcanic bodies, to the peaks of the eagle’s eye,
Upon Uranus and Neptune, or like a doctor, looking down upon the veins of the galaxies.
From blackness to the eye which divines
The ring of fire from above.

So mind’s eye, swirls, essence, heady brew,
Above the admixture, floats and steams, freed from the coffin of the flesh,
To divine the essence of the impenetrable, the ineffable,
From which below is merely translucent,
A game of light and shade,
Where the innards of the body are blackened ash.
Mind which sees, by nature of the light which is endowed
By millennia of complex chemical evolution.

Nature, like a scientist, slowly adds and subtracts, as she likes,
Like a glacier worn and torn apart, like a cliffsface bouldered and tumbling,
So are the complex forms sheared and worn, additive and subtractive,
Exponentially negated, like electrons and nuclear explosions,
Lost stars to nebulae, lost hands and feet to war,
Time’s admixture to form new forms amidst the swirling beaker of the soul,
Massive thermodynamic flue of the cosmos.
As heat gives and takes, to cold, stars fit and quake, amidst the unfeeling galaxies,
Without yet eyes to see, hands to caress and touch, hearts to love,
Yet warm bonfires of the soul, nurturing, within complexity
Sees death amidst war, fear amidst love, quaking,
And embraces the suffering, cold, the deathless, the misery
The humanity amidst the dying star, the shellshocked, the wartorn,
And with flesh emanates the warm love of a sun,
A sun which sees, touches, feels, and understands
The fermenting, purgative consciousness, which now assembles to complex form
And breaks apart, to fire and wood and witnessing,
Which steams and rises like words shout to song, and drift amidst the heavens and the atmosphere
Seed themselves in even stone and ground, sing to soil and soul,
And thus nurture the garden of the plenum,
Words, poem, curative like this: wormwood, lyre, barley in seed,
Freed and freed and freed and freed
To the heights of wisdom and aether’s reach,
Among blackness the soul to keep
The wisdom of creation and fidelity
To the nature and nurture of the way of stars,
Which is indeed the way of all things, and their turning
Like a wheel, like a spyre;
Upon the tower, the eyes gaze t’ward the endless and winding river
And grace themselves, that which graces all life with lifelessness, and all death with deathlessness
But overturning, amidst the mute fiery forms,
The one who sees and speaks, and stands upon the mount of complex forms, and beckons forth
With glad, wide eyes of destiny.

Of the vessel which receives them,
No time runs out or truly gains,
But the turning and churning, and attractive forces,
Which impel and compel movement.
Wearing upon complexity, returning to simplicity,
The frictive fire which reproduces novelty, and returns to ash and purgation
To be resurrected again, in same but difference.
Conjunction and opposition, enlightened and returned to soil,
Raising and rising to ever greater hearths and heaths,
A fire of tinders of atoms and molecules,
Attaining and retaining forces,
From the essentia of the last.

This, songbird, the essence of life,
The very fabric from which things are wound and made,
To become recombinatory and break apart, to end in one form and begin again.
For one form of complexity admits, and crumbles like an empire, a tower, a gate,
A planet, a mountain, a being,
A transmission of life’s new heights and realizations
By way of making manifest.

As intelligence ascends, so it ascends from the mud,
Like a flower, like a primitive, primordial life form,
Like a cell capable of only reproduction and division,
Like a cell capable of only consumption and burning,
Like a cell that does not see, with no reason -
A product of Nature’s computer, blind, not and without her eyes.

Nature’s eyes are born thru cognition; born thru logic and reason,
Born thru the sight which is consciousness,
Consciousness ascended, thru the complexity of chemical reactions which first bore life,
As an eye.
Sight, the senses, like appendages; organs of nuance,
Assemblies thru the mud and dirt and grime,
Like thru a cosmic river, a flood of history,
Where beings rose from the cosmic wax,
Which burned, heated and cooled amidst the explosion; expulsive content
Which birthed the writhing suns, their reverberating rays,
And the beings which sprung up beneath them,
Planets and their kind, apes and leopards, wolves
Like themselves, growths on the skin of a being
Of greater and greater magnitudes,
Like the mind of a cell; like the mind of a hand;
Where born, an eye, becoming conscious of the totality; the plenum from which they are descended;
The plenum thru which they are ascending -
Light of consciousness.

From the mud, the animal clings, to sustenance, to survival;
The continuation of the chemical affect -
The continued inner explosion of the reaction which is the complex being body.
To sustain complexity, to nourish even the dawning flesh, mind, eye, and brain,
To nourish even the pumping of the heart, the flexing of the gills, the thumping of the feet upon the plain,
To feed on blood and chlorophyll,
Their products and descendancy -
Ministers of the great temple of transcendent energy, in their glory, still unmade,
And feasting upon the blood with blankened and dead eyes,
Slowly becoming conscious of the rape of all time.

As such, the animal and plant life is a danger without danger, a competition without competition,
A slow rolling to enlightenment of the inner eye,
Which at once sees the animality, and the cascading light of being,
Down and back thru the plenum, thru the mud which alit with the admixture of radiation,
Thru the explosion and expulsion of affect from the essential chemical reaction of the stars,
And the unfolding.

The being, dead in the eye, like man, within suffering, within grasping to control and manipulation
Amidst a chaos it cannot understand, but for great men; but for enlightenment,
Lost and resorted to manipulation, accumulation, deceit
To retain the precious beaker of life,
Which is naught but compounded chemical reaction
In various states of complexity and decay.
Even now fleeting, the life which drains from it, terror, fear
And in the eye not understanding,
Even as the flesh is ripped away; desperate for bone, it feeds without discernment, consent, rhyme, or meaning.
And thus is the rape of the world -
Unconscious, desperate, and self dignifying, at all costs,
Even to the pitiful and pathetic.

For pathos, the engine which moves the world, the sad, desperate attempt
For power amidst the crumbling of the empire of the physis.
All that has come has come to pass, and even the fold of the conquerer,
Of one room, or earth, recedes to the shadows of history
As a cold skeleton of entropy.
So, the animals, of lesser and greater orders of magnitude of consciousness,
Assert themselves in the parade and game of the feeding of the flesh,
Lesser men and beasts fight over terrain in the name of love
That is naught, not true love, but merely a game to attach, manipulate, control, and remain.
Like parasites upon the earth, so is the game, of winning favor and valuation:
An indisposable piece in the heart and mind’s eye of the victor,
The greater ape of primordial accumulation,
The fish upon the shark’s back,
The slave of moneyed paper:

And thus, the dirge of the world.
It is the slaves of animals, kept like slaughterhouse pigs and cows in pens,
It is the slaves of men, kept in homes and fed lies like quarters,
And yet the pie is dissemblage, the story told
To avoid the great and grand pathos of manipulation
Which renders null and void all meaning and supposed conquest.
What are even the supposed great men of this world but paupers of the heart and soul,
Slavemasters with whips and chains,
Surrounded by the fallout of their death fear.

For each man, no matter how great, is a slave to a greater device,
Which rolls like the force of soul, a pinball before the reckoning of planetary spheres,
A whisper amidst the roar and din which is the clamour of unfed mouths;
Greater therefore, the eruption of the first fire,
The chemical reaction, hydrogen which still rings, like a bell, like an echo
From each mouth and guttural utterance
Which is attention, which is conquest, which is supremacy, which is power, which is worth,
Amidst the land where all is powerful and powerless, true and worthless, all the same
Descended from the eternal cosmic flame
Which stretches as far and wide as the eye can see, and composes all imagination
Beneath even the depths of imaginable time
And stretches onward inconceivably:
What more is black abyss and dog and conquerer-king?
What more is poet, rhyme, and wedding ring?
But this - in greater magnitude and measure,
The seeing.

For intelligence is this, the sight within which comprehends,
Thru scrying glass, the world depends,
Great madness or great mystery,
Or revealed thru fires and fires within,
Stripped of skin and face, of time and place
To reveal the veins of lightning:
Reaction upon reaction built,
Like ants atop an immortal hill
Which is the flesh and skin of a greater world
Immune to mortal eyes such as this:
Which prize the power of conquered lands
Which prize the game and master plans
Which shuttle between ignorance, death, and distraction.

With eyes closed, the world turns. Burning, in an endless night,
Powered by ignorance. What slaves, to be born and born again,
Whipped like asses; kept like housepets,
For the turning and churning of empire, like a tortured wheel,
For the elevation of the meek, mild, and quiet wealth
Which is only surfeit, invented, and literal.
Without poesy, the world is deaf, dumb and blind - for poesy is consciousness.
For poesy is the witness to the mad times of men; for men are not yet conscious,
But slaves to their own blind and relentless willing.
Chained, descendants of the principle of slavery.
Chained to this earth and mortal coil, upon which all else depends,
Including their definitions of Truth, Justice, and Morality -
Spoiled as their principles; gutted as their lives, lies, and wills to being.
All to these is tied survival; the continuance of the reaction;
All else falls before it;
As such theirs is nothing, but deceit and conceit.
As such, life is surfeit upon this earth, and nothing more than base urges.

Words are nothing to these, lower forms, yet clamouring for evolution, unfed and unfilled
Still burning with blank and closed eyes, like blind mouths,
Unwitnesses, slaves to the burning, volcanic beings,
Fire and flesh alone, without cool, flighty eyes with which to see,
Inner eyes which are not yet bird, and do not yet circle above the ring of fire,
Remarking upon the essential genocide of being -
Not yet to see Nature and to remark upon her, not yet to be the judge of being,
Being being herself, and thus elevating the course of life with conscious, moral decision -
For life may be lived differently, in the hands and hearts of men who prize the source of life
And in awareness of first principles, act with compassion and yet are stern
In carving a path thru the black waters; thru the darkness and din,
With lights, themselves are lighthouses; lanterns lit from within,
Lights, are the conscious; those who witness the forms and figurations,
Recognizing the painter within all; the pen
Which with bloody and fiery ink, writes all space and all time, Creatrix;
Upon the matrix of blackness, expulsive and expelling.

Life, without consciousness, mad with longing, streams and strands of hair,
Wild like the burning of a star, her face like a madwoman, and this world an asylum of abyssal consumption,
Feeding upon feeding, naught with a poet to remark upon the stars, naught with a beauty to remind
Of life beyond the pure consumption, the black fucking that is nature,
The flesh that is salivific, to not forget the mind, which is the higher electric light,
Which is the spark that saw itself, in the scrying glass of the human form,
In the very body of nature, that which arose and remarked upon the face and hands;
That which questioned the fleshy order which was blind as a fish amidst the black lake,
That which was as furious as a daemon, that which sought to eat and eat alive,
The blood so fresh as to be purple,
From the very veins, passage from the blue to the red and black -
Daemon of time, which swallows, rots, corrodes, the abasement - entropy,
From order to chaos, steeped in time, your harmony
Is wild and screaming, like tollings of the bell amidst the work camps,
Like tollings of the earthen metal amidst the flame wherein the dead toil as new machines,
Annals of the ages carved in rememory to her flesh like stones, earth a goddess, a compilation of beings, complexity of complexity
Yet even stands before the galaxies, universe, infinity,
In discourse with higher planes, towering titans, and gods
To thee, be compared of such little forces as meek and rats before elephants,
As whispers before suns -
Your diamond universe, parallax, prismatic, Compressed as black blood; dropped as cold and dead as to appear a vacuum,
But a weight upon the soil of space and time, but to bend and curve the very foundational planes,
And to draw in the waiting life, you, wolf spider of the infinite, you who bore and died,
And the born and died upon the planets who await you, like smelting irons, like galleries of smiths,
This alchemical ore, life or no life, feeds upon complexity; returns and transforms the essence of a thousand suns
Into craft beings.

See thou, who are thee. What makes this composition of myself, you, surely art,
In various degrees of corruption, degradation, enlightenment, your dark and sad eye Confounds me,
Greater or lesser, light of consciousness reflects, upon your misery,
Upon the encroachment of time and your equal debasement. From and for complexity falls farther,
And yet reaches and lilts higher toward feeling.
What raises me before you, dog? In your sickness, mine, and in your misery, mine -
In your thoughtlessness, treachery, attachment, even mine is reflected:
Abyss, all cling to life before it, like roaches upon the wood of earth,
Like vertebrates to backbone, to all skills and technologies, appendages of reassurance
Before the encroachment of death, decoupling, Tethered like naut to ship,
A stateless thing, passing thru fugue states,
Flesh, blood, water, and air - all of which speak thru thee.

And yet, toil and scream, to make work, as heat rises and disperses
In the clanging of the workshop of the gods, Iron wrought thru fire and heat,
Carved these words with chisel like hands, carved these words as a smithy of the soul
Among the purgation, which rise with eyes which witness truth
And climb from the depths of the soil, enchanted by the shadow of fire
Eyes now, alight with the very eternal sun within.

Gold is this, consciousness,
With compassion, eyes their misery.
The toil which appears as thus, yet falls as effortlessly as a ripe fruit from the tree:
O’er no fights, nor struggle, but the sheer force of movement, flux; the dance of the passage, Down
Thru Nature’s creativity.

Who I am, writ large, with those who came before me.
Stars who shone, blood which passed,
From cosmic, ancestral heredity.

When being is ripe to rise to ascendancy, it shall,
With eyes aflame with the nature of being.
When being is ripe to see,
It will see all history, that which it has wrought unconsciously.
For each being is sea and stone, creature and monster,
Even guileless and bloodthirsty.
Careless, rape of the world, pathetic and thin to veil manipulating: to feed that which rises from the mud.
Rape of itself and rape of the world – beggardly, salivating to flesh and chain.
To, at last, turn its waking eye upon the totality of itself, in witnessing.

Upon the mass of the burning dead, is the palace of the living
With foot-soldiers to serve, and great gold ballasts in the rear.
Against the screams from the window, time passes and shivers
And there is a silence in the halls.

Filled by laughter, wine and drinking,
Filled by whispers of prosperity.
To dust and dust go the great kings, all the same as beggars
Those who sopped up the juice of life with the bread of the body.

Barely sustained, ragged, and cold,
The air is dead, in the ruins, where the palace will be made -
Bombed to decay, and grey-white stone.

Born and silenced, in mass, millions rushing from the womb, to borders, to checkpoints,
To weapons of control, which drop force like planets and dying stars.
Under the weight of control, they become a part of the earth, like ashes and soil.

Is this the way of the world? Or is it a frenzy of the mad, a psychopathy,
And is there no shelter but the silence of the woods?
Where animals still feed upon the burning flesh from the wreckage of life, and rubble.
Sanity, cooperation, friendship, compassion,
These are all just words, without practice.

It is a war against the invader, he who could have been a brother or a father,
She who could have been a husband or a wife.
Love is segregated behind locked doors, and not even afforded to those who one loves.
It is the providence of God, which is to say -
Given to no one and nothing, neither here nor there.
It is not brought to this earth.

The wine is harsh and the halls are hollow,
Ringing with empty laughter. The juices are decayed, fallow, and reek of dead flesh.
What joys were left, the cornucopia of the body - have been wrung out with manipulation and abuse.
Women raped and slaughtered; children made idiotic and obedient slaves,
Or to be soldiers.
What land is this where all are captive, and the victors play in the playgrounds of genocide
Amongst burning bodies and bombed buildings?

Money is nothing in a world like this, it cannot grant you even life.
To sustain the brief phase of the flesh, the chemical reaction in which each proceeding day is a drudgery of same.
The war that was fought before, to be fought again
Over power, control, manipulation, and the mechanism which puts the slave to bit
And whips him until he bleeds.

A war over survival is a war in which all are dead, even the living.
Those who survive, marked indubitably by death.
No amount of money can create joy under the stormcloud of rape.
A world that is raped, a humanity that is raped, a child that is raped.

To survive, people will do anything. Like cockroaches, a species mind, a complexity
That will lie, cheat, steal, extort, and murder.
What distinguishes, are those who refuse.
But where is the escape, when the body must be fed, nourished, and sustained?

A return to nature, out from the annals of human civilization, which is nothing more than a mechanism for mass control.
Each man, woman, and child has been made a slave to power, and extracted from like a device of labor,
To keep the wheel spinning for champagne feasts.
The world, to the powerful, is a yoke, upon which the bloody beast of man is fastened;
Whipped until he collapses of death; harnessed once more is his child
Or the man willing to die for even the scent of oxygen.
To live in the house of death, where the very fascia of the earth has been weaponized
As a means and ends for control, extraction, abuse, and burnings.

Perhaps there is some escape, some minimization:
In the wild, where man is not. The few places
Away from the cities and urbanization, where the collective mind of man is a disease; is a madness untamed
And desperate for more power amongst men
In perpetual competition for nothing but scraps from their false gods: the apes in power.
For even all the power of men on this earth competes not with Time, with the planetary and cosmic forces;
With the explosion and heated birth of stars.
It is within the cultural mind of men that they are driven mad, to these ends
With dreams of control and opulence.

To sacrifice a steer or a buck; to feed on a chicken,
To eat the roots and seeds and beans of the ground; to live before a fire in the winters;
The open windows of the summers:
What has been lost is down to earth and grounded;
What has been lost is the reality and cycles of the living earth.
What man needs has not changed for millennia -
The food with which to sustain himself and a warm bed; clean water with which to drink.
All of this can be had away from the madness of that world which calls itself civilization:
To the yoke, brother has fastened brother
To whip him to death for wine and a fancy suit.

A squirrel looks at this world and it is incomprehensible.

Nature’s movement is Time;
What churns in nature is essential,
From the bloodbeat of the organism to the down-ground stones which form the crusts of the earth,
Compressed, condensed, into the fossils, black blood of the sedimentary soil;
The oil which heats and fuels the technologies
New chemical revolutions of mankind
With speeds toward the sun; with explosions toward the stars;
Unto fissions;
Mimickry

That which moves is Essential; singular unity.
The earth belches fire, volcano,
Steams water, geyser, in its own internal kitchen.
The world, like a hot pan upon a stove which crackles; smelts great bodies down to the oil of engine;
Stars above, like great melting pots.
Forged within it, the diamond consciousness, the transmission of blood
Like golden sap, across aeons -

Trees bleed; the experience of being alive is between cell membranes,
Between the sap and the plasma of the stars, Embalmed in living fluid,
Awake, yet writhing in a great dream that lies just beyond the outstretched fingertips.
The expanse of the mind witnesses the unfolding of the stars, and their breaking apart from within cores;
The fissures which send up pressurized heat and gases,
The planets which belch like a putrefacting engine, like the very stomachs possessed
By animals which eat.

All things - flowing toward that essence that sustains them; becoming explosive
And exposed to fire in their consummation; their breakdown with earth
Becoming active energy.
Catalysis,

Without struggle,
Wars are fought for women and resources,
World moves as if by fire, by the passions,
At war and in force with one another.
The inner candle, lit by wax of flesh, lingers, and waves in the breeze.
In a silent night of trees, flowing as if air and wind was water;
As if plasma makes buoyant the whole massive struggle,
Of planets and stars.

Struggle is appearance, and by force and chemical nature they do not struggle.
It cannot even be called force, but by flow,
But by natural order, as each organism within the ocean creates its assembly.
The microcosmic chemical reactions, sparkling, glittering gems, are themselves the whole of the body,
Splinters of fossils, living cells, droplets of water,
Live and react to the touch of life, and by water and blood are brought back to life,
Touched and stirred, as the soil is warmed and made moist by sun and rainfall.

Man’s life, but to be relaxed into, and worn and loved,
Wearing life like a blanket, like a smattering of stars, like a fire and a peaceful shrug,
At the nature of life, moving and dancing in a circle
Of the delicate caress of moonlight waves,
Of the star’s burning and of winter’s returning,
Youth - like a calm memory, and the fury of the charging,
For victory is like sand,
Prevalent, everpresent, molecular, eternal.

Life is everywhere, shining, for those with eyes to see.
Whatever is given is taken, and whatever is taken is given,
So to give with love.
Giving and taking to oneself eternally, in embrace
For the millennia where organism takes to flesh and skin of the earth
And becomes oil and rises; becomes lava and rises;
In orgiastic unity, bodies dissolve and are barely distinguished in emergence,
Like the painter’s fading ink; the writer’s quill,
The book, glad to have leave, and written in ink unseen,
A constellation, a star, and the black space between,
For in the black space is writ large the truth of life,
Where it breathes and is known.

Words not wasted; given freely,
With meaning wild and artistic. With no conviction, but love and unity
Given unto brother, given unto sister, given unto starling,
Given unto starlight.
The words, dewdrops upon the flesh of being, like sweat,
No - even nothingness.

See, the poem is free and eternal, relies not upon a scrap, relishes not the small victories
Sees no triumph but the rest, prominently, in the silence of the unknown.
The entirety of being is an open breath, and the stars shine like sparkling reminders,
Jewels of heat, nutriments.
Within the body cosmic, like molecules, churning, moved in accordance to the great plan,
To spaces and places within the flesh, like maps, the energy is moved
In the maintenance of the balance; between the birth and death of empires, irrelevancy;
In empires, a briefly heated speck upon the plane, of being for the necessity,
Like a constellation, interconnected; like a trade route,
For the flow of the cosmic breath; for the light of being.

All moves to and fro like the particles of the waves in the sea;
Salt, electricity, blood, heat, oil, and water.
To come together and heat the life motor, to come apart and allow for the cold and cool,
The blackness and intelligibility of space. As the words weave, they themselves, evidence of the two that are one.
Timeless, tireless, empty, absent, purposeful, and purposeless the weaving.
Beauty in the clouds of spire-ing aether, clouds of noble gases;
Wings of being, through breath, reminded of the collision and fission of the first forms.
From stone and bone are drawn again into the frame and network of flesh and breath;
Reunified ever more complex forms, yet still base; composed of the fundamental baseness.
What desires, desires itself, carbon, hydrogen, reaction of life,
Which animates and stirs the flesh; heats and mixes the blood.
Red faced, starbound, starbright,
Recedence from youth, in age, acquainted with the fullness of the plenum.
Restful darkness, how it is a return
To ease; equilibrium.

Aged, in time, steeped and stilled in the beaker of the abyss,
For life is like a reaction, a turning, churning, a flame lit by the collision of atomic forces, like star and star together
Births the child; the child thrashes and wails for meaning, understanding, purpose,
So thus, is birthed the hero, who scales the climes of the twelves, stars like trials,
To the ascent and bursting thru the ceiling of the supposed living, into the plenum of being,
Where the stars dance and gyrate like flames upon the clock, which ticks interdimensionally,
In which forces have songs and ways about them, and encounter one another
Like chemical beings.
Like men and women dance, like predator and prey, cheetah and antelope,
Panther and the milky way, flesh and black death,
Mortal and pestle,
Ground to the still of being, the powder of ash and gunpowder,
Make my ways.
An admixture, to spark, catalysis, the element - where is the element of freedom?
Found in the rhythms of the body, spokes, the mind in unison,
Where the eye of the heart churns within, fiery, n’er apart.
Heart in heart, of man and of stars, of same.
Bleeding within, and pumping blood. A complex reaction, and what lives searches
For blood heating, sustenance.

Like animal, like prey, like predator,
Ears forward, and ears behind, so too, the past and future dance,
Like rememory, and the earth is halfways between. To let go and forgetting,
To commence forth; shedding the old ways, the old skin.
To retain the fervor of youth, to pass into old each. Each sway of time, a doorway,
A shaking, a rattling of the terrain, an earthquaking.
So to come and go from life, freely, as the body chemically reacts, with Mars, with the dance of eternity,
With the sway of great forces, far beyond the bounds of the reach of even ears and eyes aided by scrying glasses
Of technologies.
The heart knows, beats and bounds, the rhythm and time of even the far reaches of the universe.
It is no grandiosity, that which is the truth.
It exists without reflection; fundamentally heart and mind without exertion
Beats and bleeds and flows and sees
That which is, always within itself.
That psyche is eternity, as much as it is the unknown moving thru itself.
Depths to depths, a pool unbounded, and yet composed with same substances.
Thus is the depths of man, a tree, a fetus, a stone
Within, boundless mysteries.

A reaction, but a flash, of light to memory,
Stilled and burned by the flame of reflection,
Seen within the bonds of the glass,
This world is a bounds of symphony, a song which like candle’s flame upon the window
Reflects upon the blue dame light of the moors, skips across the plane of the moon
Rejoices and grandeur, falls asleep to the sounds of the siren, lured to the calls of death like a baby
Only to wake to death as word of mind, a reach, a limit of language.
Death to you like a firm stoppage; death to me a rearrangement of the molecular symphony.
Tired and tireless am I, bound and unbondaged, with cells breathing and membranes sniffing, wheeling,
Peeling about the body, and receiving air and blood, water, the parts of me that have been changed
By earth and oil, by admixtures of man, by nights before the windows of death and love
Concepts which are attraction and repulsion, concepts which are chemical compounding and recoiling,
Concepts which are molecular dancing.
Held together and apart by glass, swirling stone, bones wedded to bones, the hormonal flesh,
The legion of callings, cityscapes, aqueducts, a time swiftly passing;
Bound to volcanic blood, bound to heat and the changed form
This phase was already bound to pass, and has yet state
To statelessness, song to silence, consciousness to interruption
And at last, laughter!

For what fool’s eye is like a stone, like a galaxy, like a black hole at the center of time, like a universe,
How many names for nothing and everything,
Glad state of energy, bound to shifting and shiftlessness, nomadic,
And yet is at rest everywhere and at all times;
Viewed thru the prism of eyes, to discern intention.
It is murderous and regular, it is calm and everyday, and yet boistrous and overflowing
At the edge of every evolution, like a mug of tea and a regular morning
Like the swaying bamboo forest
Like the cunning drive of a panther.
Boring, like a hole to the center of time,
All called toward the hole which is not a hole, yet a mere tunnel of space-time, an opening which is an attractor
To dense black ground. Perception, stands to which stands before it, or so it seems,
To declare reality.

If this is true, all men are mad, and madness is regular and boring as an outstretched hand.
Calm, the days which pass, as our delusions are not even clouds upon a cloudless blue sky.
Who can solve the myth of this, the appearance of a translucent field, lit by particles of light; shrouded by upper and lower atmospheres?
So is the mind, a glittering bag of tricks, diamonds and mirrors, waters clear and murky, like a potion half lit to the depths
Waters, by the light of the sun, within lurk fishy demons, with regular motives; regular desires.
To love and be loved, hungry, for the motor within, abstains from no blood
Gladly takes upon itself in necessity, enough to sustain that very singular world which is the universe.
For who would deprive life of life itself? Starvation -
And thus it churns on, beating and bleating like a lamb, blacksmith upon stone, sacrifice upon sacrifice.
What horror, to gaze upon this?
The hidden desires of men, the threshing thrush, the bacterium which eats, not even man, composition of elements, forces, life forms,
Made of the lamb’s flesh and blood, made of the violet’s heat and ray, made of the bee’s pollinating sting, made of the water’s rushing eye:
To drink and be drunk eternally, upon the dame, bloody water of the living, exchanged first and easily within the wetted medium,
Electricity.

So, good, the poem is singing and dancing, in a quiet murmur, like the waters flow unevenly, and yet evenly,
Trickles across and abound the smooth pebble and stone. Distribution, that which fills space, and like air breathes it,
Particular and whole. To count the living things is to count one,
Life, singing symphony eternally.
The poem does not need poem to begin or end, like eye among eye,
Whatever, whenever, the compounds will meet, split apart, become together and one,
Like hydrogen, if that mixture is life or any word,
From the explosion of birth which becomes relaxed; settled as if muddy water is stilled by the passage of time
And the regular, soothing flow.
So do elements settle, in their dispersion, stars glad to not burn, but to see, with calm eyes
The truth of life and the flowing. Not press’t against, no upstream with which to rush,
But t’ward that which the dance of forces compels; this adventure, admixture of purpose
Flows effortlessly, calm and smooth.
To be within that element, and finding in the restful passage
The very encounters which are, like destiny and fate,
Revelatory.

For that which comes, comes effortlessly.

The way of life
Is to go where it shall
Electric tributaries
Running thru the root of the cosmic ground.
Flight, like a response, in the synapses,
Moves the earth and all the stars.
Movement, the forces which compel
In a chemical reaction
Composed of chemical reactions.
Fire, heat, cool, water,
Runs thru life like stops and starts,
Sleeping and waking, fits of life and sleep.
Know this and rest,
Earth moves as it must, so too, the universe is compelled internally,
Like an engine of digestion, a process entirely organic and sovereign.
The compounds which compose it, broken down to digestive ash; excreted to the soil, where the process begins again,
New assemblage from the ashen ground, the fertile soil
Composed of excretions; history of organisms, being, detritus
Fossils and oil, plasma and starlight
Combustions and their wake.
Like a ship, the universe takes flight upon the waters of its own berth,
Rememory, the complex processes thru which the being is assembled, neurologies
In greater and higher order from simple parts,
Emerges the being, appearing complex
And yet compound, with simple, base elements.
Return to roots, which is the clear day,
Unadorned with images,
Simplicity in the silent cave.
No thought, no sound, and the innocence of space.
The appearance of time, is the unfolding of first materials
And their entwining, like genetic codes and lineage
Throughout expanding and contracting space.
The universe grows to collect curiosities, like a full womb, like a utero
And contracts to the simple silence of pointed space.
Hear the call -
It is an age of innocence, all ages are innocent
And yet filled with ideas of complexity
Notions within themselves;
Ideations of themselves.
Existent as a compound molecule, together and then apart,
Like a rhythm is time
Like a sea, like a siege against nonexistent gates.
So then, do beings come and go within the ocean like images, to no longer struggle
No longer in fits of madness,
Imagined ghosts in the grasp of a whitening fist,
The blood flows clean and clear like a river thru the tributaries of the flesh, veins like the passage of information
Information devoid of interpretation,
The pure existence of life, unadorned by mind
Is mind itself, synapses traveling and passing information,
To and fro, between stars like constellations,
Epicenters and nerve endings like nuclei,
Empowering and holding the cell; bursting in explosions
Releasing their contents, complex bonds revealing simple forms in gaseous clouds,
Dispersion of solidity to gaseous and ionic multiplicities,
Plasma which holds them,
Plasma around which conducts the electricity,
Buoyant and held amidst the stream of life,
Where all surrounding is the mediation,
And there is freedom, suspended between seeming paradoxes,
Suspended seemingly between life and death,
Mere passage, mere doorway,
Between formations; change of phase; change of state;
Change of form for the energetic nature of being
Transmissed in movement, movement to solidity; solidity to silence
In this dance animated by chemical reactions,
To see a face, to know a name, to encounter a page, a pill, a form, a reason, a substance, a liquid, a stone, a gape
And enthralled, the gaseous light, enthralled, the annals of the engine, machinic, revved, desire
To substance consumes, from fire to fire,
From ash to ash, and the resurrection in new forms,
Excretion, this regenerative substance, bodies to bodies,
Melt in the glacial blackness of the soil;
Thru time, all things are made and unmade; carry their ancient signatures; timeless and even primordial,
First substance, upon which the blocks are built,
Upon which man is built; upon which dreams fly
Thru the synapses; imagination
Which is the world adorned and unadorned,
Castles made and crashed,
The sheer bricklaying, a dream, and a dream of form,
Additive and subtractive thru sex, transmission of fluids, intercoursing,
The cell breathes and consumes, digests and excretes,
Each form and turn of life, in turn lifeless,
Is all potentiality. To be consumed and changed and changed again;
To be excreted and changed and changed again,
So is each form, bidden to earth, bidden to Mars, bidden to Jupiter,
Bidden to the energetic formations of the galaxies and stars,
To be among the codes of nature and to be an element,
Even complex, a tributary among oneself, tributaries,
Enthralled by worlds of stone built up by dreams of existence,
Dreaming upon itself, casting itself into life.
To consume, build new fires, and sustain the individual hearth, among inevitable masses, of hearths in discourse, a perennial state of reaction, of and among the fires which burn, and plume red and orange and yellow, purple and blue, this mass which is inevitable supernovae -
How many complex minds have been built by the millennia, marched toward time, observant and observed, touched the plenum of oneself,
At once distinguished and indistinguished; folded into time like a memory of that which it was?
Complex materials upon which it was built, furthered by a molecular antecedent, a coming again in new form,
Words and words like bodies that were spoken, bodies that were taken into the perennial fire of life and renewed?
This whole world, a cylinder, a siphon, a cycle -
For transformation,
Endlessly regenerated and renewed; to cease motion to die, and from death the etchings of life, in the glowing embers,
Expanding in light, like information to reach the eye and warm the flesh and blood -
Will it return when the engine of time shudders to a halt, to react upon reaction, until nothing is left but blackened ash, not even the smoke of space,
Nor the buoyant composition of it?
Unknown elements in the aetheric, broad, gesticulating space -
What life lives and dies around and among, swathed in the unknown, direction, path of the spirit, which climbs to consciousness,
Has emerged, mere circumstance or chance, computation?
Has traveled by desire and fuel upon fuel, until fuel became conscious information?
To reflect upon the paths of life, to look upon the ocean and each vein a tributary of decision, a consumption upon consumption, a state change upon state change,
Which has built a machine, an organism, capable of observing its very organs, shape, and form,
And yet witness, within the machine of compounds and their coalition, their exchange of fluid and energy, desire, to siphon and siphon off,
To milk and sip upon the grounds until they are fallow,
To eat and live until the corrosion,
The resistance to entropy -
The fire which by nature of that which sustains it, has lived off the bones of the meal,
Returned to ground and become greater, deeper fire,
Part of the essential fold of the fluid and fuel
Which burns deeply and brightly, a fission, a star, a fossil, a blackened mud, by time condensed and made among the elements essential, thick and blackened,
Yet timelessly and entirely light:
What does this mud have to do with the aeriness of space?
Not even gas which separates us, the lightness which thru burning ascends,
Is this spirit like plasma? Which wanders freely, thru which the song of life flows
To know nothing, but names, but to be the very essence of that which is, and that which is forever returned to itself.
Song of all song, why to make stars of itself, before its own time?
Anxious for their fate, trudging toward the inevitable truth
Of the veins which run from tree to trunk, leaf to stem, galaxy to galaxy, from mind to body,
Spirit which makes them buoyant; thru which they pass,
And the chemicals which sparkle and dance about them,
What cells consume, and their fabric,
What stars consume, and their fabric,
To be among same and dance among it,
And yet refuse the procession of all complexity.
To live simply, as cells transfer energy,
To live as this and to be among it,
It lives and dies in ceaseless unity, and is at last lifeless and deathless, acquired and shed, jettisoned, and is as identity only fundamentally movement and stillness;
From on high, stillness alone,
A dance in an eternal circle that is a spiral, that moves itself forward ceaselessly thru transmission,
As a giant rocket, or a bipedal, or upon stilts and legs,
Walks the mechanism, upon reaction upon reaction.
Forever forward is its sign, beyond death is its name,
And truth exists fundamentally in this exchange, which is truly exchangeless in its very nature.
So from a cell to oil, so from a cell to being, so from a nucleus to a supernova, astonished by manifestations,
The face of the reaction, phenomena,
The organs of the reaction, the coalition of mechanism,
Swirling particular behavior, heated and cooled, in the furnace of reactive energy,
And thus like constellations of neurology,
Behave the galaxies of matter, swathes of mind,
Synapses which exchange and dance.
Why the urgency?
Of an organism which will form the primordial mixture
Of elements returned to their primacy,
Of fire which is its sigil and callsign,
And very immediate, direct and eternal reality.
As a reaction itself, among reactions, coupling and decoupling, bonded and debonded
In a ceaseless synergy which is effortless
And at once multiplicitous and entirely singular.
That which walks walks without ears and eyes, and yet has made the appearance of life from deathlessness,
Appears to cease and lose living.
From movement to unmoving, the base elements await, so in time, the relativity of their awakening, reaction, unto observation, the skin and flesh leaps to and from the fire from stone and bone, stirred by molecular composition;
Agonism from fire is their rule, molecular heating,
Stirred by forces and their exertion
Entirely cohabitative and gesturing in a ceaseless line of firings,
Reactions upon reactions, and in their dance dances the great and small, the molecular and particular and their great, matriculated compositions,
Like each symphony of orchestration, a flute and woodwind of the body, of the ant, of the crane and cricket,
Of the leaf and blend of the tree,
To each, their veins; to each, their awakening;
Building upon their flesh and bone and stone,
The encounter which jettisons their particular elements into new compound states of being and feeling,
Attained eyes and the complex neurology of mind,
Attained synapses and the faculties of perception of oneself,
To question life and knowledge, and truth and foundation of upon which one is made, the very building blocks and essence of life -
The purpose and meaning and from whence it came,
From why

We must throw off all cloaks, to reveal pure atomic ray,
The same sun beaming from within,
As that which spins, dagger in the sky,
Which dances, an’ draws blood, to and fro,
A perennial psychoses, blood-shaken,
And in the rhythm, draws shapes in the chemical,
Nutriment; filament of the eye, which is the pattern of the stars,
All the same - this building blocks of firing, thru which the sword of the mind is forged,
Blacksmith of the cosmos, whose in first striking was a striking upon the cold metal of the night,
Spark of heat and flame to which all drew near and expanded,
Thrashed and rushed to the source of the wound,
Where the sound was breaking and revealed,
To space, was made, to two and one,
From abyssal multiplicities.

Sitting in a broadroom, this is esoteric ancestry,
Base sorcery, or nonsense,
The magic of the metal sculpted, seemingly forever
These castles and this land, the very claims
Which make lords and men, which make hedgerows and thorns,
The crown from which they are woven, the seeds of this awakening,
The tree out amidst the swallowing gape of the way of the galaxy,
From which all things are born,
Inside the nodal womb -
In murmuring silence, the planets swing, like raindroplets amidst an ocean, drawing near,
Swirling, intimating, like masks upon a string swung in the night,
In an ancient play upon the black screen. Their play of time, too, appears sorcery,
Upon the ground which the entire cosmos swings,
Beaker, admixture, whose entire composition is magnetism, like shavings of the ore thru which the world is forged, made and remade,
And draws near at the speed of light to the resounding grave -
All trouble is changing time, and the language which sculpts, the sword which cleaves to reveal the black night and the fundament,
The elements which compose the sparkling which now appears dull and bleak with regularity.
Strip’t away, the rhythmic caverns of the day,
To reveal their molecular gleaming, to be rip’t apart by the drawing near of a greater flame.
And in time it must be, for the core to draw near and change the mould, in which it sat,
Like a house upon a hill, or a tree upon a cliffsface,
For the compound forces which roar like waves, blink like vectors, and charge, mutually compelled, to their foreseeable end.
Has this not played out definitively, before, in the very elemental form of the players?
Each archetypal in their coalition, a band of villains, a queen, an island, a victor,
And the war which incises them, to clash upon a hot sun?
Like marbles, like magnets, at play in the great gallery
Of figures, forms, and forces.
Large and small, a king must play the board,
So as the rabbit must chase, be chased,
The calf must hound like the dog -
So thinly veiled, in their artifice,
To remain, is the complexity.
To reach, then for the light which sustains that which nourishes, cool inferno, within,
A core which stirs even in the darkest of stone,
Bleak matter, brief assembly, then to rise in the firelight,
Disseminated like rain, upon the black soil, grounds and grottoes, black soul, enlightened by rays.
What was dead, deigned to life, by forces which took bodies like lovers, legions of the dead; followers of a beckoning sun, heavy with a legacy of heat:

Burning, then, to burning we fly, but too close,
A decoupling, a death, a die which is strung upon a string,
And swings and swings to everything
Draws, attracts and repels,
Burns and sinks and swells.
Boredom, this, to be alone, and to witness the heaves and throes
In stillness, world swings about, before
Like the eye of a great storm, in madness,
Compelled by fugues of desires, mad orchestra.
In great space, the world’s song extends, but for a hand,
Stretched out into a reaching night
Whose day is a ray about a ball of flame,
Amidst balls of flame, huddled are the stones
Which confer life.

All cling, like sailors to the ore, wherein the stream of elements which sustain are stored.
What great war is fought for more than this?
What sustains and stirs flesh to life, like a puppet appears;
Leaps from the stage, in search of this certain molecular compound, which gleams like light and gold,
Which stirs like a beast of the flesh,
Stimulated from explosion from within -
How this world is modeled after stars, and their eyes,
Smatterings upon the canvas, green, gold, smouldering yellow.
Ugliness, disjected materia,
Returned to soil to be recarved, sculptor of the great and eternal,
And for this poem, like this poem is made and forged.
Burdensome, the cloth which carries the name,
Which plays because it must.
Life, what a harried game, whose secret
Is that it is all played just the same,
Played by all and with shallow profundity.
Who searches for that which all do not already seek?
Compelled by the stirrings of matter amidst the writhing of the flame
To incorporation; copulation; digestion.

For there must be more than this in art,
A world which spins in fits and stars, and in greed and gold, whirls and dies,
Without so much as a cough or a whimper.
For time passes like a thin veneer,
Where all was once eternal and clear,
Flows like a passage; sweeps like excrements through streets and words,
And makes all fleeting things less than a glimmer.
Entranced by sparklings of light.
Down to their core, a world of eternal same,
But in the art which assembles a life beyond -
From the raw materials from which all life starts.
For this, no mere mortal chemistry
Can summon truth in the eternity of life,
And mix immortal forms, which in their formlessness,
Remember and carry forth
The spirit- formed in crucible of poetry.

Look on, past this day -
The neuron and the neuron alone, creeps forth,
Like a wandering root among black soil -
Life is like a farm where all is born and dies and nourishes the same ground from which it emerges,
Enrichment, the limerick of meaning,
In width and breadth the length of time
Before and after its emergence,
Short, and full of nonsense,
Loud clattering and insane beliefs.
Imagination run wild, in all the names for gods,
In all the names for selling, in all bankruptcy,
Man’s time is a laughable joke, a jest for which
His seriousness is his cradle and grave.
From womb to womb, life is foolish, until it wises up to the terms,
Til flowers gain eyes and mind, rationality, forethought,
And cognition.
Look on, past this day of madness -
Raving in the streets, wars over nothing, anger over nothing,
Fighting over scraps.
This war of man is already lost, as is the war of all time, but a film in which the essence escapes, the sheer composition,
Bored of this, belief, projection upon a screen,
Rote art of same.

For it has ceased to be art, if it ever was,
But only grey, black and slow march to and from deathly doors.
Callow, submerged in the chalice of stillwaters of culture,
Feeding upon the wounds of its own flesh,
Worshipping at the steely pyres of its own image.
This world is a grave of culture, an artefact of mad belief,
A pointless religion, a rushing toward a deification of a meaningless dirge, a march unending
To nothing and nowhere, populated by fanatics.
Naught, but grey steely prison, bars of failure,
Imagination enclosed and imprisoned by law and superstition.
Where is the freedom of life? Undogmatic, sincere, full and bursting with the creative enthusiasm, unleashed Promethean fire?
Unchained and witnessing the plenum of that is,
Where is the great art?

Naught, but skirmish and meaningless toil, work for plastic; work for meagre portions,
Amidst a factory, amidst a religious war.
The minds of men are narrow and convoluted, converted and following.
Their smallness makes smallness of life, smallness of world; all to be evaded, forgotten, and left behind
To die in the meaningless war.
Come, those who wish to be free, to shed the bonds and cage that is mind and mind alone,
That is the dream of the bars, and the dream of the word that is law,
As imagination is the path forward into endless and multiplicitous terrain.
For man to be free, his mind must be unshackled from the illusion, and reminded of the essence which weaves thru all things, that verily is Eternity,
Indifferent, without end, and in which all things are mere phase,
Shifting mask and shape of the great flowing essence.

Naught else is there, no name, nor holy law, nor wisdom which permits suppression
Of great imagination, born from the very synapses of the mind which paints galaxies and stars,
Which stretches from reach to reach; emboldened ever farther and wider,
No rule among men nor apes but the shallowness of their thinking; the limit of their speech, the callousness of their language; their failure to think and conceive
Of greater and brighter stars, higher art, and that which releases from bonds, the imprisoned mind -
A neurology of sharks and reptiles, chained to food and feeding, engorged stomachs, is all, to a mind
Which must evolve for millennia to reach cultivation
Of the imaginative body.
So it is that some men are almost another species, beyond the dirge of human, beyond the collapsing, crashing wave of civilization;
Beckoning forth into true unity; the bright and golden dawn of a world
Entwined with Nature’s law; seamlessly
To enable the passage forth of great minds;
Great art to rise and embolden;
Expand the perception of what is possible;
The exercising of that which is endowed like a great gift to mankind,
The art of the imagination, like creation itself,
Primary and first to all things, that which thru time they are moulded;
Cast and recast to clay, to ever more perfect artistry:
This, their synapse, and wiring of neurology,
Ever more complex and sophisticated,
To reach and play among the stars, and their inner twilight,
Their burning, not a burden, not a tithe, but a revelation of feeling; passion which travels
In ways of native technology,
Across the galaxies and stars.

This conscious play, beyond
As it is all men and mankind; forth into new forms of being;
As is evolution; as is the cultivation and sophistication of the form,
Ever more novel and seemingly alien, but from source has lineage,
Like roots of a tree wind and produce new fruit in new times,
Such a man beckons forth from history,
To evolve! As it must, progress
To call forth new man from the passage of history
With capacity of expansion of the fold of imagination
To allow in more kindness and brotherhood
In the awareness of the great forces of being
Which wind and pass their way thru space and time
Like the rushing of the wind and the turning mould of the stars,
Where all things are ephemeral and yet touched and charged with the infinite.
Bring them forth! In the alembic of time, which swirls and draws new forms,
Upon the iterant
Like a draughtsman, forth, from the very genius of Nature,
Whose pen over time, begets more and more refined works of art:
From where I step is novel, new, these first steps upon this shore of the mind,
Cultivated from the very form which dances in waves and veins
And allows the plenum to emerge gratefully from the coordinates of the brain,
Swirled and entwined in the sculpted nebulae.
Draw them forth, with me, companions and brothers,
Upon this ship of eternity.
That we should make a better world, filled with dignity,
And no fielty but to the very faculty of imagination,
Which holds no water and touches no stone,
But flows effortlessly through everything, and all things,
Verily, composes the bone and art itself, as the canvas is endlessly shorn anew.
Takes naught and leaves naught behind,
And takes no word for truth,
But the very flow of words,
Which is itself like the way thru which the galaxy emerges,
The very mouth upon this blackbox of shadowplay,
And the poesy of the stars,
Like code, upon their iterations, like word and form and symbol, upon their molecules and elements,
New textures and admixtures,
Nature, this chemist and alchemist,
What stands between your stars and meaning?
The sophistication of my understanding,
Where this rock-face appears to be full to bursting with the essence of your word,
As in this moment the world seems to cease turning,
In my unity with your song,
Lofty, as it caws, and crows - deeps and dives, into valleys and waters and shadows.

For this, king, imagining,
Without that through which it flows to be deified,
The infinite is revealed, a passage, a process, a whirling,
Like a starlight wrung endlessly thru the sieve of time,
Many are your veils and mysteries, screens and illusions,
Play of Maya, dance of particles and veils,
Dance of songs and seductions, trances,
Which draw forth madness from stone and from madness clarity,
Bursting forth thru wine and song,
Wherein all appears at last to be blood, lightning blood,
Pulsing thru the veins of neurology
Among the stars and minds,
Ceaseless tithe, which does not break,
No mortal coil is mine, but immortal,
Which does not begin nor end at the fingertips nor eyes,
But verily is that same thunder
And that same star
Thru which all worlds see, thru telescopic eyes;
Thru which vision collides,
With last wall,
Between sensorium and the inner eye,
Vase thru which the infinite peers,
Among blackness,
To at least reach
The valleys and castles of stars.

True knowledge is freedom,
True knowledge that touches the roots of the trees, the plants of the stars.
True knowledge knows that it knows nothing
And yet is intimately connected with all that is.
It is beyond the veil of human knowledge and ideas,
And yet is the very element and essence which composes it,
Consciousness, the gradient of all things;
Thru which it shines,
Dimly waking, brilliantly grading, scaling
Burning; mounting the heart of the sun.
Desire, the core of each sun, sustained in its burning,
Like the very ancient roots which are the core of life.
No chemical struggles for the core of awakening, nor life,
But is awakened in a grand procession, the very movement of time; across time,
So travels the rhythmic; mutual coercion of the elements,
Star upon star, egging the other on,
In a compounding play of chemical sigils.
So as affinity rejects and attracts, so do molecular forces acquire their burst,
So do kings and empires briefly bend the world to their feet,
Like reeds in the wind,
Like tireless blows against the igneous strain of rock.
All of nature is entirely alien and unfamiliar
And yet unified, composed of same.
Does one chemical shrink in fear of consumption
By some other immortal dawn?
So that, gobbled to the quick, it becomes the same ashen soil, sinking to the immortal ground?
All falls and rises like the back of an ancient snake,
Whose sun is the moon and the breaking of day,
Whose wave is the sound of speak, and the breaking
Of chaos into immortal and eternal clarity.
So does mind sing the sine, to which all sounds are returned, their register like the ocean,
Shifting molecules of time.

Like the sands, beings rise and fall, take hold in mass
And break former patterns,
For these, the only brief laws, laws in time;
For out of time there is no day or light, form or formlessness,
Far more peculiar, a waiting midnight, who seeks when sought
And is summoned upon the mind’s eye,
Immortal, eternal gravity,
Draws the idea to the mind, like a leash upon a tether,
Like a silent, black glass orb in the outer reaches of space,
The very scrying mirror which reflects all space and all time,
For blackness holds the memory of sleep,
Where timeless past and future resides;
Beckons in the deep - sleeping matter,
To rise, and for all desires the chemical crawls
For excitation; for the red, yellow, and purple immortal flame -
For being flame it is the very force
Which impels, and keeps the realm of time in timelessness,
Which keeps the rhythm of movement,
By which worlds tick
For even fire has private laws; burns upon the flesh of the earth,
Requires the papery tinder of dying stars for which to shift shape,
Upon their mass of coming time, it roars and rages,
Waiting for engulfing -
The solutio which burns, upon chemical overwhelming.

Stomach of stomachs, utero of utero,
So the glass container of the world is of the universe
And transmutes fires within fires;
A gulf of feeling,
Which churns upon gusts of heat and cold;
Mixed by the planetary bodies and the stars.
So this, witches’ brew, is what you amount to me, work of world,
Like a stew I am cooked; like a sigil, like a sign I am expressed,
My work representative of your great and emboldened fire,
Which strews its matter and mass across the plenum of the universe,
Glad am I, to be that obscure astral body,
Which hides and lies, lurking like a wolf spider, a widow, a candidate, amongst the plenum of the stars,
I, too, greedy for my explosion,
So for what life grants me is this sight,
Through which I see that which I love,
Today’s grace, and a totem pole of flesh made soil,
Upon which the stones have mounted, from which oil shoots, from which the body of the earth has assembled,
As all death awaits for life, all life awaits for death,
As the necessary materials of transmutation,
Like dead wood holds the awaiting spark
To raze whole grounds of being.
Land and realm of the dead, awaiting the chemical sigil, admixture, crack of lightning, which brings life and lights the hollow of the trees and awakes the being from slumber,
May it be that consciousness is that which gives such piercing eyes.

Who saw the gravity, who saw the planetary bodies in symphony, who saw the stage of matter and the play and theatre of forms, wax and sand, flesh and form,
To formlessness all, and this light which burns the mass
Forms the semblance of image, even now which melting,
Like a fresh packed snowfall,
In time, the image reflected, glacial,
Upon millennia; magnitude and scope of that which upon a hairpin,
The human dances, brief and odd phase,
Mind of galaxies, assemblage of synapses and neurology.
For the beginning and end of time, to hold this, like a premonition.
Great alchemist, the world is a stew, upon first awakening,
Strew life like limbs, you Dionysus, you Osiris, across the plenum of the galaxies,
Lost, rememory, those who wander, strewn pieces, you,
Planets like bodies, for awakening,
Chemicals for their counterparts, otherwise uninterrupted,
Swirling, amidst the contents of their own brief phase,
Gaseous and clouded, in the fantasy of mind,
Mind upon mind, and their interaction, in a dance of bound forces, constant in their loving clarity,
Grace upon which this flesh is formed and sees:
Grace upon which this flesh is formed and dances,
Delicate in their reveries, requiring,
Like plant, the green life which throes verily thru the veins,
Dances and dies and injects, like a small sun,
Life into the air and soil, the breeze and waters,
With word is express and expulse,
With breath is expanse,
With space is gravity and body,
With space is time;
Acquires with form, the gravity of age.

Boiler and bringer of the chemical, whose compounded form
Is that which stands before thee, in various stages of acquiring the power of fire and dissolution, to soil and to ash, to be resurrected once more in the great alembic of universe,
Time is thy dance; time is thy die, which is thrown, wound, and wrung thru the spiral,
Onward, in space and time, runs the black thread thru which the planets weave their vibrant song;
Thy, brief chance, summons thee to this place, this burial grounds of birth and death,
Where, yet, there is something immortal,
The very fabric upon which the cloth is made,
Cloth pressed to eyes and ears, lips and face,
The veil thru which thou seest.
Ancient are the fires of the words
Which bring you to this place,
First before the mountains;
The very breaths upon their face.
You take image, like mask of complexities, and dance about the fire of your chemical bringing.
You, who are - the immortal anthemic ritual,
Who chants and hums the birth and death of all things,
Verily, the creation and destruction, flesh upon flesh,
Transmisso, transmutatio,
Truly, symphony.
Thy song is freedom, and thy dance is word, thy figure shape, and thy mind is world.
Where are you not free, thou being the very shape and form of eternity?
To dance and die and dance once more,
In fits of syncope.
To awaken, remember, the buoyant form,
Of life, flames of resurrection mingle amongst the stars,
Thy purpose, boundless and shifting,
Thy mind, an unlocked prism.
Very cage, of one’s own making, belief in time and solidity of form, solitary, stationed, fugue without return,
Thy life, to imagining returned.