The Death of Light…

Walked – Now walking in mind – Followed?  Now following the whispers of vapor or the melody of singsong choir below the line where sea meets sea and sky rises above a long forgotten shimmer of water stretching beyond eye’s perception. I’ve walked upon the salty waves of that dead sea between melody’s path and into the mists or vapors of another dawn. Little matters that I exist. Less, now that I am almost gone.

Come now and dance into the Spider’s Web. Enter web-side. Hold onto the nothingness of thought without form until substance becomes madness. From this bridge – freedom.

Radiation meltdown of human shape into a living gelatin and into vapor. A knowing vapor. Would I travel across the heavens in timeless mist? “Who could have known that I without shape and I without substance, would still be me?” Memory, fear, instinct and that knowledge. The knowing that even as vapor, I almost am. I am not displaced by what I am not. I am not- not by displacement. Even when I am vapor and loved.

Celestial alignments at birth. Moments before and moments after the being is presented beneath the heavens. “I dream of the sea. I hear the whale singsong my mother into a necessary sleep. It also singsongs the heating of my blood-self until I warm to non-fear and into Love.”

Inside, the other sleeps with no dreams of the sleeping self. Other does not wait nor will other be until need transcends fear of the dancing one. It fears allowance of existence of other/others. They rise from emerald seas and from black sands where tide pulls against current and the alignment of  micro-moonlight is perfect and is orderly in its dispersal upon the dustless night.

Then other comes. One that guides the hand that passes spear without fault thru the living heart of the charging beast and brings crashing down, the food that sustains the abstracted multitudes attracted by these twirling lights that gather below the mountains of the enhanced or the enchanted ones. And without spear-song the other would not notice need.

Those right notes played thru the convoluted flute held against the heart beeps of a roaring sea pass other/others into light and set other across star streams beyond sun, beyond sea and beyond sky and into love.

And! Beautiful you are…   “Leaves”  The Gathering

Beach – Sunset and Touch…

The Day Beauty.
The Beach Walked.
The West Coast Sunset.
Late supper and drinks.
By candlelight and others.

Later… alone.
He reached and she also arms opened.

The long kisses.
The taste of her.
And to her his mouth.
The holding of one to other.

A whisper he to her ear, And!
“Forever or almost or…”

Touch mouth, a breath away and
She ” I know” softly then the not
Alone touch of silence sweet.

And!  Beautiful You Are…

The Star Guide…

I am worn and tired and pained of this gravity rich bone hollow earthed wreak of a planet.  Welcome infants, fortunate to live into adult beings of war and of shells and of walls built around selves for survival and…

Even love kills for many reasons and the hits and misses are unwelcome and those hurting wounds bleed from every opening in the survival shells.

Layers diminish and the going on inside the wounds cry for a sweet peace.  Peace, however,  is a never last and leaves the day and by life’s end flits ghost-shaped quickly across dream-side. Just before the worn die, worn smiles and animal body screams in silence for more time and more and more and…

This concert ends days after air breeder body stops and with Star Guide ready, soul breeder leaves this wreaked place along with many names and the Nemo travel across sky toward anywhere. Long sky visits or short-lived freedoms are then trapped by anything and bang – bang – bang soul drops and body stirs in good places.

When born, star traveler sleeps in safe arms. And! Infant loved, is again robbed of star knowledge and the memories of once past life and the future memory of sleep and again death. Again, the stupidity of primal-side.

Once and for all, the circle is again safely closed and the web building starts the markers of builders old and builders new. The Star Guide is folded into its original shape until it is again required and opened to be read and followed across the skybridge. Bang-Bang-Bang and let the games begin…

And Beautiful You Are!

Dead Warriors – Just in Time…

Are we the tossed away ones, untouchable by hissed and missed sounds and by fates oft missed knock?

Be we man-husks? Are we the product of being puked up and out of a mother’s womb both a sin and a blessing? Are we the match of a mother’s cry of pain? Yet, we are still loved?

Sex without lust often creates a zygote equaling zero on a slanted/skewed number scale on both the (x) and the (y) axis. Zygote baby with thin points of less than zero and without a trace of a positive reason to live. Bless that Zygote before it bakes to human baby…

A modern sickness clings suction tight to the man-husk as strong as freezing snot clings to a frozen metal flagpole.

Travelers now somewhere tossed in time and alive somewhere near the center of dreams both dead and still alive. Air-breeders called by one god or the multitude of spacers that all at once claimed this place for their own sport and fun. We breed well and we number the many, soon to be destroyed or not slaughtered, because those once great warriors of old have since moved on to fight upon another world or died.

Air people still breath and dream and hope and live and die and remain in a strange yet familiar home. Air people have fought to be free, however, they still are but a notch in this eternal serfdom. And! Men should never die of age. These air-breeders must fight their way from existence into a proud and noble death; in battle and at war with…you pick an enemy.

Sail once again on dangerous seas where landfall is always just beyond that line where water meets the sky. To die at sea, is too a good death.

Anyway! We are Born-to-be-Wasted.

Seventh Seeker
In me
The wishmaster” from the “Wishmaster”…Nightwish