Whispers of Hypnos
By
Joshua Lee Andrew Jones
@copyright 2010 Joshua Lee Andrew Jones
Whispers of Hypnos
When dreams become…?
How did Einstein ride the photon?
Is there more?
Somnambulism affects how many?
Perspective is…?
Eventually we do what?
Reality consists of delusions and…?
Sleep is…?
Omnipresent, Omniscient, Omnipotent, how do you resolve this?
For one more restful moment, you would…?
How did they bury you, Pablo Neruda?
Youth is wasted on…?
Parallax or parallel position, which do you prefer?
Never quite remembered are…?
Of a butterfly dream or a celestial concussion, we are…?
Survival is worth more than what?
Empty Easel
The empty easel, stained and dry as time, waits bereft in the corner
The braces deflect parallels in a curvilinear warped display
producing four dull points that converge on the horizon.
The center beam bows, like a pendant’s pull
on a golden chain after embracing
the years of white space
that daunts
the artist with taunts
of genius as the center of the track
barely supports its own mass as the brackets
tenuously strain to grip the prevailing ledge as it struggles to slip,
slip, one space, slip as the hook catches over the faded blots
of burnt sienna and eggshell white tear like drips
as the a-frame behind is a barren chevron
pointing to the low ceiling, flaking
as the rusted wing-nuts
wish to fall
as they are slightly off-thread
under the adjustable canvas support brace
as they, unwanted and unused, have fused with the bolts.
The grain of the wood has risen and expelled
its stain, rough and splintering veneers
try to separate themselves slowly
as the tin and nickel backbone
supports itself with futility.
The empty easel, reticent in perpetuity, still has a vibrant white seal
a trademark of memories that has not faded in name
and is bright and bold but no longer holds
the smallest canvas or frame. Relegated
to a collectible, a fragile memento
mori, to the past of the delicate
imperfect hand made majesty.
In the down town evening
The epileptic night seizes
city sounds strangle into silence
the sharp buzz snaps
lights on streaming advertisements
blink, not to be perceived
as gawkers and onlookers
planted in stone
cease mid-sentence
between the plastic realities
bubbling up only to burst
the touch screen implants
as sylvan transplants
lift their feet sidewalk weary feet
just above gravity and halt
The unctuous streets
slide away…
The wrought iron sky
ratchets down, click… click… click
The match head stars
flicker in an inchoate
fit*** * *** **
The epileptic night bites its tongue
flashes of furious motion, slash
the frozen hustle and bustle
that allows the city’s synapses
to stabilize. Balance is temporary.
The horns honk deadly dares
as heels clack on the cured cement
The pause is brief
The cityscape in repose
awakens in an instant
and just as one experiences apoplexy
it escapes, only to infiltrate
another. It never ends
There’s not enough Ativan
for everyone downtown.
Burned brightly
The tiger can no longer burn bright
the proud predator yearns to slumber
as the breath is labored and reluctant
catabolic cancer consumes all, evenly
alike-the cat that once dreamt of fire
now waits while the embers are fated to be
as the frost on the glass of the smudged
window beckons the smoke to stain
the view-bright, so bright to be dull-
The asymmetry of the palsied face
invokes memories as the tiger pounces
on to a silk pillow’s sheen and
Purrs, and Primps, and Watches
the prey parade on the dying
lawn of autumn.
The tiger is fed
claws retract.
The breath is labored
The slumber is not.
Strum?
The guitar does not roar
suspended, diminished tones
supplicate silence.
Chords wait in the wood
wondering, withering, waiting
as the steely strings
become tarnished and frail.
The neck and pegs have strained
so long that they could not relax
if unbound.
The hollow body and solid spine are fused.
The bolts have never been unfastened
and the frets fret to let loose
a nervous chuckle
as the steely strings
become tarnished and frail
and cannot be tightened to
tune up, only down.
No standard key will hold
the lock to allow the notes
to flee
the steely stings reverberate
with memory and will not
be replaced easily as
they become tarnished and frail
withering, wondering, waiting
SNAP
Under Synesthesia
Sight stretched to a thread
tied behind the mind
the knot tightens and cuts
into the available light.
(masked marauders mime a play of cruelty).
Taste with the texture of sand
melts in the forge of breath
and drops as tears to burn
away the memories.
(trembling and thirsty, no water is given).
Sounds of bitter harmony
blend into thick vinegar
a sour damp flavor
rings with the hiss of air.
(the bells and whistles mock rhythm).
Touching the fragrant white
pressure, lavender bleeds in
germinating roots, thin tendrils,
along stale still appendages.
(blood is drawn on the wall).
Scents of violet and platinum light
scatters through a prismatic field
and attaches to the attendants
as they become a transparent illuminated stench.
Seep
The deep gorge hides the ebullient warm spring
That runs slowly dissolving the surround stone
In rivulets the aquifer bleeds and drains
into clear cold pools formed by jagged basalt.
***
One eroded plain fills once more with rain
and mingles the waters of Gaia’s perspiration
Rotating languidly like a second hand of a clock
reflecting the moonlight and
daylight
as a sliver in the cracked scaled slate surface
pulls the pristine water into an expanding fissure
a liquid vortex seeps down through the stone
where the hour hand of sunlight cannot reach.
***
The shifting ground drinks
and saturates the porous rock
a gentle penetration and filtration
The solvent bonds willingly with minerals.
***
Spiraling down into the depths
to become steam and building pressure
in the heat, only
to rise again in another spring.
Ink
Where are the pens clenched in fists?
So many sentimental sobs
roll across the page
leaving dilute rivulets of
watery lettering
Profound rage is not outrage
It can’t be controlled
The pen is mightier than the sword
But both stab, and the sword
Is mightier
When the pens have no ink
*&%#!
The scream is frozen in mid-wave
It is still, fast holding to the open space
It crests but will not fall, silent
to the ruptured ears to the ground
The cheers cease and remain aloft
in refrain before the adulation inspires
the children on the field
The yell is in stasis riding the
Wind up and down but
Not forward
To resound and vibrate the membranes
The scream is frozen in mid-air
The atmosphere is so thin
It cannot sustain the life of warning
The cheers wait, aloft and insolent
momentarily silent
waiting, watching for the air to thicken
and become moist, it is easier to travel
through.
Screams fall silent in absence.
Soaking
The waterfall goes cold
The wine bottle slips
The attempt fails
Chipped shards of glass
Jagged as shark’s teeth, sharp as tears
cry as they beckon my plump feet
to pop the skin and free
sweet sanguine sweat of iron
as they puncture and crush
and crush and crush and crack
as the checkerboard tile floor
aches for the pulsing blood
as it dries with warm gasps
as the tingles are tossed from
under foot to over head
as pings ripple through the
embedded glass hooks
one jump, to the balls of my feet
the glass attached as a tick, rides
the clumped toes
the dusty glittering glass
macerates and lacerates
awash in crimson
scarlet stains, the red dries to black
as the doors swing open to let
in the light and burn the cuts
that never reach the wrist
Pathetic fallacy
Yellow ebbs and breaches the rounded edge
as potent whispers of magnesium white light
gasp and burn the mist of the greedy morning
New sprouts and shoots search
Among the vast verdant vistas
to view, a stronger sun shining
silently eating the splendor of another
revolution as the heat’s and hell’s
fury is called forth, invoked
to illuminate the path
the plow must follow the fold
of the soil as it releases its
eager moisture.
The sun at its longest hour
seethes and spasms
With reluctant annoyance
as reserved animosity rises
for the parched plants and animals
hiding in the shade.
In vino veritas
Drink in the past
of the particular grain
and mineral of the soil
Drink in the day,
consume the humidity
of the air
and the tilt of the Earth.
The Sun’s peculiar angle is trapped
so delicately when the bottle is right
Time is stored on the vine and released
so we can remember.
Sip from the fluted glass
That chimes with fire
and were forged by the hands
that pluck the grape
and expel seed
Be intoxicated by the will of the vineyard
envision the ancient amphoras sailing
the seas bringing cultivated celebration
and tidings from those long gone.
Let there be light
Unstable sable sooty skies shimmer with silver
slices and streaks of bone white, absent of marrow
cracks of electric arcs weld the ether and darkness
fusing the ground to glass and extending the tether
through all the jubilant and solemn states of matter
***
Deadly holy hallows, baneful yet sacred soil
littered with shards of light, flickers a mosaic
of deep stellar pin pricks, scamper, glitter
and gleam the captive emission of the empyrean
as darkness injects the stone with a mild delirium
***
The cure for divinity came at the Trinity Site
Hyperion rises and falls with elegant strides
in the perpetual escalating titanomachy
the heralds proclaim “Let there be light”
as energy only fathomed by stars fills the night
***
Mourners at the final funeral eulogize the Jinn
and their last exhausted flames tremble and drip
as fluorescent tears, only to dry in eons are buried
Japanese paper lamps glow red and are set adrift
on the sea of sackcloth as the seams are backlit
***
The divine wind stalls but ripples ride ripples
and hide underneath the turbulent turbid waters
the last pieces of parchment fall in flakes to
the primordial depths where the first step
and last step of creation cannot easily be kept
Space –Time, we exist between the Divine
The biggest of bangs booms-the expansion
begins with the singularity-the heart of God
time, matter and space are created-with one beat
up until now and the future-when it beats again
dark Ichor fill the cavity-cosmic valves close
mankind-tachycardia
***
Dark matter-the synapses of the divine mind
Light- is the breath of life
***
You know light-takes time
The impulses of the senses-take time
The interpretation-takes time
to occur.
Then it is sight.
Then it is touch.
Nothing is instantaneous.
We always exist in the past
forever just behind
trying to catch up to the present.
The void of experience winks and taunts us
For we can never exist
in the absolute now.
***
God-man
Past-present
Space-Time
P-wave-flatline
Memory
Atmospheric lesions, ghosts of experience
sliced and sawed off by spectral knives
dull blades, spoons scoop the senses
in as series of sedated speculations
the gray matter
is dust
the mind still sits vibrating
at idle, the one second
becomes infinitely lost
in between the firing neuron
and the chemical bridge
***
Scars across starry eyes
Leech out and spread
as the mind seeks contrast
in the light and dark horizon
***
The betrayal of the cell is revealed
and lightens the view as the
smooth agreeable sheen of
childish soft cornered scenarios
are offended by adult content
Buried as a stillbirth, in the dust
The ghosts are lost
and seek their place
on the other side of the bridge
Death Penalty Paradox
Capital (the top of a column) Punishment
is defined as
the State execution of murderers
Our State (the condition of) is
defined as we the people and the
representative placed at the Capital.
Murder is the slaughter of an innocent.
Humanity is flawed (perfection is conceptual)
***
Those who believe in divine judgment
rest their hands on the Bible
as Witnesses (those who observe) to others
it is just a book.
They Testify but not with
the holy spirit in a church
of their peers singing Hallelujah
***
Some in shackles have their restraints
unlocked as new pens write
their names with clear legible letters
Flawed (perfection is conceptual) accusations
and pressures from the approaching hoards
hastily line up the rows
of the abbatoir…As we make mistakes
and we will, innocence dies.
State (we the people) sponsored (endorsed like athletes)
Capital Punishment will therefore kill the innocent
Killing an innocent is murder
Murderers shall be put to death
but there are not enough bullets for
The firing squads to shoot us all, well not yet.
Lottery
Lessons learned in fallen time lost
faceless yearning preserved in the frost
of belittled hope and magnanimous dreams
expectations of elevation torn asunder from its seams
***
The slow consistent vibration of all connected elements
Energy pulsing displaying solidity as illusory components
Valueless time used in vapid vociferous pursuit
Of surface numbing activities and all things moot
***
Wishing for numbers that create a fallacy of freedom
As if life owes anyone anything in this chaotic contagion
Awake from oppressive opposing cramping sleep
Become lucid of thought emerge from the deep
Cold dark haze of simplistic insensitivity’s hold
Upon true flowing consciousness and life’s bold
Meaning in the reflected light of perspective and the subjective
Symbols contained in all, seen by few, an intertwined collective