Poetry

I find the pursuit of platonic furniture somewhat amusing.It must be white and bright. For reasons not entirely clear.We could call it “Sacred Geometry”, a pullingof the material out from the ethereal.But it isn’t really that. It’s a performative thatIt invokes a sense of it without being it.Pieces are usually taller, thinner, with clean lines.Perfect symmetry. A kind of heavenly imagining offurniture. With angelic beings occupying crystal palacesIn Prisms. Nothing need be that sturdy. There’s littlegravity at play. And everyone is taller, I guess.Swedenborg was enraptured by such visions.This realm corresponding with that, informing ourSensibilities. Furnishings in Mormon temples. The Jeffersonmemorial. Greco-Roman architecture. The Parthenon.Mausoleums. All those graves in alignment before thegolden gate. It is unworldly. A world for the dead.But it isn’t as well. It isn’t really that. It’s an attempt toinvoke our intuitions concerning it, but no image gets itThere are no beings of flesh and blood there, no foodMaybe some marble fruit in a bowl. Perhaps it is noheavenly image at all. But rather, a kind of hell.Certainly beguiling though. It is the stuff of EmpiresA myth to die for. This is not to say however that I wouldjuxtapose this myth with anything I would call “reality”There is no truth. Or if there is, that truth is a manwho can’t even scream, suffocating in his own bloodWe need our illusions. We need good illusionsAnd that word “good” is a tricky one. Good for me.A tall wall, as long as I’m on the right side of it.If you’re playing the game correctly, winning is aboutSituating yourself within the right illusion.“Every time you say you don’t believe in fairies afairy dies.”So, the skill I guess is in discerning the good illusionAnd the hedonic calculus won’t get you thereSelfishness is better than good, don’t trust the good!Bounded selflessness is better, bounded to the self.Are the illusions pointing beyond themselves,I think they are. But not in any clearly expressible wayIn a way, it seems like an awareness of the wider gameDoes get you closer to recognising the deeper contoursThere are so many bad illusions. They all have in commonjust how good they look from the outsideyou’ll probably need to get into the middle of a fewbefore you realise how they’re all structured.You cannot compel them through will. You can onlyabandon them, you can only choose. If you’re lucky.But maybe you don’t even choose. I cringe at the clichéBut perhaps they choose you. Or the exceptional oneson occasion craft their own. I find that remarkable.Even if they craft a really really bad one, just the abilityI find impressive. I think also part of the recognition ofthe contours, lies in one’s ability to discern the need forOne, or the space that one could occupy, despite not havingthe ability to bring it forth. It’s probably inaccurate tosay any one person brings them forth… They ride theswell. Aesthetics is a nice way to think about it, what everplatonic furniture looks like, one thing is for certainit doesn’t look like platonic furniture.

He raised his voice in anger. He showed us disrespect. Be our bloody sacrifice. When the pieces were arrayed, I watched him take the place of honor, the seat with the extra leg room. He snapped. He retorted. He had it all coming.

He gave such a good speech. You could say he stole the show. Such presence. Such command. Every word invoking depth; it spoke to my soul. We’re so lucky. So blessed to have someone who can elucidate the deeper mysteries.

We’ll tear, we’ll scream, we’ll rip him all the way down. You’d be mad not to convict. Mad not to throw the stone. I saw it in his eyes. It’s like I never knew him. Yes, we cheered. Yes, we adored. But now we’re ready to destroy.

It’s like a love turning to a hate. What we gave, we’ll take it all away. I heard them crying “give us everything”. And thank them for the privilege. A little less. A little more. Jump you fool. To the right. To the left. A little too much if you ask me.

Express the whole. Be a part of me. Tease out what I wish to be. I see myself in you, in your words, and I don’t like it. Divide me, divide my house, divide us all. My supporter. My detractor. A step too far. An endless game of words.

A sacrifice

Through the tent pitched bogRising up the wet grassy creekFollowing dad to pub’s shelterDrawing in dark cloud and skyTo sanctuary of fire and songO how I love this rainy nightSee black stout of brawny menKnees and bellies, Gaelic cheerRising fiddle, and lass’s dittyTo dance as little boys enthralThrough the back rooms andRound the bare wooden beamsTo the strawberry dervish girlThe twist of tartan plaid crossRound ta the pinball set matchLeaning in to inhale this balladAnd then back again, back againBack to the hard-wooden floorsO how I love this rainy nightA tap and tap, he whirred us onSpinning skirt and freckled faceRound ta the back n’ round againHeadlong past wind-lashed porchTo this liminal space to never endBeating fast, and faster whileThese pants exuberant hither endA pound for dancing with my gal

If you can repost Rumi to refashion your identityYet not lose your sense of self-respect,If you can apprehend your true economic value,while everyone around you does likewise;If you can capture it all in a consumable narrativeOr put your name to causes worthy of it,Or be located in the right place at the right time,And yet not post too much, or look too eager:

If you can sincerely monetize your innermost passions;If you can utilize every click, and optimize every like;If you can offset your plagiarism with your clevernessAnd never allow your ego to acknowledge either;If you can withstand others’ cynicism of globalisationWhile bearing their nationalistic and utopian folly,Or watch as others steal URLs with your name on itAnd brace yourself for the inevitable rebrand:

If you can skim quite happily along the surface of lifeAnd never acknowledge the nihilistic void ahead,If you can view your neighbour as an economic actorAnd see their failures as theirs, and theirs alone;If you can equate market freedom, with human freedom,And never think to question the status quoOr deal in what could be’s, or lofty contingencies,Don’t acknowledge such idealistic tripe:

If you can know all this, and still rise to assert yourself,Or affirm your own personhood in a world devoid of it;If you can blog for the sake of your own actualisation,And recognize your own wit and wisdom to boot;If you can set all those agitated minds demanding redressat ease, with catchy slogans, and echoed clichés;Yours is the neoliberal world and all forces therein,And – what’s more – you’ll be soulless, my son!

You have no means, companion of the desolate,To annex the deluge below, and bring it all forthNo weapon to compel it, no tool to draw itYou come, as I do, with nothing.

With nothing, but the urgency of the cut throat,Chomping at the bit and raging after possibilityMight we ever take it all, hold it as our due,Depart, as if it was always going to be.

If we say as much, command as much, speak as much,Shall it not be so. Shall all of creation not conspireAs we tune into all that primordial intention,To give us what we long for, pray and hope for.

Once upon a time, a Ferryman, who slept in his hut by the Great River, was awoken. Awoken in the night by two will-o’-wisps seeking eagerly to be taken across the river. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Ferryman pushed his boat into the river and began taking the two across. As they came to the other side, the two will-o’-wisps began to shake gold pieces from themselves, that fell haphazardly into the boat. “Stop!” Said the Ferryman. “What are you doing‽ Do you not know if a piece of gold fell into the Great River, the river would send up waves - a great tempest - and it would swallow up both me and my boat? Take back your gold at once, I do not accept it as payment.”The will-o’-wisps then explained how they never took back anything that they gave.“Be that as it may, the Ferryman of the Great River (that’s me!) only accepts as payment the fruits of the good earth! Everyone knows that! I cannot let you go until you promise to return to me with – with – let’s see - three cabbages, three artichokes, and three onions – three large onions!”The will-o’-wisps agreed and departed into the night. The Ferryman then collected up the perilous gold coins in his cap. Once he was sure he hadn’t missed a single piece, he took them up to a high place and dropped them into a cleft in the rock. Deep in that cleft, the gold pieces fell, chinking as they went down, awakening, deep within the rock, a green Snake. The green Snake, to her great delight, discovered the gold coins and swallowed them up. Scarcely had she swallowed them, when she felt great delight flood her body. She could feel the metal within her melting, spreading joy throughout her body; her skin began to glow. She was emanating a bright light which allowed her to see all about her. So often she had to rely upon the feel of things, the sharp rocks, the pillars, and the polished marble about her in the depths of the earth, but now she could see, she could navigate. So, slithering down into the deep, she went exploring, and in no time at all, in a subterranean cavern, she discovered a grand Temple, shimmering with precious metals. A temple to the three which have rule on earth: wisdom, appearance, and strength.The Ferryman was used to taking all sorts across the Great River - everyone who was seeking to pass from the land of the senses to the land of the spirit.“Oh what does it matter!” Like this one for instance. “Oh woe is me!”The Ferryman took him across just a couple of days ago, this sad looking prince.“My heart aches for the one I love, the beautiful Lily of the garden; I can never be with her.”He moaned liked this constantly. So much so, that when the Ferryman had taken him across the river, he didn’t even ask him for payment. He was glad to be rid of him.“I am without hope!”The Ferryman asked why he had returned with what looked like a basket of vegetables.“Two will-o’-wisps bade me to do so. They stole my gold, and ordered me to come and pay you what they owed. Is this right - three cabbages, three artichokes, and three small onions?”“Close enough”, explained the Ferryman, who then enquired as to why the prince had listened to them at all, especially after they had robbed him.“Because what does it matter? That’s why. I am alone and I always will be alone.”  You see, it was said that the Lily of the garden was the most beautiful, but it was also said that if one got to close to her, they would surely die.“Must I walk up and down this river for evermore? No! I must be with her, and if die I must, then die I shall!” cried the prince, and with that, he left the Ferryman and made his way to the garden.Sure enough, when the sad prince reached the garden, he made for the beautiful Lily, and just before he reached her, he collapsed and died. The Lily of the garden looked down at the prince full of sorrow, with despair in her heart. But from afar, the glowing Green Snake watched the whole scene unfold, for she had come forth from the Temple of the deep.“The time is at hand”, the snake said as she went towards the garden, moved by compassion. When the snake was before the prince and the Lily, she took the hand of the prince and the hand of the Lily and placed them both on her scaly skin. The prince instantly sat upright, as all that energy and joy flowed out of the snake and into him. At that very moment the ground began to shake. As it did so, the prince and the Lily, hand in hand, along with the snake, made their way down to the Great River. As they arrived at the water’s edge, they all watched in astonishment as the shimmering Great Temple of the deep burst up out of the ground, the temple of wisdom, appearance, and strength. But as the snake saw the united couple and the temple, she knew wisdom, appearance, and strength were not enough; there was a fourth power that ruled the world, a fourth power which is older and more universal: the power of love.With that thought the snake stretched herself across the river, and, sacrificing herself, created a bridge which for evermore united the land of the senses and the land of the spirit. United also in marriage were the prince and the Lily, who lived happily ever after. To this present hour the bridge is swarming with travellers, and the Temple is the most frequented on the whole Earth.

THE END

He took my fear but yielded to the circus.I asked him about the imitation game,Where one’s form and façade are king,The softened image, the edges frame.Must we play the jesters game?For I horror. The curated self is no self at all.Does reality not collapse into appearance?Are we not hidden crafters ever preparingFor some grand carnival that never comes?Must we play the jesters game?

At breaktime, playful fingers reach for milky keys,fretting hands imitate eagle’s claws perched on prickly strings,while a wee index digit is adjusted by big hairy handsupon the trumpet’s silver valves. Little earnest faces,hammer, spit, and pluck life into their miniature tools,which buzz and twang in discordant waves that soarin joyful array out from Mr Banks’ déjà vu musical emporium.This illustrious cacophony, chorus of shouts to boot,harmonises in ideal unison with school’s atonal woops.A sideways glance, a whistle, an anticipated coda.She conducts her pinching finale to the instrumental end.

In time I dared to look through the looking glassGloss of small specks caused me to see but dimlyCalmly I spoke of all the grim horrors withinInculcated inside was the great rolling BehemothThe wrathful one veiled by thick dust on windowsHeedful I wiped the glass, and peered in deeperWitnesser of all earth’s death and tumultAssault upon gentle innocence, she howledSprawled out these green refusers breathed dustVast evils are not out there - in condemned goatsBeasts afar off, no, no! They writhe within!

Betwixt the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger of the adept, a sprig of wormwood held aloft. He stood bent amongst the accoutrements of a lifetime’s craft; orbs, scrolls, charts, and countless crystal beakers. All resolute memorials to efforts that transpired to no end. The shallow endeavours of a now brittle and wretched old man, ever plagued by a youthful hope never realised. “But could this be it?” Like new moons of the lunar cycle his eyes flashed with brilliance anew, he sprung after parchment and a quill. “Could this be the triplicity of compounds I have sought all my days?”

Goose feather in hand, he scratched upon the vellum a triangle. Upon the first point he penned ‘absinthium’, the second, ‘conium maculatum’, and the third, ‘mandragora’. “This is it,” he muttered in adoration. For a moment he held the parchment in disbelief. It was as if he had plucked the formula effortlessly from the air. Setting to the task, he arrayed the coiling apparatus, and fixed the pear-shaped flask upon the steel tripod, within which he arrayed the organic matter, setting the flame. An impure froth emanated forth, a vapour rose through the pipes and drops fell upon the dish.

Seizing the elixir in raw anticipation, he did not hesitate to put it to his lips. In a sublime euphoric instant, he knew this was the culmination of his life’s work. The knots of every past failure seemed to uncoil within him; he could see that all his folly, precipitated by folly, arced flawlessly to this very moment. His skin tingled with delight. It was as if he perceived all from an elevated state of being. Looking to the scraggy ink splotched triangle, he smiled as his breath shallowed, his heart beat its last, and he gave up the ghost…

He cast his lure from the centre of himself,a burst of unspooling divinity across the cosmic lake.It was out of his being that all possibility unravelled,upon a line affixed with lead split shot.Small steely ball bearings, thread throughtheir gimlet eye, varnished with blues and greens.With all the vital mushy fibres of motion,ready to ripen into a farrago of blood and shit.Watch, as conveners tug on the totemic yarn,and knot it through the synthetic scholastic tree.Idolatrous zealots of nonsense revering tangledfishing line once cast by the long since dead angler.Is it not time to cut it down, and loose ourselvesfrom it all, as he once loosed himself from himself?