Dante’s dark woods. Twilight zone in the mist. Obscure objects of desire. Rainbow streams of serendipity; waters of infinite life. Monads in the blizzard of the simulacral world of late capitalism. Fractured code-bearers in the service of dark archons of insanity, this hyperbolic absence of integrality, or capacity for differentiated nuance, so that re-emergent wholes shed the archaisms of yesterday.
The sexy woman turned into Eden minus Eve or Lilith. Poof. Each sip of pure H20 from the land of sky blue waters evokes her evanescent memory, tho’ fucking her till she passed out would have been more fun.
Of course sex is bondage, it is concurrent with incarnation. If we didn’t like flaming hellfucks laced with angelic harp feathers, we wouldn’t be here, monads of terra firma, partly truth, partly fiction, tongues and cortexes swollen with linguistic errata.
Mental image pause for cunning linguist to perform cunnilingus on the bound evangelist of vacuity, the sexy woman pointing to the something else. If I wanted the something else, I wouldn’t be enjoying the mad hardon for her.
Love is memory for incarnate desirings, monadically speaking. Love is also a default term for a priori, so-termed enlightenment. Some of us slouching rebels don’t consider enlightenment a goal as much as an inevitability. We know we are only the Void. It is true we don’t always act like bodhisattwas, but it’s also true that crazy wisdom is about ENGAGING the so-called ordinary and turning it inside out, more than austere escapes into said a priori condition. Men become men, women become women again in the Tao, rather than politically repressed traditionalism vs. peculiar exercises in gender neutralization. Dynamic polarity renewed.
Lost in translation goes way beyond a vintage comic actor’s mood range in Tokyo.
In virtual igloos in the virtual Arctic, virtual comrades commune through the wires.
Wonder what the perv global brain will conjure beyond the grinning dirge of the daily debacle of twisted newscast packaging.
No matter how many centuries I exist in/as this body, or how many parallel worlds I slip in and out of, the horror persists, so almost the only thing that makes the griddle of urban (or the retardation of rural) existence endurable is hot cake sex.
Because sex is straight engagement, one doesn’t airy-fairy dissemble when the heat of infernal truth arises. Fuck on through to the other side. Leave your neutered robes of callow sanctimony behind.
But fuck completely. Breathe the Bogey-doesn’t-give-a-damn spectrum of libertine to tantric, attentive to the world-making nuances of pulp to heavenly, hellhole divinity.
That’s duality. Shiva’s sublimely indifferent.
The cast of characters here are shards of ice hanging from the ceiling of memory’s museum.
You dodge the daily drivel, the no-one’s-land of reason and belief, and so the Flying Dutchman’s ship haunts your ardor-craving heart, the shifting sands of the bardo defy destinations, and our soul chimeras accompany us in perpetual flight.
I want to find you in this hallucination, to touch the face you shone before you were born, paradise lost and found with every intake and outtake of breath.
Some think the word Love looks backwards, yearning for a phantom lost in memory. So I lose my mind again and again in the glint of light behind the blizzard of words, wanting to touch you somewhere never known, and only you because your name is legion and your moods a choir of rainstorms singing.
You flame-dance my inner gaze. My tongue caresses your ajna chakra. My grail is your third eye shutter-shuddering.
Seldom do memory’s mindmemes align with the exquisite undulations of femme purrrfection. She cums she loves she hasn’t much of a fucking clue yet she’s smart in the world. But sooner or later she flies the Stepford coop, and knows the strongest best bird for her is the one with the strangest strongest song.
It’s alright ma, it’s only life during wartime.
Deep wartime loyalty to WHAT? Calibrations of madness are all we have – at the far end heart-ecstatic Rumi or Teresa, in the middle, dead zone zombie reason and belief leavened with flashes of flesh pleasures, at the low-end the maunderings of mere psychic decay.
Willing the flux to be wonderful is the discipline.
Your silver bracelets tinkle and chime out-of-time in my infinite heart -- desert rose of enigma’s designs.
© 2006 Peace Wilson