The Damned

Consider that colour is given to us
in plentitude
from games played by light &,

that the liquidity of water is
a feature of a particular performance
between specific particles
bonding with each other
                        & yet
no individial actor has
the property of 'being wet'.

What does that mean to you?

If it means nothing,
congratulations:

you can thrive in this world, but
if you strove to find any semblance
of pattern
        or symbol,

you're fucked.

The Cave

Those shadows on the cave wall, distorted,
            contorted,
grotesque & tall,
they aren’t shadows at all.
Only mutated shapes;
circus images permeating
            fluid;

another trick of a sick mind.

Don’t take it too seriously
            but if you
listen too closely to their sounds
they start to drift &
            float around
without direction, detached from meaning.

Don’t be ashamed
for acting from the purest of instincts:

fight or flight is joined by frozen
fright as well; belief is
            necessary
& to believe in what you see
is so natural it almost
seems like blasphemy not
            to just
let it happen.

Why aren’t you happy yet?

Bite off your tongue,
                spit out the blood
& say something more than
                any word ever could.

Learn that laughter can either be
                an enemy or friend
& then you can ignore
                the raw wound possessed by us all,

to finally become one with the rest;
                an unspoken secret;
the obscene foundation of everything
                keeping us safe from what awaits within.

Waits like a swallowed stone
                to kill or be expelled
from each body haunted
                by language: a ritual sacrifice;

necessary price to be paid.
                Ridiculous offering made
to satiate the infinite
                & the horror it brings.

Open your mouth,
                let it all out:
without a tongue
                all sounds are one.

What we can see

From fetus to a handful of ashes;
 
a brief flicker of light in the darkness;
the thread of our existence,
helplessly passing from past to future;

contingent filaments entwined
within the infinite:

Just another story,
another way to escape the boring
fact that our lives are only defined by
what we can see…

but our eyes weren’t designed,
just like everything else.

We will never see the infinity.

Dancing

Insistent whispers from distant places,
tease & menace;

the hold is held*,
coils then melds, melts & is gone forever.

Solid & insubstantial, all objects
whole & partial
resist or yield,
or stubbornly reveal futility

to be both the cause & death of meaning:

every answer
a more graceful dancer than the question;

                            never ending
tension between existence & being.

It slips away,
                            eternally
within the reach,
of a grip that cannot keep what it holds:

grains of sand in the hands of a creature

who doesn't understand
either…

*Maurice Merleau-Ponty