Today I go questing for Everyman’s grail
for a sip of pieced together circumstances
of calm hope dripping
and hoped calm dropping
Balmed reality fights through
soothing and sobbing and traveling to interwoven souls
- synonymous with sinister -
“Reality is War, and Peace the Imagination”
This is X-rated!
I see and evil man nodding his head, walking from the bomb site, his wounds
too burned to bleed. He falls and family calls out. “He is at peace now.”
SHOUT AND WHISPER!
RIOT!
Quiet. She stands naked and beautiful, fixated on little death, lured to blush
an feel satin, alone in the dark.
“She will be our sign of peace.”
- the trembling ecstasy of pure imagination -
Not the marijuana men sitting in circles, loose talking, the are deluded
by poison, and fantasy, but not imagination, pieced but not peaced.
It is not anesthesia, nor dulling.
REMEMBER HER, SHE IS TREMBLING IN THE DARK
EXHILARATION.
And I hear the clergymen speak of peace everlasting as you lay in the coffin
and feel your blood standing by your side, weeping and wishing.
Wallowing willow trees of fallen heads, each wondering why.
“This is it?”
The watchers find solace in imagination.
Holding signs calling for it, they whisper their plans. But shouts from the
circles around them have plans of their own.
How do they expect the riot to birth it?
As if any shout or whisper roots in the raw of every man’s pure imagination.
She Tastes Awe and How Some Body Shakes,
Alone in The Dark.
Remember her, pilot, as you fly stripes and stars, as you fly the atomic theory
of destruction, according to instruction. As SHE rolls over he target on
her own orders.
“At war, soon to be at pieces.”
Why “at” it, and always “at” it, picking away. Pat it. Padded? Feel around it.
Pilot, fly at it, in your sights
Woman, cry in it, at our mights
Door open, hand upon the button
They each want it, drop it,
CAN’T STOP IT!
And the pilot watches the cloud-skull spread the air with
melted skin, a screams put out the call for peace. Bureaucrats dance
to the melted specter-songs of souls sent across the sea and sold for
signatures on a piece of paper.
Treaty, do you stop the suffering?
or …
Do you excuse us to close our eyes and feign imagination?
The woman has nothing following her explosion, she shakes, alight in
the aura of action based in the raw, non-deliberated ecstasy of pure
imagination.
SHE is in IT.
- Sing your pornographic Tao -
The pacing, racing heart in part so calm, the water sought her, brought her in
within the place of mind to find the combination of the only pure
imagination,
Where war is balanced by protocol
and
Peace is balanced by more pieces of peace.