יום רביעי


~ Love me, love me not...

Genuine love
Is selfishness:
Love doesn't mean
To sacrifice yourself
For others.
It is the exact opposite.
It is truly the most selfish
Experience possible:
It benefits your life in a way
That involves no sacrifice
Of others to yourself or
Of yourself to others.

To love a person is selfish
Because it means that
You value that particular person,
That he or she makes your life better,
That he or she is an intense source of joy
- to you.

A disinterested love
Is a contradiction in terms.
One cannot be neutral
To that which one values.
The time, effort and money
You spend
On behalf of someone you love
Are not sacrifices,
But actions taken
Because his or her happiness
Is crucially important to your own.

Those who argue
That love demands self-denial
Must hold the bizarre belief
That it makes no personal difference
Whether your loved one is healthy or sick,
Feels pleasure or pain,
Is alive or dead.

It is regularly asserted
That love should be unconditional
And that you should
Love everyone as a brother,
- hate the sin, but love the sinner!
Which would have you condemn death camps
But send Hitler a box of swiss chocolates.
Most would agree that
Having sex with a person
One despises is debased.
Yet somehow,
When the same underlying idea
Is applied to love,
Most consider it noble.

Love is far too precious
To be offered
It is above all
In the area of love
That egalitarianism
Ought to be repudiated.
Love represents
An exalted exchange,
- a spiritual exchange -
Between two people
For the purpose of mutual benefit.

You love someone
Because he or she is a value
- a selfish value to you,
As determined by your standards
- just as you are a value to him or her.

It is the view
That you should be given love
Unconditionally -
The view that
You do not deserve it
Any more than some random bum,
The view that it is not a response
To anything particular in you,
The view that it is causeless
- which exemplifies
The most ignoble conception
Of this sublime experience.

The nature of love
Places certain demands
On those who wish to enjoy it.
You must regard yourself
As worthy of being loved.
Those who expect to be loved,
Not because they offer some positive value,
But because they don't
- are parasites.

A person who says:
Love me just because I need it,
Seeks an unearned spiritual value
- in the same way that
A thief seeks unearned wealth.

יום שלישי


~ Dedicated to my frozen creativity

Feel the genius in me
It wants to get out,
Just like the birth
Of Athena from
Zeus' head.

Opening my brain
With a scalpel and
Getting the genius out!
It's there, I know it.
I'm sure.
I am a genius,
no doubt about it.

So, how come
I cannot create?
What evidences
The soaring splendour
Of my genius?
Hidden still in the foetal status,
Ready to explode and
Illuminate the world
With the immensity
Of its genial beauty.

My genius thrives incognito.
My brain is of such excellence,
That it cannot include itself
And express openly.
The entrails of my sympathetic
Indicate the brightness
Of a genius' personality –
Although his productive approach
Defies the normal channels of proof.

What else is there to say?
A genius' work is never done.
Mine was never, and never is nor will.
Content with its state of geniality,
Ingenuousness, genially.

If Genius is the power of lighting
One's own fire,
I forgot the matches –
If Genius is an African
Who dreams up snow,
I am an Italian
Who dreams up gelato.


~ Two gemellated miniatures, dedicated to the dearest friend who got lost in a snatched dream...


Wandering drifter
You've burnt yourself out -
Seeker of peripatetic dreams
You reached for the sky
And ended up
With a fistful of flies.


You stole my sinuous chimera
In the evening of youth
Not to return it
But with its skin molted
At the twilight of life.


~ My ultimate duet...


I hope
For total
Into my


A musical note
Discloses my gate
To heavenly alteration,
Providing the key
To the highest concerto
Whereby every
Ecstatical tone
Is receding from
All evocative others.


My death
Cannot change the fact
That I had a life

My life is a member
Of a larger context
And forms part of it

The larger context
Is the Universe
Because my thoughts
And emotions
Are not extended
In space and time
Unless they travel
To my outer world

Therefore they have the same nature
As the Universe as a whole
And so my thoughts and emotions
Are added to the Universe as a whole
In the logical field of the Universe


Piano playing
Notes of sublimest melody
Whilst I walk
On clouds
Nude and insentient
Feeling cotton pods
In my head.

Split my skull
And extract a sonata
A million cherubim
Cannot compose
In God’s lifetime
And demons

יום ראשון

~ YEAH, MAN, YEAH! (warning: contains expletive madness)

~ Picture me staring at you... yeah! Then grab my hand and fly.

A light breeze hesitates around me.
The air is pure as the soul of a Buddha.
The sky is limpid and bright as the heart of E.T.
I am ready to change, once more.

With the lights out,
In the most ontological silence,
I gently place the palms
Of my yearning hands
On the heart of my soul,
I close my eyes
And with infinite expectancy
Prepare to savour
An infinity of pain
In a way only I know how to feel.
The pain of ecstatic vision.

It is a moment of extraordinary intensity
That catapults me into the first day of creation.
I feel the scope of my desire:
A desire for emotional transfiguration
That equals nothing,
Not even the explosion of the Supernova
Still, I wish to make you share it,
Now, while I feel it,
Now yeah, man, yeah!

Ah, friend, if you were here with me!
None of that simple communion
Of experiences along treaded routes.
You would share a unique trip to intensity...
In the very moment in which I'd shake your hand,
You would perceive and interpret my biorhythm
And all my vibrations,
With the knowledge of your extrasensory response.
And my biorhythm
Would immediately return
To optimum vital level
And my whole Being would pass
From the melancholy-depressive
To the most harmonious tonic-active
Vibrational frequency.
Spreading onto you like an aura.

Yeah, man, yeah:
I need you to become real,
And not just a reading presence:
How fucking depressing,
A virtual presence indeed.
You are a flesh and blood human,
Are you not?
Then transmit to me,
With all the tenderness
Of a real warm embrace,
Your marvellous,
Vividly coloured images
Of your pictorial mind and
Make'em flow into mine.

Yeah, man, yeah:
I'd visualise greatly loved landscapes,
Faces of favourite people (finally!) And animals,
Adored paintings, sculptures and objets d'art,
Aphorisms and extracts of poetry
And prose of amazing beauty and profundity,
With a perfectly intuited backgrounbd music,
Celestial to say the least.

All this transforms me, man, yeah:
Transmutes me ispo facto.
You'd loosen all the knots
Of my compressed energy
And empty all the sacks
Of my neurosis.

While I gloat light, fluid
And vibrating with joy and peace
In a state of pre-Nirvana,
Because of my inspirational state...
I understand that communion of kindred spirits
Is a soliloquy of cosmic import,
Architecture of extreme spatial possibilities.
Communion - friendship is in fact a spatial fresco,
I do believe.
And as you read me now, I find light
And shadow of the spirit
In the spring of my Emotion.
From the abyss that we are,
Both you and me, yeah!

Man, yeah:
The strength comes to us
From the unexplored regions of the Ego,
The Mind's Eye to offer itself to community.

That image lives in the background space,
In the remote cellars of the Ego
That borders on the cellars
Of all the other companions and brothers,
Printed on the eternal pages.

And so it comes up from free imagination,
From the hand in direct contact with the heart,
Like writing,
Its brake invisible and pure.

~ PERFECT HUMAN LIGHT (a mundane oratorio)

~ Here's looking at you, experienced man!

humanity has placed before itself
the model of a perfect man.
The idea of the perfect man
is born out of the value system
that we have created.
That value system is born out
of the behaviour patterns
of the great teachers of mankind.

Jesus, Buddha
and all the great teachers.

Every human body,
however, is unique.
Nature is not interested
in creating a perfect being.
Its interest is to create
only a perfect species.

And if every one of us is unique,
that implies that our code of enlightenment,
if there is such a thing,
would also be unique
so that each of us
reaches that state
individually and uniquely.

It is just not possible for us
to produce enlightened people
on an assembly line.

If you look at history,
humanity has produced
only a very few enlightened people.
You can count them on your fingers.
But unfortunately,
in the market place,
we have many claimants
who say they are enlightened,
and they are in turn out
to enlighten everybody.

There is a market for that kind of thing.
The demand and supply principle
is responsible for that.

But actually an enlightened man
or a free man, if there is one,
is not interested in freeing
or enlightening anybody.
This is because
he has no way of knowing
that he is a free man,
that he is an enlightened man.
It is not something that can be shared
with somebody,
because it is not
in the area of experience at all.

There is no such thing as a new experience.

Suppose you go to a new place.
What goes on in your mind
is that you are always trying to fit
whatever you are seeing
into the framework of the past.
The moment you say
that something is new,
it is the old telling you
that it is new.
So, it is very difficult for us
to experience anything new because,
if there is something really new,
it is not in particular frames
that the old is destroyed,
but the totality of the past is destroyed
in one great big blow.

We cannot experience anything new.

There is no such thing as a new experience.
There is nothing new at all.
It is the old that tells us that it is new,
and through this gimmick
thought is making what it calls new
part of the old,
and is thus maintaining its continuity.
So, whatever you cannot experience
does not exist.
Dogmatic assertion?

When you try to experience something
that you have not experienced before,
the whole movement of the experiencing structure
comes to an end.

~ Medicated..... by Will Barber

    ... mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
    ché la diritta via era smarrita....
    ... ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai,
    dirò de l'altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte.
    - Dante

    I was a blust'ry wind of youth
    Who frightened off the good,
    Puzzled how they walked a path;
    I caromed through the wood.

    White-haired, I wander
    New terrain -
    Tamed, flat, calmer -
    Euclid's plane?

    I miss my rollercoaster,
    The canyons and the hills;
    This coastal plain I can enjoy
    Because I take my pills.

    In the green twilight
    I have my bit of fun,
    As I recall my fiery days.
    The trouble I got in:

    That's great consolation.
    I miss the old extremes,
    But I'm safer to be around now.
    I still dream vivid dreams.


    * trans. -- I found myself in a dark wood, where the direct path was lost... but to tell of the good I found there, I will speak of the other things I discovered.

יום שבת

~ PERDERTI / TO LOSE YOU (Italian/English)

Nell’immensità delle cose, perderti.
Ti ho perduto
Come ho perduto quel grazioso
Raggio di sole che mi
Ha colpito tra i veli opachi
Di un sentimento, or ora.
Nei ricordi sei un fantasma.
Chi coglierà adesso
La margherita nell’entrare
A San Francisco?
Di certo ognuno prenderà
Il fiore
Per suo conto.
Tra noi è crollato
L’ultimo ponte ferreo
Velato da strani ideali.

(10 February 1968)

Losing you,
In the immensity of things, to lose you.

I lost you
As I lost that lovely
Ray of sunlight that
Hit me between the opaque shades
Of a sentiment, just now.

In memories you are a phantasm.
Who will pick now
The flower
Entering San Francisco?
Surely each of us will take
A bloom
On their own.
Crumbled between us
Is the last ferreous bridge
Veiled by strange ideals.

(6 May 2006)

יום חמישי


~ To my beloved daughter

Can I skip rope
With you
My child,
And send shrieks of joy
To firmament
For the thoughtless
Encounter of beauty
With happiness?

יום רביעי

~ I SHOULD LIKE... (a new design of life)

I should like to refound and create difficulties for everything in me and in front of me. A new design of life.

A roving design for a loving contact, while computerized design expands to infinity the nirvana of its own cold brain.

A human walk in a void of goods and metropolises. I should like a map referring to my activity, not, however, in terms of technologies, or of the forms of creative accomplishment, or of the commercial success of my didactic work.

Even if I thought the generational problem was overcome, I should need not to conform.

I should like to shrug everything off, even the holds that most reassure me, that are my momentary salvation.

I should like to intuit the epoch about to be born, I should like it to be different from the present one. Because today people's souls are closed in defence of an involution that seems to accept, but in fact excludes, the diverse and the novel. That's the source of my lambasting: Man, so Davincian and yet so misspent.
But I should like to meet myself again within the millennial flux of the applied arts.

I should like to discard the monumental aggression of so many words.

One of my most certain points is the attitude towards the uncertain and the weak, towards exposure to the discomfort of the unknown.

After so much rule of logic, I should like types of approach which are stratified, magical, emotional. You know, yes, you know…

I should like to renounce the certainty of the joyous and amoral language, and pursue ancient and tortuous paths, to find objects from beyond my brief time, in a distant vision of the past, present and future.

I should like to think that the slightest movements made by my objects and by my logorrheic fragments were as acupuncture in the body of a mistaken context.

I should like to live a project of availability that led to new, calm, poetical, delicate objectives, suitable for the stages on which the new people will reveal the rituals and the fantasies of a near future - alive, but destined to die.

I should like to set off again, as I often did and do, on another ideational adventure, alone or in company, to search the darkness of 'challenge' for a fascinating unknown risk, hidden more within me than without.

I should like to be an ancestral and amorous person, to formulate the hyper-moralistic idea of an anti-wordly Concept, I should like my Concept to be capable of absorbing hunger, violence and poverty.

I should think of Giotto or of Kierkegaard, of the maternal womb or of kitsch, of shamans or of Islam, of the wind or of miniaturization, of artists or of the desperate, of religion or of incommunicability.

No more teachers, not for you not for me.

I should like to make clear to myself that the new type of epoch calls for a different person, capable of superimposing the two opposites; telematic solitude and existential dispersion.

I should stake also my personal perdition, my credibility, my isolation, even the impossibility of return... For a perfect moment of Love.

Then not all would be lost.

Nor I.

יום שלישי


~ There are two of Hemingway's titles in the poem... can you find them?

Islands in the stream
Of my consciousness:
Floating gashes
Across the river of reality
And into the trees of illusion.

יום ראשון

~ Storming The Fortress..... by Katrina

    The first flush
    I should’ve had,
    arrived late.
    My dark-eyed lover,
    only nineteen.
    The golden lion
    The sand was running out
    from the cloistered keep.
    You called the charge,
    and I was here knowing
    and waiting for you.

~ The Dream (a fragment)...... by Echoing Katrina

The bride arrived on time
holding a newborn babe.
She was driven in a carriage by
a faceless man dressed in black.
Her nails were tapered fine and long
like that of a woman who never knew a day's work
She was serene and so white.
There was no groom.
She stood at the altar holding the infant
while she listened to the priest.
Even the crying child couldn't detract from
the dignity and formality of the wedding
The organ music resumed and swelled to the
joyous, baroque strains as the ceremony closed.
Everyone kept to themselves after
the service
The bride seemed so peaceful.
When the faceless man approached,
he courteously offered his hand as he
led her back into the carriage,
stroke the horse for just a moment
and then drove.

~ Twins generated by... The Wanderer In Love

    ~ KILL ME...

    Kill me
    Kill the sense of 'Me'

    Behead me
    Behead me of my beliefs

    Ground me
    Ground me to dust, then I fly

    Crush me
    Crush the ego that rose high

    Take me
    Take this life without You

    ~ I TRUST YOU...

    I trust you
    To kill me
    Delete me
    Obliterate me
    Turn me into
    A cadaver
    So that
    I am
    With new eyes

So strong and filled with true pathos: I feel their force so very much!
You are mine, oh yes you are mine, you are in me...

~ THE EYE OF CHANGE (technolyrical chant)

~ Dedicated to Enigma, a musical group of the 80s who dared citing the Sufi poet Jalaluddin Rumi in their beautifully strange songs.

I do not believe changes
Are due to technological conquests,
On the contrary,
I believe that these voices
Respond to instances
Of deep change that come
From the very body of humanity.

The eye is a pre-eminent part
Of the body of any animal;
The reiterated mirror of the soul
It is the window through which
The interior leans toward the exterior
And vice-versa,
It is the point of encounter
Between the microcosm
Ad the macrocosm,
Between the ego and nature;
And it is the pre-eminent symbol
Of knowledge.

My windowsill leans out
Onto the scenario of nature,
There every scenario is projected,
Like in a fantasy movie.
In this combination of waves
Which go and come in constant flux,
My vision will come about,
I assure you:
Action and measure
Are appraised.

My ego is also a symbol,
It becomes social,
Since it is from the eye
That the ego speeds
Towards the other
Into the Other,
Against the other,
Towards the other,
Towards the world
Thus becoming the world.

My Eye,
Is the sign of an anouncing vision.

It is the eye of my inner witness
Which nothing escapes.
It is the eye of my inner child
Which never abdicates
To its own human dignity.
It is also and above all
The evidence that
'the gaze through which
we contemplate God
and the gaze through which
God contemplates me
is one and the same' *

The Eye, the I,
Is my symbolic cipher
And the three-dimensional icon
Of my soul,
Wherever it poses
Its fluttering wings.
My 'I' is an extraordinary instrument
For celebrating the immesurable beauty
Of the merciful universe.

My inner Eye
Is the mirror of how
I am inside:
That you must comprehend
And then survive.
It is the most alive part of myself
Where the sky and the infinite
Are reflected.
It is the place where
Two infinities meet,
You and 'I',
Or the conscience and the cosmos:
Unsettling, attractive, tremendous.

It is above all
Through the Eye
That love flows and changes our world,
Before the other senses.
In ancient Greece
Seeing was believed the result of rays
Departing from the Eye
And emanating towards the world
And so they knew it: or rather,
Created it and continually recreated it.

Thus, the eye,
Which sees the capacity of projecting
The world and the firmament,
Has been symbolically assigned
With a creative will of its own,
Desirous of joy,
Of the transmutation of all negativity
Into positivity.

If I look at the disconcerting depth of the signals that arrive from society's different ways of living and behaving, from a world tending increasingly towards globality, I feel the importance of concentrating the idea-creating forces in order to respond to these signals, to these inalienable voices.
How do you respond?

* quote is from Meister Eckhart.

~ Sun, Moon, Stars..... by Sunshiny Trisha

Your blazing excellence sustains
Refulgent beams dispersed
Wherever need arises
Warming humanity
With a blanket of love

Your effervescence illuminates the night sky
Imparting clarity to lost wanderers
A light above the dance floor of life

Your enduring twinkle remains salient
A tapestry of eloquence and charm
Alluding to whimsical beauty ambient

יום שבת

~ Tempestous Ardor..... by Sunshiny Trisha

Dedicated to Daubmir, Daubmir, Daubmir

Exquisite journey
Physical, mental and spiritual
Slow and steady burn

Complete intoxication
Inconceivably high
Suffused with salaciousness

Sighs and whispers
Shivering tingles
Lips brush softly

Hair unkempt cascading
Parting legs gently
Tasting my essence

Hands on heaving breasts
Hearts pulsating rapidly
Longing eyes lock

Probing entirely inside
Rhythmic thrust of hips
Skin on skin

Souls and bodies
Immersed in impassioned love
Fusillade of fiery passion

Trembling limbs cave
Resounding amorous contentment
Souls melt into one eternally

יום שישי



The four primordial states of consciousness
That randomly express artistic creativity.

Painting, sculpting, composing,
Crocheting a pastoral tapestry
With billions of hummingbird feathers -

Every artist experiences
Their affecting pulsion,
None predominating
Then suddenly one leading
And reaching fruition.

Four conditional factors,
Mind enhancers
Transforming vision to product,
Self-consuming guides of intellect:
They govern the change
From thought to deed.

~ Inspiration,
Inseparable portion of my Self,
Formulates desire and need,
The coveting of a precious concept,
The cradling of a newborn thought.
Suggestion of my imaginary stimulus,
Triggers my fancy
To search the void of my brain
For a minuscule fresh seed of notion,
Asking for a response.

~ Illumination
Recognizes my worthiness
And seeks the ways and means
Of aiding the inspiration,
Preparing my mind for an embryo solution,
Kindling the flame of discarded concepts
And giving new life with reason.
It brightens my playing field and
Inspires the game,
Shining a spotlight on the tiny idea
And throwing it into the central circus ring
For the audience of my obscured mind,
To see and appreciate.

~ Incubation
Is what my Self questions,
My mental detective
That seeks to disprove
Or alienate the idea.
Yet, if the seed survives
The withering inquisition,
It automatically matures
With sufficient strength
To endure manipulation
And unyielding critiques.
Impetus forces change,
The final viewable realization.

~ Modification
Is the culminating act,
A change for the senses to accept
It dwells at the end,
Suffering alteration:
Hindsight more prevailing
Than foresight -
My looming Atropos.

P.S.: In Greek mythology, the Muses were nine goddesses who presided over the arts and sciences and inspired those who excelled at these pursuits - born at the foot of Mount Olympos, they were: Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania.

~ Atropos was one of the three white-robed Moirae (Greek Μ ο ί ρ α ι — the 'Apportioners', often called the Fates) , personifications of destiny. They controlled the metaphorical thread of life of every mortal and immortal from birth to death (and beyond) . Even the gods feared the Moirae. The Greek word 'moira' literally means a part or portion, and by extension one's portion in life or destiny. The three Moirae were:

  • Clotho (Gk. 'spinner') spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle.

  • Lachesis (Gk. 'alotter' or drawer of lots) measured the thread of life with her rod.

  • Atropos (Gk. 'inexorable' or 'inevitable') was the cutter of the thread of life. She chose the manner of a person's death. When she cut the thread with 'her abhorred shears', someone on earth died.

  • יום חמישי

    ~ WAKE

    I drift through the ripples
    That are my desires
    I swim in the void
    That is my confusion
    I sprawl on the rock
    That is my resolution
    I gargle with the water
    That is my damnation…

    But only I understand
    This joy of combating.
    Then I walk by the lake
    That are my spent emotions,
    And sit waiting for the hour
    When clouds rise.


    Ulcerous rites of passage
    From the tormented abscess
    Of a never quite matured
    Trial by existence,
    I still feel all the pains
    And hear the sweet cries
    As I leave paradise
    for a suggestion of
    Lanced release
    In the suppurating cavities
    Of unrealized adventures.

    יום רביעי


    ~ Please, understand me, won't you?

    ...If words could ever produce a psychic orgasm... this is mine.

    Be real now.
    I have never been real;
    No one is as unreal as I am.
    When I wanted to be real,
    I created disaster.
    For me, and for others.
    Because I didn't believe in reality.
    So I played it as a game,
    Going through the motions,
    And the others got piqued

    If I let myself believe that I am real,
    My heart races around
    And my breath gets funny
    And my nerves twang
    And jump like wires
    Or grasshoppers set on fire
    Or beams of light
    But ones that ache.

    My reality, minute by minute,
    Actual minute by minute,
    Is inset with a flickering madness
    Of joyous self-will
    And carelessness
    Of which I am deeply ashamed,
    Violently proud.

    Madness is near.

    To murder someone's pride
    Or to pass into social catatonia,
    These are the common terms
    Of conscious existence for me.

    Rage or quasi-pietistic acceptance,
    I distrust the wavering tick-tockishness
    Of the shrinking and
    Of the dangerous enlargement
    Of the self.

    The mood and the life's history
    That has led to this dark and devious grandeur
    – the grandeur of lowness –
    Is linked to self-disgust,

    In my room,
    When I sit or lie in the dark,
    My madness looms.
    Reality, time, awareness –
    Trite problems of everyone
    Searching for purpose.

    Awareness of the dark,
    For instance.
    Not nothingness –
    Time is something...
    Am I ill? Surely not,
    Not in the accepted sense.
    Life is making me ill.

    I know that the first enclosing paradise
    Was the human belly of my mother.
    It was so changeable
    That I encountered the passage of time
    In the paradise there,
    The salt birthplace of my spirit,
    In my awareness
    That one would feel better,
    One would be all right:
    That was the loose evidence:
    That was the measure of paradise
    From the beginning.

    Amphibious state.
    The first schizoid state of man.
    The unreturn that time is
    Includes the mechanical thing
    That awareness has always
    An element of resistance
    To time itself in it.
    It refuses the identity
    That time proposes
    To bestow on minutes,
    On everything.
    It is a force of resistance,
    Resistant even to those forces
    That constitute it.

    The force of individuality
    In a particle,
    Since it is time-ridden,
    Would vary and weaken
    Not entirely mechanically
    And give birth to the world
    And to anomalies.

    A balance, a situation
    Has to have a form of awareness,
    Or knowledge, of itself as a balance
    Or how could it exist as moments pass?
    The urge in time itself is to exist –
    And it names and individuates
    Everything in a mystic electricity
    And force –
    In eerily always renewed individuation
    Until it fails for this or that thing –
    The hurried dawns and
    Semi-sleeplessness of matter
    And its nakedness
    To the brushing formation
    And anatomical trespass of the creation
    Of existence – and then the lapse,
    The letting go, the decay –
    The restlessness of amendment –
    In that, I drown, waking-and-sleeping,
    Fluke-attentioned in ways that jeer
    In the mental light in the dark
    At really crippling fear
    Until thoughtlight becomes a dance
    In mental darkness of fear and beyond-fear,
    A little natural chemical fire in the skull,
    A little buzz of hellfire
    And resistance – in the skull,
    Beneath the hair.

    Without cure or remission,
    The flickers of memory
    And the present-tense of merely-a-room alternate.

    And in resignation to the crawling,
    Maggoty minutes and breaths,
    The tiny, transparent monkeys of my breath,
    The snake-flutters of eyelashes and of lungs,
    I endure my punishment
    Like in a Dali oil.

    In the alternations,
    It seems to me,
    My shadow eats the world
    And drags me in its belly
    (in the mind of my mind)
    Into a moment of eclipse.
    My darkened self proposes
    And manages an awful kind of marriage
    And filial thing with darkness itself,
    With awful matter.

    An infant patience,
    Seemingly infinite,
    Inside the night,
    Preserves me
    As I straddle the alternations and twists
    And moment-by-moment prolongation
    Of this condition of loneliness
    And of predicament
    In amphibian contradiction
    Of everything I have been taught
    About simplicity and ideas.

    Clapping a mind on top of a mind,
    An observing consciousness,
    Another placement of awareness
    On top of the one before,
    And then piling body on mind,
    On minds, and superimposing a giddily aerial
    (and sad) form of mind
    On all of that,
    And still another form of mind to watch,
    To judge and observe,
    I rise to a kind of a glimpse
    Of the nighttime room.

    People say, I know all about it...
    And: we know nothing about that...
    Explaining or un-explaining
    Man's longing
    For the divine intellect...

    I am not tired of god –
    But the idea of god is so much simpler
    Than the sense of presence
    In the passage of moments
    That I can't ask for anything
    But merely wait for mercy,
    So long after my birth
    Into the immortality of sheer existence:
    One rises with a heavy beating of wings
    Into a condition of migration.

    Thought and recognition
    Of the motions of thought,
    The most elaborate imaginable collection
    Of simultaneous rifflings
    Of predatory exercises
    Of worded will,
    Stories and whatnot,
    Made of stiff letters
    Erected in a phallic one,
    A single quill sufficient,
    Or insufficient,
    For warding off despair.

    I want to be like a book
    In its powers of survival.
    Or a painting?
    I feel the whispering
    Inside and outside of me –
    Strange primal stories:
    Would you like to speak
    The language of atoms?
    The formation of the cosmos?
    The first war cries on the shores?

    If you fail to sleep,
    You can hear the howling
    Of the electrons
    In the black spaces in you;
    And a kind of Troy arises –
    And falls then – the nothing
    With its peculiar motions stitching it,
    Seamed nothingness,
    Into borders, until it is me –
    Factual and predicted light of awareness,
    Like light,
    A form of time...


    I feel the rhythm,
    The rhythm that is
    Constantly around me,
    As I communicate
    Through my mind
    The emotions pervading me.

    Everything needs rhythm
    And of everything
    I, the human
    Need it most.

    Everything is where
    And what it is
    Because of rhythm.

    I, the human
    Am the only creature
    That can add questions
    And understanding
    To rhythm.

    There is a rhythm
    That permeates
    All I do,
    From sleeping
    To going to the grocery
    To dying.

    I may,
    At some brief moments
    Be out of tune
    With rhythm,
    But it is still
    Why I am.

    When I move
    With rhythm and perhaps
    Feel it brush gently
    Against me
    There is harmony
    Within me,
    Within my life.

    I feel a worth
    In and of being.
    Without being cognizant
    Of the rhythm
    I know I simply
    Feel good.

    In this state rain,
    Lightening and even thunder
    Possess an awe-inspiring beauty.

    When, for some reason,
    The rhythm of my living
    Is upset
    then discord ensues
    And even sunlight
    Can be frightening.

    When this state exists
    I long for and even seek
    I wish to simply
    Feel good again.

    Rocks, wind, water
    And anything else
    That is non-living
    Exists in and are
    Because of rhythm.
    All living things
    Also exist within rhythm
    But also use it to procreate.

    I, the human
    Also seek the harmony
    Of that rhythm
    In order to feel good.
    To me rhythm is pleasure
    And it is this pleasure
    I seek.

    I am
    The only animal
    That creates a rhythm
    Of my own
    Inside the larger rhythm
    Of life.

    The true poet
    Listens to and expresses
    The rhythms of life
    More acutely than anyone.

    Feeling this rhythm
    Is what gives me
    The ability to write poetry.

    Knowing that it exists
    In all things
    Gives me the ability
    To understand a poem.

    יום שלישי

    ~ THE ULTIMATE LOGIC OF TIME (prosaic disquisition)

    ~ A pindaric toolkit for the hyponoetic seeker...

    The idleness of time
    Too much time, wasted
    The boredom of timelessness
    Timing time and the upsetting function of clocks
    Being in time and not being,
    Abusing and disabusing time
    Finding time
    For myself and others
    The ultimate time
    The limitless boundaries of time
    Time, the universe, and everything...or else.

    The ultimate view
    Regards the universe
    As a unified organisation
    Of three ultimate realities:
    The realms of the material,
    The emotional and the psychological

    The soul is conceptualised as
    The ultimate driving factor of life.
    The ultimate carrier of life phenomena,
    Which departs the body
    At the moment of death.
    Man strives to find
    The ultimate law
    Able to explain all the laws
    Intermediate between empirical facts
    And mental understanding,
    A universal and ultimate principle
    To be regarded as the governor
    Of the universe,
    The primary factor.

    The ultimate view of the universe
    Is closely related to
    The timeless character
    Of our thoughts and emotions.

    The aim to give our life a meaning
    Exerts important influence
    On our existence as a whole,
    Which does not pass
    With the end of our earthly life.

    Our life as a whole
    Will not become invalid by our death.
    Aren’t you relieved?
    I do wish to dispense relief.

    So, do not believe in
    The materialist view
    That our life is born
    From inanimate matter,
    And we will return to inanimate matter
    - from dust to dust -
    Into the complete annihilation.

    Believe in Logic,
    More than individual consciousness:
    Logic is a potential of infinite,
    Relevant and true consciousness
    And creativity.

    Logic is the cosmic network
    Of the primal, pre-material,
    Biological and psychological existents.

    Thoughts and emotions
    Help realise
    The destination of the universe.

    If our thoughts and emotions
    Born by our life
    Add continuously to the logical network
    Of the universe,
    Than the universe is necessarily
    Destined to a kind of evolution.
    This evolution is an interesting,
    Extraordinary and
    Unsuspected one.
    This evolution
    Starts from realms of time
    And arrives to the realm of timelessness
    And completes its ultimate meaning
    In timelessness.

    Ancient philosophers
    Perceived a Cosmic Soul
    And conceived of it as
    An Image of Eternity,
    In relation to divine godhead
    And transrational knowledge.
    Near-death experiences
    And ecstatic trances
    Show that we can live
    During our life
    Also with the abilities offered
    By higher dimensions
    And the ultimate reality.
    The ultimate view of time
    Confirms that we can live our life
    In its full scope
    When we live with the power
    Of our ultimate reason.

    The ultimate concentration
    of infinity in finiteness
    is called Life,
    The ultimate stake.

    Therefore, when our life is at risk,
    It is the concentrated infinity which is at risk,
    under the attack in the finite existence.
    The dynamics of finiteness and infinity
    Is paralleled in the dynamics of timely
    And timeless existence.

    Material reality
    Is not a separate, isolated subset
    Of existence, which is closed in itself.
    Material reality is related
    With the realities of life and reason.
    Material reality forms
    A complete reality
    With the realities of life and reason.
    It possesses a principal, spiritual nature.
    In this way
    It is necessary that our thoughts
    And emotions form a communicating unity
    With each other and the material reality.
    In this way,
    The destination of the universe
    Requires a development,
    An evolution in a fuller sense,
    The time of which is the logical time,
    The time of reason,
    The order of the completion
    Of the reason-full, genuine, cosmic meaning.

    The evolution of the universe
    Occurs in the logical time of eternity.
    We can contact eternity
    If we are able to connect our emotions
    And thoughts into the reason-full,
    Logical order of the universe.

    There is no time without reality.


    Every look forward
    Is a potential illusion.
    This satisfies my need
    To insecurity
    Since in an eternally
    Insecure situation
    I must externally
    Seek knowledge and security
    And never completely find them.

    יום שני


    Do you listen?
    You do not.
    You listen only
    To yourself.
    Leave the sense
    Of hearing
    Then you find
    The vibration
    Of sound.

    יום שבת


    How can I define aesthetics
    Without thinking about
    The beauty of the Universe?

    If the Universe is the cornerstone
    Of conceptual definition,
    Then anything else loses meaning

    Nothing can compare
    Not a thing
    The Nothingness of Aesthetics

    The supreme beauty of indefiniteness
    Since Beauty cannot be defined
    Not by humans, surely
    Not by me.

    יום שישי


    Love me,
    Fight me,
    Reach me, or
    Leave me!
    But it is
    Love all
    Over again.

    Or if I blew a kiss
    At every atom particle
    In the universe...
    And they all at once
    Blew me a big kiss
    And embrace in return?
    Is this possible?
    I think so...
    Because we are connected
    Yet so immersed in ourselves
    For so long...
    A forgotten sorrow...

    In pulsations
    Like a melody,
    Reaching ecstasy.

    I tried it and felt it.
    I shouldn't perceive presences as far away
    I should perceive them as within my being.
    I wouldn't have to shout
    And I can be deaf too
    Or dumb.

    I think we can extend from static to stars and back
    With as simple a tool as awareness.
    The more focused and sweeping
    The bigger the effect.

    When a Messiah is born,
    All the atoms rejoice.
    A Messiah knows how.
    We know how.
    Are we doing it?

    Any message to
    any atom
    any cell
    any being
    can be in the form of
    or Love.

    Say hello from Earth to everyone for me.
    I mean everyOne.
    Deliver it well and
    With lots of love.

    Remember those you loved
    In all Eternity!
    They are waiting
    Or perhaps already calling...

    Echos of ecstasy linger
    in every atom
    in every cell
    in every Being:
    Yank it out -
    Your ecstasy!

    יום חמישי

    ~ ANGST IV

    Jubilation and
    All congregate
    In a cauldron of boiling
    To produce a feeble
    Bubble of nonentity

    יום רביעי


    Abysmal void
    Negated will
    Cut breath
    And lancinated guts
    Grating nails
    Against the slate
    Of damned

    יום שלישי

    ~ ANGST II

    Enters the vault
    Of chemical reassurance
    And demolishes its volatile patina
    Brick by screaming brick
    Scattering psychotic visions
    Like insidious cockroaches

    יום שני

    ~ ANGST I

    Vital force
    The clogged stomata
    Of my agitated addiction

    יום ראשון

    ~ SWINGING YAMA *.....by Wanderer in Love

      On the one hand you fly high
      In your thoughts
      Never say die
      On the other hand you just sigh
      Succumbing to the rots
      That society gives you

      On the one hand worshipping virtue
      Oh so feel good that we love to do
      And the devil appears as if on cue
      Greed and decadence, hatred and poison
      Always threatening for a coup
      Virtues gone askew?

      On the other hand following ideals
      That someone else made
      Merging them in yours,so it reveals
      And then the "I" that never fades
      Living in ego’s porch
      The heart gets scorched

      Swinging our desires
      From right to wrong
      From ice to fire
      From good to greed
      From jailed to freed
      From bond to secede
      From love to hate
      From solo to mate
      From calm to irate
      From isolate to conjugate
      From "I, Me, Myself" to a soulmate

      Are we just birds on paper?
      That the painter does not release
      And we are the painter.
      Are we rape victims?
      Enraged, crying
      We the victims and the rapists in one?
      Are we alive
      Or just dead
      Before the verdict of Yama?

      -- by Wanderer In Love, 05/2006

      * Yama (Sanskrit: यम) is the lord of death, first recorded in the Vedas. Yama belongs to an early stratum of Indo-Iranian mythology. In Vedic tradition Yama was considered to have been the first mortal who died and espied the way to the celestial abodes, and in virtue of precedence he became the ruler of the departed. Its Greek equivalent may be found in Pluto.


    My old is dying
    And my new cannot
    Be born:
    In this interregnum
    A great variety of
    Morbid symptoms

    But what can Heart
    If a little less than needed -
    It bleeds,
    If a little more than wanted -
    It bleeds.

    All that Heart can conceive,
    I possess elsewhere
    All, and more -
    Heaven and earth embrace
    In my carapace.

    יום שבת


    You shall not taste of death
    For there is no death for you:
    You cannot experience
    Your own death.

    Are you born?
    Life and death
    Cannot be separated.
    You have no chance whatever
    Of knowing for yourself
    Where one begins
    And the other ends.

    You can experience the death of another,
    But not your own.
    Where is death, there is no you.
    The only death is physical death;
    There is no psychological death.

    Why then are you so afraid of death?
    - Because there is no you.

    Copyright © Daubmir 2007-All contents.
    The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
    All rights reserved.

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