A bag in the wind
Rose in a glory of abandon
And caught the tail of an escape
To its harrowing existence
Clutched a ladder to the sky
And hung for fear of change
A skyhook to the heavens of the moment
’Las the western wind was keen
To keep on moving
And with a gust to the past
Carried off again
Begging the question
Would thee stand in defiance of fate?
Or would thee let the current air
Move thee to the other shore
And remember the other shore
Is nothing more than dreams
Raison d’être
And the reason was dear
As those dreams race
through thy mind
Like the sun to an axis
of ego
Revolving on the horizon
In the tunnels of linear
design
Those which leave the
light
To reach from around
darkened corners
The rape of the muse of
God
Wringing out the fallen
angel
At the pace of haloed
music
His eulogy existentially
internalized
In the drafts of
historicity
Brushing thy hair for
the performance
Déjà vu au courant
Offshore we speak in
tongues
Discarding of the record
Lives on paper undone
In the currents of
modulated repetition
Stirring thy neurons
from their disastrous routine
Spawning mountains from
the desert
Mirages of methodical
dreams
If thee look far enough
into the distance
The motions feel the
same
And everything is
spinning at the same time
On the horizon of new
life
Already seen in the
current fashion
In the common mode of
thought
The bachelordom of
freedom
Searching for a concept
to wed
In the wake of
religiosity
Seizing the chaos of an
intuitive mathematics
Electrifying the body
In conversation with the
ghosts of God and Lucifer
One and the same
Iniquitatis
Wreaking havoc on
tradition
To find the beauty of
the desert
Where wandering
emaciated and alone
Only reason could bear
the eMotion
An emotional
intelligence
And thy dearest reason
Could only draw upon the
veil of nature
In the perpetuation of
pretentious life
In the conceit of irony
And born
There were two rainbows
Enveloping the full moon
At the last rise of
spring
Where two loves met with
time
And their dark
counterparts lingered in the auras
Convulsions coming on
To bring death a bit
closer
And force us find the
light
In the enclosure of the
intellect
Its physical
manifestation
The winding tunnels of
nervous systems
Carrying electric
currents
Like shivers down the
spine
Of an ancient book
That persisted to master
the soul
Despite the revelations
of the desert
Wrung out in the common
style
Philosophy is dead
Her questions circular
reiterations
That leave no question
at all
Following the little
deaths of the heart
La petite mort
High and ready to fall
’Las the western wind
was strong
Always moving forward
Always falling short
A narcotic epilepsy
The exorcism of rote
An aura of the lines
Late to come and go
The reason already
changed you
There was nothing left
to show for
Nailed to the age of
truth
Thy dearest reason had
forsaken thee
And the desert was thy homeJason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com
No comments:
Post a Comment