August 23, 2007 (dream)
Return to August 23, 2007 (dream)
When the ghosts came again; there were strands, threads caught in every which way, to begin to stitch up the universalities; un-truths and bounded realities, mirroring actuality; in truth a mirror of shards and sharp ends; profoundly ugly to behold, to favour to acknowledge; broken dreams that flow over endless islands of hope, like rocks smoothed by a stream, like the edge over which the water falls; yawning, gaping, inviting; never knowing; never seeing, blind and mute; thwarted senses; having never seen or known, would have had emancipated the luckless, the slaves, the bulldozers, the proles; unmitigated ridicule as babel fell and grew again; yet nothing freed that could be perceived; all therein was darkness, utter and complete and motion was free of meaning or relation; then points like stars arose; blinking out strobes of direction and vagaries; leading out into the saturated holes of daylight and death; duplicitly lyric and prose; turning and churning to a standstill, centrifuge and fuse; burnt and charred beneath recognition; and then there were alkalis and oxides; exploring regions that were helpless to conciliate, a strain, replete with hoarse, rasping scratches; ashes like dust buried in the leavings and autumnal piles; eternally hoping against the brutality of the changing seasons;
the moon, the sky, the stars and the sun; vastly majestic, cruelly empty, like needles leaning left, that bow to the alarming tendencies of the courageous hue and shades; the fiery reminder of auto-nutrition gone horribly mainstream, capitalist like spreading shadows over blank earth, tired of growth and life, the ceaseless battles of death and microbes, challenging, breaking; all within; all tucked in, and so there was morbidity, as there was life, and there were spirits, grey and unsubstantial, always fleeting out of the corners of shapes,
smoke rising out of the depths of burning quarries, of the bleeding earth; and then the ghosts came again, falling into step with the marching troops, the uniform and the consonant, their cries; whimpers of subordination; subservient to banners of heaven and nature, as they lay open to the sky, pounding, like feet on asphalt and concrete; relentless; creep and unabate; seep; the sound of utter defeat; the sea, roaring to sweep its waves over the functionary masses, plebeian thoughts cleansed by the streams of earth's vessels; no longer hollow; filled by the forces that govern the universe itself; the mysterious, cascading, indiscriminate; that balms like bitter roots; tearing into stone and mortar,
that which breaks and contains, that shelters and crushes; a lilting vine that twines, weaves and laces; as it rips into gossamer lace that sublimates, diffusing into the open light; the death of night, the dearth of blight, the spreading dawn; the prolixity and suffusion of day, as the words begin to take hold, to have effect; as the brain registers the impact and the inevitable reaction; the battering of atoms and particles over the laid out paroxysms of brilliant blue depths; unconquered, as yet untouched, unfinished, the resolve of being, of reaching into self and glimpsing divinity and glass, the wind blowing, shuddering into sighs and eddies, forever lost to the eyes of man...