Women, Passion, and Celibacy | Chapter One: “Genital Messages”

Women, Passion, and Celibacy | Chapter One: “Genital Messages”.

Of freedom, guns and war

Freedom is not force; it is not the ability to take the choices of others away so you can exercise your whim and will. Freedom is joyful, willing obligation and responsibility.

via Of freedom, guns and war.

PostApocalypse 13

epiphany

 

 

the crepuscular world knows, does not say
All language is metaphor
Intermingled, light and diminishing glow

the year of prophecies has ended
find my ongoing journey here in the PostApocalypse:

http://postapocalypse13.tumblr.com/

Winter triptych

Winter is Coming

She arrives!

Cold, clear, glorious crystalline air.

Happy to roast by the fire, spin out yarn for warmth.

Happy for cozy aroma of home and hearth.

Euphorious, heart singing, blood roaring fun.

Out to run, slide, ride through white mist,

escape from resistance; engage with bright bliss.

She alights from her carriage, a vision of charms

carved in ice.

Look into the prism’s flame, wondrous worlds

never twice the same, mesmerized.

Happy to have this gift, this season, this time,

open eyes.

Winter is coming

She arrives

Glorious voice lifts up the night,

trails splendor, soft drifts of white.

Taste delight, pure as ice, sweet as fantasy.

Soulful reflecting safe by the fire,

caught by flame’s magic,

aligns with the greatest of stars, the finest of galaxies.

Wild Wind whispers “Higher, my love; ride my mystery.”

Deep flow of desire; snow lit in moonglow.

Reclined, widened eyes ablaze to behold.

A fabulous sleigh swoops from above, aglitter with glee.

She alights.

Swirl of romance, adorned in brisk excitement,

stunning aroma,

clear aura of peace.

Winter is coming

She arrives

Conviction strong and glorious

Brilliant astral presence, at last.

Swollen with destiny, swirling in ecstasy.

Feel air breath-moist beat to Her sway.

She drinks, uplifts the cup of our prayers, feasts upon homespun tales.

Listen! She reveals.

Torso spun forward, head arched back

dervish aware. She incants, caresses, blesses,

sweeps through this startled assemblage. Chase if you dare.

A child of shadow slips behind, catches at her tresses.

Slow secret smile grows, their silent delight snow white, bare of guile.

Time freezes. Hungry eyes press against

icy glass. Inside, twinkling eternity blazes, laughs.

All of space awaits. We need but reach through

may all your world ends hook up to better worlds beginning

*

neural circus

variegate shades 
symbols of ancient trade gaily parade 
coax wry smiles shaped to tease 
out 
sinuous pleasure 
cleverly she spins, sways, sweeps, 
catches a whirl of trance 
better than life 
her blood, taste of iron 
and butter, 
sweet, salt, serene 

the thrill is in the taking, 
the rushing and tumbling 
unobserved, unexpected, 
trick of the eye laid bare 

delicious secrets 
creep into sight, strive to misbehave 
for acknowledgement 
small, frantic, overburdened 
Is such awkward love 
allowed? 
this bright moon midnight, 
enter the circus 
mirror fly on the wire 
transform as incantation 
come alive 
free, beneath galaxies, 
perform miraculously
to your gleeful applause  

human wrongs

Far beyond cruelty
into a whole other realm
of horror, dishonour and disdain
to observe crushing pain
and serve utility
by crushing more

This Is Not a Sketch

Not the fire in the belly,
but the air in the lungs.
Clarity.
Fire warms, then burns in passion,
flaming, shameful, conflagration
of sin and victory.
Buddha-like compassion,
saintly wise, learned in cycles
of hard labor, blessed bliss –
messages like this mentored, memed,
given credence in electric market,
synapse scent, inhaled essence.
This is not a sketch.
This is awakening
from deep, drugged entanglement
in eiderdown.
Memories march in hideous mime.
Despair hangs heavy, grey,
unbounded.
Coarse, textured currents,
slowed for inhalation, beckon,
wave, invite companionship.
Bubbles surface, break
like flowers expelling seeds.
Breathe the inspiration.

Speak in Peace

Useful communication requires common metaphor.
(Myths forged for tribal survival divide. )

When I feel alive, rooted yet wild, outside of frame
a twirling child, free of security derived from shame
able to rise beyond the schoolyard game of divisive naming

I see within my eyes distant seas and shores,
forest fae blinking in the haze,
journeys rending years into days.
Hear the whistling, touch the swollen fruit,
amazed — counting down as I tumble.

How do I explain in this tongue we mumble,
barely getting through a random chat that
gives no exit wound to that ache beating inside
to grab a hand, touch your mind, bring to being?

Yet, why would you want to see what I am seeing?
It’s only poetry; only curiosity; it’s only
miracles of sand, twinkling, breath of fire
combusted glass, twisted into culture, class.
Beauty survives each blast, more adored for her
scars.  Allured by her charms, may we doze
and stumble into sweeter reveries.

In sleep, relaxed, uncoiled core may cry in surprise
to be free, awaken realigned.

Speak friend and enter.
We have much to discuss.

disclaimer

Those who lose their souls to religion
Caught up in frames against their better angels
Might, if the spirit so o’ertakes their vision
Come to discern divisive righteousness’s dangers

Call and Response

Clinging to the stories we learned at tv’s knee
Ensorcelled by those glittering stores lining every street
Sure that might has taken the ground defining rights
Cynically forsaken, belief in heroic knights
We aren’t sheep to slaughter, although of bone and meat
Nor cattle to be ordered by our grades of beef
We’re children, with our wonder obscured by others’ dreams
Chastised not to blunder, to supplicate and bleed
To break from such enchantment, from thrall to All insane
First learn to break the viral binds, vitalize, reframe

Final Will

If these be our final days, bleeding out into entropic end
No elite “may we?” can overrule life’s yen
to feel fine
while yet there is fine to feel
Feast on the hoarded best; dance well past dawn
Deny requests of war or debt to waste this waning time
It’s no thievery to claim our hours, free of robotic clocks,
take whatever’s left as a chance to be real –
if the end is nigh, or not

Cross Purpose

At time’s crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
irradiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.” 
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference 
nature devised to make us strong.

Nature Cure

The wild has been bred out of us.
We are creatures bent to city form.
Citizens of common culture
down graded along the main stream,
abraded to fit
today’s fashion scene.
Wild instructions tug deep,
feed bloodlines unappeased,
misnamed disease.

status

It’s not that people are greedy; but
(I hate to inform you)
people are mean.
It’s not that we desire the piles of
gilt and coin — that’s just a ploy.
We want to enjoy standing above the
hoi polloi.
We want with great passion to dance
at the top of the heap, to be elite.

Waxing

Big, fat, buttery Moon.
Baby’s face in the sky.
Tell me why you cry
fat buttery woe.

Does angry Mars threaten from above you
so far below, about to dash past rooftops
down to the safety of setting
of settling.
Like so many men I’ve known.
Where is fierce pride of independence?
Why is the best we expect
repentance, regret and remorse?
So much more was on
in the cards of romantic youth;
or were you just a stagnant pawn?
When we reconcile alone,
where is the virtue
to keep us warm?
Who are you, fool Moon, to cry like
a brat in the night?
No Solar solace — pity-filled
lesser light.  
Moon falls out of my sight. 
I’ve no stomach for dawn.

Economies of Scale

Consciousness skewed out of the bounds of reality
Living some self-inflicted insanity
We’re all crazy, idiosyncratically
Pretending at rational being
Mass illusion for safety’s sake
Shackling on identity — shield and sword to brandish
Noise pollution obscures
naked screams

Who can afford to feel alive?

Good Day

Sun greets Earth
a hearty slap
hot and sassy

Aesthetically Rendered Themes

Desire
Inspires
Outmaneuvers inertia
catalyzes action, ideation,
attraction — magnetizes
elements of essence
toward true North –
fuels adventure

The Play’s the Thing

Needless waste of ruined lives
rippling into vast tragic waves.
Because?
“That’s how the game is played.”
That real lives are lost
never enters the ambiance.
Whose shame?
We are to blame for getting
caught up in this jolly old game.
Letting the players carve our name,
fashion the rules.
What has our honour cost?
Who is paying?

afterglow

I see the secret of the Moon peek through historic mist over this hidden valley

Dark cosmos surrounds, a deeply soundless eternity
Gentle caress, self-possessed drifting serene
All possible meaning encompassed in this simple scene

World Viewed

Was Luther a Gnostic and just didn’t know it?
Who packaged Locke’s critical message and sold it?
Who has freedom or its choices
when money talks louder than living voices?
Brain-shaper mad advisors dressed in vestments
advertise
“Profit is our best road to atonement.”
So we build this fictional prison to own it. 

Profligate

Deep in the mud, in the murk, in the sewers.
Sharing convivially with cast out pests.
Biased by looking forward to avoid looking up;
sick of the sight.
Mining waste of unappealing lives.
Getting by surprisingly well on the barest belief.
It’s not thievery to see value in what sin
has left behind,
sensing like one blind to glamour’s fads.
Dancing along backbrains, pleasure neurons,
bodies ache to expand.
I carry no allegiance — this land, this opportunity
to breathe — what do you want of me?
I am only a slave if I care.
Take the best of me
if you dare.

Class Conscious

We make them monumental in our minds
 Assertively attest:  ”They’re not our kind.

How dare they go disguised in human form!”
 How dare they speak, to criticize the norm?
To suggest some claim to what I’ve mined,
refined to specs our kind defined as wealth?
How dare these filthy beasts expect my help,
relief for degrading and disease, consequences
of our industry?

Risen

Sky born, lifted into life above
Water, Earth, primordial mud.
Bare breath and lilting light float, carry insubstantial
tongues, bitter yet sweet. Exultation, daring
to swoop, touch,
taste, briefly complete with
flowering waves.
Winter Gods glaze over mountain peaks,
rocky rivers, mother’s eyes.
She gives suck embalmed in memory,
engulfed in smoke of smelting flame,
gasping, tropically turning, blind, yet
beyond fear.  She regurgitates paste of
air, light, instinct, held together with spit
and love.  Taste her sacrifice.
A world drifts.  Black night backlit in
pinpricks.  Atmosphere built like bioluminescence,
symphonic, symbiotic.  Hear as rippling elements
grow words, symbolic histories, into a Summer game.
Out here, sparkling rain weaves rainbows.  Reverence
casts poetry as shimmer and shadow play.
Up here, beyond boundaries of ordinary days,
the only Commandment to penetrate –
Be Peace

Sacred Art

Wee one, brought bare into cacophony,
this emergent pantheon.
This is your place
of smell, touch, blaring light.
This is how we show our face
annoyed with your lack of social grace.
Immersed, made into a person, a defined moving space,
bound in time, mesmerized roughly, softly,
swirling colors, voices, hands demanding

Outcast from warm womb, safe discipline, of
tribal faith
to create from beyond common form, 
the pain of separation, bravery called by 
life’s instinctual desire,
tricks of the trade.
Within this sad parade –
the human will to cure, kill, carry on
courageous –
if the art is true, burnt pure in sacrificial
flame, aimed impeccably
– cathedrals of
awe and inspiration, hallmark of salvation

Taste!  Be made aware
of sensation — touch this instant a place
beyond who you’ve ever been.
Beyond glory, 
graceful soul-wrought energy
pours through these
sacrificial clowns
poisoned by immortality.
It is for you we bleed,
we cry,
imbued with such weight — to hold
that spark you know could set you free.

illusive

Perhaps the greatest illusion
Is not that we are alone
Nor that we are multitudes
But that we are definable
By words or emotions

Heading

Carry life
Carry water
Compact electronic battery
Where colored codings float
assorted cakes and candies
carve traces
back into the neural pool
When the winds blow
heady confection

down and out

Another kind of rabbit hole
Pitch dark and bruising
No appetite for wonder
No luxury of childhood fantasy
No Summer tea time story
Only caustic mud awaits below
at tumbling’s end

mercurial

I am in love with your communication
Teasing photos floating in the quiet
of storm lifting breeze
You inquire, look for a temperature
of my wellbeing
I am on to you;
pushing out that cerebral switch
previously known as “off”

La Luna

Careless Luna
She peaks and sways
tattling on windowspeck gleanings
leaving traces of singing memories
taking in dreamers

Trained in Self-betrayal

It’s not that sex is sin, bad for moral purity,
or euphoric nature’s gifts an affront on
All That Is Holy.
(Biblical disposition adapted to
Providential vision, a biased capitalism
based on self abnegation
rather than a healthful view of wealth.)
A powerful profit model built upon
slavery of responsibility to dependents –
sex for such purpose must issue descendants.
Hopelessly hooked on corporate licensed medicine,
treadmilled to produce high-cost enriching energy.
See our computer graphic charts:
“A work of Art!” too valued to despoil with your
(I’m sure)
busy little lives.  Education must
align with labor needs projections –
hiding useful information behind well
developed lies.
(So be assured, these words will fade as you awaken.)
Virulent slime fed in work stations and schools,
popular entertainment snacks,
our patented brew,
captivating memes
blow through airwaves,  as your lives hurry through.
It can’t possibly be slavery if we make you believe:
You own you. 

Where the Wild Things Fade

Lost
my ability
to survive outside
captivity
Yet at my core
impenetrably wild.

Day after day unattended
Night after night, no Moon defends
my right to howl.
I’m a city girl now –
held in dimensions
socially styled.

troubadour

Words, the challenge of song
to carry along in sound the meaning of
tiffs in lush trees, rambling bees, the power of
peeping dawn high in colors of awe.
Here, in a world of fog and fury,
dirty eyes strained and blurry,
hard-edged streets sparking with pain
and dreary drone.
Not a nourishing home,
not a place to find peace,
not a fit way to learn.
Clouds, not of rain,
but waving 
transmissions expand
swift awareness
that this place
is but a tragic scene we can believe away,
ennoble, enable, sway.
The challenge taken,
the task engaged,
a world in play.

Sea Sons

The Sea is changing.
Aging beauty, seething with rage
of the forgotten.

Once your tempestuous lover,
violently seductive, wild mystery.
Legends of monsters and gods
poured from her essence
into your sleeping ear.
Challenge of fear and glory brought you
to her shores, pleading for
acceptance, romance, adventure
and all its chaotic promise.

The Sea swimming with life,
unbound to expectations,
inspiring song and trepidations,
immortal as her sister, Earth.

We are all changing, aging,
wearing down.
Less arrogant hero than
teller of tales,
what will we teach
our grandchildren
of the Sea?

Etherized

(from a fool’s journey)

Will o’ the wisp wending a land of dreams 
Daisies, bright blooming weeds, 
mellifluous, grand. 
Whoosh! Genie arms wide into flight 
above foam and sea. 
Beyond fear, 
absorbed by awareness — sheer horizon 
confined by no mind, eyes 
or reason. 
Who imagines, 
and in that magic space settles 
to reside? 
Women in velvet and fur, swan necks, 
arrogant tresses, 
sip marvelous narcotic, sweet as fire. 
Upheld mirror portraits, glowing strands 
of wire and prismic hues, 
vibrant perfumes call to wander, 
to stray. 
Will-less, free, each step, 
each feather fall 
a gift of mystery, of mystics’ play, 
caress of bliss.

Scryed from my mind, upon this cyber page

It’s not that everything old is new again;
or that nothing unique arises under the Sun.
Creative thinkers derive and develop ideas
already in their psychic maze.
Meanwhile, unfazed, unasked reality evolves
along its merry way.
New maps for old appear each day.
Most of us just follow the crowd,
caught up in focus on our current task,
using what tools come to hand,
what we’ve been taught.

(Badmouth the disorderly man — the message lost,
never usefully discussed.)
We want to believe in stability,
in natural laws that are fair and make sense.
Convinced, we are happier to float in a bubble
outside of duration,
insured against consequence
of change.

We Didn’t Know

Efficient development requires deprivement
No profit, no playground to feel alive in
Those few groomed for career cheer, mocking
“Can’t you hear; that’s freedom knocking.”
“Work for rent, or stay in school, dude.”
You get no cake for being a loser.
Orwell warned “Big Brother is watching.”
We didn’t know he meant on you-tube.

We didn’t know our life was a crime
Sentenced from birth to pay all our time
Cast from the truck to the roadside to rot
Drawn outside of luck, all about what you’re not.
Media screams their required truth feud.
Sell saturated garbage labeled food.
Orwell warned; we were warned:
“The best of you will be co-opted.”
We didn’t know they meant on you-tube.

Pageantry

Could Christian Fundamentalism be the dread AntiChrist,
 and greedy Wall Street his ravenous Beast?
Could the Second Coming be prides of young
claiming back the streets?

Could Prophecies feared and hoped
to bring Sinners to our knees
to lift the Holy into just reward
by Blessed Hero’s mighty sword
defending, avenging the meek –

Could that parade be before us,
just not the scene we believed,
preached to prove the righteous right?

Has the final fight foretold been taking form,
storm clouds positioned for a hard rain to fall,
untidy time of transition as soothsayers call,
alarm bells chime?

Is the end of this trial of dependence nigh?
Can we break the Jesus code, create out of
Apocalypse our own golden age, reign
of Peace?

Glow World

Go with the glow, bioluminescent
inscrutable bright night flare
a grove of ashes
a nest of vipers
a tangled garden lair

The forest is old,
wild road stained in adventure,
obscured in ghosts and mysteries,
sculptured by drifting seas, fallen stars,
exulted pleasure,
eternal embrace of decaying leaves, sad savagery.
There is primal fire here.
Glowing coals that never relented
keep warm our restless slumber,
feeding us through famine
burnt remnants, perennial weeds, piquant renderings.
The glow screams of escape –
our demons free
through fingertips, lips, oozing.
Cauterized wounds re-inflame, never heal.
Scenery, like a trellis
slowly turning, pauses at this
portal.
Destiny
shudders seismically.
Angels of light,
diamonds in the night
shatter into promises — pristine
honour, repose, strength –
of charismatic grace.
Go with the glow.

Protection

I wind into a tight cord
expel ice-tipped thorns to repel
your good intentions.
You are not my troubled mind.
You are my  always touchstone,
my center of reason, promise of peace.
In psychotic chaos, moments torn,
my instinct turns sharply inward.
Primal wariness, protection against
irrevocable reverberations of violence
shattering our sacred bond.

A forest is a poem

A forest is a poem
in a language of life, of action.
Symbiotic swell into echoing song.
Bright catalytic light, dark layers of still
nurturing long decay, fragrant rhythms
tune to animal play and parry,
seeds join in emergent glee, new forms
for old, set in sound and fury.
Forest
the word itself carries intrigue, tales
of magic and remorse,
of maidens hiding from horrific beasts and
handsome knights sworn to fealty.
Sweet sprites, winsome serpents and ravens
whisper oracular spells to trap or free.
A mere parade of words may create no sap,
no clinging moss, no berries enticing birds
to build for a future family.
Yet a forest is most certainly
a poem.

Nietzsche was after all insane

Nihilist explanation
Formless in quantum relationship
Stark drifting beyond living landscape
Such blatant ego whining contradicts
bliss, wonder, biology,
squandering the price of admission

well nest

Accept our human coil
wrap sweetly as eider
cozy, drowsy, dreamy
into a field of play
Engage in battle strategies
Enrage when others fail to please
all the while that deep wide smile
sees outside the eyes and miles
into a great well of laughter

Gestures

Desperately reaching to convey
imagery haunting like
a phantom stalker
pervasive elusive illusion
parade
I intrude, I do
and make panicky getaway
Intrusive, illusive, a sultry sigh
I tried to tell you
I cried
inside

inter mission

We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
webbed space and time.
All that ever is, like sea and rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
rainbows
or other illusions
into effervescent poetry.

Not a Lucid Dream

She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
awaiting champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies to entice
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams, unconscious bliss, 
offer drenching. 
Hydrating water falls 
drawn down, release all pretense. 
Surrender to fate – 
or collaborate in adventure. 
It takes a Queen to drink 
from the sacred cup, to 
read the trails of sludge, 
to answer. 
She heeds serendipity’s call, 
heals her aching wound, 
hears soft moisture mark her path. 
Cracking ice spells runes to 
guide, sprite luminous shades. 
Wavery blue, ectoplasmic arms 
trace salutations. 
This is not lucid dreaming. 
This is the sign promised. 
Taste the frozen blood; 
know its story, sharp, shining. 
Live the legend, 
even when 
it is furthest from your mind.  

interchange

a sad thing in life is when you meet someone
over an evening, dissolving separation,
finding eternal meaning and validation,
learning to be in love
until reality of the human kind steps in

grand fantasy set free to wander
obsesses through your mind
Don’t let go — just be who love has made you.

a self is its own reward

A to the core belief
in the self — miracle of seed expressed
sweet spot of bliss and exultation
deep reward for daring to feel complete
creates no war, no competition, no other to defeat.
These illusions of aggrandizement belong
to self doubt,
to desperate deifying of right and wrong,
to self-alienation.

Crossing the Threshold

At the crossroads at midnight
my lady did swear
that she must be alone
to face up to her demons.

“Please understand that I must
be aware of just who I am
and where I’ve come from.”

I sat by the bridge
as she set forth her flames,
her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes
so she’d know who to honor, to break
and to blame,
what she’d been made for, 
her journey, her tools.

At the crossroads, past midnight,
just before dawn,
my lady thrice nodded and 
stamped out her flames.
She beckoned I join her out on the meadow
to kiss and rejoice
and reveal our true names.

early harvest

Loosening from light, long hazy days ebb golden,
corn fields and buzzing
early harvesters of wild lore.
Cold is still a legend, a remembered song
soon enough we’ll be singing,
huddled into aural lamps for communal warmth.
Tonight, as twilight melts into familiar 
constellations, migrating like flying life,
early harvest still feeds celebration.