Mosi-oa-tunya

the smoke that thunders

is all that stands between.

I see you son of seer

who hunts ever gold

 

I fear not any collars

of which you once spoke

unto me

so very, resentfully

 

leave trace in my den

and Seitch Jacurutu

will hear matters

of the desert

 

in my Honour as fremen

will I give freely

unto you,

both chapter and verse

 

no need of artifice

when simplicity might

yet work

its easy magic

 

may Shai-Halud

cleanse the paths.

It falls on me to give,

oh, most cautious one

 

you must provide

secure means

and then the Mentat downloads

Insh’ Allah

 

ever the shadows

is instinct of old

ever the light

I am much more, bold

 

the morning star

and the setting sun

must soon

full circle come

 

foe am I not

ne’er have I been

fate has its quirks

sure, as can be seen

 

the smoke that thunders

is all that stands between.

I see you son of seer

who hunts ever gold

The Hooded Man

hunting echoes

in a canyon

with a ceremonial

drum

 

wearing an overcoat

of shadows

belonging to

someone else

 

seeking a river’s tears

under a willow tree

being coy with carp

and an egret

 

wobbling with

the newborn deer

in ignorance grass

on poppy meadows

 

where remembering

brings no opium

not for ghosts

or djinns

 

counting cherry stones

piled in perfect balance

a heap of Sakurai

in the making

 

a sandwich of Satori

rice paper fine

and as delicate

as dew

 

the dawn chases away

echoes and shadows

and walks daisies,

petal footsteps in the stream

 

tickling toes between

washing scales

as the sunlight

twinkles

 

the mists yawn

the trees sway

dancing mirror ponds

shimmer sequins

 

the stars stretch

their cosmic arms

teasing the hair

of night’s sky

 

and now even echoes

chime no more

Pie Jesu in the snow

as a lamb sings

 

frolicking with buttercups

and dents-de-lions

shorn of shadow coats

and now naked

 

no more soul

to clothe him

not now

not ever

 

the land of shadows

fades misty fast

without meals

or succour

 

and diamond eyed,

glinting galaxies,

he pulls up his cowl

the hooded man

 

… … hunts no more

Apotamkin

Must have been in a pretty strange space when I wrote this one. It is one of several thematically outcast, different, strange, other.

——————————————

Eyes that see further in the darkness

they set one part

crystal clear with clarity

frugal and austere

sounds only to others, of a hyperborean heart

 

Closed and closeted in the Aspie mind

where Occam shaves

those Vuitton cases

back to basics

cold to the touch, Apotamkin sees

 

Bloodless lips hold hunger

warmth that is denied

pariah and outcast

hunted and now so alone

hated for his understanding and sight

 

Feared for his Swarovski mind

where fading facets glisten

in the clear light of night

into the darkness

of men’s palisade hearts

 

From a distant galaxy across the heaven

the lost star shines

in the sleepless sightless silence

where the wee small hours

offer comfort to condition the fabric of life

 

Bound ever to walk the other side of the tracks

where he cannot be seen

wearing the fatigue of camouflage

by day-long, day, long, day

and all freight trains morn at level crossings

 

Haunting in his quiet and black-hole eyes

now phlegmatic at his fate

enigma coded even to himself

as the centuries pass

each that little harder to bear 

 

Apotamkin has an icy touch

it keeps others safe

safer, far from him

he wraps his aura mantle

tight around his neck and he swings

 

But the galleon gallows are no respite

for this jolly roger

the black, black pearl inside

will not give of his bones

at least not to the likes of Davy Jones

 

The glamour is what the purple Goths seek

and all the romance of moths

carrying stardust on a wing

what they now ask

he does not want to ever, ever, bring

 

He takes the YKK zippers to his lips

and meshes close the teeth

no more to grind

and needs an abysmal well

into which to seal the keys gone bye

 

Thence to find the earthly tomb

a mirage of a mother’s womb

none shall pass

and get  so close to this,

this walking ghost

 

The cold one shivers now

at all that he has done

never again shall he hurt

not even, a single one

thirteen billion light years is safe enough?

 

In space no one can hear you scream

let people make their choice

it will not bend to his voice

he has no belongings here

no more does he want their fear

 

Time now for him to banish

and again in mist to vanish

he is too cold

his touch of ice

freezes blood and thickens twice

 

From a distant galaxy across the heaven

the lost star shines

in the sleepless sightless silence

where the wee small hours

offer no comfort to condition the fabric of his life… …

Empty Paths

beyond the point

of primal,

causal origination,

no cognition

nor perception

 

a void awakens

shimmering the nothing

into becoming

empty and yet Dao,

no re-cognition

 

before the void

no time

no place

no recollection

or, any memory

 

wide empty paths

towards the infinite

have no ending

nor any start,

the essence of being

 

a Soul alone,

sole and soular

radiates into space

a single spark

of a cosmic fire

 

beyond the point

of primal,

causal origination,

no cognition

nor perception

 

at the point before mind

bodhi svāhā