Thursday, October 4, 2012


They say our problems are psychological
Psyche-logical; soul- words, breaking out
The Logos of the Soul, they say, has plagued us.

The plague has deftly arrived,  but no words from the soul are inscribed; just dry lines that describe and are imbibed by dull denizens sipping coffee on a train on the way to work: a quirk, a quark – what does it matter?  They found it so we can sound it; tell the savages to cease their pagan prayers, for the minute has been discovered, named and set loose to leave spirituality in flames; strictly no dames; not here, in the twenty-first, for here there is no thirst – haven’t you read? the Lord God is dead; Professor Nominal rests now, in His bed, his feats phenomenal, his heart abdominal; forget the tell-tales of childhood, forget the magic you thought you sought in those dark woods – a tree is a tree, is a tree is a tree, is nothing more than a bird or a bee; indeed, if you see more than neutrality our doctor’s will inform you: YOU ARE IN NEED; you have a sickness, of the psychotic kind – certainly not divine – one which you might find in the poet’s mind, an artist’s line, anywhere the world appears ill-defined; but don’t fret, stress, caress – don’t dare think yourself less – you will convalesce, back at the nest, where it’s safe and warm, where you’re nurtured and torn and simultaneously raped and burned, left to slowly fade into abstractions, distractions, awkward social interactions, political factions, ideological fractions, all who deny, despise and give rise to inner turmoil and dissatisfaction; all who differentiate between those who love and those who proliferate; life, they’ll say, is a blank slate, designed by the mind and born to initiate; forget the memory of DNA, that infinite line of connexions and braids; forget the contact we’ve made with the infinite array, the collective and divine dismay, at a world all sullen and grey, blunted and lame, limited and thus infinitely frayed – what we have now has been packaged and sprayed; it lies on a shelf, shining, brilliant, effortlessly made; read the label, better than fable, better than reason; generic, geriatric, jelly-active and ready-made, for your impulse, your pleasure, to keep You (writ large) at bay; hail no cab to this infinite dismay; you’re already there, scared, in conflict with the object of that thirsting and beautiful stare; I was there, I was scared, I was homeless with no care; and then, like Zen, I was there, am here, now here, now here, now here; now HEAR, as in, like, with your ear, the echoes rebounding from one eternity to the next, over, over, over; sober, left to be, ego-free; the latter may still be a dream, but it would seem, from what I see, that this dream is in me, is in thee, is all around me: the Man, in His coat, has just failed to breathe; see it is He, it is He, who has crucified thee.

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