In Progress


Just A Thought




[1] Just Inside The Outside Room



Now a soft digital rain has begun to fall within the spaces between Will To Be and What
Perhaps Was Never As It Seemed. Child Of Man senses a depth in the air that was once felt but could never really be known in all those outer places of recently once was or perhaps in the nature of dream life worlds were only something like strings of thought strung through puzzlingly perilous worlds of Time, Child Of Man once saw/now sees the accumulating words like numbers building images into pieces of matter/ substance making something out of whatever occurred. So, what did or does occur?



Once there was another rain in a time upon a time, once when the form within the inside room began to weave it’s strings into Time again, again to begin To Be to form into grey/blue space within the outside room. Taken out of context memory writes itself automatically, impressions form from developing senses. All the body channels find tune and frequency as everything oscillates and vibrates to unnamed kingdoms of something so deep, so well woven with countless threads which go to make up the fabric of Name.



Time is waking to another sleep, is opening inside eyes into an outside form of seeing Now is being Born out of What Is Not To Be Known into Current Organic Metamorphosis, Where, What, How, When, Who ? It begins with a breath, crying sudden identity into the really improbable yet here and now a Being becomes an I. (Circular Faces surrounding a barred square, a small bed where an even smaller being lies large in central focus of those gathered around, an encircled square. This one is a one. That one is another. Every each has a time to be in time.



SO each life that is, has it’s own narrative woven through in and around all those other threads surrounding their around that is also surrounded.)We,( are always surrounded, forever alone losing to become, becoming lost again just to be found. This is The Now, this is The Way Of Light and The Dark, this is The Night and The Pain. Time of Circles and of Faces in forests, plains, and exponential Digital Cities, sudden Deaths and Births, Always Deserts and The Eternal Rain.



Just outside the inside room, Now a soft digital rain begins to Fall. Someone breathes a first cry and loses grip on the somehow closing slippery rain window only to open their newly own window of Eye see what is now the New Outside.



“Come see, who this is, just now born, what in the world ? “



[2] We Are Family



A crossword (world) puzzle

Of Tombstones and Moonbeams

Pyramid silver sextants, (text rants)

Books of backwards pages narratives

Lived or read, thumbing through parchment

Years instead in stead of;

Sometimes there is a Name quest. The quibble quandary over name, name name.



Like kingdoms of stars wrapped in tinfoil

Kings of aluminum, albumen albums of;

Come and celebrate incremental being

Materialize, manifest:



In The Beginning-pinpoint; stop on a dime in the violet, the grey/blue digital rain.



This is everyone’s story, everyone’s and no one. This is where Life imagined as is may be or perhaps never was to be.

The Mother’s Face, Hands of The Father. Voice-Touch-Sight-Senses-Now. A soft digital rainfall.

Someone leaving, another arriving, a figure forming from keystrokes, heartbeats, input, output weaving forms, figures into beings of violet-grey/blue of seeming virtual scenarios supplanting organic blooms of breath.

What happens then? Where is next, window, door, eye, keyholes to unlock with such is An Act.

There are storms of Voice forming a kind of Road that is the Present Seeming Path Of Foot and Now Is Going Too Soon Tomorrow. Now.



In subtle shades, violet/grey rain thoughts rising form from grave forged formats falling upwords rising. Now Am an I One of All and Seeing. This Now.



3. Scenes Behind In A Place Of Shells



Here below, up above the skies flock with doves like a rain of violet/grey parchments, timeless Sanskrit inscriptions weaving feathery webs into towering stages of obverse/struck coins spinning spheres intoning hidden meanings inside the outside, behind stages of Word Made into . . .

Something or The Other parades in broken lines like inverse islands of electronic/digital cultures-incubated screens sickly flowering bloom into tidal facsimiles of sound.

In the place of walls there are blue roads running into upside down raining skies. Digital forms are unfolding within the without enfolding rooms of long ago/yet to be violet rain is falling once before and yet again entwining vines between the lines behind the mind between the Wording.

Child Of Man walks through The Eye through The Grace Becoming.



There is a Temple (inside a far room) shining in the violet

In the Sacred Throes Of Silence tread over empty diamonds in gleaming Halls Of Bones where the ghosts of Breath haunt seas of backward sails. They are only the Thought of what was, following. They are only seen in dimming echoes of that which never was, yet in some voiceless Way so intimate of that which was to Be.



Seconds in the first place, time so minute in the second place inverse all and overwhelming SomeTime IS is and what is this ?

Approach a stage appears stick figures gesticulate in throes of shadow shows, chiaroscuro marionettes tap/click/drone/dance upon/across sunken stages. Loudspeaker/intimate voice clones strafe fields of psychodelic mushroom, (how much room ?) eyes. Child of Man feels, sees and hears through Now Beyond this transparently opaque sea, ceiling with such nascent scent of What IS Now. Now IS Being.

These stages are tinged violet, shells within shells. Mazes of Dream within some strange grey/blue digital seabed, sunken nths of being/non-being strangle ghost-voice microphones while selling nonsense sounds to seas of anemone ears all drowning behind the inside out within beyond hearing sounds.


THE TELEGRAM POST PHONE :


Child of Man hears a sudden snap of word twigs walking through undersea shadow forests/ Time winds wings/pivoting quantum storms/grey blue digital rain. Is Time trying to tell us something ? “Someone Is Trying To Reach You.”








Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 147 times
Written on 2018-12-19 at 00:24

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