integration

Satya Yuga, The Golden Age

 

It would be easy for there to be Utopia on Earth. So easy, in fact, that it must already have happened at one time in our history; maybe more than once.
 
What is Utopia? It's not a single state of affairs, or a single arrangement. It's not a perfect city or perfect set of laws. It is a mindset based on a realization.
 
The realization is that the awareness behind our eyes and behind our minds is not a different awareness for each of us; there are not seven billion awarenesses; there is One. And nothing is impossible for that One.
 
In this mindset, everyone on Earth would be working towards the benefit of everyone else on Earth. Everyone would be helping everyone else to be happy.
 
In such a mindset, such a collective state of being, what would not be possible for humans, and all life on Earth?
 
With co-operation, global planning, mutual help and above all collective happiness, we would mine the planetary bodies, populate the stars, and there would be no boundaries for us anywhere.
 
The basis of our current progress is competition, and it has brought us a long way, but it has reached its limits. Competition requires voluntary fragmentation; we divide ourselves into many parts and peoples in order to strive against each other and use that stress, that competition for resources and happiness, to achieve. We define resources as limited, and compete to acquire more and do better things with them.
 
In a closed system such as the Earth, this strategy eventually fails, and a collapse of population must occur as the ecosystem loses its coherence and competition in the global organism ceases to achieve progress; rather, like cancer, it attacks its own components and begins to destroy itself until a new equilibrium can be reached.
 
An analysis of this problem leads inevitably to two conclusions. 
 
First, it is a profound mistake to treat Earth as a closed system. It has never been a closed system. Charged particles from the sun pour constantly into our atmosphere. Sunlight feeds life on Earth and drives our weather. Meteorite bombardment and supernovae gave us our minerals and our water. Now that we have achieved spaceflight, the system is even more open - we can transact voluntarily with the surrounding solar environment. We can mine asteroids, colonize other planetoids, and send long-term expeditions out of the solar system to seek other stars. A man-made object, the Voyager 1 probe, has almost left the solar system, 18 billion miles away. It's still sending back data. Earth is not a closed system. We are ready to seed the galaxy with whatever we choose to become.
 
Second, now that we have expanded to fill all of the inhabitable areas of the Earth, the competition model is no longer appropriate; the imaginary components into which we have divided ourselves should be dissolved and a collective identity established that allows collective action. Saying "we have to work together" does not go far enough. The truth is, we have to be one. Not together; single. One.
 
A unified collective exploring an open system would lead to a burst of progress comparable to the explosion that saw the first humans emerge from tribal wandering in Africa to populate the entire globe. Who knows what happened at that point in history? There was no history, no writing, because it hadn't been invented yet. Cities were built and then drowned in the deluge at the end of the last Ice Age, their ruins now sunken off the coasts of Japan, Pakistan, and other areas where even to this day the native people retain memories in the form of stories of the sea rising up to swallow them. We had ships and temples, laws and songs, and all those things had to be invented, created and collaborated on by human beings in a vast, effectively open world. Was there Utopia then? All it would have been is a mindset. A people, apparently alone in a vastness, their brains humming with ideas and plans, slowly structuring a wilderness, slowly forming an identity. The People. Almost every tribe in the world, before they encountered others, called themselves some version of The People. As it was once, so it could be again. The People and the Open Sky.
 
It would be easy. A change of mindset, the ghostliest and least substantial thing in the world, an idea. A simple idea, that we are The People and our world is both here and Out There, that our domain is infinite space and our plans do not have to be constrained. A simple idea, that all of us want to be happy and all of us would enjoy working together in happiness to achieve something that life must achieve; explosion into the stars.
 
Would it be easy, really? As anyone who has tried it knows, the hardest thing to change, insubstantial as it may be, is a mindset. The hardest, and yet the easiest, because although a man or woman might struggle for decades to be happy, to love others, and to change destructive habits, when the change comes it can be over in an instant. A new light in the eyes, the mind empties, and something clicks, and although the person is atom for atom the same being that was standing in that space only a moment before, everything is different. A new universe of possibility has been created by the change of a mindset; like the passing of a ghost.
 
As it is for one person, it could be for The People. An idea that blows through billions of minds like a breeze; that we are One.
 
That the awareness behind our eyes and behind our minds is not a different awareness for each of us; there are not seven billion awarenesses; there is One. And nothing is impossible for that One.
 
It could happen so easily. It could happen tomorrow.

Structure Inescapable

Fractal Veg

Afternoons of rice and and full and my eyes are darkness,
the inescapable family, a story, a purpose.
I being a boy.
I miss you, green tea in the darkness.
The analysis, bodylast
sputtering waiting -
heart aching for a far blue promised fascination of each other, bejewelled in air sun surface -
praying place of spiders and dreams and swimming peace,
a peace of friends - the machine of who were with me, who sang with upturned and
pouring into coherent

after the first wakeful mornings
when I knew into drowned catacombs and warm rain.
I miss your arms and jokes. Some jumbled memories of words and kisses
and discarded ghee candles lighting a way to -
the inverted pyramid, the arati, the kirtan -
nuclear floated in until I forgot my me
out of myself, out of the real.
I miss you - all of you - throat exploding: now
and world,
hanging from it head fingertips out
to understand the blue glimpsed above is universes.
That sky yawned, miss you, who were part of me reaching for your hands
and wandered golden thread we wove.
Papaya and lemons and starlight - infinite apes faces,
that silly one who had a clawing for awareness and voices, and how you took open
and in loneliness and structures,
withered like a galaxy, and into peace:
I had: a plucked flower. a few returned to me.
The love I call you to return.

The prayer of the cavern: that sugary spiral, its gelling witness star staying in that now,
lunatic under me endlessly on those together
of feet and frogs and me,
eyes wide and fingers -
mother father sister brother inside me, the flower that the skin held me
in an insane limestone flute
tones sinking first, ready to dive.
Those beasts at its heart.
Mornings trillion points of light - lover please hold me -
my lion who ends the world.
Remembered that this earthship the cave
is iron-ringing release
fists knotted and finding peace
I who one night endless points of light skin and eyes deconstructed,
beautiful apes severed branch, tasted cinnamon and oatmeal;
no one recognisable, no one that I was underneath, out in dead time to see, me,
ate with me, touched my shouting, reaching, running,
waiting to receive what I

Secret Green And Glowing Things

I used to have secrets - things that lurked under bridges in my mind. My sister spoke with spirits under a willow tree near our gate and grew up to have demon dreams. Imps squatting on her chest breathing out her life, and when she woke up the daylight was already seeping out of the sky. My secrets were about pale skin and sadness. hers were about doors to other worlds - worlds or perspectives, no difference. We had a secret, doors and gardens and cold rooms on holiday. We could have gone a whole lifetime without remembering it, and that would have been a different lifetime, a different world, a different perspective. Universes that will never exist.

Carl built stone villages when he lost his mind, and slowly he found it again, and came to the centre, the vortex, the centrifuge that purified him and made him certain. He wrote later on that to him the world was like a maze of transparent walls that he looked through to see other minds and the universes they would create. He reached into those minds and spoke with them and tried to heal them. New perspectives, new universes. He was never fearless, but he walked the labyrinth to the centre anyway. Those paintings and drawings of circles and whirlpools, so many of them, too many for sanity, too many for anyone but a healer who had given up everything except purpose.

Sister, mother, father: my world. Like a knife dance in an amphitheatre made of hills and fields and broken stone seats - and we spin, we cut each other, we play out the choreography as we were taught. Glowing things in our arteries and our minds, painting trails in the night-time as we circle each other. Flickers of moss and grass and needles on the edge of vision, radiant green splinters. We dance but we don't speak - if we spoke we would spill everything out. Blood, sound, secrets. We prefer to dance. The knives flicker closer, closer, closer. Glowing cancerous and free.

Draw a circle between you and I and there is something that will always be secret - I have nothing left to offer. Everything emptied out into past and future - a past full of memories I lovingly keep alive, a future full of new life, the only thing I had to offer. And so on, and so on, moths circling a lamp, comets falling in love with the sun, you can make the rest up yourself. Electromagnetic secrets rippling emerald in a solar camera, glowing and burned-out a million miles from where you are. Where I am, where you are - bits of information smeared over a soul like iron filings lining up around magnetic field lines. I had a sister who saw secret things, I had parents who blinded themselves, and I myself wished only to be clear and empty, clear and empty, without secrets, only walking in my mind out over that radiant field, green grass stretching out in a circle to every hidden horizon.

Anima Redux

i found her underwater and woke her
and black eyes opened and she smiled

we entered the nexus of all our lifetimes
and walked away from that shore together

the shore of unreal waters pouring
over the edge of our minds

years together in dark rooms
just to find the strength to walk away

years of desperate embrace and tears
and fighting off a surprising madness

the changing world and the mind immortal
the dying world and the mind immortal

in the end she is just a girl
who writes beautifully about disorder

who thinks beautifully about imperfection
who never wanted to be an archetype

and I'm just a boy who knows nothing
driven by a billion-year-old memory

if we flare up and burn out in this darkness
if we become lost among star cinders

if we forget who we once were
if I lose my awareness in the sparkles

let us not be remembered or misunderstood
let all of this be lost in time

let nobody think they knew me
let nobody try to preserve anything

let our story never be told -
the girl and the boy walking from the shore

and into dreams and into labyrinths
and into love and into loss

I found her underwater because I was swimming
I was looking for a black-eyed goddess

and I only understand now, and only barely,
what really drives me through this life

and I still don't know, maybe never will,
what else there is to do.

Lost We

be with me now. in voice. broken overruled. help to lift me skywards, lady. arms like music box dancer, poised like ballerina. pink and blue gauze ballgown, costume jewel tiara, lipstick smile and pale skin. music to dance to until we die. on a desk in my sister's bedroom one morning, thin summer light through single glazed window. brass window fasteners twisted to open, dusty windows never cleaned, cracked from tennis ball impacts. how we leaned out and looked over the gardens and the hedges to somewhere distant. our enclosed world. bookshelves and drawers and wardrobes crammed full of memory. accumulated possessions of 15 years emptied one day. our home, full of sunshine and voices, full of waking nightmares. we walked the carpets in the small hours trailing dreams from our fingertips. our skin and our smell we left in the corners untouched by cleaning. I am a small child lost in a red crystal. I am a man waiting for a small child to descend from the overworld. I am a boy lost in his own cold bones outside an empty dark school waiting for a man to come and bring him home. I am an old man trying to remember his father's face. lost moments strung together on a tattered string. lady, be with me now. let me live in the song you lift to the sky. your arms and eyes darken and you teach me about the sea. one day I said that I would learn how to swim. that I would swim the broken sea of my parents' dreams. let this story fall from me now. I am of the sky and the waves and the stars, if you will bless it to be so.

--

lost we reach for words. lost we. only for moments crushed. how blurred horizon breeds cloud ghosts, blurred vision like rainwater window, songs for sliding down. how in panicked sparks sunlight cuts into the mind. naming evanescences in amnesiac time, in time of perfect garden, age of gold, names given again for new beginnings. meaning emerging from chaos birthsack. love from eyes. horizon of sisters and brothers and lost toys, lost books, lost living brightness. friends poised invisible under weeping willow, unable to cross the water. lady wreathed in smoke stepping through puddles that do not touch her skin. soaked earth yielding fruit and footprints, lunar memories, a future death plummeting back through time.

--

touched by voices and listened to by light, we transmigrate. these are your windows and doors, winter-chilly and smudged with tears and hope. doors in the dark, doors in the day, doors along an endless corridor of what may be. that window you flew out of in your mind every night. rising through tortured cloud giants. purple starfield and streetlight glow. naked temples flattened and opened like unpeeled tesseracts into streets and houses and staircases. mother and father embracing underneath the black gates like forgiven titans. sister and brother hand in hand under petrified glittering forest, canopy of silk and birdflight, music of absolution. memories of other planets, washed down through new mind as over waterfall in tiny urban park. where as a child you stand and sing, lady. where you stand and sing us all to wake again.

The King of Broken Things

Weak evening sunlight from between hills across the reservoir. Ringed now with steel spikes painted green and glowing. Domain of cats and foxes, mice, car thieves, mind-crippled wouldbe saints and policemen looking for junkies and teenage couples. Where concrete and stone from an old wall lump together in one spot to make a broken throne. Overlooking a broken kingdom of remodelled schoolfields and replanted hedgerows and hidden estate grasslands and flatpack white houses and blood-golden roof slates. Behind the throne the cold reservoir water lapping at granite stones and a red-rusted jetty. Hours spent sitting there witnessed only by ancient lightning-charred pine and lost house cats.

Future hours would bring stories and memories. stories of eels in the dark water like strands of hydra hair to catch swimmers' feet. Memories of traveller kids diving off the jetty one afternoon in wetsuits and shorts. With the disappearance of the light the reservoir bottom also vanished and that great trench opened to the centre of the world. a moving core like a lost heart. Bats silently skimming and twisting overhead, only heard as movements of air. Voices at the edge of consciousness floating closer on a distant path over a high wall and growing loud then fading again. A path that led from one suburb to another through schoolgrounds deep and insane with shadows and trees and long grass. Memories of drinking there years ago, laughing and running and falling over, standing drunk at the reservoir's edge thinking nothing but NOW NOW NOW

Stories of walking off the jetty at night and sinking into the abyss. How only one of pure heart could swim to the other side and only one of great courage could brave the clutch of eels and the ice clawing at the chest and the face. Stories of the old king and queen who ruled that place before it was broken, when the throne was whole and the land was whole and the reservoir was a lake fed by springs from hills unspoilt by apartment blocks and offices. When the school sent generations of sages from its gates each year in pulses that spread through the world. When the king and queen loved each other and loved their son and daughter and loved the land. And how in their way they also thought NOW, they thought NOW NOW, before the lightning blasted the old pine and before all the houses fell asleep and began to look the same, before there was a future the king and the queen were in love NOW NOW NOW

I pity the king frozen and sad deep in my mind, the queen pale and lost deep in my mind, the child hoped-for and afraid deep in my mind. The sun glinting from the far horizon and the night falling. Moths and weeds and the long walk along the water's edge - water ritual, stone ritual, ritual of memory. Stories of the child who inherited a broken world. What could he do but say to himself that he must save it. The broken thing, fixed. The broken bird, healed. The king and the queen, rescued. To sit by the shore once more and hold hands, old dry hands, old ashen robes, and smile at each other and at the restoration of the world. How the child would swim the dark water and brave the abyss and find the lost talisman. How the earth would slough off the crust of a hundred years and flow into nature again. the river and the hills and the sun and the sky and the trees and birds and cats and all of it wakened up and resurgent. There at the centre of the mind, sunken to the quick of it: the healer. Memories of loneliness. Solitude and birdsong in long bright mornings while his parents slept. Stories of solitude. How the one alone becomes the only one.

Hundreds of heavy mornings in the glass canyons and the choked cataracts of the kingdom. A million feet in military lockstep across the new millennium's bridges. For all of us a throne and for all of us a vista of numbers and letters, endless liquid crystal prayerwheels spun and shining all day long in the dead city. Chanting the names of gods unknown until now. The kind of gods that crawl out of the rubble of a shattered place, full of shadow and sadness and obsession. The king and the queen nothing now but memories of ancient statues of mythical characters, abstracted through endless layers of mind and lost to NOW.

Mother, father, this wind is so cold and we have been lost for ten thousand lifetimes. So many years since you were warm. So many years until that far green future when the kingdom will be healed. And here I am lost in the NOW as I always was. Chanting NOW NOW with my palms together and my eyelids wet with remembering how you used to smile and how once the coldest roads all led back to the same warm place. Crying please NOW, please come back NOW NOW, not in that dim past or that far future but oh please NOW NOW NOW let there be a beautiful end

The Process

Eventually, I always end up being the strange one.
From normal beginnings, I end up lost
in your forest of meanings and your many roads
without endings, the labyrinths of your lives

and always this creeping cold in the heart
the organs growing numb and the throat closing
over years of gaining and losing friends
years of making the same old journey

from normality and acceptance to alienation
I push you away, I freeze you out,
I tell you, and myself, that I don't need you
because of the creeping numbness in my mind

beginnings of warmth and ordinary eyes and arms
and hard work and sensuality and laughter
as I encompass you and dazzle you, I become
what you project, I reflect your dreams

and then creepingly it begins, something cold
that I never before thought was my fault -
I look at forests and want to live there,
by the water. I look at the stars and want to go there.

I look into the deep water and want to sink,
sucked into the blue-black water and forgotten.
I rage through my dreams to find a true self.
I do not want to leave you behind.

I find myself on my knees in the night-time
clutching my own chest, unable to name my pain.
I pray to be good. I pray that I won't let you down,
that I will fulfil my promises and not betray you.

I don't understand what demon is in me
but it must be what tormented Bunyan,
the rotting core, what he called sin,
that made him believe he was the worst of men.

It must be what tempted Jesus in the desert -
that we have the Devil in us. That from beautiful
beginnings we destine ourselves for a Fall.
It must be what mocked Buddha beneath the bodhi tree.

I have done something to my own mind
and I don't think it can be undone. I travel through it,
I speak of what I see there, and I bear witness
to the dark places and the terrible beings that live there -

terrible purposes that I see in all of us.
The ability to kill, to rape, to demean, to betray -
as much the Dark Lord as the Hero, we are -
as much the silken liar as the wise magician.

The knife in the grey darkness of the hallway,
the killing word born out of bitterness,
the devil-rage as after years of surface calm
we suddenly rampage and reduce a family to wreckage.

All because we don't see the seething darkness of NOW -
we don't see how immense are the forces inside us -
how each of us is potentially angelic and demonic -
how driven we are every day by unknown forces.

How a tiny wound left untended can rot a limb
or a whole body. How there are voices inside us
that can damn or save us, if we will listen.
How complicated and perilous it is just to sit quietly.

If I betray you, I am so sorry, you have to believe me -
I never want to hurt you, or anyone, ever.
If I hurt my children, I will almost want to die.
I have no prayer other than that this should not happen.

What is the force that we pray to, but the living universe -
the incredible energy that destroys and creates
and discards all us poor shells and mechanisms in time.
Is that my God? Do I live and breathe that contradiction?

I would have gone insane years ago
and I could go insane now, if not for this journey
in words and images and sounds, this travelogue
of a psychic landscape, this map of dreams.

Every now and then I can feel the edge of it
memories of fever hallucinations when I was young
vast shapes crashing together in the air of the bedroom
hanging on to the reality of myself, barely

and then when I nearly died in my own mind,
sucked into a vortex, and cried out for my parents
to come into the bedroom, come into my life
and save me, reach in and pull me out of myself

wandering through Amsterdam streets with my friends,
sitting in a sunlit park as my mind tried to drown me
and I forgot who I was, forgot who they were,
remembered nothing except this strange story

of a boy who had journeyed to this time and place
and then been set free, set adrift and abandoned.
Behind the eye, a naked awareness, calm and fascinated
even as I fought panic and realized I was insane,

and that I might not be able to return.
My friends left me in the hostel and went drinking.
I slept and wandered in dreams again, where I was safe.
We all met again afterwards. I had remembered. I still do.

Nightmares of being committed to asylums.
Nightmares of killing a child, a lover.
Nightmares of forgetfulness, of loss and failure.
Through it all, a desperate poetry of redemption.

I didn't have to make this journey into the underworld.
I had a choice embodied by my parents - the one
a golem set at the entrance to Gehenna as a warning,
beautiful and cold and functional.

The other, a scared child lost in the wightwarrens.
I chose to go down in full awareness.
I thought that I was strong enough to handle anything.
Moriarty says that above all Christianity is the religion

that does not leave us helpless before the contents
of our own minds. And that is what I wanted -
to discover what darkness and light may be in me.
Now it rages below the surface and I can't ignore it.

I have a very narrow path to tread - not only that,
but I have set myself the task of recording the journey.
Very probably no one will ever follow. No one
will read the record of what I did to myself.

Still, I do what I have to do.

Child King

The person at your heart is a child king
head held high, flying, singing
nonsense words to the tune of your memories

you are a person, you have a story
he sings over the rain and wind
(he's running, it's stormy, he loves it)

you are a person, you exist
in a desire-fulfilling world
a world where storms have a meaning

and that meaning, somehow,
through some kind of universal design,
has something to do with you.

The child king sings because he is not you
he is not anyone, in fact
he doesn't even know that he exists

he will never have babies or a job
his language is a song of fragments
his bare feet indifferent to grass or broken glass

every time you try to focus on his face
it has changed, he has gone, replaced
by a blue wind, a sheen of sun on oil,

strange things of that kind, themselves
gone in an instant.
His song disappears too -

there is nothing but a whispered word
that brings you into a forgotten room
memory upon memory, wasted afternoons

shuddering in a silence without him.
He is your heart and he is running away.
You hate him and you wish he would stay.

Jaya Nityananda

forget your holy empty snow. the hero has poisoned blood now. the vampire voice calling to the other dark saviours. when sacrificed on the altar stuffed with barley and wheat and fresh meat he will bring the world crashing down instead of renewing it. corrupt it like a virus in the dream of the machine. the architect of the archetypes has lost track of the boundaries between his many worlds and his realities are bleeding into schizophrenia. fingertips trailing in the smoking black waters. what did he see? Nero, his mirror face blank and plump and laughing. the hero's death will not bring back the green and glowing goddess. she is our enemy now. she lay with dark forces and they run in her son's veins. his soul is damp with sadness and his eyes self-obsessed, loneliness run riot into megalomania. we don't dance any more. we're made of water. we're made of earth. electricity. empty space. the immortal conscious tiger raises one paw and supernovas shatter the night sky. not this. not this. not the blood drinker. magma broken pulse pattern fear body outside mission putrid attar after morning clear master antichrist thirst passion overlord glory antiquity beauty clarion canticle mantifold carulet pelorio anamerita forsaken and dead to the world. you must be. bonfires on the beach as the newborn violinist breaks what he only wanted to love. the sea sucks at his heels. cliffs a thousand feet high appear out of the air as tongues of flaming gas twist emberorange through invisible magnetic fields. he paints the sea within the sea within the sea. he descends to kiss her white wrists. she is the memory of the world. all our damned blood to irrigate her parched skin. the son is lost, his filaments exploding and writhing in space. the wasteland of eternal life. the lesson of moths and poets. he wants to see himself in the eyes of another. his music screams for contact. he can't decide if he's empty or full. he eats until he pukes and eats again, he sprints howling across the parklands at night to outrace the idea of himself.



turnaroud. caricatured morphology of veins and ripples of icecream flesh, raspberry ripple peanut brittle bones gothic architecture of skull and clavicle, outer carriageway of shattered metallic froth. he is the black god of oak who presents the fruit of his heart to the hands of the mother in the long grass. her leather belly fluorescent with starvation. her abdomen flexes like the thigh of a lion. she strides ecstatic through fields of bodies on fire, souls like sweat on her skin. bring out your dead. bring out your shadows. bring out the silverfish under your bathmat and the lies under your stories. offer her your blood and see if she will refuse it. she isn't afraid of karma and she has seen the collapse of every star and the fracture of every solitary moon. she is the dream queen singing the murder of every flower, the nemesis of every narcissist. bring out the wave that you want to roll over every wrong thing in the world. the equation will not balance without its zero. the void must be injected into the living meat. she's growing old and she needs the bread of life. children make music at the altar, blind witless gold-haired delicious innocent wafers of caresses of wind in their virginal harem, their religion of surrender, their chiming trembling melting breathing supersexual intoxicated prasad at her shadow's feet. she burns them like incense, drinks them like fruit juice, tickles and teases them as her dearly beloveds.

she comes because she has chosen the hero and for no other reason, but their union brings the last disaster. because she loves him, she wants him, she needs him, and he, beautiful poisoned petal, only ever wanted to die. he has no heart but an exhausted husk and no blood but a vicious smoke. nothing could ever have killed her except his emptiness, drawing and drowning her infinite atoms over the lip of the singularity. how universes end. how universes begin again.

she perishes forever and hidden in the shells of her chest the poisoned sun cries and shakes and does not die. alone he has recognized himself, the obsidian antimony emptiness. the blossoming opposite of everything. he thought he should never have lived because he was so lastly and vastly lonely, only and terribly to realize: god and goddess is only the loneliness. the loneliness, the aloneness. the seething irreducible vacuum that gives birth. the mother of the ten thousand things. the holographic universe. the eye of the eye of the eye. bent over itself like an ancient over a fire. his own fire. multiplied as many times as his aching blood will take: thinned out absolutely into everlasting bliss.

Tat Tvam Asi

I chant between protons: prayers
spinning on subatomic wheels
elegies of the One Electron
sparkling across emptiness unreal

It's sitting across from itself
in endless grey cafés sipping coffee,
grinding the coffee, moulding the mug,
giving birth to the bean in agony;

It's arguing with itself over nothing,
just for the fun of it: who was wrong,
whose note resonates clearer, whose pain
lingers longest where it doesn't belong;

and the neutron wheels are buttercups
sunlit innocent uncertain and mortal
I am a structure of delicious isolation
unravel me to find an unexpected portal

It's a storm of blood through flesh
glittering and heaving organs wracked
by chemical lightning, shaking bone branches
crackling, wind-dancing, mind-connected

shivering down to the galaxies between quarks
it weeps and mumbles prayers in void alone
wandering through nanosecond universes
it finally finds a way to follow me home