in your wet
in the undiscovered mystery of your skin
in the beckoning
in the squalor
in the given heart of everything
in your dark parlour
lies the mystery of becoming
a thing activated by and for
the endless expressions of itself.
sinuous and langorous
incestuously congressing with
the infinite permutations of itself
running its hand up your thigh
for the perpetuating image making
congregating pressure to become
to live in temporary splendor or
in the pursuit of one thing after another
as a veil upon the truth..
and generations of imaged beings overlay
the white hot starlight at
the sweet silent center that keeps the kitchen warm
and puts the heat into your jeans at alternating locations.
Can you feel it?
Yes… it’s a mystery.
It parts its legs and the world appears.
The dynamics insist that the attractive impulse should be for the thing
apart from… and then…
into communion with elements and compounds
cooking up fiery chaos…
but rather does wisdom suggest
you keep your hand close to your chest
and your heart single
when division is death
incalculable pushing out and sucking in
that web of sunlight can grow sticky
down into carbon oil and diamonds…
It comes out the other side again.
How comes the fire to be fiery hot?
What is the sensation of burning?
What makes water wet?
What is the nature of pain?
There are as many kinds of fire and
motivations …as definitions of gain
Yes it is a mystery
Things fall and things change
Things hurt and heal
Buddhas shimmer where the sun hits the water
Jesus glimmers in the virgin mind
Mohammed makes a tapestry
and all of it divine and moving on
sense and nonsense
thinking and feeling
pleasure and pain
It’s a lily pad
It’s a lotus
It’s all hocus pocus
Its a lie that depends on the I
see for yourself.
Sticky… sticky taffy…. sweet incandescent morsels of murk
screams frozen in Time
Laughter, screams, laughter, screams
You pay for what you get
You get what you pay for…
You are the currency
the moment looking at itself
devoid of understanding the thing on which it rests
it seeks security against the inevitable
instead of shelter
Herein is the wicket and the key
and you’re on a Busman’s Holiday.
All of this
so simple and so intricate
hiding in plain sight
with or without light
does hinge on one thing…
is it conscious?
Nothing more need be added or done
Either it is or it is not
If not… then from where comes the capacity to question?
precious, precious jewels draped in cobwebs
tracked by ghost spiders
blind groping round the corners of the mind
while the buffeting distractions go on
slippery as a fish
There where your treasures be
is each personal conclusion
at that point where the teapot
pours out the paisley and
makes a Persian rug or a dungeon keep.