Prose narrative poem & verse
Drink me water when I can drink you no more.
Who can say when the world would end in that tomorrow my words would be flame.
Where should I begin words for our descendants tongues, these that bloom with Spring & scatter with Autumn.
We know we have arisen here & have not been here long.
From the tellings of our predecessors we know these mountains have metamorphosed even their skies, some in which they now dwell.
We were once named the shining faces but we ceased roaming to focus our interaction with the forces of light & have discovered many new weaknesses from which we die.
Two boulders & a tympanum make a dolmen, conjunct & disjunct the horizon, continual & continuous with erosion, we place our still born in foetus, a poem is born, all bodies eventually return to the mounds, home of the jackal & the vulture.
Fire is ignited by the spinning of an alder spar on a block of oak
New World Poet (NWP) : 2003-10-18
And all our yesterdays are but as lighted fools that lead to dusky death is that anything to do with the street lamps before me & the nightmare on my face under them that everyone can see.
In the decree of the fates it is written that man shall live out his days in the unfathomable loneliness of his mind wherein he can counter none, nor kith nor kin nor friend.
The decree of the fates that Oedipus was a serious political satire, that Horus & Set had no genetic link, you break the damn alpha man, you fear the lonely man.
I am carrying a jar of money as a gift for tools to lighten our world, I will collect them from the writing crafters who have gifted their crafters.
The women call us headstrong but they too have nightmares even the children.
There is abundance but we only eat to appease or to feast, to feast is to sacrifice, we settled from thrift through necessity to aesthetically.
We know we are infinitesimal in the order of things from which we derive our comprehension but since we have settled we have increased our knowledge of language combining letter names to numbers, but we still understand the background of any barbaric that comes to us from their cipher languages, transference is easy, languages scatter as the winds.
We are but are few stars yet hand in hand we must clasp, illuminate the names, their emanations, their incarnations.
It was an outstanding success, an outstanding success, everyone left the theatre & they were all smiling as if they´d been hit by laughing gas, it had been a universe of ideas they all agreed as they disappeared into the streets in noise not sound
He is sitting in the middle of a main street pavement the day & nighttimes writing from a worn printed page book.
Monk in beggar’s rags
In ink word for word
In order not to forget
As our feet tread over him
Who is to say when the world will end our words have been from the volcano, the matrix of day & night, words of light, world within world within world without end, unnameable the end, I am your child from the wilderness dressed for the feast.
On you my descendants I let fall the glory that here there is no fall we have arisen as you must for here is the handful of dust.
She who adorns my lust is immanent on her brow, we mime but feet must tread our words, share your nightmares with me she calls as through fires & smoke of broom we crawl, aye she´ll fetch me home again.
I no longer think of the disturbance without but of the disturbance within, the disequilibrium, factual evidence in which all our miracle truths fade into insignificance.
I am a social being writing a thesis on the social behaviour of household cats, this vast study has not yet proved futile for cats have their norms just as humans do.
ancient imperial to
blight & suicide
Bleep, bleep Robot Star,
lonely blue skies lonelier
still lonely blue eyes.
After the pleasure, the orgasmic sea, bodies get up, getting dressed is what they say to the slow day approaching it with the querulous look of possible freedom.
Sacred Sofia of Byzantium, whore after the fall of Babylon & still long before you abide, this is the shore of bedlam, here we know all before the fall, if that is the reason for our being, will my small prayers save me, where once Europa was your throne, now disequilibrium.
When the stars are invisible & the moon declines the blue, yet I know where they are from any moment between dawn & twilight even when the earth casts no shadow to the light coming down.
I carve flint arrow heads, three pronged, the long stem ending like a pendulum, these we bury with our dead, or in the scooped tree set ablaze & adrift to the isles.
We come in our coracles to those briar tangled edges where the charred vessel in sedge glistens with bones & gulls call from the alder. What is our purpose, women, men, children, none but to awe the mounds of Ithcus.
None of us are complete, we are born incomplete & die incomplete, there is no completeness, our genetic praxis adapts to the circumstances of its environment, our astral neuron praxis traverses the matrix, alchemy of transformation & Divine Karma.
The history of human atrocity is badly recorded, to it I am less than meat, my contempt for their valour, their carnage, their stacked cards, their shuffle where you might be dealt in their pack.
This is a world of always end never to go on, gone as if it had never been in whatever seems.
Hegel anticipates television, a third person in the house, science in equilibrium, an imbalance is restored.
Our cosmology is subtle, we are initiated at birth with nature & a lifetime is seen as three phases of transformation.
When we roamed the maimed at birth were left exposed, old & ailing were also abandoned but with provision & aid could fare or were given medicines to ease their passing.
Now the sick have more medicines & we more illnesses & poisons.
The children play at war & invasions, they don´t get it from us, except from theatre, but from observation of animal behaviour ( not yet literate to our customs ) & household cats, who do not cherish them, we too prefer the cats.
There are threats in our groups, people go crazy & start wanting to hunt elephants.
We do not encourage the children to hunt but to observe other creatures behaviour cautiously & with respect & to cultivate their own with respect but children seem possessed with some blood lust & don´t distinguish much in gender at play or work, they have only the names they call themselves, as they have not yet been given names except to play with.
Perhaps as our wise swine herdsman, who keeps our swine, honourable creatures but not a good mix, even as we adults women & men can be, nevertheless the swine herdsman must have his sausages.
We constantly regroup, which has been good because we still share in open meet our dream experience, usually nightmare because of the confusion we experience unless we think a dream has augury & prophecy, we also publicly fornicate at these meets as well.
These can sometimes be almost daily events, some develop increased ritual rites & want to practise them & regroup & others want to stay & stay but cant always.
There is an an annual great meet where we all converge for up to a month if we can afford it.
Accounts reach me of certain parties leaving from these great meets for their destinations & fighting bitterly amongst themselves & other parties, the old days have gone forever, I fear.
We count the day between the old year & the new as our birth of consciousness that links us with cosmic consciousness, we call it the day of the divine child.
The moon adorns our stars we are only born to be.
There are many rituals I am indifferent to for instance where they slaughter herds of wild ass & women, men & children stand naked to drink & be drenched in their blood.
They are tolerated as harmless & necessary to the participants on their level of spiritual development. I have my doubts & regard them as degenerate.
The world is a very uncertain place, whole peoples wiped out by catastrophes, who is to say when it will end but may you stay forever young.
We don´t know what our humanity is, we are seized, overwhelmed, crushed.
We want freedom & we kill it, for each man kills the thing he loves, blood & wine are red as he looked upon that garish day, a little tent of blue & wandered lonely as a cloud.
Water, poems of water & time, drink me water when I can drink you know more.
There are buds that can remain closed
for thousands of years,
when placed in water it opens as a
peacocks fan, a radiant
lotus of feather heather rays, as stars.
We only smell the sea until the storm blasts.
I would set all animals free from our cages.
Some creatures domesticate easily & so cultivated do not often return to their forebears.
Some people want to roam again & this has been a cause of plague.
We are not free even the creatures are freer than us.
Even our dead in the other skies shake their head.
Life is struggle, we think there are consequences to our actions but sometimes there are none.
Even prophecies derived from our poems by adapts can remain obscure & hidden from view.
It is the decree of the fates that we must struggle or fade.
I wonder if our purpose is not to breed, transmit the message & pass on our purpose of life served.
Our women folk say we are all siblings but we are too headstrong & not to be
Dreams & ideas are the substance of memory, a great poem is written within & without time, the elements of past present & future as we perceive them in three dimensional space & time are netted, transported, transformed into another dimension of becoming.
I don´t know whether death is solid or ephemeral, life is both & unpredictable, consciousness paradoxical, variation on a theme that is more.
A fivefold seasonal year with a seven fold planetary system calendared by the lunar stations, a deification of bio rhythms shimmering like a new born babe with the light that has entered its dream space inside the volcano.
Run of the Arrow.
A whisky sodden
Sioux under the prairie sun
Sombrero to nose
Amidst the sky's buried dead
Tells ghosts their tribes are no more -
New world symphony,
Grandiose, dramatic, tragic,
Romance in triumph,
Tranquil innocent truth.
Wet & windy October day in the street, a battle of the sexes with umbrellas,
or on war games hunting down secret trails, killer sharks & Dinosaurs.
Perhaps there is hope in the battle because of its ultimate absurdity: conflict engenders disequilibrium.
In the rain the umbrellas bob in shoals or glide like fins through the shadow slanted streets of he, she & umbrella.
Unthinkable the naked face should act, masques were actors tools which the concealed face animated to act the play, petrified transformation, words of clay, a logos, a grammar, a grail, a plague of them.
She disdains his bloodless, blood filled corpse, his starvation, his sation , his station, let him feed off the rain like any other nobody.
Rubbish in the rubbish bins, photos of rubbish, black & white, technicolour, pastiche, Fresco, rubbish homes, a gust of wind, the heart trembles on shifting sands, fronds of coniferous sapling blow in October’s twilight.
We mourn our dead in their absence, it is with us always, so close in fact birth seems like a sacrifice.
We lean upon the day & fall upon the night. Black is zero one is white.
When we bring a deity down we do so in a collection, the Shamis, glowing faces, emulate sympathetically to engender transference & bestowing.
In my poems I speak on behalf of my words becoming, but our future, such as it is, is not our descendant´s yet when the world ends my words will be flame: decomposition in the equilibrium, decomposition in the disequilibrium.
But how did the source that was the volcano blow, that has metamorphosed us here, mirrored in this labyrinth, a trove of canopied bowers within, the desert without.
The few who never were but for fame, even now inform me
that I am, alike as history is recorded nom de plume.
To the toll of the red masque death´s dance,
the vampire in Xanadu´s ruins does prance,
Caliban sealed in a cavern, in the hall of fame,
a vampire at an art exhibition, blood in the air,
we drink, burnt at the stake, fame we share.
When I Heard The Learned Astronomer:
What, who do TV stations think they are talking to, their occupations within to a cross section without, we are on our way to the stars, if we can afford it, we can at least speculate, stardust on a christmas pudding in azure ephemeral flame.
Life is a selection of limits.
Perhaps this is the age of the moth dreaming of being an atomic butterfly, or
perhaps that is the dream of the vampire: the sword that cleaves feels nothing.
Sometimes an experience is too much to cope, what can we do, we can´t just say stop the world I want to get off, though it´s been tried, usually we just have to face the music. This is a poem passed on by an ancestor but it came to me:
The hedgehog gets the scorpion,
The fox, the snake in the desert dawn.
A volcano gives birth to an oasis.
The Lakes of Triton turn to salt plains:
Diaspora to the sands & the seas
About my parents, my mother was a socialist who came up through the depression, my father was educated through specialisation, he had more perceptible ideals, he did the garden & she the house as a business, her sudden death when I was quite young was therefore tragic & though I´ve never questioned it the loss has never left me. She I am sure believed in no God, but a beyond. He I think had an obstinate idea about pantheism which probably muddled him at the end, but they were both headstrong & I am certain they have gone on.
Now we are all born with talents, before it was not so, there were only the journeys they harrowed, yet they arose, those journeys are now our oracles & rites.
We are guided yet we are not as they being as much stricken in their own vulnerability as we in ours.
Why do we practise thrift in our exchange & gift, to express our worship of abundance source of all nutrition, that is what is meant to feast is to sacrifice.
As I long as I remember there has always been enmity & hostility & even though we use prophylactic sympathetic magic, it exists even between I & the women I love, she vaunts her pride fiercely before me & if I am to stand my ground, I stand no ground at all, men left, were expelled, fellowship declined, but I still adore my women, to the crows with the men.
We still perform our most sacred rights under tutelage of the moon.
But sometimes nowadays east & west winds come from nowhere or anywhere as the rising or setting sun, they would be better named so, the rising sun wind blowing at noon.
They especially scatter pollen far & wide breeding it into a mush which they then blow out releasing unusual aromas lingering in the regions, perhaps
harbingers of pestilence.
Nowadays, everything´s drugs, not money, just a disfunctioning electronic brain stupefied by cocktails in a pharmaceutical factory engaged in media drug wars.
Drugs arm yourselves before the new world symphonic alchemy sells you out on a holiday prescription.
Estimates on a plague calculate fifty percent gene survival programme, genes attach indifference to sacrifice or whether invasion comes from the north or vice versa.
Sons do not conceive through their mothers, who tend to stay close to them when they are infants until they are young boys & then grow indifferent to them until they have outgrown adolescent puberty or even youth.
A father will nearly always watch its daughter & again never conceive through her. It is a miracle at great meets we always know our faces & even between ourselves as siblings their is a strong mutual bond.
We are many & many lives & yet alone & in that loneliness never alone, that is the great mystery, existence is unfathomable, yet there is always revelation & we must choose from what we do not fully
Everyone has a story, but a poetical theme can never concern solely an individual story, it must bind us to the greater reality be prophetic in that it is beyond any individual subject but binding us to the mystery.
To contemplate the mystery, to apprehend the hidden, to contemplate what is your humanity, the uniqueness of still invisible motives in which you act in seemingly minor details of existence & let the great questions toll, watch them roll.
Let me be surprised, astonished, awe struck. Let me listen to the grass grow, sing to flowers in the window as the breeze chastens.
We won the war brother, you´ve got the brawn, I´ve got the brain, together lets make lots of money.
Let the hoodlums mayhem
in the great arena,
the emporer´s masque of horror
shows small dismay
at this invading terror
as with his guards before
the mass crushed today
will be his clerics of tomorrow,
glad to boon their emperor
even with their hoodlums.
It is just a body on a street street
but an incurable schitzophrenic.
Just a man or woman found stuck in a jam,
the rustle in the window dresser´s pane,
wasn´t at all meant to agitate him
& the secret whispers as she passes
will never be destiney´s prophecies,
nor eyes that look a body up & down
Wore not before it a nurotic frown.
Just a corporeal body's breathing mass,
a jelly roll in a prawn cocktail glass,
lugubrious & glaucous in danse macabre
transparently concealed in shadowey shard,
bodies in incurable loneliness.
Harrowing hell Calliope on the edge of tinsel dreams &
Robot stars that yacht in toy towns, an angel clinging to one ear
& a devil hanging out of the other, in either hand I return,
poem in one, a conch in the other, from the land of the dead
acolyte bearing Calliope´s laurel crown, do not turn back
when you wrought together Calliope´s muse to harrow hell.
There is the silence that you hear & the silence that is there that speaks through everything, even your echoes, that you do not hear except for the voice within you.
Be wrapt in that silence even as the seasons come & go for they have their own argument, even to the star´s music for they drive their own courses in the spheres' ferment, though they are written in you & what is within you must come out, only time separates the young & old & joins, be wrapt in that silence that speaks even through time.
All is illusion but also its consumation & she who abides also gives birth through conception. Hers is the inscrutable face of the unseen. Hers is the edge.
On the night of the dead the sun enters the moon´s tutelage
to be reborn in Spring. Far north it sojourns to death´s domain
casting it´s chill shadow from the ground, to grind the stellar mill.
Night of the dead
O night of the dead, we the still unborn
have arisen from the tomb of the moon
on the silver dew of death´s frosty morn,
as light becomes a demiurge´s doom,
to follow the moon who opens our tomb
unto the birth of the sun from her womb.
Moon, we who have arisen from the dead,
on this night, its dead, to the stars are fed.
Copyright Robin Ouzman Hislop 2003-10-31.
All rights reserved.
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|Reviewed by Brian Geoffrey Ouzman (Reader)
|This Aphorite was interviewing a pagan in 300 b.c. 'How many children have you got? - Dox. (none) I'm a eunuch. - 'in that case you won't need these free condoms I'm distributing on behalf of the state - hey, but hang on minute I'm doing research on population growth and control and your just the sort of person I'm|
|Reviewed by Ashraf Goreja
|Exceptionally great. I find no words to express my joy of reading.
An excellent write.