The Wondrous Now

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Which path the road of certainty? Which choice shall slew eternity?
How fast, this sleep; how shallow.
How grey this scape, how fallow.
Atop this mount, I cannot foretell
The lay of the land; the plan, the swell
Ahead for me, for us, for you,
So, ride these waves with courage new
And reach inside for the love of knowing
Your star’s furnace cosmic-glowing.
And breathe, walk, love, bow
To the ceaseless flow of the wondrous now.

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The Downright Immortality of Erik Satie

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Which absinthe, what pill, whose ghost did revere and revile your spirit Sir; which demon angel clasped your spurious heart, what beam or ray of microporous light did wash your anger with tender knowing? For some untold unheard unfathomed effect of nature or the Gods did most surely befall you, sir, as the chime and concord of heaven’s allure coursed through your veins and twitched and danced your fingers so; for trois gnossiennes, for god and supremity, for subliminal truth, for the pitch and timbre and cadence of breath flowing in and out and through your being, sir, how did you channel thus?  How did you dare to express such cosmic fortitude, how glorious your delicate touch, how sensual this ticking tock of a music box of memory and longing, how sweet, how moreish, how embalming this suffusing flow of gentle quick-step and how glorious, how stunning the silence of an urbane audience as your last note dies and you rise from the hall without a bow, how perplexed their jolted minds in this post-incident silence; what has just happened they say, what did he do, who did he think he, which buffoonery is this, this pied-piper’s trick of a man, what transfiguration befalls us now. Have we just eyed Medusa they think as the motionless seconds tick, sir, the silence in this hall swirling great patterns across the ether, disturbed and disrobed by your unspeakable tomfoolery with nature – your collection and collation of all and everything out and through a clanking tweeting box of keys atop a stage in a decadent hall in a grand old city of lusts and disappointments – you distended that piano sir with some kind of otherness and you were already too far away outside, walking down the street with your nonchalant stick, after this blasphemous recital, to even know if rancorous applause stuttered its way into rapture amongst the gawping congregation left behind; it mattered not, sir, for in truth they sit there still today, shadows of time, a hundred years since, and you, sir, long gone are also here loud and clear, living through an exquisite chasm in the ether, from which the resonance of your divine ballet of sound streams and pours and wraps the immortality of sound around our fears and frailties today, sir, even still.

Posted in art, beauty, classical music, dreams, Erik Satie, history, metaphysics, music, piano, poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The Immutable Beauty of Being

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An accolade fell in the dream, a touch from a fateful hand. I felt humanity’s narrow warmth grow exponentially to an evolved future beyond recollection. These were the days of starlight, the visionary actuality of a human possibility which reached into the atomic aesthetics of love, of beauty, of non-deified divinity. This lies within us all, this latent wellspring of unsurpassable peace and compassion. There is an immutable joy, an infarct, a wordless meme of blinding, ferocious beauty right at your very core, every corpuscle, scintilla, dendrite, neuron a microcosmic burgeoning of truly unbelievable profusion. Our descendants will reap all of this wonder…

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My Consuming Star

kosmogonic:

I wrote this over a year ago. I have come to learn since that, sometimes, great happenchance will indeed bring the star. The power of belief and of love is untrammelled.

Originally posted on Kosmogonic:

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All manner of things, all types of tears filled my heart when the light began to tremble. I cannot see your face in this mirage. Where have you gone? Which star of afar are you, in the sky? Which neon jellyfish in a suffusing sea of black has taken on your soul? Where shall I find you again? How do we move through this realm of solitude, set apart like calling, pulsing fireflies; our light so short and focused, yet so random, so bereft? Where do I join the greatness, the immutability of light? Where do I offer my spectral fodder for dissolution unto the universe? How I must traipse, so heavily, in search of my consuming star… When does it come for me?

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Incantation

Originally posted on Kosmogonic:

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May emanation be. May creation absolve. May the energy of resonance divine its vibration downwards to the roots of life. May meaning resolve our angst and purpose emerge from the cacophony of living spirit. May words deem our heartbeats glorious. May each breath resound with the ascendancy of evolving conscience. May you live free in soul, deep in contentment. May the world know your beauty, and may our good soar and sweep in auroras of truth. May knowing, may love, may peace be all and everything.

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The Black of the Cosmos

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The black of the cosmos wrapped your body

In an exorbitance of joy.

My soul beheld you – a smile of illuminating sun

Under your neck, radiating, raging

With nuclear certainty and knowing.

Like a dress of divine consummation,

Atop the body of she, the one, the angel,

The endless black cosmos tore a sublime strip of its fantastical fabric

For your heavenly form.

And the eyes, dazzled, mouths, agape that will beget this walking, talking mirage

In a place of common revelries

Will barely know what they see.

But I, anointed, have seen the black cosmos around you,

Warping space and time, aligning our stars,

As these things must always begin.

And I love you, my cosmos…

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The Delirium of Desolation

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The sliding door of deliverance, how fickle, how sensually random the avenues of our angst and longing; when you awake in the arms of desire each and every day, then there lies only destitution and the growl of resolve yet again as we arise and determine fatefully to transform ourselves once more. Today as always is a day of metamorphosis, of divine promise, of the accumulation of yet further exotic memorabilia of hope. How this myriad phantasmagoria of sensuality, of lustrous sighs and trembling failures dissolves once more our broken ego, presenting it face-up to the stars, spectral fodder for a comically insouciant universe. The delirium of desolation ravages our discarded fantasies today with lupine hunger, the primal feast of self-realisation and final naked abandon devouring all hope, for now at least, before the sky darkens with night again and our dream-tainted renewal is wrought by the warming sun of morning; for the perpetual cycle to start afresh, beating hearts once more ripe with visceral expectation…

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