+signas+

Not before long
stood he gazing
upon marvels
of his
minds
projection
unfolding
enveloping
 execreting
beautific
awe &
bliss


there was no
question about it
no commas
or  goose eye
but there was
indeed
a familiar scent
likened perhaps
to an iced banana
with dips
of croatian mint



picturesque  memories
appeared to haunt
him with details of
joy and tainted
sorrows
summoning
mysterious
presence
of more
ancient times

&  in his
minds eye
he could
see
another
eye
looking
back
in
a
peaceful
and
reassuring
way

and that
was when he
tasted the flesh
of the gods
&
swallowed
once
and three times
the flesh of the gods
and he was
fed thereupon
by wonder
and bliss

ay,by wonder
and bliss

&

there was no
question about
it
no dotted
lines or colourful
clowns
but a perfect
shiny golden
triangle
about that
most sacred
vision of
the
eye



and then he
knew

and that
was when
he did
know

that
he did
knowest
nothing



a mysterious
void engulfed
all that he
once
where and
all that he
would ever
become


there was no
more of him
and he was
not there
anymore

and then
the writing
on the wall
would cease
followed shortly
by a blank
obscuring
screen of white
whereupon
symbols
no longer
appeared
from someone
whos someone
else in another
story all together

there was no
longer any
question about it
but a reassured
spectre of eyes
appearing softly
upon the velvet
arena of lucid mind

filling the void
with divine
love

amoun
   +

amoun
  +

the angels sing

and that is

the miracle

of hearing


&


this

is the miracle

and the

magical mystery

of seeing

~

this is

the soft utterings

of the infant

in its first days

of play with the universe

~

this is the rock

hammer voice

of rugged mountains

where only the horned

goats doth climb

in eager pursuit

of that wich is ever

higher

~

this

is the exorcism

of the demon who

calls himself by many a name

and moveth  through life

in many a guise

& this is

the summoning

of that  same

the very calling upon

the ancient one

who doth dwell

in the habits of quiet

ordinary men

& this

is the verse of

automatic poetry

gone manual

by an incident of pride

before genius

wich oft  ruins

that good  artist

leaving him

surely drained at the edges

and torn by

the limbs



this is the love

wich grew wings

on its own two

feet and strolled

the air like any

old fashioned

cloud

on a blue summers

sky



this is the dance

of the martyr

upon the symbol

of rest in

the city of sokrates

and his lessons

in speaking

the words

that are not words

and singing

the songs that

are not songs

but

divine messages

to be heard

by that one  eye

and seen

with that

one ear

wich is two

in one