Archives for category: Poetry

Officer: What is the value of a metaphor that makes it so telling on the mind?

Prisoner No. 12: A metaphor is a tight-rope expert who does the balancing act between the vague or ambiguous and the particular. In speaking particularly, there is always a doubt about what is being said. Because in mind is another way it could go or mean. A metaphor balances the two and allows for the combination of the ambiguities, rolling them up into one and makes the enlightenment of another all the more brilliant. A real metaphor is not limited to its particular reference but more general – it unpacks the reference in its eternality. It is understood immediately in every way possible, in every context. It is like opening a boxed gift (like you will do soon on the 26th), it combines all the vectors of the wrap and gives them to you. The response is the same – Delight.

A metaphor allows an approximately complete perception of what is being examined. A good metaphor does so completely.

A metaphor is a bridge between perception and discernment – a bridge between ignorance and truth.

As it approaches truth and it incorporates the myriad possibilities, it becomes an image. An image to represent the pregnant symbol. It is highly unstable, because it carries so much energy within it.

It resolves itself into a unit so that access is ready. When access is ready, it gives birth and chaos is presumed but actually – because the mind is so wonderful – mother and children are present at the same time. Order and Chaos together, both free, both free to act.

Officer: This links to what Nietzsche said about the Psychologist (the operation of the Psychologist). In the spirit of our present discourse, the operations of the Psychologist are the children, the Psychologist is the mother.

Prisoner No. 12: His operation is to take Chaos and Order it. His operations in themselves are Chaos and the designation ‘Psychologist’ is Order.

The best metaphor is the unconscious metaphor. This is the type that can be trusted to be educative. Conscious metaphors are nice and ingenious but they’re annoyingly limited so stale.

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Why so serious? let’s put a smile on that face

Hahaha

[Thanks to you Heath Ledger, a consummate artist you were, saved the best for last, Rest In Peace, your knight’s tale shall live on, a knight of the castle of Art.
“O fair maiden, let down your fragrance”]


The Revolution has come and swept everything away. The Monastery breathes heavily, the moncs’ mingled mental presence permeates the place; the Monastery is Alive

The Monastery Breathes


Wherefore shalt I gaze upon a mannikin and covet the sheen that doth draw flies?

I Am and Sophia art my heart|Poetry, my mind. Shineth they not but their light doth permeate All


The drums agogo within my soul, dotting every ‘I’, knocking every ‘D’ down, laying em flat like Arabic symbols, languages rapping into my head, never a syntax, semantic to elude me. With the silky waves of the hand, the diaphanous cloth mitigating the power of the Word behind. Rising out the bed of the pad; traveling down the tube of the pen, a train of jolly children to tap-dance on the page, set up a fair of the vicar, meditating, proclaiming the creep, climb, intermix and dense forest of wisdom and beauty.


At the lowest levels, the disciplines intermix, they overlap, they match. At the lowest levels, access to a pool of wisdom is envisioned. At the lowest levels, the fountain of creation takes source, possibility flourishes, a fecund pool of luminiferous daemons, suspended in a black sauce from which they emanate, no indication of their number within that discreet, indefinite space. Their single sparkles, their sexual flashes on union become the light of creation, of black and white. In that bottomless pit, sounds, sights, tastes, hears, they all are pure. Smell and feel where no sight or sound is perceived. Be disoriented, as the dissociation produces a disengagement of everything from everything in the place where everything exists, where the gathering is complete and distinction is difficult. This is where you hear everything pure; the fountain marches, crashes all around you, from nowhere is the sound; collapse or rejoice.

At the lowest levels, the disciplines match, they overlap, at the lowest levels, the disciplines intermix.


Yes, let it be poetry that corrupts me, depraves me, raises in me monsters, goblins of phenomenal grotesquerie. Let it be poetry that turns me black with the Darkness of the Void. The darkness that I meld into, sigh and weave into, where I am indeterminably Alive, Dead


I have lived my life in the belly of the poetry. Each time my heart spoke, it connoted the rose of a ghost; full of know, essence and glow, sepulchral as a castaway boat. For truly, I spoke from afar off the current’s marks with accent that scent of frankinscence and myrrh. Mystic machinations of depth and verve – swerving, curving – enwrapping all I serve. My mind would swoon and soon I’d entwine with the grass, the fields, passing out sweet wine. I would die in the ground that I’d lie on sound, then germinate alive speaking languages unsurvived.


In the palace of my sweet Sophia, I saw them, a lineup of wisps, souls chained, bound and battered, foreheads to the ground, begging, imploring the intercession of my dear Sophia, that they be freed from tyranny.

Pleas from the farthest lands, they came to the court of my mighty queen enwrapped with gifts that her mystic mace be waved and enchantment be paved. Men of state; it is well that they recognize their need.

And, Sophia, stately in her majesty proclaimed ‘I cannot charm your requests to fruition’ for her magic could only work if it had a terminal, if it had a contact point; her magic could only bloom into an orchard if a bouquet of flowers, just a bouquet, is offered. Sophia, formidable as she is, can only lead into the arena; cannot fight the onslaught of the manticores and chimaerae, pick up your buckler, your sword, gird yourself about the breast, abdomen and loins, poise, fight. My scars… they glow, howl, at this reminiscence. Though this be true that I have tasted the fruit, seen el paradiso, the map still reads in so many parts ‘Uncharted’.

But still, I can sing with all the enthusiasm of the men of Jump Jump Dance Dance ‘I can see my future laid out before me now’ for it is an ocean before me and I am Magellan. Behind me are castles, pagodas and mansions, Yes. Before me are skeletons of palaces, seeds of paradise, breaths of nations.


Context. Context is perspective. The perspective of the spyglass is one eye, the perspective of the glasses is frosted glass and clear skies. The perspective of the eyes is the handiwork of the tailor at the vertex.

I am not a statue to be frozen in a long stance espying some far-off land like a consistent Jack Sparrow. I am not a building to have all my crevices curtained by glass. To be a tailor of the most various of inclinations; at the seat of the mind is weather, a continuous swirl. Yes.

The silhouette might offer these descriptions but the soul is Sophia and she is svelte.