The Book of Estrangement II


It’s easy to believe that I will never write again, never do anything again, in truth, for I never have done anything; other than vacillate like a lung, that is. I’ve blown, overblown and deflated again so many times, that the muscle memory is imprinted upon my sleep. This is no way to be, this inward vision of isolation and disdain. I know nothing about myself, despite the off-the-chart emotional intelligence the mirror lies about. I am so bereft, so devoid of circumference and lacking in humanity that I am growing increasingly convinced that I have been deluded, along with all my poor, hapless companions by my own apparition; once, perhaps, some kind of meaningful facsimile – a projection of outer volition and meaning – but so abused, venal, exaggerated, satirical now as to be like a ghost in the garden at midnight – fleeting, pointless, dusty, ridiculous. I am that ghost in the garden of my own mind, an aberration beyond redemption, for that which may be redeemed must be more than handfuls of dust, scattering to the corners of pointless existence. 

(c) Kosmogonic 2016

The Book of Estrangement I

Some physical or psychological torpor gnaws near the bottom of my lung. It may be my heart. The layout of the organs down there is a great mystery. One could study an anatomical drawing whilst supping coffee and pondering life’s next gambit, yet never still know from whence the grumbling comes. Livers, kidneys, spleens and the like – all churned up collectively insofar as one’s insides feel from the outside. 

The discomfort now seems to want to crawl up my left arm from just above the bony elbow and nibble away with slow, tired piranha teeth all the way up to my shoulder. Left arm, left side, heart, heart.  It’s probably nothing, of course. Everything is nothing at a push, after all. Quite a gentle push, at that. Some nothings, let’s point out now, are far more substantive than others, or so the psyche, or the soul, or the ego would have it.  I don’t know how I would have it really – the non-specific I, that is, that is neither psyche nor soul, nor even ego. But ‘I’ do know how spectacularly transfigurative the ‘best’ or most insidious nothings are. Those eviscerating entities, anomalies, phenomena, creatures, manifestations – have it as you will – that seem to descend like impossibly thick fairytale mists, giving everything perfect unreality and drama whilst they last. The sun of fates (or even just temporal movement) seems ever-determined to burn these mists away sharpish to shine its own blinding revelation of opaque heat and atomised, implied purpose. And then you’re left, like a fish thrown to desert, gills puffing in piqued surprise, pensively awaiting a neat club to the head or an indeterminate hand of God to hurl you by the tail back into the water on the other side, wondering whether it was the nothing of the mist or of the burning, cleaning sun which brought you here, and whether it means anything in the slightest, as your big fish eye stares towards an inordinate, unfocusable atmosphere of perfect, astonishingly balanced incredulity and indifference. 

(c) Kosmogonic 2016

Precision

The imprecision of unworded truth, 

Becomes precisely the feeling,

I believe, I feel for you -with proof,

Of layers of ether-soul peeling

To reveal with divine demonstration, 

A vision of vistas, holy visage, 

A specific, touchable emanation, 

No dream, fantasia, nor mirage,

Just precision of truth felt and known,

In ways unheralded by living norms, 

Transcending time and space as shown

To our stellar entities in organic forms. 

(c) Kosmogonic 2016

The Key

Found, the Devil went to ground

Afterwards.

After words, he was, 

Upon which to found 

His litany. 

Literally, he found nothing. 

No thing would succumb 

To him.

Tombstone inscriptions

Taunted him with insinuations,

In sin, of words that 

Could outlaw love and goodness. 

But he could not decipher

The order of accession. 

He had no poesy in his eyes, 

Only blood lust and fire. 

Furious, he created demons, 

Demonic ears to hear the secrets

Of the alchemical poets,

To learn the unlocking secrets 

Of the universal creation, 

And they listen, and listen, 

Listening to these words 

And yours, 

For the key. 

(c) Kosmogonic 2016

And Stop

Forces unkempt, flowery and seething with growth,

Photosynthesis turning my energy inside-out, 

Atomic almighty, genetic contrition explodes

And, goddam it to fuck, I’m growing like the Beanstalk, 

Skyward me, night, trail me meandering gravity

Against the scorching sunlight, an overdose

In ultraviolet fire, inducing a writhe, a whip

A lash, a thorny twister funneling me to your heaven, 

Pleading through the gravelly thirst for rain, 

Water my roots! I am the new growth, the birth

Through the night of creatures induced

To sheer magic, but this cellular occultism, 

Catalysis, splice me up in new forms, great branches

In zygotes rabid with code and blinding purpose, 

Grow me! I am the nurture. I am destruction. 

My vines, untended, are flailing across the knowing sunset, 

Earth turning, 

Turning, 

And stop.

(c) Kosmogonic 2016

Rigmarole 


Consign despair to the heavy masses, 

Abort, condemn, restore what passes, 

I am form inert, I am time disbanded,

You are collapsing star, single-handed. 

Absorb all meaning, disarray of mission, 

Hero of roll-call, abscond from permission, 

Absinthe inertia, prison legs holding, 

Bars on the postcard, visions are folding. 

(c) Kosmogonic 2016

Space Opera

I see only beauty today. The less beautiful a thing purports to be, the more it dazzles me from out of the shadows. I am near-blinded by your meme, inevitably, across four dimensions of spacetime. 

* * *

The world is all shapes. This cup and saucer. My thermal-lofted wings. Your soul, ever-morphing, concentric, turning everything I know into a new kind of geometry, a metaphysics of how you are angled towards me from moment to moment. 

* * *

A café cacophony cannot drown out the aura singing from inside the dreamfield I suddenly see I’ve always inhabited. Shrill women cackling, clanks and whirrs of cutlery and coffee machines, baritone chattering of serious-sounding men, faint beats of pop music…nothing compared to this new space-opera I’ve awoken in. 

(c) Kosmogonic 2016