Play of light on tender eyelids.
Lips part in exquisite Indian glory.
Soft music hums....
Gentle summer rain unveils
the petulant painter's story.
Bold incantations,
melting images on the wings of time.
The same incessant poem
written by Rimbaud and Ginsberg.
Transfigured murals of the soul.
Beatific visions of October evening sky.
Metamorphic fantasies exploding simultaneous
with the limber force of life.
Ritual satisfaction,
mental wanderings through the ruins.
Piano melodies of the globe in full delight.
17 September 2008
Portland garden
At a Monday night gig with nothing better to do. Electric inspiration from overheard snippets of conversation.......................... meh? It's nonsense really but I find it quite fun. It's still just an experiment with words (see top!). Watcha gonna do, call me a know-nothing bohemian?
Nailbiting querether
Desolate nirvitude
A pillar of poetic isness
In another's backyard.
The tirade has not yet begun.
Alight silvery chasm.
Unfurl the sequined
delights of neverending
fright!
Unloose the loose.
Deprave the rave!
Encounter the mounter.
Fibrillate the CAVE!
1200 Megatonne pixies unleash the
parallel sycophantic vibrations.
We live in the catacombs of
delineated catterwauling phantoms.
Chastise the better ones
Treading the oft beaten ruptures.
It's just a small part of the globe
revolving, effulging - another cigarette.
Nailbiting querether
Desolate nirvitude
A pillar of poetic isness
In another's backyard.
The tirade has not yet begun.
Alight silvery chasm.
Unfurl the sequined
delights of neverending
fright!
Unloose the loose.
Deprave the rave!
Encounter the mounter.
Fibrillate the CAVE!
1200 Megatonne pixies unleash the
parallel sycophantic vibrations.
We live in the catacombs of
delineated catterwauling phantoms.
Chastise the better ones
Treading the oft beaten ruptures.
It's just a small part of the globe
revolving, effulging - another cigarette.
More notes from the haze....
She fell off the Earth but the images kept appearing - dancing celluloid fantasies - old dusty library on the outskirts of the city. The old man sat smoking in his chair by the window. Reading Shakespeare page after page. Sitting out eternity, washing his mind with elevated verse. Smoke rose revealing vision after vision of dream narratives.
The artist's tender vision of himself in a dream - aged forty - wearing the many faces he has painted. A sad weary Jesus extrapolated from the silver mists of that library. A ceremonial fire on the ground floor. People dancing round with painted bodies. All notions of sanity gone, no descriptions necessary in such a place of dreams.
The artist strolls through the chaos, face shifting through the paintings of his life, watching. The dancers bodies gyrate seductively, effusing the aromas of pure sex throughout the library. Couples loosen their clothes, kissing joyously, falling into the fire and fucking furiously.
The artist digs the orgasms, listens ecstatic to the sighs as they burst into flames and transform to ash. He digs the whole scene, a marvel for the senses, and watches and waits for the Goddess, the Gone Silent Muse.
He walks through the aftermath, picking up sundries to mix into his paintings. He lifts himself up to a ledge, surveying the library, and writes the eternal song of nothing. Sweet songs for his children's children.
The artist's tender vision of himself in a dream - aged forty - wearing the many faces he has painted. A sad weary Jesus extrapolated from the silver mists of that library. A ceremonial fire on the ground floor. People dancing round with painted bodies. All notions of sanity gone, no descriptions necessary in such a place of dreams.
The artist strolls through the chaos, face shifting through the paintings of his life, watching. The dancers bodies gyrate seductively, effusing the aromas of pure sex throughout the library. Couples loosen their clothes, kissing joyously, falling into the fire and fucking furiously.
The artist digs the orgasms, listens ecstatic to the sighs as they burst into flames and transform to ash. He digs the whole scene, a marvel for the senses, and watches and waits for the Goddess, the Gone Silent Muse.
He walks through the aftermath, picking up sundries to mix into his paintings. He lifts himself up to a ledge, surveying the library, and writes the eternal song of nothing. Sweet songs for his children's children.
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