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Tag Archives: symbolism

Has What’s Been Ignored Been Received Well?

And so…

 

…Like dust redistributing the atmosphere with salt and pepper paint-strokes of disassembled gambits of temporary existence.

 

…Like glitter genuflecting upon the pulpits of false gods and sacrificial lambs…bleating in bloated biorhythms of incandescent temporality…blinded completely by an unfortunate choice of shades.

 

…Like dampened cloths beguiling the drapery with its wash, collecting every invisible remnant dormant yet astir, partially in prayer, entirely in-dream, hoping all that will about become is resultant solely from the unsubstantiated anxieties formed in frown, upon this altar built from heaven commonly referred to as life, itself a mystery only solvable through death.

 

…Tomorrow thinks nothing of what it steals from today.

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Collision: Larynx crushed//            //Enter: Pantomimic reply

Kill. Queen. Green. Flag. Capture. King. Within.

A bull and the belle…a message for…

Unmask the luchadores. Show them for all that they are

Bric-a-brac. Banderillas first. In seconds, heart-ATTACK.

What may seem like forcing, isn’t even the crux of it.

This biscuits gone stale.  Pour another round for eachthemall

Horrible what they’ve done with your grammar.

Porous sieve you’ve become.  Drifting round with that afadavit sleeping sideways off your tongue.

Don’t sleep. Don’t sit up straight. Pretend. Dream. Just pretend it’s all a dream.  Stars, they shine. Big. Bright. Here. On this, impossibly broken narrow string that once was just a normal night.

LOUD: Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalla. Sings them all.

SOFT:  whisperslayuponthetonsilstill…[trails off] \\ for silencia’s sake.

INTERMEDIUM: For thou shalt not covet thy maker’s SUN.

THE poltergeist’s a sparrow.  The cardinal’s a fence.

CRETAN: “I’m truly saddened by your loss…{Extremely Edgy}

)you should see the other guy( as I lay here in my bed…only I know. And I can’t help but cry. “How do I tell Daedalus that his toreador is dead?”

 

The Bond

Coruscating thoughts betray thy primal instinct.

 

To the witness, the clouds commence, skewing that which has been long since known of man.

 

It is here, where the heart begins its activation.  An internal clock of inborn premise commences, stirring forth the Grimoire incoherent.  In counting down and spiraling through, a leavening of complacency spires to, flecking the stars with gold and sparkling hues.

In a momentary lapse of permutation, reflective as it is refractive, adjunct to the enemy it stows.  As is the composure under compromise, baseline’s stilt, rearranging polarity. Such damask blends breed patterns unrehearsed.

 

Pulsation bleats awhile rapt in throbbing undulation. Emulously, in duress, the synapse skitters to inert measure; a weight felt reactively within the fading doe.

 

Struggling, she battles each interval coursing in the plague. Struggling, to remain focused, to ignore the loosened clasp. Struggling, to deafen the fleeting harmonics born this eve. Struggling, to adhere to innate notions, to see through, both the vision and the virtue, she’d painted in her dreams.

 

Fledging forth amongst the besmirched quaking born from such dystopian avails, one would not think ill for fading soon to the aberrant qualms that darkness drew.

 

Despite tremors, of consequence, nature is discovered; where traits, of perseverance, dare not yet escape into death’s ever-alluring, outstretched arms.

 

And, in as such, violent resolutions forego their anticipatory applause.  Instead, baffled as they should be, said constrictions grow intrigued by the tarried rebuking from this beast.

 

The doe, now pale like pallor’s bride, rejects thy outcome, denouncing the agonies your restrictions make.

 

She adheres instead, to the coursework determination phrased within; blocking all currencies of pain and by staring deep into her pleasure’s swoon. And it is within this now, which sensations become avowed, thusly taking her through, to that time, in which she elsewise would’ve claimed.

 

Amongst each meandering pause another echo would emerge.  Upon a bed crafted in cruel reality, in a setting coated by seeds of unnatural parlance, maternal impulse still chose to surge. Instructions whispered she to stay. Whence came the word, perhaps the ethos spake, perchance the wind itself? Though none knew such a cure, enough was spoke to stir the beast e’er still. Mystery kept wake her eyes, to stare, beyond the pain and through the sadness it would purge. Mystery kept full her lungs, to breathe, inhaling another tinge of life.  Though fleeting still, mystery kept alive both instinct and hope, enough for her to feel what it was she knew as truth. Mystery kept her silent, still, to marvel upon the art she gave and to lay eyes upon that which she would invite to set her free.

 

Yet, when time came to, she looked away.  Many stood agape, to believe she chose to test the temperament of fate. If not for the architect with womb, never would this truth be sate. For the salt cast stream, which was all the story needed a mother to see and know.  Such action was not bred in denial but rather bled from sacrifice.

 

As the doe would have relished taking her leave with such a sight, it was out of fear she chose no such reprieve. As much as her lids did beg for this delight, she could not bear to know her expiration would be her artistry’s initial sight.

 

Such strength uncommon, born of a love noticeably unseen in such a time, to sacrifice the love she bleeds, so her blood can bear not the timeless burden of such bloodied sorrow.

 

Seasons would shift and time did pass, leaving us our return to this unfamiliar familiarity, a present path connected with the seeds of life’s past.

 

A hunter, it is told, often discovered a child scampering through his favorite tract of lawn. Upon this day and for each one that does still pass, he would stand still to watch, as this child aged upon his familiar stretch of path.  Here then he sees, each time he does, the child is cuddled close, amongst a warped wood of unnaturally yet naturally shaded hue.  And strangely enough, seasonably without expectation, such a man, of his line, should choose ebb back such a gifted sight.  Never did his quiver part from the spine, effectively deboning sycophantic notions of archetype.

 

And as the well worn boots march away each time, a child scurries along through brush and wood, ever looking back, leaving indication it would return again, a truth this hunter proudly knew as true.

 

And what is to be said of a predator that sympathizes with his prey?  Perhaps all that can be said, must lead us through, past the points of typical convention, to the precipice of an unlikely connection, a convection, that forever onward, only two would truly know.

 

Or quite possibly, as I like to think it through, perhaps the myths are true.  To which, so the songs bestows, that despite what we know of as truth, a doe still protects her own, even after her days were eternally through. The tale then retells, that through a promise made, between a sickly doe and a hunter who fared not well in hunting, that bonds be built, between man and nature and nature with man, creating an ouroboros between adult and child.

Within A Field Of Dream

I need a dictionary of symbols

To understand just a layer of what

You reveal

 

It’s been so long, so very long

Since I tasted anything beyond water…

But with each gasp, of every breath you breathe to me,

I remember, I remember well,

Just how addictive sweetness can be…

And I fall asleep the victim,

To the timelessness such spells weave

 

When peering into your eyes,

Deep within that pond of cool

I wander aimlessly,

As those waves of blue transcend

All In life I’ve ever chose to endow…

And in this pool, all is right

Where I find myself praying,

To moon dust scattered by your lantern’s light…

Illuminating such a state,

One I’m quite sure I’ll never leave,

Where the mead’s a-ever flowing

And you’re forever etched to each my every beat

 

I’ve never been someone that’s good at games,

I couldn’t ever grasp the rules of simplicity

Nor had the patience for complex schemes,

But, if not for ignorance,

If that’s truly the play I’ve made,

I never would’ve had the chance to feel,

That up until now, my life’s been incomplete

 

Where all is right, perfection tethers to the eyes

Displaying incoherent visions

To any iris harbored safely to the port

 

The grass is grass. It smell’s as grass does,

It bristles as you walk and greens beneath the sun.

It is, as it is, but only when, I’m here alone with you,

In this field of dream, in such a space so present yet removed,

Not even time and its glass of hours,

Can pretend to try and scar this mood

 

What Is Perceived As Failure May Simply Be The Seeds Of Prosperity Taking Root

Upon arrival we are blessed in tokens. Time commences, as frequently as a pausing gale. Engaging and transformative, dreams upend the tumultuous dishonors bestowed, like never-ending blankets placing their wretched warmth, upon, over and unto the flesh of the lost

 

Kindred spirits direct their energies out and into an atmosphere teeming with trials and tribulations. It is difficult. It is meant to be.  Keeping true to one’s beliefs, is the type of angst that is well alive, yet unknown by those wrapped in silk.

 

The offer of promise undoubtedly will appear like hope trapped beneath a flooding ballast, when some effigy wisps about, freeing encouragement to be understood by the ears of the forgotten, providing a message that stirs and swirls in gentle yet rapturous patterns of enigmatic wandering.

 

This epoch internal, if given over to, certainly shall reveal, that one pure moment of inspiration. And Within, here, truth most certainly breeds epiphany.

 

 

All things dead are once again alive, but sated we become, by interventions misunderstood.  With a newfound arc of possibility comes a stinging from life’s lash of apprehension.

 

And encased within each scar lives a gathering of the spectacular. A future recognition administered with sensations crafted by the sincerity of the divine.

 

Short Poem 8-16-13-3

Lost amidst the trellises of radiant glitter and crimson scaffoldings, is corded insignificance.  Such passageways endear their exteriors to those impatient with palatial gardens and the valleys of waking doldrums.  It is here, in such dominions, where the keen blend fastidiously with the ermine, slinking about in secrecy, gnawing upon the vestiges of dignity, and all the while creating a martyr’s trove of varicose reactions. Beneath this new estate, there are magnanimously enriched life forms, biding their days with the frailty of a past-lives’ prognostication citing the prominence of the days that follow suit. They flee beneath the radar of disconcerted eyes, collecting and scavenging whichever degradation their fragile frames can amass beneath such convoluted armor.  They collaborate with their brethren, engorging upon the hollow earth with their so-called civilized modernity, enriching the soil with the well-placed trinkets they’d ensnared from the last descendants of humanity itself.  These gathered idols are reminders, of just what the tiny form can conquer when cooperation and unyielding belief coincide so generously.

The Haft

The haft, a memory of what once was, dangles from a leather belt.  Tanned and stained, like its master, marching barefoot across the knotted boards of prominence, blister forth those distractions of severance.  Is it merely a coincidence to find, such harvests and malapropisms, conveniently illumined by remnants of pristine territoriality, lying dormant and abandoned beneath this temporary auburn sky?