Thursday, August 27, 2009
beauty as urge to merge
where-ever I see beauty, I just wanna' be fuk'd by it -- like the humming-bird and the flower where the unfurling coil that is the hummingbirds tongue reaches in for that sweet spot, slipping and sliding 'round and 'round getting deep-inside that pretty one merging with it's Beauty -- how would you see it from the inside-out perspective -- what images, impressions, feelings does being-beautiful, being-fuk'd by beauty do for you -- such is beauties beautiful relativity process like being fuk'd by words, by poetry that turns our musical-brain full-on bursting into a thousand well-writ phrasings, making a mess of matters in such a beautiful way that words can have their night 'n day -- the urge to merge is an ongoing content that is alive and there if you're aware
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Ramadan man:
~ out of the desert at dusk he will come, intemperate, seeing you first with his eyes, burning like coals in his longing for your sumptuous fruits, then his mouth will swallow your blushing lips, he will drink deep from your sweet mouth while hands as strong as steel bind you close to him -- in that ravishing you will feel the Laylat al-Qadr in your breasts bearing passions fruit in your mind and your hearts will be one...
Confidence Management 101:
expressing emotions with conviction, without trying to please others often causes the monkey-mind in others to respond with aggression first or deference -- nonetheless, when the mind plays on the slippery slope of words=emotions=take it personally or words=I'm special and you better be able to see it - we get misconstrued communications with pain-body ramifications and deceitful variations -- as such a common past-time is to treat all wounded-reasons as uninvited guests and find that what you thought was a hornets-nest is but a passing of gases dissipating rapidly
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
to breathe life into...inSpiration
we breath life into language which we construe with semantics and syntactical alliances until it needs to be said or is a lovely song but mostly flung out there into a crowded starry sky to fly or fall, that's all -- I learn a lot from my still-born writes as much, if not more, than those that never get a stare -- it all gets recycled in the cauldron of my heart, boiling with fires too hot for knowledge or understanding, spewing forth with plasma graces where they flow to my pen again and again as leaden storms or golden winds
inspiration is the gift of stars flowing with light from eyes glittering with delight or waves of sweet wise words floating off the tongue of an old and smiling one -- nice poement -- inspire - To breathe life into
we invent language, but I've used the archaic expression with [Middle English enspiren, from Old French enspirer, from Latin nsprre : in-, into; see in-2 + sprre, to breathe.] -- which aids in the allusion of language forms 'n rituals being dead, without life until we breath that life into them -- kinda like in Jewish folklore, a golem (גולם; English pronunciation: /ˈgoʊləm/, goh ləm) is an animated being created entirely from inanimate matter and then 'life' is breathed into it -- of course they can become servants or monsters
I get the feeling you're really like Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in that your allusions are that we are all bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues bouncing and bullying each other around looking for ways to merge with each other, leaking through our surface tension, wiggling or waiting for that 'special' one to burst us free to really be me -- i'm real only then when you are and life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought really me means --
the 'song' was originally a come-along of similar sounds with reverberation, a frequency-ride in scales that shaped the land-scape you were assimilating, the urge to merge with a naked-dance prance -- a sort of serendipity cum verity where your body-heart-mind instrument sympathetically resonated with the here-we-go, doncha'know -- as you are aware, I'm not a fan of thinking and find it highly over-rated, nonetheless, when thought follows in resonance with the heart and the body dances to that earth-bound beat reaching for the sky, that's when my words become imbued with inspiration, a sweet-release, a sigh
I don't flaunt that I'm a flautist and like to jazz 'n rhythm with that music stick in either sonorous tones of a Tai Hei Shakuhach or the rigorous tonality of a Sonare Solid Silver Flute (Split E) with it's inherent mystery -- from the Music of the Spheres to the sounds that sooth our fears in the relative dance to the frequencies of scale : Planet to Planet, Star to Star, Galaxies and Dark matter revolving in the slipperiness of deep 'n dark space keeping pace to their own law of falling into each other in time and space matter -- I'd imagine dear Wittgenstein with a black hole in his head bending the light with his insight -- Godal, Escher 'n Bach played with the infinite-in where all thats left of the Cheshire cat is the grin -- canons and fugues with Shepard scales, the white whale of Information Theory, the Eternal Golden braid in Quantum tessellations made -- it's Higgy dust where from nothing to everything you see, a Quantum fluctuation made music and you 'n me
I agree -- as stated in rigorous English, I'm not fastidious on syntactical forms 'n rituals nor am I averse to the idiom of the medium is the message -- as an idiot staring at forever I've found concept bubbles burst on the meandering stream of consciousness toward the Sea of eternity, where I, you and me no longer dis-agree nor are bound by the laws of 'be' but ride the waves of entropy -- the medium of longing swells in an ancient-ache, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night
i'm laughing in spasms here -- yep! it's the 'terror of the situation' bound in words that slap and scold that what is new always comes from something that is old -- here you've scraped the surface with your wit, like some grave-robber digging into it, to boldy go where we'll all end up, as worm-food making them, too, fed-up
for me, words as sound and vehicle of what we need to say, come as streams of rhythms bound naturally by the tempo of the time and how would you say, what is going 'round in Zeitgesitian rhyme -- nevertheless, as night is bound to day, where language ends, poetry will have it's say -- whether it's dialectically determined daydreams speaking in defence or a bird-song rivalling for the highest branch in the tree - the writer writes, in idioms of laughter and tears, words that grate or are in harmonies -- either way, what is real and what is not, is an invention we corral in the words that we've got; why not?
I get what you're aiming for and spewing word-vomit on the floor from drinking it all in 'till you wanna' burst that write is wrong when you've got it all rehearsed -- to analyze and sift through all that we are which makes us say the things we say, like Physicists mapping layers of a Star as it bursts into a fiery rage or the pundit and his polemic to the Political slave -- to reiterate my wan declination, I'm not a fan of knowings demarcation, but I understand this non-trivial need in this forum of Poetics, however, understand that I'm not into rhetoric nor a theoretician but rather lean to the nature of the beast in us and it's mystery of the numinous -- reason is wounded in that it cannot embrace consciousness, that there is something more and bigger than we can garner by taking it all apart, that Science like Art is not the map but the territory where your feet are write now, where to show is the goal and not to tell -- Art is greater than the sum of its parts but getting what you're going for takes analytical skill, the heart of it, if you will
i read often and often when I'm not, I read visually all sorts of movies from the 'B' horror raves to the artsy Sundance festival faves -- lately I've been entwined in IT Server migrations and DNS woes which is what I've been doing all day today -- however, the collected Patchen poems you steered me towards gave me inspiration then to William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean to these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise
well that's an interesting turn of phrase in what you say, do I read for fun in any way -- well, yes it's fun to read 'n write, in fact it's outta' site -- as you read me write before, joy is the foundation of wonder and wonder is the basis of the dream that all that we are and all that we seem is as the bloom is to flower, as scent is to what we feel, and the feeling is fun when it's then so visceREAL -- I study too and then I dream, look out over the Burrard Bay into a city that shines like jewels in the night -- I read some and I write some, mostly for fun, while watching the Sun glitter on the Sea or the tessellating Moon beams that set my heart free, yes, that's fun for me
inspiration is the gift of stars flowing with light from eyes glittering with delight or waves of sweet wise words floating off the tongue of an old and smiling one -- nice poement -- inspire - To breathe life into
we invent language, but I've used the archaic expression with [Middle English enspiren, from Old French enspirer, from Latin nsprre : in-, into; see in-2 + sprre, to breathe.] -- which aids in the allusion of language forms 'n rituals being dead, without life until we breath that life into them -- kinda like in Jewish folklore, a golem (גולם; English pronunciation: /ˈgoʊləm/, goh ləm) is an animated being created entirely from inanimate matter and then 'life' is breathed into it -- of course they can become servants or monsters
I get the feeling you're really like Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in that your allusions are that we are all bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues bouncing and bullying each other around looking for ways to merge with each other, leaking through our surface tension, wiggling or waiting for that 'special' one to burst us free to really be me -- i'm real only then when you are and life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought really me means --
the 'song' was originally a come-along of similar sounds with reverberation, a frequency-ride in scales that shaped the land-scape you were assimilating, the urge to merge with a naked-dance prance -- a sort of serendipity cum verity where your body-heart-mind instrument sympathetically resonated with the here-we-go, doncha'know -- as you are aware, I'm not a fan of thinking and find it highly over-rated, nonetheless, when thought follows in resonance with the heart and the body dances to that earth-bound beat reaching for the sky, that's when my words become imbued with inspiration, a sweet-release, a sigh
I don't flaunt that I'm a flautist and like to jazz 'n rhythm with that music stick in either sonorous tones of a Tai Hei Shakuhach or the rigorous tonality of a Sonare Solid Silver Flute (Split E) with it's inherent mystery -- from the Music of the Spheres to the sounds that sooth our fears in the relative dance to the frequencies of scale : Planet to Planet, Star to Star, Galaxies and Dark matter revolving in the slipperiness of deep 'n dark space keeping pace to their own law of falling into each other in time and space matter -- I'd imagine dear Wittgenstein with a black hole in his head bending the light with his insight -- Godal, Escher 'n Bach played with the infinite-in where all thats left of the Cheshire cat is the grin -- canons and fugues with Shepard scales, the white whale of Information Theory, the Eternal Golden braid in Quantum tessellations made -- it's Higgy dust where from nothing to everything you see, a Quantum fluctuation made music and you 'n me
I agree -- as stated in rigorous English, I'm not fastidious on syntactical forms 'n rituals nor am I averse to the idiom of the medium is the message -- as an idiot staring at forever I've found concept bubbles burst on the meandering stream of consciousness toward the Sea of eternity, where I, you and me no longer dis-agree nor are bound by the laws of 'be' but ride the waves of entropy -- the medium of longing swells in an ancient-ache, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night
i'm laughing in spasms here -- yep! it's the 'terror of the situation' bound in words that slap and scold that what is new always comes from something that is old -- here you've scraped the surface with your wit, like some grave-robber digging into it, to boldy go where we'll all end up, as worm-food making them, too, fed-up
for me, words as sound and vehicle of what we need to say, come as streams of rhythms bound naturally by the tempo of the time and how would you say, what is going 'round in Zeitgesitian rhyme -- nevertheless, as night is bound to day, where language ends, poetry will have it's say -- whether it's dialectically determined daydreams speaking in defence or a bird-song rivalling for the highest branch in the tree - the writer writes, in idioms of laughter and tears, words that grate or are in harmonies -- either way, what is real and what is not, is an invention we corral in the words that we've got; why not?
I get what you're aiming for and spewing word-vomit on the floor from drinking it all in 'till you wanna' burst that write is wrong when you've got it all rehearsed -- to analyze and sift through all that we are which makes us say the things we say, like Physicists mapping layers of a Star as it bursts into a fiery rage or the pundit and his polemic to the Political slave -- to reiterate my wan declination, I'm not a fan of knowings demarcation, but I understand this non-trivial need in this forum of Poetics, however, understand that I'm not into rhetoric nor a theoretician but rather lean to the nature of the beast in us and it's mystery of the numinous -- reason is wounded in that it cannot embrace consciousness, that there is something more and bigger than we can garner by taking it all apart, that Science like Art is not the map but the territory where your feet are write now, where to show is the goal and not to tell -- Art is greater than the sum of its parts but getting what you're going for takes analytical skill, the heart of it, if you will
i read often and often when I'm not, I read visually all sorts of movies from the 'B' horror raves to the artsy Sundance festival faves -- lately I've been entwined in IT Server migrations and DNS woes which is what I've been doing all day today -- however, the collected Patchen poems you steered me towards gave me inspiration then to William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean to these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise
well that's an interesting turn of phrase in what you say, do I read for fun in any way -- well, yes it's fun to read 'n write, in fact it's outta' site -- as you read me write before, joy is the foundation of wonder and wonder is the basis of the dream that all that we are and all that we seem is as the bloom is to flower, as scent is to what we feel, and the feeling is fun when it's then so visceREAL -- I study too and then I dream, look out over the Burrard Bay into a city that shines like jewels in the night -- I read some and I write some, mostly for fun, while watching the Sun glitter on the Sea or the tessellating Moon beams that set my heart free, yes, that's fun for me
the TXTing scene is a dangerous-one, it would seem
the drama in kids is another way to say that they're stressing and straining to acquire their own moves on this earth, for which these elders gave them birth -- it's hard to see through fixed-emotional monsters that roam like ghosts of dinosaurs past, these people propelled by their greed, that what our children are is part monster and part mutating-thing on the verge of the urge to merge they're DNA'd with -- eventually we all begin to see, or not, that what we are is not what we've got, but is more numinous than this, like kissing the beloved with the same kiss -- our children ought to see farther as they stand on the shoulders of giants before them and it's up to them to jump into the Sea of reality -- my children are a synthesis of me and their Mom yet much much more that that sum and aren't so dumb as to TXT 'n run
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGE8LzRaySk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGE8LzRaySk
On Rating Poetry:
degeneRATING has as it's inherent conceit the sliding scale in which we mete-out while crossing the line that poetry is fractal like each other, shall we deMean with a number-game our sister and brother?
falling stars
-- in the medium of longing swells, an ancient-ache cried out, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night -- so did the night beget the light
Saturday, August 22, 2009
infinite nights
In infinite darkness
an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights
as if the night wept in stars --
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
that's the slippery slope of duality ~
in the congress of Love
only Loving is the Truth
and that's the Beauty of beholding
with a realEYEsed look that dares to see
that Truth like Beauty is relativity --
this is my body, this is my blood,
come unto me as children would
with eyes the heart has seared with fire,
overflowed as insanity on the sharp edge of desire
where the fool and saint are one and the same
as players in the play of this duality game --
promulgate your Truth as if a wave on the Sea
where waves all gather but disagree
yet often move from deepest blue
as if they were both me 'n you;
dive deep for the pearls and come up smiling with their gleam in your eyes then write a Poem while watching each drip of your pen bloom into a thousand flowers, again 'n again
the metaphor for surrendering deeply
body 'n soul, like Osiris 'n Isis or
Dionysus the horned hoofly God
with his flesh ravaged
and eaten by his drunken virgin savages --
drink deep his gift of blood, eat the flesh
of the King for the Love of Spring,
to rise again with Sol, in light for us all
ahhh, yes - such are these terms of endearment
made merry with sounds that alliterate 'n show
the tender moments Lovers know
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
the caveat to Serotonin is ya' know, that theres no endless glow flow -- your brain needs to rest in the dark it seems to recuperate in the sleep of vivid dreams -- often the brightest stars shine half as long, because of the stoopid work ethic, its their swan song -- so many go to the drug crutch or worse 'n end up dead, of course -- meditation can also recuperate the mind, close the eyes 'n dive deep, regenerates these brain chemistries I find or just a good nights sleep
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