the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

Archive for the tag “dysfunction”

but, the soul

There’s a situation;
Neverman always has
a situation, but he has
no time, no appetite
for Dr Freud
and his learned progeny.

The sages dig deep, no
doubt, but the eclectic
smorgasbord of Jung
does not satisfy, nor
the dry bread of cognition.

Adler’s insight rings true,
and we all fear to drink
the cup of death, but
these things make too
much sense to be of help.

speaker-for-the-deadBut, the soul. Gestalt,
impotent, slinks to the back,
with his weary brothers.
A Presence, huge, electric,
is Leviathan on the table,
carving Himself for the feast.

Still, Neverman aches for
the gifts of Love, while
hiding, vainly, from the Lover.
Heart, torn and planted; a
scion of the tree of Life
springs from the bloody ground.

αΩ


Image from comics.ign.com. Some of the last stanza inspired by “Speaker for the Dead” by Orson Scott Card.

Advertisements

then again the acid

CorrodedHandit will return, of course
wheel and all its
moving parts securely
attached to its blue frame.
then, again, the acid
in the air
pocks the chain with rust and
in a rush of bile
Neverman’s bicycle blows
mojo and lightness dragged
roughly
into viscous singularity


image from metaconscious.tumblr.com

postscript

years or only
minutes into a
future-spiked present
an older version of
someone with no
tears on his face
rides Neverman’s exact bicycle
angling across his
darkstep path and, in a
moment, gone

above the dark house, God
laughs. a star falls.

only

when the blue bicycle gets
lost
as
it does sometimes, Neverman walks
loosely of limb, tight
of mind. earworms:
existential, the same fat tired old
questions hacking up,
phlegmatic clichés, clouded
dullness of a demon’s
eye.

there are no con
versations only acolytes
thin, dutiful smiles on
shiny sleeves but
never hearts. fury is
in his house tonight and
god he
needs to sleep,
please, explaining
the missing bicycle. maybe
explaining
everything.

soft lonely
shoes pad, pad, head
up, stand
tall, just
in case, and never the
same path
twice, or someone may
notice, under a
perplexing sky where,
still, the meteors do
not come.

please stop arguing

The cosmic constants align, just so,
and by mere existence generate
infinitesimal probabilities, lunged
towards by God’s self-appointed
collectors of irrefutables. Shrill
Dawkins countered that argument,
although it cost him the multiverse.
He carries now a debt of chance;
thoughtful credibility teeters once
more toward the theophiles, but their
arguments remain luke-warm
renditions of the full banquet. Even
amongst the faithful, the genealogies
of creation are endless; certainty may
not be deferred, and wilful ignorance
is an impermissible position. Logic
and higher reason, faith and dogma
tumble over one another, shaken like
dice in the cup Einstein rejected. The
proof we seek may never be found.

~


DanSomething appropriate for the exact first anniversary of this blog. Thanks to everyone who has read and commented, especially the regulars. Keep the faith!

early

“Sulphur isotope data from early Archaean rocks suggest that microbes with metabolisms based on sulphur existed almost 3.5 billion years ago, leading to suggestions that the earliest microbial ecosystems were sulphur-based.”

microfossilsBreathing sulfur, Lucifer’s contrail settles,
flaming, to Earth, tiny acrid engines
building his deep domain to fight a beauty
growing by the Day. Heaven splits from
Earth, and  falling becomes possible;
the Deep is molten, heaving; a
primordial evening and morning pass,
and again; the planet breathes, flourishes
before the Liar finds his reptilian disguise
and brings the brimstone upward. The
tiny traces of creation’s alien dawn
brim in stone, clues for the diligent.

.

Wacey, D., Kilburn, M.R., Saunders, M., Cliff, J. and Brasier, M.D. 2011. Microfossils of sulphur-metabolizing cells in 3.4-billion-year-old rocks of Western Australia. Nature Geoscience 4, 698-702. (http://dx.doi.org/10.1038/ngeo1238)

leviathan

leviathanthis is our normal way of living.
slowly, we built it, this god we thought
that we could control. It would do
justice in the world, reward with wealth and
comfort the strong and resourceful, the driven
and the inventive, the diligent and the lucky.
It would punish the indolent and the weak,
the unfortunate and the outcast, while
teasing them with the incentives of the good.
And it was ours; within our power to tame
and destroy. In our greed we began to question
and resent our own control; our dragon would
more willingly concede its store of gold unshackled
and, having won its freedom, our monster
flourished. Untamed, its acts became increasingly
random; the blessed were triply so, the accursed
received their due in poverty and squalor.
Slowly, in an ironic and obscene revolution,
the beast could again be reined by those
whom it had rewarded; power built power,
ignoring the destruction and death
visited upon the weak.

Everywhere in our world,
this is our normal way of living.

unmasked

Garments rent. Nakedness. A
trivial strain; armour dissolves.
Swollen throat forces downward,
heartward; respawns loneliness’s
bitter winter ache; bleak,
stupefying, coercive; thrusting
bluntly back within. Anaesthesia
fades into strike of grief, face
wets with tears, eyes, blinking
salt, the last real drink running
into the corners of the mouth, at
once mocking and sustaining.
Here, we must linger, must hold
on, straining for comfort and
light, fearing, denying that when
this ends, nothing remains but
soul and self, glorious, pathetic.

.

past full

two days past full, an oddly flattened moon maintains a constant bearing as I walk, trying to only feel the walking, the moment, but thinking forward, back, over in time with insistent steps

=|=

with the moon at my back a meteor shoots, adding ions in a blazing death to thinnest air, ionosphere, and the there is no luck in its falling, only the type of fortune that sees walkers under lonely night-time skies

=|=

oval moon cuts tracks on the street opposite, along inhabited windows curtained against the cooling night and the creatures abroad in it; no place for me, not behind the traversing moon, neither, despite my earnest efforts to fit into a human mould, on this old and tired earth, unforgiving in its impassion

less

asceticgive me the hunger, bring it by choosing
the empty belly, caffeine depletion, low
spirited exchange with my adipose muse

wits sharpened, mystic, shaman-like
body punished into apostolic slavery
and tempted by delusions of control

fainting with inner strength, body
spare, pared, shrinking into holy and
imagined purity of spirit and mind while

all the time, the rude oscillation of dark,
light, yin, yang, flesh, spirit, appetite and
control. But the Wind blows where it will.

.

rumble

fishbonesubsonic growl births stomach-
pit anxieties, b-grade parasitic alien
insectoids pierce and possess in
the ear-splitting dark; slow-witted
evil twists, chestnut-spined, in half-

chestnutdreamed delirium, panic-morninged
insomnia caresses loneliness’s jealous
grasp, clawed, feathered, skeletal
fingers, hopesuckers, pirates and
murderers of faith’s high seas

Monday morning dreaming

discomfort at a shy angel’s kiss while
rapidfire surrealist pastiche of blisses and
anxieties morphs and weaves, just atoms
beyond the grasp of conscious mind. Having
drunk of his true and naked self, the waker
stumbles reluctantly back into the fallen and
solid universe, into linear time, dread-ful

.

Post Navigation