Ode to a Blind Prophet

    by   shaun     lawton   

 Picture this and how difficult it is getting wizened

to try and convince them of the way that it is and why

Of course you can after being put here by plan

not just to refute the word of god but that of man 

As independent thinkers we try to prove the word

to non-believers on their own terms that it isn't absurd

In order to achieve this it's really kind of mysterious

It was made necessary for us to not be so delirious

To remain in possession of our very own minds

I'm not a Parrot in the Pulpit I think you will find

Only in this manner may it truly be convincing and

It's a small price to pay to be thought of as a Judas

For I am the Trick Joker and I'll be out smoking them
From their own caves I ain't joking I'll draw them up

I am his son just like every other last one of you

Only I believe it because I'm not making this up

It's true I first learned it on the way to the water's edge
Swore I heard the River laughing at me in my Cage

I'm the post-hypnotic Magi the self-corrective mirror
A quintessential Tragedy in laughter disappearing

To the White Eye missing I am the Black Button
Push me once again and we'll see who's hunting

There will be your proof when I am gone and all
But for the one simple thing it's Nothing but a Fall

I got the gnostic agnostic rap a-goin' and a-flowing
In the upper stratosphere like a luxury Boeing

Good knowin' ya as we breathe in the same minted friend
and breathe out our exhalations to mix in with the wind

Lucky for us this whale's got fins it swallowed us whole
and we'll be spat out again cuz we're all Jonas in the end

We're all Jesus we're all Judas the great Hermaphrodite
sees right through us all the less mighty once divided

Upon an uncoiling time in a revolutionary whiplash 
spun out of control to ride the crest of a wave crash

You can't resist my pathogenic attack it's doxological
It deals with ontology both micro- and macrobiotic

Don't look at me like I'm awful or idiotic you started in with  
either this or that binary logic with a pretty narrow slit

To be seeing through if you don't mind my saying so
and if you do never mind pardon it's all good I would too 

We're just at opposite ends of the double-slit experiment 

fractured and infiltrated on a dead wing suffering detriment 

To be cont. on another day when inspiration's resurrected

and I don't forget to run out of things to say when misdirected

Portings and Paintals

 by  Long Shotten

      'Twee the portals of the frameworks beyond the filigree, t'worn and t'wisted as if wished away on a twister, in a rolling sea of perpetuity and cresting chances, and avalanches of opportunities crushed under one another in a falling concussion from rocks on up high, cascading in cannonballs of exploding steam, refracting droplets of rainbow shattering dream, leaving reflections behind the curved lenses of eyes struck in wide open dilation from the incoming beams of light. 

       Welcome to my gallery of dreams.  It's one small mirrorlike seed reflecting a host of seeds around it, each a reflection of another tiny identical seed looking like a miniscule obsidian teardrop that when zoomed into reveals an ever opening succession of galaxies filled with mirroring seeds repeating the dazzling reflections phenomena in a self blinding concussion of brightness expanding into further shades of blinding white from which deep within a pinpoint of shadow arises like a lonely period at the end of a long lost sentence left unremembered for millennia. 

       The golden filigree remains a fractal of the uncurling whole, just one strand from a rare metallic fiddlehead rendered from the vine lost to the winds of time.  It's been said to have formed itself one particle at a time in an elaborately wrought performance which renders the framework of the portal itself as a representation of passageways which lead to the development of another world rendered from the endless succession of seeds built into a grand filigree curling into an elaborately wrought framework.   

   

     

          

Conjuring Kafkaesque

   by  shaun lawton 

    It may have been conveyed by the singular countenance of a popular actor, someone whose name was on the end of everyone's lips when they traveled the circuit of late night television talk shows as a guest when certain other A-listers couldn't make the grade. A composite of Boris Karloff and Gene Hackman with a quarter pastiche of Martin Short for good measure, they were the darling of the Frank and Rita Mae Henson scene all the way down the line, twisting up pinners on a side line and one then more one hitters at the parties to while away the afternoons, and when it came to the harmonica a real slide blues player all along. There was always a real Big Brother feel to the proceedings, a sort of John Hurt sensibility they brought to their roles, a naked sort of raw American essence not able to be captured in letters, but exemplified in glorious two-toned panoramic Kodachrome widescreen grandeur. The motion painting of history merges through cinema in a torrid outpouring of impassioned human desire and ambition. 

  

    The panorama has long been subsumed by the cloud it is stored in. The perpetual rainy days are more than a repeated video loop motif, they're an ingrained byproduct of shared reality browsing. Trends and agglomerations generate similar minded material the consumer replenishes with even after having been regurgitated. The sense of branching off into an alternate future limb of our universe settles in its grip over the long term.  It can only be measured in and thus felt and expressed in terms of decades. 

    There was an elemental fashion to it we can never afford to forget. 

   This book marker conjuring Kafkaesque memoirs as if they were fading screenshots 

  of a newly televised world falling into fruition along with our postmodern condition has been left to note the point we broke off thinking about it.