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A Beautiful World

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  • A Beautiful World

    You have a beautiful world. Of evanescent shapes Whose lives are so impermanent. Pressed into being. Little vapors, truths and rumors. Remember the one who did not expect to ever make it through. Honor the one who would receive the gift. According to who loses the innocence. I wear the mask of night, in a receding warmth, spread over the limbs of mankind. My face is hidden beneath the dust, beneath feet, and people, association. My world of stars, cold, burning, blue. I come from another Mountain. Does it matter my lies? I tell things plainly here. From nothing. Probability. Everything after: Foot touching Water. Every line drawn where you perhaps belong. Mystical winter months. Every faery face gliding potentially deadly: the ghost we reason away. Our fright which can't forget. The feelers in our fingers keep on clinging, shadows press against the body. Barely breathing now we can Begin. Our frosted light of dozens of years behind this Eye. Cold, innumerable thrones glinting. Anaesthetic personality. Sterile being. Giving in, after losing consciousness within this certain Place. Mental cognition, over the familiar waves which travel, accordingly, in angles smoothed by use, the entry-points from solid stations, the doorways into Wholeness, open ...

    You have a beautiful world, Of shapes that die on Snowy skin. To die for the Children of Men. You have ultimate, terrible beauty: the Armament of memory, to succor with the swollen berry of my being. Red, and so wrathful, the color of you. You try and discharge the sleeve of lightning, squeeze from the static tops of the trees A platinum-blue Cold winter light. You season the sky, the radiant dress of the Amber world of make believe, Warm to embrace The picture shows you: Finally free. You're in the house To understand the way you're driven. Into cars of midnight loads of such a blackened substance, your fingers touch The dark material Your fingers lose the light that made them glow. Those fingers I have touched, and they have touched me; those fingers Whose life has been a canvas of flesh, carried over the dust In fashion of Make believe. This house of flesh, with its maddening dross, Dying in glassy flames, Stunned into and out of Life. Still-life, with the innumerable Laden beings, with the wroughtful natures, so expressed.

    You have a beautiful world So much like the webs which Can be broken Your beautiful visions of the World to Come Your swollen sac of Memory-of-water The way you are and you become Your entire being Listens attentive now Brilliant genius whom the surrendered patois of Night has relinquished, from Buds of delicate dew formed, in little links of frost and shiver: The collected remnants of our Vacant subliminality. Call those bodies in the ground Proof enough our folly travels Call the spiritual sky made incandescent with the feeling-clouds. Call up ghosts from beyond the Veil, whose attitudes and beings livened-up Next to the throne which thankfully unendingly moves. Your charm from nothing and nowhere To suddenly grab me Move me I do not care. Your eyes which so consume the pale beings An appetite for the confusion, beset in a room full of diamonds And yet empty of soul. Places I have waited And waited for you there Hidden in the streetlights and the patchwork Places which can be destroyed. I am not infinite but the words Suggest that I can continue: The way your hair gets in your eyes, The way I cannot remember The way your face is terribly beautiful It could destroy. I could become so mad with the Elements.

    I could lose light, like a room spinning around the source of why it sees. I could drain the distance from your eyes, and see the Ghost-dawn of Blonde forms so pale, the color of cream or Ashes, a backdrop of the fossil-hopes which jut like bones From a firmament of black Which is as the sudden kiss Which makes invisible the lips Speaking from that emptiness. I listen with my entire being, listen for the hint to know when I might be able to discharge, from the needle, from the spread-out essence; to relinquish, like the enlightened mass, my voracious forms with which I have come, to become. The elementary grandeurs of the vapors and the rumors, beset by the bold, diffident stature. I shall not go too deep. I know I am being guided. I want to be invisible, I want my skin to disappear Divorce from light. Except, this time I am not done with you. I am not. I cannot fathom why, though you're near And I can understand That the gathering pull of steps Closer to me while you walk I can contain the crazy patter I even know the distance echoes of Fire. I know the walking shadows bathe in kerosene Amplified by gluttony I know the chorus of doting fools with the duty of walking into the hungry sleeping lion's mouth. I know what I know does not matter anymore.

    You are the puzzle: beautiful, shocking, I cannot but help my own moving. Chances, and the pressure put upon the body, the prints of teeth from the little being The way its heart has bitemarks, The silent communion and the Challenge I know the walls of glass can hearten From the warmth of burning futures I know in this glass I can envision The thick of winter days meandering into the murk of darkened nights where the Spilled over glasses of our youth emit the further knowings which we come to then 'partake' in: Does it matter Hell was what we warred for, when what we came to gain Was never enough to satisfy all that we could touch All that we could feed by this lingering fire. Listening to your voice. By the fire when we are listening to your voice It is night like this. We understand 'the path we've taken in the Dark the perfect winding through the trees That wind couldn't stop' (O it echoed through our beings Reverberating cold) And nothing else was there Besides the echoing emptiness and the cold. Your fingers worked to keep hold, Rosy-tinged, and cold, in the mountains In the sunlight dripping in the snow A scarlet handsome secret.

    What else do you put on That the moment might be bundled with the remnants Which joy died to laugh inside. Do not go blind. Child, from centuries, the snow-flowers bloom in glass, in webs of ice, in chains of frozen darkness. Compacted by your Blood the softest places I have known Like nooks and crags and cogs and nerves Like silver dangling over the precipice of the Darkest orange expanse Of the burning ephemeral expanding sky Just docilely simmering there as the clouds disperse The celestial dew upon the shaking and shivering forms As the day becomes as daylight will The glass that falls and covers the world. My eyes it changes I can see everything tumbling over everthing It is beauty and it is beautiful I have no need nor desire to join nor be free from what it is. It is not separate from myself. It is an expression of myself. It cannot change without something in me also changing. Sacred panes of starlight encrusted with the gems Of diadems of sapphire hues so deeply blue and Halcyon-- your pale bursting forms the shape I always know I can count on I listen for your voice I can hold the capitivity of your being Like water dripping from a leaf My entire being I am made to shudder Under the releasing pressure of the lightning Beneath the touch of the storm Your heartbeat covered in ashes The moving vanilla in your mouth The momentary tongue which comes Splitting like a bell.

    Nothing I could tell of the ways I am haunted with beautiful. Nothing I would want more than that: than this. Does it matter that I might cease to exist When nothing else beyond what my sight has seen Have I been and will I ever be? Covered by the infinite emptiness I came to be, and Enduring beneath the Roses' frost I will life Again and transfused with the Light of that Eternity. I am led Past the blackest moments In which breed the red-blood spider's Webbing truth. With the face of the pale moon which altogether vanishes ... Beneath frost and beyond witness, where I end ... where I choose to lie down, and exceed from this pain. Accede ... become... Allow the living being Allow itself the reprieve Missing from us for much too long Allow the silence to riddle into my thoughts What it can comprise Of what it can subsist and ultimately Become. The way light dances up the snow hill To travel back down in sparks of delicious melting pressure Like flakes upon your lips and eyes Melting as we go Melting into each other What use is it to hold on ... Listen to the subtle audience of Silent being I can listen to you again.

    Dreaming from the darkness that a shut-in silence might not relate to why you never remember Never play and yet this wickedness was enough Somewhat in some time You didn't need more and it didn't matter What words you used because you could say you Worked with love and Love never expired. Like your extinction of appetite, personality, attitude, I could come into the waves And walk beyond stars So that words traveled in a void which was like a primary void Like somewhat of a cavity a stitch inside my being The world in which I cannot understand And the being which 'would' understand How we clash and collide into each other How we try to balance the weights and the facts of Each other the Subtle being inside silence of the things we try to wear Like expressions or weapons. We just naturally change and the way things age, and gain depth We know that starlight fails even before it reaches our eyes And cannot even be called light We know why banging on this solar system's hub We know the creature which was made outside of love. I am pulled into ...

    Vagaries, distanced by the Sounds in which I am caught again And at a moment which I can comprise and confound the aching stage I have come to fill In the moment where I settle and finally give to you as explanation my sodden being My dirty self caked with Nightmare and ash, My double-take and my lie-to-be, my plan to Execute and my Silent being Give to the night in which I infinitely am Remote within the laughter of the Detracted-from youth Set to die in the crystal which still grows even though it happens Ever so slow. Next to fossils, which seem to be even beyond chance, within the elemental light which burns both preternatural and allaying Into the premonitions of the Spit-up spirit Sat in Sophia's lap Made of the bluest veins of light Unalterably coursing through her Light-imprinted flesh ... like the evanescent purple of suns moving through glass Dies after moments of filling it up. It doesn't matter that some beings miss you We're still trapped within the Light absorbed with the Dew Our fiery beings finally relinquished to stillness again Once again.

  • #2
    There is so much here (literally and figuratively), and I’m too obtuse to be able to understand. I can’t determine the narrative voice - you, god, earth, mankind - because to me it seems to change between and within paragraphs though it stays nicely calm throughout. There is a lot to unpack.


    • #3
      There is at least a hundredweight of poems in this dazzling matrix. It's as if the roseate windows of Basilique Saint-Denis were turned through a cosmic kaleidoscope.