Darkness and schmonsequences

What is that Titanic spark yonder?
Is it Athena rising of Metis? What lily?
What Narcissus? What Echo is there?

There, thieving love may be stolen; if
Stoned to death, we are burgled and
Then rendered in three dimensions.

Wet grass under the bridge. What remains?
Fear of the other, presumed loss, false
Idols. The wisdom of commerce. Biscuits.

Crying out from tear-gases, the memory
Of you, not-you, definitely Somme at else.
I did love once, and lost all marbles. Wait.

A quantum of transcendence

If Socrates is right, and the soul is immortal
And intrinsically good, then a minimum of it
Is carried by the body at all times, no matter
The circumstance. The black body radiation

Of πνεῦμα can only change its energy
In a minimal increment proportional to
The frequency of its transcendental wave;
I oscillate between freedom and chain.

If Emily Brontë is right, and there is such a thing
As the dawn of the Invisible, the Unseen Truth,
Only when the outward senses in electron-like
Spin perfectly align in angular momentum,
Only then my inward essence will feel.

Almost free, I wait for that constant Dream.

dream interpreter – Part 2 : 29-36


Rebirth once was Pythagorean. That history,
we have remembered. Stretching, we touch
the daughter of Leto. That silvery light
longbow will soon change us and chase us down.

All the ghosts of the labyrinth are roaming.
In times to come they all shall seem to die.
But in dismantled memories, the gods set
yelping hounds upon them, their bodies torn.


Reader! If you return to Knossos, you might
dance the Antic Hay. Perchance you’d meet
Ariadni, as the pilgrim sought the bull-tail.
You might talk to her. And if the sorceress

crawled out of a chest in bitter resentment,
you might still sit in meditation. The ruler
would look at you vanishing into dark thoughts.
You might chase dreams, much like the merchant.


Ariadni might tell you how she forgot who she
was. She once had a false love, before meeting
a raving lunatic who had been adrift in Gangas.
He stole her hair, and promised her the stars.

She might tell you of his drunkenness, and his
joy. She might leave you mid-sentence, as
a ghost would – coming upon you at night with a
grimace, or a platitude cast to dispel the quiet.


Ariadni might tell you of the TigerTiger roaring
to her horror, a lifetime of servitude. Ghosts
roaming the empty palace, would come hither, you’d
find yourself talking to the dusty halls, a shell

of a person. Ariadni might show you an Orphic
tablet, much like she showed to Desert Storm,
beg pardon, Dream eater before she turned into
a banshee. “Look here, instructions for the next


Life”, quotes the tablet. Bee-stinger evaporated
into an all-knowing cloud having followed the
rules of the game. And what are those, you might
ask? Key-holder wondered about that, before jumping

in. “The water is just fine.” Instructions for the
soul who wishes to re-incarnate: you may wish to
learn your grammar and your trigonometry first, if
you please. Then as you walk in, ignore the well-spring


On the left, that’s Lethe. You may wish to walk on
and reach Mnemosyne. Refresh yourself in that pool.
By all means, have a bubble bath. To be clear.
Drink not from forgetfulness (!) but from memory (!)

Dionysus was thrice torn apart, and returned each time.
He came and went to Jai Hind (forgive them, Mahatma).
He returned home in full Buddha-hood while segment one
of the Veil nebula echoed with Zauberflöte being sung.


Then in a haze, rainbow-hued gas densities
shift-haunted her heart, but Ariadni laughed:
the sick thoughts of planets are finally here.
They are to be discussed by the Athenian School.

In the labyrinth, all ghosts will fail, By Gravity.
By Exocytosis. Here we be like the flow of water.
We built a vessel to push across the gate of
history, crossing the boundaries of Kronos.


For that, we bought a ticket to the museyroom.
I wish we had minded our steps. We stumbled on
a big koan going in. There, three Muses met us.
At Knossos, the ghosts in chains, tethered with

the Griffin to the column in the great Eastern
Hall. The bull escaped us, like it escaped Marco.
The Venetian merchant had not come to terms with
his egotistical choices, and they pulled him down.