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unfortunate heaven
AlchemiA

in the way that your lips shimmer and your eyes flash simile-smiles,
 1
and with those irregular undulations rhythm'ng off of your tongue,
 2
while words fly out lyrically, kissing everyone
 3
 
 
we are touched and easily forgotten in this age of impermanent ink,
 4
with our ears perched high on a mystery, we're overlooked
 5
for speaking in clouds expectant of thunder,
 6
for rustling as verdant leaves in a tree,
 7
for our threadbare jeans which're flaking mud glommed from our long walks by the river
 8
for taking solace in these deep and spacious rhythms of the Sea
 9
 
 
among writers we are the infirm, the mad heretics of desire,
 10
ridiculed for whiskers and soft-eyes,
 11
for bumping into enjambments, fish-like
 12
and working out destiny by changing it,
 13
rearranging it, setting it in motion... committed to the why's and the where-of's of making the best of 'Tuum Est'
 14
 
 
and staring like a pricking of the bubble had just now occurred
 15
 
 
we're epiphanators bent by the words
 16

.
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it's an invertendo poem, in-verse, which'd be unpublished of course ...

23 May 13

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your poem appears to be serious, but your opening line makes me want to inverse all of your stanzas - almost like I'm reading your poem backwards, and what you are trying to do is the equivalent of hell - like you are being burnt from both sides. People can like your poem into the top percentile, but what does that create in reality?  If this poem makes it to the top; what, will that mean to the World?    
 — percocet

sentimental-realism and controlled-absurdity are an authentic-prevarication of happy-misery - being conflicted means you've been looking ...

it's just a duality-etude P - In duality there is no solution as it ebbs and flows in an endless creative-destruction ...

however, the Soul speaks in silences which only the Heart can hear, that infinite-in where the notion is sincere, in an ineffable Peace which, brooding, lingers on our mind though made clear, from the numinous that's moving-us without any fear ...

we read Rumi from many reflections where the original flame has lost its fire and may be cold to the touch - such is the way of translating beloved bliss filled inspirations ... as such, we've got to raise our own spark to a fire, smoke and mirrors may temporaneously fill the gap, between mere want or being overflowed with a whirl'd of wonder turning into a spiralling awe ...

and when we finally burn, at that last gasp of Poetry, rising, as sparks to a star filled sky, some of us'll be falling instantaneously as ash, and making a searing sound struggling on the ground, while others disappear into a whiff of smoke, or a glint in your eye, or a slight fluorescing ; but I ask why, oh, why can't sparks fly, further than the longing swells of first-light swirling to become the Stars, oh yes, why, oh, why can't I?

I hide my flame amongst the embers, slowly burning there,
a little light remains as assssh, fuming gasssseoussss screams,
a waft of smoke ascends from where, my little light does flare,
to lurch in shadows on the wall and burst to sparks that sigh;
a 'lil ember flickering flame may be all my fire seems,
to dance with stars in the deep of night, is what my fire dreams ...

Gimini'kriket ballod of 'When I wish upon a Star ...

http://www.yo utube.com/watch?v=HKh6XxYbbIc
 — AlchemiA

what time did you do the elecTrik-jerk into dream, seeing yourself as a radial lightning beam, enlightening-up again 'n again -- you know that jerk just between now and asleep, where the body rests and the mind reaches theoretical-less-satori, as an elecTrik-coursing of shock'n'awe without the worry -- it's called the Hypnic Jerk, where all the muscles contract suddenly and violently and for some reason dreams of falling may occur -- what time did you jerk or fall if at all? what jerk did time make you become, under these incessant cycles of Moon 'n Sun? when you slept in a tree dreaming of the hunt, did your brain disengage your body for awhile while you learnt to prey in a new style? -- what kind of jerk did you do, the Hypnic Jerk?  When you go to sleep at night your brain paralyses your body to stop you acting out all your dreams with this ‘sleep paralysis’ which evolved when we slept in trees, so as not to be acting out your dreams whilst sleeping high up in the branches of another  memento-mori story -- those branches of 'lectricity that scatter my mind in the sky, waywayup inside, oh my
 — AlchemiA

we repeat in these things, as if all of creation stuttered out of itself toward this pure sapient frisson of human possibility; what if God got it wrong, indeed...
 — AlchemiA

us, that is, what-if we're the mistake the Universe has been waiting for after all, the ones that are bent toward creative-destruction and the urge-to-merge it with our fatal-flaw; what-if we're the end-note to a great symphonic swell where a rip in the fabric of now stands brilliantly impermanent; what if God goes back to sleep? will he experience our jerk?
 — AlchemiA

what if God got it wrong, indeed...

us, that is, what-if we're the mistake the Universe has been waiting for after all, the ones that are bent toward creative-destruction and the urge-to-merge it with our fatal-flaw; our ungrateful human needs, what-if we're the end-note to a great symphonic swell, where a rip in the fabric of now sounds brilliantly impermanent like hell; what if God goes back to sleep? will sHe experience our jerk and fall into our whirl'd? Will sHe murmur and hum on her descent from glory? And are we the crashing of his full-stop, the crack in the world where time and space subducted into this particular place in space, or are we just another come-along stream of many reflections meandering to the Sea, immersing into another alternate eternity...
 — AlchemiA

... and that scares-the-shit outta' me, you see? It's like everything else is over, as if the sweeping swings of verdant Spring are withheld to your will'd purpose, just then when dead forms and rituals placate the Truth, when you sink into your convictions. So, as a choice, I prefer to equivocate and sorta' in an edgy, towards the dark-side of Scorpio moons moving Terminus, where it's more apt to be surreal. damned with the mediocrity of persistent imminence.
 — AlchemiA

unfortunately most 'prayer' is of this useless romantic variety and only serves to increase equivocation and doubt - courage coupled with clarity and compassion shall call the universe to action ... my prayer is simply, 'May love grow in the hearts of men and believers learn to think again ...

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.” -- William Hutchinson Murray (1913-1996)


... and that scares-the-shit outta' me, you see? It's like everything else is over, as if the sweeping swings of verdant Spring are withheld from my wild purpose, just then when dead forms and rituals placate the Truth in me, then when the many mantra-mullah songs are singing, then, when I sink into my utter convictions. One night God came to me in a dream and said, "I'm taking you to the brighter-world, Jerry." and that's it, Heaven, you win, Game-over. WTF, what if I want to take my body-of-cycles with me, or everyone and everything has to come with me including the monsters of the night, can it be so, no one left behind? Can it? Isn't a Bodisattwa a precious and forgiving gem always coming back for more. So, as a choice, I prefer to equivocate and sorta' toward being on an edge, slicing-derivatively the night with light on the dark-side of this Scorpio moons wending Terminus, where it's more apt to be surreal. Where I'm damned with the mediocrity of persistent imminence.
 — AlchemiA

Where death limns us all ...
 — AlchemiA

wtf is this shite?
 — unknown

Raising ire, rolling the stone, hitting his fists on the table ...this character has been given the ultimate wish fulfilling gem, the power to change everything, the ability to ascend in a magnificent holy-fire into the timeless abodes of heaven. Yet, he forsakes it for Earthly pursuits and the simple touch of another embodied life-form. He can have it ALL, yet he equivocates, freezes in mid wonder and turns his back on splendour for sweet redolent smells and the sweat-of-passion and the painful blisters of unfulfillment.

What is a life-form to do? We evolve, yes, with all of our mind and all of our body and all the many feelings of pain and failure and wounded misery. Yet, without these, we're no longer Human. We'd be like those fuKin' Angels without a Kok'n'Kunt of pleasure, likely taking some form of satisfaction in fuKin' with peoples heads 'cause folks are so backwards and ignorant and easily deceived by hope and getting ahead.

It'd be like being at the Top, King of the Hill, raising your arms up and showing an Alpha rictus-grin, spitting it out at everyone that you've WON and then you're done, except for the fun of rolling a few Sisyphean Rocks down onto all those other wanna' be one-percenters.

There's something wonderful in the cloud-of-unknowing that heaven or hell cannot glean, it's the unfinished, undone qualities of potential that make infinity trivial. We're better at being the process and not the finished product. I'd imagine 'knowing' to be the end of 'curiosity' and earnest joyful speculation. I'd rather be on a Syspheasian roll, really ...
 — AlchemiA

"When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate."-Carl Jung

My character wrestles with his demons, liking the visceral contact -- they'll often end up unconscious in their offal and vomit, clutching each other, holding each other closer than any Lover you've ever come with. That first shot of fire that races through your veins, branching through the vines of your synaptic tree, blowing your mind with this wonton visceral activity -- when Prometheus ran away from the perfection of the Gods, spouting exasperating things with his burning tongue, rumbling with thunderous expectation, ranting about the lack of darkness in their light, he brought us revelatory wings, and how the burning of the Eagles Talons are a misery required when enamouring Fire.
 — AlchemiA

this is approachable ...
 — unknown

a mendacious din precipitates...
 — unknown

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