the poem i write
Posted: June 14th, 2009, 12:24 am
The poem i write
i do not write
from the loftiest height
nor is it written from
the lowest low
i haven't got there yet
i'm going down this shaft
its like inside a alien craft
to some its called the descent
to all history we seem to be
falling from some above
the apple fell or was plucked
knowledge of good and evil fucked
the to-proud angel a plummeting object
chucked from the mother-ship of God
in antediluvian meaning of the word
the oldest texts mirrored this rift
and now as seen from below
thus the poet enters the time-line
drawn from some infinite to some
local in some zone of what once was
to what it became upon reflection
in the lake of fire and ice
the poet, the poet is like Egyptian dice
they come in all sizes, styles, and numbers
they all do one thing well, they roll and roll
and when they stop, the spots do tell
the poet then is a connector of black holes
or red dots
we roll like the planet, and we melt like cubes
of consciousness into the ground, and tumble
down, through the layers of ages and yellow
pages, the conflagrations, the combinations
the progressions of the heavens, the seven
elevens...
oh but its the snake-eyes that seem to sparkle
in the ululations of the Goddess as she rides
the unholy mask down into the underworld
she is made to become naked as never before
and into the core she will perform her chore
as she wears the nights-colors---as she enters
the deepest vaults of herself unwinding her ways
unfolding into the labyrinth of all points departed
floating past the ruins of dice like buildings of
brown and pink, sink sink sink she does as her owl
winks in the glow of a thousand lamp-ships, wicks
so low trimmed, and the tale is skimmed
as long as the tale is told
i do not write
from the loftiest height
nor is it written from
the lowest low
i haven't got there yet
i'm going down this shaft
its like inside a alien craft
to some its called the descent
to all history we seem to be
falling from some above
the apple fell or was plucked
knowledge of good and evil fucked
the to-proud angel a plummeting object
chucked from the mother-ship of God
in antediluvian meaning of the word
the oldest texts mirrored this rift
and now as seen from below
thus the poet enters the time-line
drawn from some infinite to some
local in some zone of what once was
to what it became upon reflection
in the lake of fire and ice
the poet, the poet is like Egyptian dice
they come in all sizes, styles, and numbers
they all do one thing well, they roll and roll
and when they stop, the spots do tell
the poet then is a connector of black holes
or red dots
we roll like the planet, and we melt like cubes
of consciousness into the ground, and tumble
down, through the layers of ages and yellow
pages, the conflagrations, the combinations
the progressions of the heavens, the seven
elevens...
oh but its the snake-eyes that seem to sparkle
in the ululations of the Goddess as she rides
the unholy mask down into the underworld
she is made to become naked as never before
and into the core she will perform her chore
as she wears the nights-colors---as she enters
the deepest vaults of herself unwinding her ways
unfolding into the labyrinth of all points departed
floating past the ruins of dice like buildings of
brown and pink, sink sink sink she does as her owl
winks in the glow of a thousand lamp-ships, wicks
so low trimmed, and the tale is skimmed
as long as the tale is told
