Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Sure it's easy if you get the energy.
We gotta deal with a population explosion.
Yesterday's wars pass for television.
It's all happening so fast.

Consciousness is a drug.
I'm trying to report my findings.
Huxley was onto something,
nothing to do with the sun.

If not for God,
who would you pray to?

You pray to no one. I gave up on religion all together. It left me confused and lost. So I've become an atheist and I feel better because of it!!!!
_________________
Acura Legend

how about that, you may be on to something yourself, you and Huxley that is.........yea mnaz maybe we should focus on our own
awareness, before we start freaking out about the warming planet...
physician, heal thyself.....great insight, you have been doing some serious zeroing-in, on these recent poems, and generally with a mere
8 lines.......nice work

consciousness is the tabernacle of the soul
whose doors of perception may be opened
by some rusted key hanging in a quiet corner
far away from the rumblings of human progress

god said he was the alpha and the omega
that's two letters

very enigmatic poem, mark
I suppose it's the only way to treat the subject

Well, this one is a mess (like usual). I (umm) "fell off the wagon" again last nite. Nevertheless, I do find it a bit odd, in general, that scholars and intellectuals of recent times don't seem to pay much attention to the human population explosion (and presumably, a parallel consciousness explosion) of the 20th Century and how it all dramatically impacts our rapidly changing truth of existence. We still have dynastic politicians trying to jam their ancient fiefdom politics down the gullet of the hungry seven billion, and something's gotta give.

Oh sure it's easy if you get the energy.
You get to strut around like some cosmic ray.
Remember the sixties, all those fat colors?
Consciousness is a runaway drug.
Literally, an explosion.

Escape is the only logical alternative.
I should strip mine stars from a black sheet.
Yesterday's wars hardly pass for television,
or vice versa, it's all happening so fast.
I'm trying to report my findings.

Huxley was onto something,
nothing to do with the sun.
God has social ramifications.
If I don't believe in God,
who do I pray to?

I like your revisions, mark

now this piece is starting to remind me of an introduction to one of my books. I wrote this twenty years ago:

these two images are oddly similar:

"these bright drips on the
hood of darkness"

and

"I should strip mine stars from a black sheet. "



Angels in Shit

Dungheaps concrete. Behind a bronze glass veneer clank
hearts empty as money. Peril in panorama. One soul is barely a smudge of grease on a panting mania.
Impersonal as the gleam from a patrolman's sunglasses. The noise of snarling dogs is charming
by comparison. Man is surely a pliable creature to have worked
his way into this shell. Ants of steel jitterbug to a diesel
hiss; a vague sax baritone fumes.
Rumors hint that there was Justice once. Beauty too, existed.
It still may somewhere. I was commissioned to
understand all of
this, but I was too foolish to demand my toll in advance, so I plod
from week to week like any other sucker on the company clock.
I puzzle at the cruelty and the
ill-hidden
smirks on the faces of the privileged, especially when their duty
calls for them to brutalize. This countenance is true
pornography.
But then, I am not left to define the obscene, merely to observe
it. There are examples wherever I look. It is tempting to think
that my outlook is itself perverted. Only angels in shit, spare
me this conclusion. They are also everywhere,
like
pristine maggots
with pure wings.
Pale butterfly spirits drubbing against a sinister
dropcloth. Yes, they are my paycheck, these bright drips on the
hood of darkness, valiant and doomed.

Everywhere I look I see angels at work doing their best.
They're each in the small business of making order in a world of
chaos. Their little areas are like peaceful islands in a sea of
violence and turmoil. Like wide-eyed simpletons shooting for
Yale on a forty I.Q. or one-legged hurdlers going for the gold
they are but whispers in a hurricane.

cleaning them doors of perception is down right laborious mr. naz.........