Light

Light brings bright breath, it gives itself to subjects to carry and permeate its warmth, they are vehicles of the light of love, to darkened corridors and to eyes that are lost in a moment in time, they will change according to the light and its breath, and at times light dwells in the unlikeliest of places, houses of innocence, of apparent unknowing, but light knows them, and it gives its heart to them, in its fully knowing, it is positive and it is true and it discerns, light of life and of giving your soul, rest your arms on me, breathe your will into my soul, fill me with the madness of your dream, instill me with you, possess me, make me my own and your own, fit your eyes to mine, be my guide and my guard, and sing my song unto me, and I will sing our song to my world.

Orange

Orange is my colour, vibrant orange, it has a great strength, and it knows and it believes in itself, it knows where it is and understands its meaning, yet it is difficult to see its living presence, it isn't really apparent, but it is astral and is complementary to soul, and soul should be invaded, it should not be so sitting so quietly where it resides always, nothing is apart, should be aloof, all things should be considered, should be brought into the picture, I see things like, evenings of lost love re-engaged, tripping to the garden of autumnal blessing, aching sky, laughter in the tears, a world lost and a kiss of eternal grace, questions to myself, and some kind of dissatisfaction with the way I have been acting, there's an intense look, it is inward and it questions, it is looking like it might become angry at some point, it is not at ease, and its finger is pointing only at me, and I, I just look on in innocence, leafing through the book, remembering, wanting to be in a place of the past, lost in this dubious moment, time, in this moment of orange.

September 2013

A song has lost its tune and the dancers are gypsy minds in a day of rain, astral colours exploding like thunder on a rainbow, and spirit is quietly questioning the lack of living in the day, it hides in the corner, on a morning of tranquil ease, it lurks in that corner, waiting for its moment, looking inwardly for the time for its action, and spirit must lose control, and it must be free, its eyes are on a search, through darkness and into the sparkling sky, the sky of the past, the sky of memory, infinity is asking questions of a single moment, a moment that is a single day, dancers still, weave their patterns to the song, the tune will be recovered, it will emerge and it will live again, and the spirit will find its freedom and will not be dictated to by the disappointment of a single one day in September in the year of 2013.

Changes

From the periphery to the middle of the picture, observation finds itself a new perspective, a spotlight gleams, and now there is a consideration, do I really want to be here in this 'here' or do I want to slink back to the sidelines? Do I accept the onus and do I think that the onus is prepared to accept me? Perhaps the answer is simply nothing, but to ignore that there ever was a question, and where did the question come from anyway? from negative mind? from doubt, and unlove? Seems to me that the more you do, then the more that you have to care. There is a tyrant inside and is like a leech sometimes, and his criticism is questionable at times, yet at other times, pretty cool. This leech or this tyrant needs control, he must not be allowed to become the commander, he must be a lesser player in the act of the self. And dreams explode into the waking consciousness, they leave their impressions they too need control, and this can be found in understanding, and with them understanding is the present interpretation, although this will change. Change is forever present, it is constant, and it is acceptable. To accept it indeed, creates a comfort, and the world keeps on turning, and to be in time with the turning of the world, is to be in touch with the changes that it challenges you with.

Waiting for Tomorrow

All of my money in the suitcase, and I turn away for a moment and it is all lost to me, all of my paper money lost to me, I've always wished to smile at paper money, it probably looks more interesting that it actually is, it doesn't own any of my feeling and it dies as it goes into another's hands. And midnight angel, with darkened eyes, looking like darkness, speak to me again, and sometimes I look at her sincerity and sensitivity with all the care of money. A jungle is alive with minds of thought and hearts of feeling, and in the jungle there is both ecstasy and depression, reality is inconstant and to be in touch with it, you have to change along with it. And sometimes as I change I can be hurtful, and sometimes as I change, I can be kind, and twilight will gaze at my soul and question and will advise on direction. In the barbed wire evening, other angels sing of love, and they thrill with their sound, and they have no eyes, so it is futile then to seek the truth within them, and I guess you just have to make some kind of sensual judgement, and afterwards at some critical point, questions arise, within the uncertainty, within the not knowing. Someone seems to look downward with strings attached, denying liberty, I wonder if John Calvin was right about predestination and how it is a mystery? And I thought that I heard an angel cry, and she shied from a comforting embrace, and then I became lost within myself, in that moment. And tomorrow sometimes takes its time in arriving, and it creates suspense, and some kind of anticipation. It sometimes isn't so easy to wait until tomorrow.

Not Knowing

There is warmth in the home of the heart, life is beguiling, and perhaps sometimes in the place where you perceive the home of your heart is, there is less than peace, and the feeling can touch frustration and anger, and very often you fix upon another person to rid yourself of this within yourself, hoping somehow, that it really isn't anything connected with the self, and with this antipathy for someone, you can be close to acceptance of them in the most positive way, nothing is that definitive, but interrelationship is a great truth, a reality. One idea and one thought should look for other related ideas and thoughts, there should never be the feeling of 'I am correct' for it a falsehood that deludes with its deception. And any personal opinion should not be considered any more than a present idea, and should not be taken to heart as being the 'end.' Thought and life are circular, they are eternal, there is no beginning and there is no end, and there is no knowing, and I guess the problem ultimately the insecure feeling that 'not knowing' may bring.

Fools

The perceived to be fools, are working their magic tonight, they would seem to have had enough of condescension they live in a quiet way, they are apart and they disallow touch, Pearse wrote about them and considered himself as one, as I do, we are the fools, who have no idea where we are going, we just tend to go, and the Tarot fool always tends to come back for more, does he really go off the edge of the mountain with his dog? or does his dog hold him back, does it enlighten him? And does the fool listen to the words of his dog? I guess that he has to listen, and I guess that is why he might be considered a fool, perhaps the fool is the one who listens, who has nothing to say for a while, until he has something to say, and the fool is without opinion, he stands alone, apart from the crowd, his world is a world of his own, he is alone, because, who else would like to join him in being a fellow fool? And at some point, just some point, you may want to look into his eyes and inquire, 'what it it about this fool that makes him such a fool?'

This Time of Life

Aromatic fusion, circling, manifesting, giving its opinion, in its own innate way, and in the demise of the summertime, it offers some kind of pretended consolation, but of course, the discerning and the discriminating know otherwise, sometimes though, they have to remember to still themselves, and allow things to slide, and the circus of life, seems to wink at the movement of the passing moments, words delude, passive isn't so lifeless, and mediocrity isn't so mediocre, after all, it is the middle place on that mountain of existence, I guess, and you look around and see things like, beauty, that isn't even close to its apparent self, to the truth of your before, understanding of its word, and diversely, you see that an apparently ugliness, that isn't true to your perception of it either, isn't such an ugly thing to focus upon either, life lies in chaos and it almost lies in ruins, but as long as it is life, it turns to you, yes you, to instill, and to penetrate and to influence and to change and create something harmonious and true, I guess, that life waits in the wings sometimes, looking at us, daring us to contribute, asking us for our own answers, after we have forgotten, that we are in life and are a part of this great life, there is magic within the grasp of the livers of life, yet sometimes they seem to be afraid to actually be in touch with the reality of themselves in their lives, and there is magic in the dream that we dream, and there is magic in the love that we desire and share, and there is magic in our being alive together, at this time.

In the Cafe

Saw you in the cafe, it had been a long time, your car needed a push, so did I, and after exchanging wearying looks, we exchanged numbers too, the place was quiet the only music was in my head from a memory from earlier in the day, but still it stayed and it began to sing about you to me, and I had somewhere else to be, as we both had, so we didn't delay, and there was that instinctive feeling that I couldn't translate to words in my head, and then we moved apart and I looked at the day now, devoid of you, and there was a certain relief and there was a certain sense of loss, and there was a certain sense of nothing being certain, especially regarding memory, I had walked myself to the end of you, when you had done the same, and we were both now in our rightful place, apart.

The End

Drunken writers and so called poets, drinking deeply of their own emptiness. and a word of acceptance seems like the world of acceptance to them, they are empty and they are hungry and they lust for accompaniment, they are hungry and they live in a particular poverty. And this poverty somehow makes them feel wealth, for they can progress no further, this beginning actually is the the end.

The Daytime and the Nighttime

The nighttime questioning spirit, you seek God, you reckon he should be here at this time. The moon has escaped to its world of love and lunacy, and that there is understanding between God and the Pagan moon I have no doubt. People give comfort, or attempt to, one to the other, working at keeping demons at bay. Now is a world of now and memory, tomorrow walks the other way in its diversion, uncertainty. I wonder of the loneliness of the bitter and angry hearts, and what there is to comfort them, in their despair. And the angry heart at some point, must console itself with what reality actually was and in fact is right now. George Jackson in Soledad Prison declared that 'no-one can crawl inside your head' but I know that there are people who can. Duality is the key in the face of uncertainty, it wants to encapsulate, it wishes to keep spirit alive, it offers its love in its way, and in return it seeks understanding. And city streets are a world full of strangers, who sometimes are unable to converse with language. People are lost as friends are lost and friendship is lost, and again there is the mystical nighttime, which is lost mainly to all but itself. So there is comfort in the nighttime, and within its dark, and it displays this always and it has forever turned to the light of day. And the day, is the time for fire, and it breathes a deeper life than the nighttime, into its souls. We are souls of the daytime and the nighttime, and we are one, just like the nighttime and the daytime are one.

Life and Death

Thinking's crazy, the brighter it gets, the duller it gets, the mind must look for its answers to spirit and soul. Intellect doesn't know, although it knows how to delude, there are strings being pulled somewhere, and the shape of the mind spells constriction. I wonder if there is another name for God, when God is collective consciousness, that each of us makes his or her contribution to? There are answers, as many answers as one would allow oneself to find, nothing is definitive, life is mystery, and so, is its death. And we no more understand life, than we understand death, perhaps then, death teaches definition, and perhaps death has answers, and death has truth, and perhaps death is the answer to life, and perhaps then, death knows life and can understand its mystery.

Character

Flirting with blame, attached to a memory, and excuses sitting so right next to me. Cowardice can suggest, it can seek embrace, and it can swallow the true spirit. And character must always raise its head in assertion, it is the personal higher power, and it is the road to success on the road of a personal life. And I look around at mirrors of my condition, in the see-saw of changing feelings, in the variousness of different eyes and faces and experiences. Sameness, is a small place to dwell on, and can be the easy way out, when I don't feel like I want to get in touch with my truth. So the spirit grows with shows and decisions of character, and the easy way out, is no way out at all. It is a stagnant and a lazy place and ultimately it will explain to you that you are mistaken.

Love is the Change

From the dark abyss to the wishing well, we are shadows in our worlds of truth. Venturing onward to unforeseen places. Lovingkindness, is the most radical of things, and it has no questions of itself, it strides forward on its own, oblivious to opinions. And in its life, there is fire, and in its fire, there is the explosion of soul. And the soul is the essence, it is the director, it is the conductor, and what once was inhibited, gives way to the change of love, and love is the change. And love is the change.

Flashback

Had this flashback today. I am with my girlfriend, and we have to visit her parents to tell them the news. And I guess, that I was sober at the time, and I look at her father in the face sort of, and I proclaim, after all the waffle had subsided, 'and she's pregnant' Shit! I'm still mortified yet.

The Depths of the Darkness in the Night

Strange, like trying to fathom the depths of the darkness in the night. Elusive, like a forgotten dream, and imperceptible, like the quality of the silence. And hope, stays in place, when you even think of attempting to understand what it is in a distant and a foreign place. And the effort can be warming, it can feel a hand on its shoulder of comfort, comforting its unknowing. And distance is vague and it appeals to imagination, and it looks for the imagination to picture it, to grasp its time and its place. To understand, that distance is just another picture show. And in any distance, it is strange, like trying to fathom the depths of the darkness in the night.

The Picture

Step into picture, there is comfort there, in possibility, when you have left the periphery behind. And your truth will be sensed and it will guide you and be accepted. On the periphery you observe, in the picture you are the actor, the player. What once was a mystery can turn to magic, It can hold you in its fond embrace, it can still, and it can thrill you, time has lost it reason, and the world is dancing to another beat.

Book on the Shelf

There's a book on the shelf and it gazes at me endlessly, and I am in the middle of breakfast and I avert my gaze, and the morning gives wealth to my breakfast. and without the morning, my breakfast would be in some kind of trouble. My book, approaches me always, and always it confronts me and asks questions of me. It seems to want to tell me, that it is a part of my heart and soul. and I don't know any different, and I try to squeeze myself away from it. And I stand alone in an evening, there are colours of orange and of purple and they would appear to be the colours of dream. And I can't pretend to hear the songs of angels, like some writers of hymns do, and I dream perhaps, of the next dream, and if I will be able to remember it, and therefore, make use of it somehow. I have lost everything that it was possible to lose, and I work within to overcome the defeat. It appears that I was the greatest demon that I had never taken the opportunity to confront. And the sky is overcast, and lacks expression, it hides behind this state of itself. It is a shy thing. and it seeks for love. And who will be the lover of the skies? Whenever I look to the skies, all I can see are clouds and sometimes sun and sometimes moon. So how much is the sky? Is it enough to cause a dream? Should you take it with you somewhere that you believe somehow, that it doesn't want you to go? And then it all comes back down to the book on the shelf, and how you want to consider it.