We go through our lives,
Saturated with light,
Saturated with the images of man.
Our heads filled with images,
Torn out of the world by greedy men.
our heads stuffed with torn images,
until there remain nothing but torn images.
And words that mean nothing,
Words that speak nothing,
No language or art or ancient script.
Everyday a palimpsest of yesterday.
Sit by the dark, and close them.
Forget the common thoughts of man,
Forget the general thoughts of man.
Forget thoughts that are already thought.
Open your eyes to the dark, and take nothing in.
Feel the absence of straw, and feel the naked haystack.
Watch the shadows in your eyes, and speak to them.
They will tell you more than men.
The fearless are free to be free.
Sunday mornings, started the same way.
People on their knees, kissing their
Invisible benefactor, sharpening their knives and
Cutting through life, melting the edges,
And spreading it out onto graves.
Sunday afternoons were impeccable.
Their stench spread far, attracting vultures,
Of the most polite kind,
Who skirted around the prey, until it was a little beyond death.
And then they politely grabbed at the rotten flesh,
Smiling and humming to one another,
Blaming the next (calmly) for the putrid smell in their garden.
Some sit and wait for the rain,
Some go and find it.
Another person, conceived with uncertainty,
Blinked and opened his eyes,
And the first time he blinked the thunder coughed
And said nothing, but the sound of the stars
And silently he slid down from the cradle,
Slid down the cradle’s side,
Straight into the other kingdom.
And got up and dusted his hands,
And continued down the narrow road.
Before long his ears and hands rotted,
And were never used again.
A space without time, savagely constructed.
A place without pity, gradually constructed.
Another century with nothing.
Another universe with nothing.
Thoughtless, bottomless, lies our world.
Lowest in the food chain,
A pebble in a universe of boulders,
A speck in a universe of galaxies.
A little more time, a few less faces.