The High Ole of Gart

Beyond the instant need for gratification.
the veil of desire.
brief contemplation and vision of the Divine...
Silence black on the video screen.
unmoved image,
solid magic...
Sounds of ancient Morocco beamed from modern France
as a coffin dodger wheels past past on his
fifteen-to-one induction device.
Crocodilius crevice,
untoward advances of the knobbly old writer
Mr Burroughs, teacher of pirate revolutions
and the subtleties of addiction.
Uncover the clear stream as it tumbles
from Che's hilltop camp to Havana coffee shops,
brown sugar tipped from the holy eucalyptus tree.
So much bravura and slight temptation.
Wrestling with the armband of sarcophagus fury.
Solemn giants walk thru the dreamlike rotunda of
hanging rainforests, ivy draped on the wise old
tree of knowledge.
Boosh! Left-hand curler sidekick undeniable
wisdom of the pure breast-filled landscape.
Ancient waterfall in the Irish country,
jelly-shoes skirting over sleeping pebbles.
Ah, what morning mist was I born of?
What bohemian duskfall emerging from
the late seventies.
Who stole away an sublime bite of the fruit
before it went mouldy.
Who still sits silently reaching
in every direction, and none,
as the succulent peach of eternity
falls with ease into the universal mudra.