Please note:
All my poetry
(subsequent to the mass
that has been written
here, in this blog,
over the enduring years,
at least
until I find
a relatively
easy way
to move all
my former poetry)
has been relegated
to another blog,
Flush of the Mindpot,
in the quite-fuckin’-likely feeble
attempt
to compartmentalize,
organize
and express
my messed-up head-space
in a more digestible
manner
to you
as well as
I.
Invoke thee. Summon
this dark,
lively and lovely damsel slithering
her finger forward,
towards her, in tandem
with fixed
and quasi-submissive eye contact
into the bullseye
of my overgrown, weed-infested
field of visions,
coercing
you towards her so seductively,
as if this bond
could work, as if this twisted
dream (half sun,
half moon, half-baked, fifty fucking percent
simmering
beneath elegantly shimmering,
reflected light) you spin
in your mind
could inspire much-needed growth, shake
you right out of the ant farm
and onto a path
that you’ve never known: one that leads
closer to your alien,
mystical,
freedom-loving,
passionate
and powerful center
of self
and lures
you into expression,
to bring it out.
Always, forever,
you cut
the cord or provoked
someone to do
it for you. When do you remember riding
it all to the natural end? This cycle,
that’s your challenge. Test
the limits of your endurance.
She was right,
you know, back
then, when she said, “you always walk
away.” And you have, you did,
but look at yourself: is that truly who
you are anymore?
You must concede
that if you’ve developed
anything in the midst
of the mess
that is this wretched
context, its a rockhard spirit imbued
and fueled
by stubbornness.
Stop being this.
The one
negative one:
a problem seeking
solution, aching
for zero.
More awaits.
Revelation of addition.
You have work to do,
Let me
mash and smear my lips
against your soft
pair, gliding down, so thorough,
hands ascertaining form
like the skilled blind:
an assist
for the exploratory tongue trek
down your neck
and breasts, fearlessly entering
the vice
at the heart
of your inner thighs,
where I dig,
dance
and wiggle
till I see your light.
Let me bury me in you.
Green light
me so I might
fucking devour you.
Finale
of that single scene
behind me, allow
me to penetrate
you viciously, enact the rhythm
calling to me,
permit entrance
to your deep, dark, enlivening
inside, where I at once
hide and let
the consequential bliss rise
as I ride the wave,
awakening
me in the safety
of us,
the cradle of the bond,
now, finally one.
Not just
is it what I’ve always
wanted, but I suspect, it’s all
I have, will or would
need
to start this journey.
You are all I love,
who I want,
all I need:
a long-awaited season
for a hopeless starborne seed:
unless you or circumstance
decides
to metaphorically fuck me
and leave
me empty and wanting.
Awareness: the core,
the white light
of the soul, the observer,
the witness, my third
person perspective:
ajna,
my pineal gland:
in spirit,
if nothing more.
Triangulate…
Consciousness: the prism
of awareness,
breaking that white light
of the soul
into: moods, states,
frequencies,
psychic spectra
within which state-specific,
mood-dependent
memories
and consequential identities
are forged.
Fractured.
Split.
Shards.
Puzzle pieces
broken, dissociated,
beneath, through: a light,
each psychic island
expressed, manifest
in wildly, widely
varying intensities,
constantly shifting,
oscillating…
And where along
this continuum
do
I
reside?
Somewhere between green
and violet,
according to her,
my Jungian Sophia,
my Native American
Spider Woman,
Spider Grandmother,
but not quite blue:
so either
cyan or indigo.
Show me the spectrum,
blessed alien:
explain classification issues.
Her body light
is green,
so maybe we resonate,
share a station,
or maybe I’m a mix
of purple and red,
a body light of indigo,
a step away
from violet,
from wrapping
up this work,
the end of this road
of the soul,
my next
turn destined to set
my future precedent,
a significant step
dictating
the ongoing
World Line of my soul.
Wish that Nimi
would let me know.
So long
here, wondering,
should I just wait
and stay
here, and if not, my Teacher,
where should this
confusing-shade-of blue,
perplexed
Artist
fucking go?
Never will I have faith
again: trust
is kaput.
No.
Not at all your fault.
In any case, m’lady
I could use
the input.
Transmissions to Earth 