Monday, January 23, 2012

Cosmic Dances

Hadn’t we always laughed forever, eternal?
Her majesty’s maggi(ck) noodles, boiling slowly over Her fire…
Never ready.
I am not, because this is All (of us), bouncing around like cast die,
rolling about and rolling about, but…
No answer.
What the fuck was that, talking to me in a sixth-sensual language,
metaphorical utterances with a figurative patterned tongue?
Fuse me to the ground! Well, “I” never…
The nausea came on because of being-because,
Because of being a cause
—the notion itself
(not existing and all…).

We do the Cosmic Dance in the Clearing,
where the birds and serpents watch;
they see a re-orienting of primal chaos:
order undone, and then slowly,
thoughtfully re-assembled

…into Nothingness.

We do the Cosmic Dance while Luna sails the meridian;
we, stripped of so much that only dregs of culture remain,
like so much sludge at the bottom of a coffee cup…

They play funny games here; we toss them about like planets.

Energies bleed my eyes out and I see pulsating gods that are my-selves and All as One,
slithering patterns of surely divine origin
(that is, from my own mind, from the mind of the universe);
be my lids closed or open, the same streams flow
—never ceasing, even in the current of “now”.

We laugh hard at the Cosmic Dance
because we look so funny doing it;
yet beneath Cosmic hysteria lay Cosmic earnestness.

Laughter is surely the expression of the deepest flowing streams,
the antithesis of the abysmal unknown which, ironically,
we can as yet only laugh at…

Pure Dynamic at work:
a multiplicity of multiplicities, throwing a thousand playthings back and forth;
boundless love, if only just for a moment for those who cannot bear to bring it back;
the flipside of civilised being, stark naked on a cloud in the ethereal Clearing.

There are ghosts and demons here, now;
my heart races a thousand times faster
when I realise that there will be no final beat;
that my being-inexistent preceded and will proceed my being-existent,
and as such, I am surely at home in death.

I can remember my inexistence in times of existence,
that is, when I choose to see death in life
(or when I am forcibly shown it);
when the Three become Two, and finally One.

There is nostalgia here, inexplicable as it may be.

She is He;
Mine is Our;
We are It; and It is Us.

And all are flowering together, shedding together
and dying together.

And reborn, again.

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