Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Ouroboros (the Dreamscape)

It is late at night and maybe the early morning
that birds of Self awaken, and sing.
The dreamscape, be it sweet or sullen,
pervades the quasi-sleeping mind
in its most potent form
with rhythmic, tribal beats;
a rainbow of perception, of sound.

Hypnagogy prevails
and the conscious state of waking
slowly dissolves;
the mind is wiped of its waking indigence
and a new freedom kicks in.

It is a world not before visited;
euphoric, like earth’s fruit,
it makes the mind dance on pillows, with no shoes.

At first, there is no control
and the dream-state roams untamed;
but later on, with training of the mind,
one can fly and bound in lucidity
and sing as they please.

There are no boundaries in the dreamscape,
it is an ultimate fantasy world of which you are the grand creator;
the megalomaniac at the wheel,
dangerous, but immortal like the snake
eating its own tail.


Human Drives

Human leaves home, gets into his car and drives.
Stares at the lane markings on the road,
the road signs, illuminated by his headlights
and with them he reflects:
On sex, on love, on craving and hate;
the speed limit on the freeway
and on driving itself.
Human must drive, to rid himself.
He has been told that all he must do is exist
—is this too much for him?
He cannot handle it.
Feeling the surrounding darkness sprinkled with lights,

Human drives.


Another Weekend

Another weekend, another million dollars,
Another million words, another series of minute actions.
I’m poor again, with a thousand dollars.
I left my soul in the car, but it’s made its way back to me before
So I’ve got sweet nothing to worry about.
What’s happened?
A movie, a book, a photo;
The rain fell, made sounds as it did so
And then dissolved into the earth (or went back up).
Here is another Saturday, then another Sunday:
Another weekend.
I feel less fulfilled than the last
And the one before that too.
Family’s still there, friends still there;
Job, still there.
Regulated behaviour, also still there.
Droopy eyes on a sullen night
But it’s Friday, not quite the weekend;
But it’s Friday, it presages the weekend.
Time, still there (as abstract as it might be).
Awareness of scheduled life, still there.

Another weekend.

Fight off stomach pains early Saturday morning (still there);
Stare at walls when emotionally induced immobility kicks in (also still there);
Walk aimlessly and think of evil things,
Evil things that might help.

Another weekend: still there.

Civilised man,
The agonizing derivative of a dead or dying culture;
Of a loss of contact with the unknown
—the Dead Mistress of archaic times
(O, sweet maiden, how we miss you so...).

We have a dead pre-history;
But not in a temporal way.
It is a lost influence, with many answers;
It is a loss of consciousness
Which we have failed to detect
—even with our sonar pulses.
This is not subjectable to new technology.
It is not as though one can actually see God.
At a loss, we adhere to whatever is given,
To anything that is made to exist for us;
But below the surface level, She lies sleeping
—but not dead.

Sweet Mistress, let me feel your gentle palm,
Resting between my eyes.
Let me absorb what it is that you have given,
But what Human has failed to take.

Contemplation: another weekend.