deepundergroundpoetry.com
Fresh Oil
Musing in its general direction through the morning haze,
the jungle mountain begs one’s attention at any hour.
A nearby dog has failed to resume its cyclical rhetoric
when something closes the eyes.
Silence descends like fresh oil.
It drizzles through my rebelliously long hair
and down across my zippered lips.
Behind the closed, another opens to the child’s sight
to hear the jungle’s morning crew
singing to Aioue about today’s purity.
A minimalist’s symphonic work.
In suspended moments, I am the mountain. Pristine.
In the amniotic waters of my personal universe. Crystalline.
I don’t need Jesus, I am Jesus. Unviolated
Neither son nor father, husband or mystic. I am He.
Silence descends indeed like fresh oil. Virgin nectar.
One dangling drop at the end of one’s nose,
mightily pausing the unsilent inevitable.
A ticking clock or a dysfunctional marriage.
Another dog mounts its bully pulpit.
Cigarettes from the the contractors next door
gang rape the virgin jungle jasmine.
Innocence lost or reality found.
Besmirchment or carnal knowledge.
As silence flees, I cannot tell you which half the glass is,
but potent moments of nectar reinvent my beginners mind
when fresh oil comes down from on high.
the jungle mountain begs one’s attention at any hour.
A nearby dog has failed to resume its cyclical rhetoric
when something closes the eyes.
Silence descends like fresh oil.
It drizzles through my rebelliously long hair
and down across my zippered lips.
Behind the closed, another opens to the child’s sight
to hear the jungle’s morning crew
singing to Aioue about today’s purity.
A minimalist’s symphonic work.
In suspended moments, I am the mountain. Pristine.
In the amniotic waters of my personal universe. Crystalline.
I don’t need Jesus, I am Jesus. Unviolated
Neither son nor father, husband or mystic. I am He.
Silence descends indeed like fresh oil. Virgin nectar.
One dangling drop at the end of one’s nose,
mightily pausing the unsilent inevitable.
A ticking clock or a dysfunctional marriage.
Another dog mounts its bully pulpit.
Cigarettes from the the contractors next door
gang rape the virgin jungle jasmine.
Innocence lost or reality found.
Besmirchment or carnal knowledge.
As silence flees, I cannot tell you which half the glass is,
but potent moments of nectar reinvent my beginners mind
when fresh oil comes down from on high.
Published 20th Feb 2025
Author's Note
The impetus came from Psalms 133:2-3. For a year I lived at the end of a residential street in Thailand that came right up to the foot of an imposing mountain. This house had a rooftop deck with no other houses in sight, and yet there were often moments that you could not escape the sound of other clamoring homo sapiens in those houses. Still, I’ve never had such a sacred setting anywhere I’ve lived before or after this. For further understanding of what Aioua is, see my monologue so named, Jan 6, 2025.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 0
reading list entries 0
comments 0
reads 29
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
