into the shadows) the wings of logic (soundless Icarus denied / to fly in the absence of
forms / a moment of retreat the only ecstatic possible / a trick of dispersement / or the
seeing between every thing / on the street bright as day / the pure appearance of light
is no covering / rather the illumination of its darkness / Molly the bar maid in skirt and
leggings comes to be (around the corner) her face // all the stones and sky (even traces
of the spirits / come and gone) aspire to be / her lovely legs the beginning of the world
(as we know it) every thought and touch from and to / the magic of the ordinary / is
impossible to grasp with eyes or numbers we dissipate in pursuit of completeness /
Pythagoras drowning /
silver screaming through the light the blue sky still // the continuous relentless tragedy
renews / so I like to read books or poems that barely make sense / like hanging from a
balcony by-your-finger-tips / the shut down begins day one / ask any rag trader / it's
either /or - a cruel sanity the sinking to the knees /(or) / the release / the rush of
madness - something beyond mind - perhaps just star dust from your skin / yes I
remember the disconnect was complete the river was inside / a ride into bright
darkness (I lived in two hotels and was looking for a third?) the thing is you are better
to look out / there is nothing beneath - to see to grab to listen to / (the illusion is you)
I hate to be the one - but there I've done it / you can wander off now (the outside is
where the dreaming goes on)
Spinoza returned / as an itinerant preacher / (Panama hat / baggy pants) how to
recover from the ravages of spirit / in prison the inmates tell him / from the point of
view of eternity (means) who gives a fuck? / there are tribes that wander the alleys and
meet on the steps / rituals of cleansing and abstinence / directions are never true / the
light deceives / (you have no hope) only the illusion of front / like the actor and the
eternal question / a good script? / or Beckett (the idea of what is between the words)
that is the place (you never get out of) therefore the escape of language is sinful / God
does not express / I would like to believe / the only truth is wood / I have seen it
everywhere / and I was never looking / so / behind every act of design was the absence
of form / nothing is the real deal / and this but a throw away (you think everyone
knows at some level the voices stop saying / and what is left is all we have / ask the
ex-weather girl at the esplanade market / it's tense / and Jesus the bar has disappeared
as if the world started again (from scratch) / should anyone have to stand in the wind
in a dead man's suit / juggling dreams / for all the world to see?
the tragedies go to bone / mind is a bird of flight / the days an eternal reflection
repeating (the absence of substance the passage of light) and time a picture of space /
the irresolvable connection is just ways of speaking (the idea of tense and position)
necessary for locomotion (from a point of view of consciousness) it happens anyway
and so the great superfluousness / nevertheless the source of every emotion (the
climate reflected in your heart) / an exquisite / the essence everywhere and way
displayed in your eyes // it just goes / it just goes / on down Fitzroy St. right into the
mouth of the sea / we have no status in the cosmos - there is no differentiation /
vitality a perception / perception - the lake reflecting in the sky / the sky back to the
lake / it goes on / it goes on / creatures have self asserting biology / just a question of
wiring / and God is the shadow / in the darkness / dancing / we can't help ourselves /
there is just no end to the embrace / the trick is to forget / the problem of reason / wrap
yourself in colourful / apparel and focus on your hands / the journey is just a
distraction / (at best all the attributes of a feast) / nothing is left once you go / memory
is the trick / we are the makers of assertion and denial / machines with hearts /
010101 /etc. / etc.. ....... (but oh the beauty of eyes)
down at the pier there are two old men who fish in a spirit sea they speak the ancient
dialect of recollection and are mad with joy / only the wind can see them / they have /
clouds for eyes / they leave stories on old newspapers / and people ponder the signs
left / the question of meaning / you can hear them dreaming at the break of dawn /
it is the sound of light / whether they come from time or not is impossible to say we
must have an open mind on creation / the essence of form is anarchy / only time puts
in the fix / and we all know how that goes / so perhaps the best picture is the horizon
(at least infinity is self-consistent) so relief there - and the hills provide a buffer - a
point of view / time for the sandwich by the side of the road / and then the walking on
/ the dust / defies design / we walk in absence / beyond the trees there are mind places
/ with ancient bearings / and young people reinterpret
I became a direction for accident / fixed from an arbitrary point / (as if there is an
opposite - this is where the madness begins) and so the artwork is displayed (from no
hand) in every act and thought / it comes to nothing (it never leaves the blackness)
despite the illusion of Sun (at best out of this poverty a stream of figures / signs
posited as meaning / the world is just a making of itself (ex nihilo) - and for all intents
and purposes everything just is what you believe / and what you look at / is what is
there / here is the miracle / the true beauty of nothing behind / the great storm of the
heart / (is the only presence) a silence of force and fury / (we are all mute) and every
color through your eyes / of course you must pray in the cold house of marble and
wood where God fearing men come and go / and the great fraud of St. Augustine was
just this / (the decision to bow) / the garden scene made for television / we are all
dressed in pictures of the mind / and so to the true state of affairs / chanting and
incense / and the deep symphony of shadows / and you will leave / never to find / (it is
just the argument for stillness) that is impossible to recover / and this from before / the
beginning of things / a thought that has no grounding / of course the flight is light
itself (and substance but the illusion of self)
my heart / is a myth of history lost to breath // there is no sound / only the space of
possibility / poets imagine a place of joy or pain - I know the fields of everlasting / the
moment of birth / is not where anything begins / it is the playing out of the great
argument / here is a way to see / that will set you free
down every road on every path / delight
(c) greg. t. charlton. 2007.
All rights reserved.
Road Songs 3. Killer Press.
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