Heaven's Test

                   

 Kisses     of Paint

                               crimson red 

                                                   

                                                    and

                                violent blue              

wept 
          across
                       the lips

                                      of gods

                                                   offer 
                                                            complete 
                                                                              
annihilation.

   Gleaming and wet

                                                 like tears of glass

                                                    sweet and sharp

numb

                                          the body's pain.

                                        At twilight's streaming

                                       

      

            from the tip   of a brush 


                                      Desire Runs,

into a pool  
                      OF PIGMENT.
 

LUSH AND DEEP  
in narcotic rhythm,                                                                                                

                             

forty lashes 
                        STAIN THE FLESH .

                            

                      

                                               

The colors 

 rest...
           Heaven's test.




                                                                                                                

Void explained

My Lady,

The void: I responded to you that I had an experience of it. That was false, I never have. If it exists, it is a paradox. How can there be nothing, except as vacancy within a border that then becomes something, another object? There is only everything. I will go back to Jung re: void. What I felt in the momentary experience mentioned to you, was not one of void, but of simultaneous expansion and contraction, of timelessness, of everywhere and nowhere, of utter dislocation and merging without borders on a cosmic level. It was IMMENSE. When I sucked it all back in and opened my eyes I was born for the first time, and the millionth time. It was very strange, the immediate sense of "no, I am not you, I am I". And I sensed a deep memory, a first awakening... the eyes, beautiful, stunning, a profound grounding.

Nine, Oh'Nine, Oh' Nine, Oh'Nine, Oh'Nine

 

Plato

Plato's Bed

Ground
The Bog of Mankind
I see the human shell
Sinking into the humus of historical context
Absorbing even the Classical Greek edicts about how 'drapery should reveal the form'
The drapery index lost
Sinking into the matrix
Into which also the body,
Decomposed but still somehow sensate
Is also in the process
Of being organically digested
And it is Plato's Forms:
No Space
No Time
Laying hard
Beneath the covers

Collective Thoughts

Thoughts on collective thoughts:

Void
the momentary experience
not void
but simultaneous
expansion and contraction
timelessness
everywhere
nowhere
utter dislocation
merging
without borders
cosmic embrace
nighttime
IMMENSE
distance
sucked back in
for the first
nay millionth time

an immediate sense

of deep memory
a finial wakening
the gaze
so stunning
the voice
so beautiful
the ground
liquid traces
of me
and you

Covenant

Covenant

Bruise colored flowers

stain the darkening wood

where once

the edible house stood

and shadowed children

upon the wife

while the maid servant

watched roses

on the edge of rancid

kiss the fattening goose

and promised closure

to the witches plight

that waits in the oven

of a fatherless night.

Spare Is, as, Spare Does.

You let it drop to me.

You spoke of my confessions...

what about yours?

Is it the case that

you and I share the same tendency

to cover our tracks?

One born of preterit hope...

that what cannot be seen,

may not exist...

An ultimate presence and absence

co-mingled in matrixial night,

of the darkest matter?

You mentioned the horrors of war,

seductive cover-ups...

the fashion to obscure the lies

and the drapery

of existence failed.

Your grief,

Nuremberg,

your fathers standards...

splinters in your soul...

a trail of sorrows,

the lagrima mundi...

of your entire life.

Now the splinters emerge

and come to term,

not the first time,

but again as specter

in the form of paintings

as elegant and minimal

as any judgmental

and discriminating Papa

might expect

from his exquisitely

talented and beautiful

daughter,

the daughter

whom

awakens

amongst the ravage

of horror

and human misery

bound in ecstasy.

And under the cover of cosmic night

you do your Papa proud,

your Papa is undone.

Meanwhile the sheets are set

and the forms

remain clean,

aquiline fine,

with all the glimmer

and spareness

one should want

of a woman desired

yet chaste.

Look Papa!

All of it is there!

Your daughter has

suggested everything,

while revealing nothing!

She has done it

beautifully,

tastefully,

delicately,

amid your past

and presence

which lay

concealed

by her growing power,

her frightful bower,

of intimacy and secrecy.

Papa is there a groom

whom shall marry this bride?

Or a seed

that shall be spilled upon her?

My Lady,

To you

I will reveal

only what is comfortable

for you to bare.

I will spare all

or spare nothing.

Spare is

as spare does,

So shall I be spare

for the sake of thee.

You are my ground,

the point of my discharge

vessel of electric overload,

virgin ground,

And to you it is charged

to remain pure

and to remain active

even after the light passes through,

and the carnal blood is spilled.


My lady

I implore you

The sky is alive

for the ground to receive.