Category: Poems

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What a lovely image. It’s the alps

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Now it would be amazing if I could use marksown for that

Careful as you move Twisting those bare, knotted knuckles. Slice the diagonal with the precision of a surgeon, Calm and serene, como la mariposa Landing in the shade of boundless grass. Your mind doesn’t simply dissect this move. It ponders and engulfs the move of this move: The fifth, fifteenth and fiftieth iterations Cycle like clockwork through your synapses. No longer just another unfortunate, burdensome acquaintance, Time is your friend. Feel the levity, the sterile clarity As your index finger and bony thumb Clench the finely bristled mane. Know that this has been done before. Know that this will happen again. For the variation is no longer That simple infinity of your father’s father, Though the symmetry remains the same. Pause a moment: the positions are set, The lingering pieces frozen in place. A delicate whisper floats upon the board: Jaque mate señor, jaque mate.

In an unfortunate dissection of light, Thirteen beams were splintered, Shattered and shot into oblivion. ‘Twas a most regrettable occurrence Engendered by the spatial limitations Of some cluttered mind and a heavy soul. Disappearing into obsolete Xanadus, Most rays unsurprisingly remained afar. After all, their collective was prime, Their fate unintended, and their skill Melodically unquestioned.

Yet one odd purveyor of iniquities, Stricken by the throes of insomnia, (Chance affliction of madmen and kings) Finally dreamt in jubilant ekstasis Of the familiar fragrance of jasmine. In a euphoric, unforgettable silence, He halted. Sweet memory infused The spectral creature with unquenchable Desire, and in a single infinite bound, Recalling a singular path, the ray returned, Piercing through the untold darkness.

It floats, slows down, stops, retreats. Perception staggers with the inconsistent flux of time As mind wanders, fuzzy and numb, And body slips into the swirling quicksand That surrounds and usurps the senses, Dissipating known and unknown forms. Evoked by the bliss of vertigo And oneiric shadows of sound, Drooping eyelids invite this dream, Injecting a soporific Deep into lyrical maelstroms That know not the stylistic Shades Nor the thrill of the third paroxysm. Indeed, as they say, from a haze Emerges a buoyant subconscious, Laboriously drawn forth by the inexplicable pleasure Of having loosed the very fabric of being. Intrigue, infinity, and the metaphysics of Mephistopheles, Yes, even language and her sweetly disposed nullification Intrinsically mesh and burn together To create the microcosm of the blazed, To unveil the fool and his folly.

There it goes… Don’t let it disappear amongst the Whispering boughs, sliding away In the softly dimming, refracting Sunset. Grasp it. Hold it. Kiss it. In a fraction of a moment, it will Fall through the frivolous gaps In your half-clenched fist, And not a word Will be spoken.

They are the noiseless, the soundless, Strung together These phantom globes stretch To an unseen horizon, Cast a pale shadow, a dead light on hazy ground. Defying the dark and infinite shroud, They are the peace, the quiet, The silently pulsating calm.