Emotions try to claw their way
through my mind like flaming ants
In a grainy labyrinth; a billowing cloud of
yellow maize in a deserted field;
I am left alone yet not entirely.


Swallows clamor. Flies buzz.
My head is bloated with creative puss!


Ideas push and prod and sting and stifle,
but what else have I to lean upon?
The color of the world stabs through the veil of my mortality.


But worlds of words,
their sonorous silence beatific
in all their Delphic pulchritude. They linger
as apparitions in the fleshy flux of physical life.


Oh what words can shun this acrid grief away,
in the wild, indignant chasms of me
that grow deeper and darker.

I want nothing but words as these,
fresh, soft, cryptic, carnal breathing enigmas;
They fixate their glare on my heart.
It beats flirtatiously.

In my heart which plunges into
the ethereal sea of my soul;
they dotingly linger, those ridged,
laticed conchs in exotic imagination.

Careen here and there,
as fish flippant in rainbow scale,
singing mellifluous do re mi’s;
I am chilled. My grooves are scraped.


She lays her eggs of procreation
without thought; A slimed perfection
enacting a grace not of her understanding.


Such is human thought, haphazard but with direction.
On a sieve of turbulence, the waves
that torment, spin me round, topping me
with cream, in ferocious, frothing insight!


My mind is a sea. It washes
doubt from its shore. Spits
at defiance. Milky debris splashes
behind my eye; The crisp crackles roar

What lives have I to live within;
I have lived as on a million suns and moons
bathing in the heat and frost of temporal lagoons.

Drifting on the waves of
subconscious euphoria, in a dream,
a saccharine hive of blinking memory
that eludes Time's tedious friction.

Of fluidity of tongue buds,
as spring dew on the blades of
chattering grass that contrive this electric mind.


Each blade harbors its own vivacity, each succulent,
each its own shade of bright green
All florid conceptualizations flicker
with a flame dappled in black,
shading morose verses beneath my skin


With globules of wisdom, broadening by the hour;
the hourglass shifts its sand,
writhing bodies boldly clash, convening as dreams


A silver spoon to lip, no gold,
pure silver bells of recondite intellect
wafting, sparkling in sporadic supernova combustions

On the scoured raft that is this mind,
full in its vast emptiness, balancing
angst filaments; It hungers with dripping fang!


It cannot be quenched. It has never
reached its precipice. Howling
it dances on spiritual energy,
cringing in the vicinity of silence.
It audaciously speaks!


Lips tremble. No sound.
Still motionless waters lap the surface
of wakefulness, licking the skin of reality
What angst!

Angst for lack of words to describe
the wonders, which whitest pyramids
dare not compare; Their dilapidation is
discrete but not obsolete

To the magical surrealism of this speech,
aloft and askew, yet travelling
a true blue hue, smothering you
with curiosity. Such is my intention!


Insane?
Your conjecture is pure untruth,
for never have I felt more sane than now!

I send myself off to a paradise
of my own; in this Utopia I sing
in burning, plowing metaphor,
planting seeds of vindication.

Metaphors of you and metaphors of me;
swinging high in this placid tree
Far into the diamonds that dot the sea
Liquid fire trapped in chiseled ice
The infinite glory of words cling to the current!
of possibility...

A lunatic flying mesh of syllables,
wraps about my head as a shawl;
the linguist cannibals juice my innards; I burst!
in tandem with its rocking balm
inundating pea green rivers of fecund thought

No music too soft or cacophonous,
the ring of knowledge flaps tart in my eardrums,
siphoning the hot, violet apparitions of decency!
Folds of curious flesh quiver
The brain pulsates; lacy neurons shiver

In the midst of all human tribulation
I in reprieve am forced to acquiesce
to my sorrows; They float between wrinkles of relief,
and incandescently glimmer in the thick night
of Dreams

Through quick wit and sinewy sentence;
these verbiages know their purport
But look closer and Alas!
They do not tell of it, for they are
in themselves the intent of their own
furtive existence, scuffling the floors
of the unconscious Id with jailed lust!

Why loaf around like a fallen leaf and write these words?
Will no one drink them and smile?
Shall I shrivel as a root deprived of wetness?
I drink the elixar of Sartre; I abscond firm Fate

When am I to say that
I shall become a being worth being,
when in fact I already am being?
Do I wriggle with meaning or lack thereof?


I peruse the world half aware, half in agony
A fraction of me is cut away, searing as a siren's
Voice tempting on the breeze; hairs of impulse erect

Wandering the deserts of my discordant brain
I fade into the ambience of passion-seekers
who exhale dreams into forget-me-nots
They choke pale blue on human err

The self pitying, the vagabonds,
the lustful erudite (Oh how they do make love to their books),
know me well and I know them.
Though we do not know each other


Lives throb but do not melt; they twist in creative fizz
Masses of atoms; cells hardening and regrouping
The tiny process of "being" is left alone

The wild eyed beggars, the quiet fairies
in their pink beds, dallying with wizened
grandmothers, nocturnal beasts slithering,
hushed dissonance. Parts of a whole. Wholly part
of something much to grand to comprehend
The fibres of reality lay exposed
Man rapes her caves, leaving meatless bones


Ravishing are the ambitious spirits! 
Resplendent are those with sparkling minds.
I shall love thee as lungs love oxygen.
Lust for knowing is the salve of living


I spend the evening trifling,
and yet even my trifles go unnoticed.
Why, then, should I resort to the prostitution of my art?
The creases of my endeavors stretch
Ignorance is first to feed
I sit on needles and my fingers bleed


Am I less a seed than a mature plant?
Am I more a grain than a block of stone?
Am I real more than I am unreal?
Am I zero?


Am I an aperture where cogitations
flow in and out unabashed and unattended?
Am I a means to an end or an end to a means?


Imagination
You are the blossom of my being
Rimmed with petals believing
Of my passionate concieving
Imagination, excise the black from my sky
And squelch the poison wings with which I fly
I am not one but millions
I am the human eye


 
.......to be continued.......whenever I pull myself into another deep meditative state...