Swirling

 

In some voids one swirls

But time-some voidless swirls

Link us to the blue

 

Peering into this indigo

rendering

 

the host is more than the host

he beats with more than the blood

more than the obtuse wanderings

of cells and improvisation

this is a rendering

a portrait of life

a life within a life

glances are never just sightings

eyes not the lay of vision,

for in this creature's whim and fancy

is a dedicated machine, within

the soul like a beating heart

without the elements

so seemingly perfunctory

and as random as a birthmark

are distinct and as uniform

as a personality disorder

this is an exquisite rendering

so novel and linear

that even the lateral

seems patent

 

to render this

is to render

an unwieldy portrait

one that cannot be subdued

body

i hid one day

up a koppie

near my home

it was warm

and my feet

tired of hills

became slow

i looked for a place

a rock on which

to rest

i found a blue stone

and fell back

supine, body to

the ancient mass

i felt the ground

resist my self

my skin between

me and the core

and lay back

astonished

warmth like this

is rare, i thought

and like a seed

upon the fresh soil

became a man again

body to body

earth to earth

dust to dust

eats his own screams

 

purity can be so hard

thwarting the echo of a mind

long wavering beneath the faith

negating life and mourning

 

i scream a little scream

it gains momentum

and becomes a globe within

 

i mark the moments

like a clock watcher

pinning his hopes on

armageddon

 

i begin to louder now

partake of the breath

it becomes me

drives me on

like a strange spirit

lofty and dead

but hidden within

 

i scream now

in falsetto

words cannot escape

sounds, disgruntled

and afraid, scare me

sacred songs of the deep

 

without moving i eat

eat the screams

feed on them

like a mantic eucharist

 

this is my life,

my death, i feel

strangely alive

and blown away

by the strength

of the pain

i eat and i scream

transparent now

 

transparency is further away from purity

than a scream from a soul

 

Sometimes

 

Defending oneself is no use

Once you have reached that point

It's too late

You are already wounded

Rorschach

blot to blot and

then we lodge

an even interval

a mode to art

a contemplation

side to side

the even landscape

is as black as ink

hieroglyphs on words

as language is

to new words

so is sentiment

to the hidden soul