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| We want words, not wonders. |
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| We prefer miracles, and dreams. |
Paul writes on the even stanzas. Being the gentleman he is, I get the honour to start the first odd stanza. There are a few ways to read this - collectively or evenly-oddly. They look amazing as Instagram photo poetry too. 30 days of November and we learn word collaboration to make a story of #WorldsWithoutEnd - from us to all. Happy Noel 2013
Me:
Old coins minted of his dynasty. His father's ancestry scattered around her peach stall. Prosperity and depression beget her children. They forget their wealth.
Paul:
They are neither children nor adults and they take classes in the dark. Small red lights the only source of seeing, like Chinese altars waiting for sacrifice.
They are neither children nor adults and they take classes in the dark. Small red lights the only source of seeing, like Chinese altars waiting for sacrifice.
She shakes her head, gesturing silently at words unspoken.They do not comprehend because they cannot understand, until he uses the language of the spoken ones.
I promised, never in that tongue again.They kept demanding to hear; they were fairly warned, in omens and dreams. Now they can hear no more
Now they can see no more. They will learn; they will find a way as life always finds a way back to the dreamtime where they are made unborn, unburdened by hope.
Untainted by promises made by forefathers before them, unscarred by the turmoil of the land, untouched by the hands of desire, unloved by the terrible lips of the Scorpious woman.
Their roots grow deeply in those barren words, those fertile promises; their dreams thrive expansively to the stars and their voices imprison them to the earth.
It is doubt who is the warden, fatigue, another long mile to the gas chamber of cyanide visions. One does not wish to break rules, only skin and bone, which some say is the true prison.
Twin draconian reptiles bound in stone, one to the second face; both suspended in an arboreal grace, each completing the other as sentinels of the playground.
Temple servants dream during the illness of the master. They venture past distressed oceans to find the litmus rock. How long can their clan last? They seek the faces to ask.
Drowning in seas of possibilities without a grain of purpose, caught by the riptides of vanity, they flounder in their will to crystallize an anchor in time.
And what is time but a collection of thy wills be done? One thinks of burials at sea. One thinks of the birth of oceans. One thinks of safe harbors.
They need only one breath, one unfortunate word to stir the chaos to becoming, Desire urged to rake the graves of emptiness with the sounds of souls before.
Thus spake the drowning man upon the shores of the living. Divining futures in twisted seaweed searching for the abominable word to unmake the pleasure garden.
The water medium traps their limited faith in infinite loops through its longing depths. She watches through their eyes, breathing through their sighs, and feels.
Oh how quaint it is to be human, how crystal mansions grow with half smiles, how gulfs expand with hints of sorrow, how strange it is to be human, you and me.
And how amazing all of this can be. How far will these seeds grow on this alien landscape. They will survive this, he assures. They must thrive, she supplicates.
We can no longer grow in this silence. Fire, noise, chaos. This is our lot. Where is the lady of the lake with our swords? I only see swans and the debris of bread.
Take this bread all of you and feast; the swans guide the synthesis to the becoming. Your swords shall come with the next fallen star when the maiden orb rises.
And so it was writ in the books of star cults, when the new born will seek the orbs of heaven as the old born turn to streams of borealis light.
They shall learn in time of histories and predictions; of sand and stars; of unicorns and uniforms; of fire and ice; of war and silence; of many and none - decaying.
Deconstructing - histories remade in the cycle of forgetting, drinking from the pool of amnesia, souls in line for reincarnation.
They shall grasp at sins of freedom; learn from virtues of forbidden; chase the unsensed hopes; struggle against fears of certainty; revolve round trances and dances.
Like the shamans of old, totem powers of river and stone. Of drum and bone and bonfire séances, fire and shadows against the cave walls, mimicking magic.
A duplicate of parallel stories upon the fragile webs of consciousness. They have been here before; it seems strangely familiar, yet not. Rainbows share their making.
All earths trailing the one wanderer. Linking two universes to the many others through the interplay of mirrored beings. In reflections we see the other.
None more enraptured by abundant play throughout the worlds of self than the ones. Twisting ladders of wisdom to manoeuvre with grace. Thus they are, doubly blessed.
Two mansions rise in the house that mind built. One for day side, another for night side. Sophia resides in both their hearths, warmed by the fire of conscience.
The first home for the next generation of seeds is simple in virtue and faithful in duty to nurture the path of Via, the honesty of Veritas and the body of Vita.
The second home is house the complex womb of ayrean creek. It seeds the lingam, the vortex, the ensign of lore and ai-fi. A Fragmentation of consciousness.
A small grain to start an opalescent being. Many shells choke on the forced abrasions of alien entities into their core. They adapt and make new alliances for kinship.
She is pregnant, my beautiful darling, while I am impotent, she is profound. We were told not to fear, that the intrusions are sanctioned by outer galaxies.
They are nova-sent, sentient codes hiding on the backs of cosmic dustballs to find new shapes. The riders of comet tails are burned by their approaching stars.
Dormant info in rock, lapped by organic sea, heated by the gaze of sun gods. The codes await contact, the right hand, the right breath, in order to manifest.
Dominant ions of blood-red gas, subtle oxidant greens of a valential sigh, thus they crystallize the sequence for the fountain of life and the veins of emotion.
Oh how this blood quenched my unending soul, putting out this hungry volition. Oh how this fount washes my wound, raptured by the intolerable lions.
Oh how intoxicating the celestial music of the orbs is, the word-made flesh that leaves them in a rhapsody lingering past the nine clouds and seven heavens.
Oblivious to the secrets that transpired on the eight day of creation. While the melody and light rested and the waters became calm, the Sorions rose.
This is the covalence of intent, the bondage of the soulstars and the earthstars, the gift of the Four Horsemen from vapours of blood diamonds and black ashes.
Of drifting debris caught in the breeze of nuclear winter, we drift, in snow and isolation, warmed by the memories of better days while knowing greater years ahead.
Dreams of their frozen embryos scattered across the neural continuum, never lost in the sands of his time or her terra. The gray network of a solar nexus learning.
We are all alive in the mind of The Great Circle, despite cryogenics or caskets or naked tundra. One can never be lost if the wilderness itself is home.
Many can meander beyond their temple homes, where accretions of ice and dirt thicken into disparate selves; into vistas of insight, unto landscapes of the infinite.
Upon lands of forever, the gypsies roam, barefoot and winding the serpents path, crossing the ways to meet ascetics who hold rich wisdom in starving bodies.
Troubadours of chance and fate weave purposeful lies and accidental truths into the carbon fabric marked by sigils to bless the first root for the Tree of Life.
The first fruit hangs in the zone of malkuth. Minerals, gems and stones of Tara, terraformed by the troubadours of star fields, weaving truth even in lies.
The kingdom built in one glorious sphere, for one attribute of creation within, and without, the worlds of burning souls preparing for a waking wonderland of myths.
With every sleep cycle, he wakes in a different house. Sometimes with fever, sometimes with chills. He has stopped looking into mirrors. It's always a different face.
In each dream turn, they weave with various thoughts. Many times with someone, a few times with no one. They have begun the vision quests. They are always of self.
Self replicating species roam in secret light. Past Neon billboards and halogen heavens. They leave elements of their thoughtforms in careful street corners..
Purpose hides the poison of their viral deeds. Causality seeks the contented obscurity of ignorance. What they give to this myth is what remains of the mystery.
Time travelers huddle at the brink of society, trying to order the chaos of the myths. Web entries are missing, hyperlinks dead. Something crashed after web 6.0.
Everything becomes nothing as emptiness forms its own birth. In that space which moves potential in any direction, something collapses and explodes simultaneously.
Despite supernovas and formations and new breaths moving above the waters, shades of the gone remain. There still will be those driven to find lost continuities.
None is wasted nor ever gone. They find ones in the circle of recreation - diversifying to elaborate levels, folding in to density, playing at multiple patterns.
The man who wakes in different houses knows this. The face in the mirror changes but the soul in the eyes remain the same. With every dawn, new earths are found.
In earths, as it is in heaven; in ends, as it was in the beginning. The immortalised steady state and the ephemeral ego stage dance so elegantly and so carelessly.
While the Great Watcher sees all, knowing there's no start nor finish, just the illusion of times and worlds passing, being both the source of song & silencio.
As they coalesce to purpose and form, past the placenta of space into time, they measure their first obsession of the myth; they are falling into the moments.
One by one, they earth their densities, arriving as John and Jane doe's, appearing mysteriously at crash sites, from arctic outposts, to walk as flesh and bone.
They befriend the clay masters who give them holy masses. They yield to sound guardians who permit adherence. They count the stars by breaths taken to eclipse earths.
They move in and out of tuned in minds, revolving through the doors of art, reverie & fever dream. They whisper words of power to the weak to make them strong.
They are given charge over these, to guard and guide the macrocosms of spirit. Unity their perpetual ally in building balance, consonance and harmonics to expression.
Their secret names are many fold. Locosia. Arduvai. Seleda. Nohogat. Each name contains a magical symbol & a gateway. Invoke and thou shalt know greater power.
"Ya. El. Ish. Qo. Um." Every sound in a cacophonous chaos and reordered into nine distinctions. The seraphic feathers give pause and space to the cherubic tones.
"then there came a sound like the falling of mountains, and behold, I saw the nine animals from the book of Jor bow down before a spinning disk of neon blues."
Nine before the trine multiply; Seven be thy faithful laws and in pairs, mirror the infinite being that thou art. Light and shadow be thine to serve introspection.
Alpha be the state of all cause, beta, the dual deliverer. Unto Carsia, the city of the triple female, as lover, mother and witch, relational to the wandering Gimel.
The power matrix - oh-one, oh-zero, eleven hundred - is ripe for the orchestration of posterity. For all are born in Natura and inner magic enchants only senses.
Geomatrix patterning, angles ninety, forty five, three six naught, coordinated alchemy, symphonia entity. Kilohertz diversity of transplutonian magistry.
We spin kingdoms in grains and firmaments in blood. Tokens disperse in legions, you are. Remember your first cause in the gardens of Nevermore and Neverland.
Everywhere, We Are. The children dream of our chariots, the old ones dream of our greens, the dead walk on our oceans and the living live on in our dreams.
72 stanzas 13/11/13
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| #WorldsWithoutEnd - the pictorial verses |
