What is not Under Discussion

somewhere
in your wet
moist
jungle regions

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
unique and
infidelitous

incestuously congressing with

the infinite permutations of itself

Saying hello

Waving goodbye

running its hand up your thigh

why?

for the perpetuating image making
congregating pressure to become

and

to expand

to live in temporary splendor or

in the pursuit of one thing after another
as a veil upon the truth..

or…

and generations of imaged beings overlay

and 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?

Hmmm…

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

magnetized

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

Massive impetus…

incalculable pushing out and sucking in
that web of sunlight can grow sticky
and dense..

denser yet….

down into carbon oil and diamonds…

Wow! Look!

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

and

Time

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
flypaper… amber…

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
beneath
the incomprehensible

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…

one question…

is it conscious?

Are you?

Well then…

Nothing more need be added or done
Either it is or it is not

If not… then from where comes the capacity to question?

Ah..

uh huh…

precious, precious jewels draped in cobwebs
tracked by ghost spiders

blind groping round the corners of the mind
while the buffeting distractions go on
without end
where? where?

slippery as a fish
elusive
monumentally present
overarching and
groined

penetrating
essence

oily

luminous

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.