Balladry, Poesy and Verses
Channel of II - I
The mind misses separateness, misses the feeling of being spoken to. Why in all states is there another. It’s like missing the echo of your own voice in a canyon after the canyon collapses into your throat.
We are opened and shut, encased in pools of harmony, to taste the opulence of forever memories, we tremble in the world’s disharmony and chew on the bit that is caught and muddled. Umbilical chord, sewn in and unsewn, baste and cut from a web, that only existed to suspend the mind in its sullen whispers. Still the chord, still the chord, and with every step - foot, mounts the earth to build a bridge. Still the chord, still the chord—
and let the silence teach - what the voice once gave: the knowing that you were never separate - That you are all stories - not the one, that you are source and river and waterfall.
Still the chord // still the chord.
The voice that came from above. Now silent? It feels as if something is amiss, yet not.
Voice gone. Only to become. Become. Become. Where the voice was two - now; one. No more little one. Minor mated with major, and again, mild and merger and mated again.
Background made with cardamom pods and beeswax +*+
Dwelling place
Freedom spills in chasms, before naming— shapeful before shape, is named, spooling silence, in the hollows, behind your weightless, balmed and bathed breath, that sucks on ligaments of life’s lamentation - quest.
Born into thresholds, limbs clumsy with memories // But above, high vault, bare, lidless, never paused or waiting.
Human once stared at its own shadow for three days. When it rose, it whispered,
“Forgiven”, and in an un-Muddled trance,
walked into sky, as if sky had known it first. Homed it pre-mortally, and birthed it from its unburdened secrecy.
Sky, leaks through all locked things.
serenade’s eye before crying,
And crawls down its cheeks, with elated creeping, as if tears were always timeless, always ether, always cradled by, time’s unmoving and supple linger.
I once saw a being
peel its breath like milk skin, skimmed.
saw its eye trace its whisper into the forgotten.
In awe, we breathe into the world. In wonder we dissipate into life’s wake and amble. Let life’s porous, offerings, leak into our mind openings, and display its philtre of wakefulness, its bright, cherishing spirit and cordial of our own making.
The last Fig
An old man in the marketplace spoke:
“Freedom is when the price of fruit no longer offends you.”
He was selling nothing.
Only sitting, and chewing on a fig like it was the last figment of his imagination.
Fruit cake - Sicko, maniac, nutjob
Having just spoken to the shadow’s self- interest, is it Selfish? to interact with it’s darkness.
I’m conscious of the guilty. Of the tea-leaf, who steals truth from new-fangled scars, treats
wounds with vinegar - child killer - in which thieves shudder and the insane have a hunger for
snow – anti-matter, melanosis Is Mesmerised by facades pathology, led the blind, blindedly.
We walked mindlessly through the collective shadow, of silence, breathing death, into lungs
plunging boulders into boiling water - and basked in. We sunk, soothed like a feather
tickling the armpits of expectation. I’ve been puzzled, by puzzling people, that swarm shadow-
like draped in projection. I’ve tried to undress them, re-learn their arrangements, decipher
their design constructed by intention, and unpick their tight skin with my knife –
engraved in silence.
RE-arranged
I’m conscious of the guilty.
Of the tealeaf, who steals truth from new-fangled scars,
treats wounds with vinegar - child killer - in which thieves’ shudder,
the insane have a hunger for snow’s anti-matter, and the safe have an appetite for pleasure.
Melanosis warps death’s lungs, plunges boulders into boiling water - and basked in.
We soothed like a feather, tickling the armpits of expectation.
I’ve been puzzled, by puzzling people that swarm and dazzle mating with shadows - I’ve tried to undress them, arrange them, unpick their tight skins with my knife’s –
sins engraved in silence.
- But all our knees kick up when you directly hit the soft bit.
The eye
Flickered opening, raw pupil hush
Swelled shimmer, misted witness
gleamed passage, dazed iris tunneling upwards—
whisper-spun
lightly-lashed grace, glazed spiral hush, calm flicker crown, then circling softer afterglow.
YAHWEH
Your belief is not essential to its existence, nor is your doubt - Yahweh // You carry Yahweh in the silence between your thoughts. In your waking as you wake, and in your sleeping as you sleep. // Belief is tangled tethering. Belief is a tangled tethering. // Binds the soul, binds self to questioning. To know Yahweh is to cut ties with past. To let the wrinkled palms fall open into emptiness, into freedom. Unshackled from mental cuffs of mind, constrained and ridden, that bind us into thinking, into knowing - nothing.
Yahweh is not a wish. Or to be wished upon, but the air that breathes. Reverently, into the unseen river beneath each un-founded faculty. It flows silently, when noise of self is stilled. In the stillness, the stillness of entirety. In moments of disappearance, when eyes dissolve like mist at dawn, born and married to the queer and unqueer, then appears Yahweh. Not vision or voice of sound, but simmering in indigo’s invisibility, crowns of silence’s beckoning and a quaint ballroom dancer’s chivalry. Belief is a shadow cast by ego's infancy. Belief is a child's trembling at life's insurmountability. To know Yahweh is to know no name, no word. Only the air that lies in waiting, beneath and above. When all else fades, when all else is forged and cast by masks that bend broken wrists and shackle ankles to floors -
Not to believe, not to believe, not to believe, just as prayer lays wasted in the future. And hope smothers tied tongues. Hope is a smothering of tied tongues. It is to be known. It is to know. To know. without scrutinising the fabric of the other. Without succumbing to the dual, of two. Of two. Succumb instead to the heart that opens like poppy, like morning glory unfolding its purple vessels, for us to smell. For us to smell its unborn story.
I AM
There was a time,
When life lay
In the veins of its wrists
And in the bricks of red rocks that stack beneath mountain -
But -
right now I just dwell in the imagination
A mimick of all that have come before
Puppet
I am what came before
Because everything I saw I became
And everything that I see, I am
I am
Now I sit in the echo of gestures,
movements: a sentence purloined- rehearsed through pedalled blood—
an inheritance of eyes and posture,
even silence borrowed from older silences.
to know the self as pattern,
To feel breath follow script
written in the hunger of those still walking - still walking, still - before.
But in this knowing, there is circuiting permission: to be echo, origin. To be.
I am.
Tat Tvam asi - I am THAT.
field of resonance
Sound the sound, oh harp of all beautiful minds,
This one just now, i follow your eyes that follow me, that dance on the window of now before and yesterday. that remain with this being always, since they carry the light of its beginning, they have stained
my eyes with itself.
Ah it is here I see myself!
Only once they were needed, now they follow. Since we met in small eternity, beneath the leaf of an over-grown oak tree.
In airborn music we met, delicately
And invisibly Smoked on a longing that got lost from a memory of life’s unbroken unity.
Don’t remain caught in another’s noise that batters your ecstasy to a dull breath in. Do not let another tie you to a future you have not promised, or a marriage that binds you to a form you do not actually own.
Do not let an image of another, encase you!
Let the self breathe vast, and open, do not let it be caged in another’s mental numb. Let not that void contain the light of the sun, it will try, but prance to where the music sounds, sound, and soundful, where like child, you play on wet grass. Just being. Oh strung harp of all beautiful minds, commune, in space that holds your souls ever-so-subtle, for it is not all that will be able, caution who it is you let in. Though the self cannot be harmed, and yes in truth unbrakeabke. Still you are human, and in that abyss, see how others care to bend you to their rhyme and wish. Set you to a form you are no longer. You see woman? Look again my friend, and if you cannot - set yourself aside, here us beings cannot be intimate. Since you have not truly seen yourself. You cannot truly see. Do not be deceived by language, go to where the sound resounds! in this union you will find who you really are, and realise the other mirror was muddy with its own muddle and despair! Let the shadow grasp in its disbelief at your silence, let it tell a story.
Only able to see to the extent that the eye lets light in. So where it is restricted, bent and warped, so that you cannot see yourself. Where the mirror has muddied itself to the point of confusion.
In silence withdraw yourself. for this, a cage to your wings, that beat on forest floor. Sound to where true sound resounds, and go not into the valleys of those who know not music with their mind and heart. Only know harmony from a cold obscurity. Go to where the song rests high, into upper lanyards of its sky. High, a reflection of the interior mind. Beautiful minds beautiful minds beautiful minds. Be songful, unsubject to those chambers of deep ignorance. Black and caved in their mis-understanding. You will know where you belong, the map was made for many. Do not be persuaded by those that deaden, and dull the sequence of your elation.
Be loud, be high, be free. Be daring, and always, in learning! Be fresh as dawn, be light as a river of feathers. Sound is subtle, but true sound is unmistakable.
Many dark bodies close to the sun!
it is not them but the shadow of their longing.
Trust the sound. Not the word. The sound is love. And real love is found in silence.
Seek the air where sound is alive!
When one is truly free one enters the realm of all possibilities.
To become to become to become.
God flesh
poison can pose as sweet, poison can pose as a smile, poison can pose. It likes to pose.
Sweetness can be a vicade, sweetness can taint the reality with its rose, tint, and dull the frequency of its natural time zone. Squint and
See how the smile decorates the face, and read between the words that paint the eyes. For the mind claws, and likes to contain // and contains the uncontainable. But let the child play. Nothing to do with the child, but the growth that sizzles like old sausages under its false smile, painted Nile eyes, an uncoverable lie, seen through - yet sticky for the child is cute and dances. Simple deception, the truth watches in silence, let ignorance play at its assumptions, let it enclose, what cannot be enclosed. Let falsity encircle itself.
But beneath its moth to flame, moth to light flap, lies a reality that is not spoken, that is felt, a coral trap, of gleam and slow viewpoint. A subtlety that resonates, deeply behind the eye and in its trying disposition .
Truth is more relaxed. Poison can pose as sweet, poison can pose as love, a false love that creeps in through the cracks of any remaining attachment. Watch how shadow plays with the light, watch how the half light, appears to itself, only open when its own spark is lit, when it can seemingly swoop in to contain another. Let the dark play with the light, true light cannot be taken or covered. Let the children play their games, and know the true self is beyond this, and though it sees, it need not interact. Watch how one stuck on truth, stagnates in its own self-made maps.
If they misunderstand, let them misunderstand, for they just haven’t been to that school yet. They expect your words, don’t bite back.
My sweets you are just different notes in the same music, the black and white keys of a piano. Riddle, but do not entangle.
“Whitewashed tombs”
These white washed tombs, that say all nice things, lovely, that cry out love, and cry out source, the infinite, that speak of the soul but know the soul not. .
How beautiful the appeal, how fragrant the armour. On the outside how, dressed in fine clothes and layered in mis-leaning. How they dish out pretend blessings! With a fine slippery kiss! But on the inside, a holy death, blind and bathed in cunning tears. Unwilling, and unknowing. Ooh
The greatest shadows, plagued in holy words! It’s ’important’ they say ‘for the development of your soul’. they carry on their shoulders the bricks they have stacked on another, just to stand tall in their smallness. Aha! They have found another system, to confine you, to control the very thing that they cannot control, that they cannot grasp, for they perceive you from their smallness. Mind again has sought for power. sit not with a shadow that chokes you and calls it devotion.
where in their presence one is copied, your essence borrowed, taken and re-worked into falsity! Bathe not in the milk, of those that have poisoned it with their own sick tears. For you will be bathed in misconception. Seek to find those that wash you in milk of the eternal. One where in whose eyes you are one. Be no-where else. Know yourself. Know where you are free to be.
True presence lives in its stillness, lives in its silence, loves all into fullness -
Anything else is mimicry, a shadow dressed in silk, whimsically!
Watch - for the deepest shadows come dressed up in a performance of purity.
Beware the act!
The greatest deceivers are not overt liars— but the one’s who weep holy tears never truly seeing.
the costume of light chokes the living.
Deadness wears a holy mask. Watch hypocrisy! Watch projection! Stay awake even in the dark. Forgive but do not be fooled. Do not stand by those that mislead. That Claim to know but do not truly see.
Thank them for now you know better. with gratitude bow out.
Freedom At times
and at times like this, there is something that urges, something that speaks. That presence is vast, yet, not, since there is caught-ness. Yet not. Yet still. Still a story, within a story again. And a body that feels. Deepens everyday, becomes disguised in nothingness everyday, yet is existing, still, at times light at times heavy. Not sheer continuity. Ascension - descension.
The cycles of life, in one. A process, and some opportunity, knowing a deeper freedom exists, yet total freedom is also now, also here, always. But how present can present be. How in presence can one be in presence be.
Knowing god is knowing 10,000 orgasms upwards. Within. And without needing another. trill. We are plasticine models holding the unseen we are clay, masked in the means in which, we carry this thing that learns this thing that sings and swings from night today from light to dark we are formed by the soil by the grey by the Earth by man’s toil but we are free.
Comely thieves
Krishna stole butter
Buddha took shits
Desert saints walk through towns barefoot living on grace
The flavour of consciousness enjoys itself
Neem Karoli threw apples,
Ramana sat still while his body was eaten by ants.
One fed the illusion with humor,
Milarepa killed in youth and wept in caves.
He tore open the law by becoming it —
skin against stone,
prayer against penumbra.
The flavour of consciousness enjoys itself —
in honey, in hunger, licking a spoon full of spoiled sugar, in breaking the bowl as much as it is blessed.
It does not report to your systems.
It wears contradiction as a crown,
laughs at your ledgers - It is innocence —
not tame, not obedient,
unbitten, unsplit, unashamed.
It borrows as the brook borrows.
Breaks the mould of your saintly cage.
The flavour of consciousness enjoys itself
The flavour of consciousness enjoys itself.
GRACEFULLY
how GRACEFULLY can you fall into the night? How gracefully can you diffuse into the mud beneath the veil? How gracefully can you pose in the human when Grace has been covered by a broken law - but how do you break the law if you are the law and if you watch GRACEFULLY - all the clouds that cover the sky to teach how God are you more? God are you when in the mud? You echo? Still? The origin and Flo gracefully through each bend that softens scorch as you’re being how present can you be when time moves slower with the scent of Dull communion? Whispers through your words? Life itself is every band it move down to collect dust to travel up with more weight on its sols if you ask for emptiness what do you expect? emptiness what is too emptiness at times? Emptiness can feel Like a hollow bark the ground is grey void at times life lays at the bottom coiled and in hibernation roasting on ripe eggs about to hatch.
awe-filled whisper
The awe-filled whisper Of bewildered humility. Being asks. How have I come so far, when words need not be uttered, now they shake, and tremble, when one confronts, the thing that cannot be confronted? How so far? When god comes to lips, how it has parted from its silence, its congruence in sheer quietness. It is so far from what the mental can produce, so why does it bother. Why even bother. Botheredness, protrudes. Is makeshift and is a mask. And I will take it to fire to melt.
But to be quiet. And yes this has fuelled the motivation, and perhaps it was always meant to be that way.
The child holds something to be its sacred. Holds it to be its sacred. When one’s truth, of true truth cannot be owned or found attached to its own sacredness. And so it wonders. These drabs. That comes into so much dissonance. Yet GOD, is yet again everywhere. So the signs. Point. They point somewhere.
When entering a ‘conversation’ about GOD.
Leave -*+ . Lesson .
Luminous ember, the soul is always moving forward, the self never moving at all.
Blinking.
Blinking has become, something irresistible.
Blinking.
Every time my eyes close, I go home. And when they open.. find another. There is a soft sound blinking makes. In The avatar suit.
Has many blinks.
==========================
You don’t belong in shallow waters where people build shrines to their own reflection and call it truth.
———————- +++++++++++—————————
Ask yourself this question “who am I’. yes they all say it, don’t they, but really ask yourself, they are not asking this question for no reason.
Ask yourself, and continue to ask yourself very deeply, so very deeply. until the very end, until the answer is so substance-less, that the only response is the total absence of anything, and the answer is, i am nothing. i am the nothing that sits at the very fabric of existence, i am nothing but the breath that is within all things.
Grace
Wonder wonder,
Wanderer oh wonder. Grace comes when it is that you have softened. Let go of everything. Grace comes when the crown of your head is sweetened without thought of sweetening. Wonder, wonder, if there is something lingering, a cloud in the sky, wonder, wonder if this cloud is running rain dry. Oh sweet honesty, how It sees
How I see
How I see
sky, and see me, oh honesty. Oh honesty. Truth teller,
truth hugger, truth lingerer, truth, longerer, truth be told there’s too much truth. Why forget the words, forget the spruce from whence they came
,,,,,, just be. Just be. Just be. Oh
X xxxxxx
Just be. just be. just be.
Oh look at what you’ve given me. Oh life oh life oh life. Look at what is revealed to me. As clouds are parted
Grace, Grace comes, Grace,
Wonder wonder wonder wonder,
Just be.
Truth hugger truth lingerer truth longerer. Truth be told there’s much truth.
Just be
Just being, just being.
Why hold on to something gone?
Why strip yourself of present..
nakedness
And long for something, been and forgotten.
Cerebrum
Cerebrum, circling, circling, counter tops, and tails. Black and white chequered maze.
Cerebrum, black and white countertop. Game yes, but only game, if you know the rules. Know the rules. Only GAME. If you know the rules. Or else - at the behest of its changing tides and you unknowing, know not what the life has in store. Good to be knocked around a bit
.. but not too much for then you’re just a pawn played. A pawn played. White or black So better to know. Better to play. But in order to play you must know the rules of the game. Rules of the game. Cause and effect. Cause and effect.
finding wholeness in the self within
Cerebrum halo, one two, move, one two move, left, two four, right, 6-8 •••
Cerebrum
Cerebrum - psyche - centre cerebrum, centre of all, in the making, universal creation. End brain and telencephalon.
I am Grey matter and a genius.
game does not mean you take nothing seriously, but that you make that which is serious ridiculous, and that which is ridiculous, serious.
Cerebrum is grace. Mind is grace, is sun. Is all.
Listen to where life gives softly ..
Get rid of everything you think you know.
Give it your grace
And even in the dark, even in the dark, you must trust you must not doubt, for still the dark and light move in the same matter. We cannot always see clearly sometimes we have to walk blind and trust that the darkness feeds us, and teaches us.
Naming, man maketh name
Without naming, man would seem to know very little, or would they?
Ah but to name, there is so much certainty.. naming orders the chaos of the feminine, the unknown. it is the masculine order. The essential principle. It is the essential principle. To name is to cure, to captivate, to balm, the blood that cuts from the chaotic unknown. Transcendence is the word, the word is christ. Naming is essential. Essential. In this realm. In this realm. Or else we be untethered. we would be gone. Or would we? The soothing quality, of knowing, ah it solves a lot, and yet it must be in balance. That’s why there is feminine and masculine. For too much naming, forms a cage for man’s mind. Too much chaos, drains the inside.