Sollus Salum

“To live at all is miraculous enough.”
Mervyn Peake, The Glassblower

..

Time is broad water,
Time is beyond us.

Ruin and rust are evidence
Enough, of its invisible
Erosion,
We regard,
With fatalistic fascination.

Whisper,
Of curses,
As we violate
Tombs and place a
Fortunes
Value, on an oil
Painting,
Of a moment
Lost,
Even, as it is
Depicted.

It desolates
With the patience
Of continental,
Slow drift,
Terminates,
With meteoric
Impact and we are
Jangling
Marionette bones and gape
Mouthed
Ash,
In its wake.

So much consumed and yet,
Nothing,
Can slake
It's thirst.

I've asked to be
Scattered
In the sea, off
Gerritsen Beach.

It's the only place I'll
Meet
My father
Again,
In the mercurial waters,
Of our mutual
End.

He and I
&
You and I,
A clutch
Of the
Same,
Rutting,
Ruminate,
Amidst all things,
In the cool iron jowls of
Circumstantial
Physics, wrestling the
Tide,
Of incalculable
Chance, and you
And I,
More or less,
Neatly,
Indexed
To a moment’s
Existence, no wider than an
Eyelash, and of no
Greater substance and
No less gracefully
Swept.

A glass
Slipped
From grasp,
Plummeting,
Itself, a grain
Upon a beachhead.

Your red mouth was a
Fish, pistoning grey black
Undulations, through a
Headwater, before it lashed me and drew
Lots,
For my garments.

You hang me upon an iron
Nail,
Bent to a horse
Hoof,
Above your doorstep,
To ward off
The finger
Of plague.

I’m not the fucking
Answer
To your prayers,
Nor am I so
Perfect,
As to lie
In the bosom
Of your
Praise.

I am all that rises
From the soil
And all that
Returns.

I’ll whisper my
Bewilderment into your
Font of
Breath and name you
Beloved, call you perfectly
Woven and manifestly
Preordained, even as I
Regard you,
As a dazzling
Embryonic
Singularity.

We fuck and kill and eat
Our fill, before we neatly
Tally our
Prim
Statistics of
Causation, to fall in neat
Cordwood
Stacks, beneath a papercut
Thumb sliced too
Obtusely,
To illicit
A welling
Of blood.

And as we woke
In its stony platonic
Womb, to watch flame
Shadows spend their
Wrath in a pantomime
Of beingness,
We laugh in the breakneck water-
Fall
Of death.

Not immediately inborn
With the innate
Perspective,
To gaze inward, to
The mouth of the
Navel,
Into beingness
Itself.

This cognizant amalgamation
Before you
Is a hot knife
Forged from a bone
Spur and cooled in my
Hissing
Blood, only a hectare shy of the
Deep
Underground
Sea.

You’ll learn nothing
Of
Me, by question,
Nothing,
By observation,
Except that I am,
Only,
63.1 kelvin
Shy of a kettle, whistling
To pour a
Cuppa.

My gaze is a gradual
Cumulus of specific
Acumens and my eyes are
A pair of tarnished silver
Drachma, handed over, with miserly
Recalcitrance, for a tepid
Bowl of brown.

Mea culpa,
Pay no attention to the man
Behind the curtain, who is not
Afeared, but
Weary,
Of perfunctory courts
Of congress,
Of futile circumferencing
The communal ordinances.

My embrace is an inverted stairwell.

Let’s talk about miracles.

An octopus manifests its
Mood,
Through a fluidly malleable
Shift
Of coloration, orchestrated
By a panoply of
Interconcerted
Individual muscles, holding
The purse
Strings of ink
Pustules, just beneath
The skin,
In the subsoil.

An eye blinks a mass
Exodus of monstrous dust
Mites, which goes
Unnoticed,
By virtue of scale.

The liquid swivel of a chameleon’s
Eye
Turrets, proceeds its javelin
Tongue, striking not where the fly
Is, but where
It is going
To be.

Daniel is quite mad and laughs for
Joy, that fences
With the atmospheric
Mantle of
Thunder and
God is a
Rain frog, that
Rode a summer
Squall to lift its
Squat chin, into the
Headwind, sitting on the precipice
Of his porch.

Light emitting
Diodes, silently
Sit and
Stand as they conduct a
Symphony, beneath the flying
Feet of Rogers and
Astaire, intimately clasping
Hands, still so
Real, I can taste their invisible
Perspiration.

The woman I love
Sends me pictures
Of
Newts,
Whose eyes
Smile,
With miraculous
Innocence
And of the cosmos,
Whose richly
Coloured
Garments,
Strike me with
Erotic
Swells, of
Warm,
Curious
Fascination

And somehow,
I feel
Their energetic
Equivalence.

And somewhere in the rarified
Air, well above our
Paygrade,
Odin, Ra and
Yahweh, are
Dicing in the
Nosebleeds, seated atop
Pillories of
Aeons, which billow their pachuco
Coattails, to within a phantasmagoric
Inch of our temples,
Here,
In the bowels
Of the galleys, at the
Hindmost
Tapers, of their fabulous
Revelry
And the fully unfurled
Scroll of all their
Sanctimonious
Cavalcades is hardly a
Quavering
Heartbeat,
Of the cosmos’
Cryptic
Metabolism.

And between our synchronous
Morning
Alarms,
Perfunctory
Rubber shod
Footfalls and
Diet of
Routines, whose unsung
Labours
Grind our
Days
Into salt,
The bronze face of Agamemnon is
Gazing
Up, through a geological
Fathom
Of elapsed
Hours,

Saying
Nothing.

And before the curtain ropes are
Spooled from
Slack to
Taut, Promethean
Fire is set
Adrift in the air
Above
Our slumbering
Beds,
Hands silently
Withdrawn, before
We wake
And we are so
Benighted,
We do not
Roar,
Of the exquisite
Ecstasy,
Of being
Alive.

Let’s talk about our roots.

Australopithecine’s budding
Encephalization, giving rise to the
Bent crook of the all
Encompassing
Question,
Rises from the
Reticence of its
Vermiculate belly to
Cunning
Rectipetal
Poise, upon the lapping shores
Of the Cambrian ocean, fires
Carried,
Against their bosom, alongside
Their young.

Fire was the sorcerer’s
First
Commandment, and
I am
One
Of these,
He
Who holds
The coal
Chamber
In my sacrum,
Ritual bones
Strewn in my
Ancestral
Wake, like
Teeth, from the
Adriatic, to
The Aegean, forging a
Spine,
From Karnak,
To Coricancha.

And we are each a
Living
Legacy,
Oh my brothers and
Sisters of my
Extended
Family.

And the dead are soon
Lost,
To the ages
That gave them suck,
My friends,
A handful of decades
To spot the skin with
Sun’s kiss and
With a bottle raised
In fair company,
Or in the sacred
Quietude
Of our solitary, raise
Our chin to the lunar
Light
And wonder,
At its softly
Silent
Facade.

And all that
Lies,
As yet,
Beyond,
Our tenacious
Grasp
Is tenuously linking
Molecules of fecund
Fever
Dreaming,
Can you feel it
Welling in your
Heart,
Even now,
In this instant,
All yet
To manifest,
Is raising a swelling
Banner,
On every
Conceivable
Horizon.

And you
And I
Here,
In this living moment,
Sharing
Everything,
With the tigers of the
Tall grass
And lilies
Swaying in a
Tranquil
Consortium,
Separated,
By nothing,
But air
And all we want is to be
Heard
And all we want
Is to be
Loved.

And as we
Climb
We are
Buoyed
Up,
Upon the shoulders
Of Newton
And Shakespeare,
And a star’s radiant
Disposition,
Upon space time.

..


Sollus Salum
Or
All rises from the soil
&
All returns
By
R_Sculptoris

..

“Suffering arises from trying to control what is uncontrollable, or from neglecting what is within our power.” Epictetus