Apocalyptical Presentiments Of What Will Be

A democratic civilization will save itself only if it makes the language of the image into a stimulus for critical reflection – not an invitation for hypnosis.

— Umberto Eco

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drop the shy flicker –

drop!

& lustrous stones

glazed with waste,

hot & depleted –

they tumble on alkaloid currents,

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leaking halogenic moonlight
into a
broken withered plain –

no night for a cold eye
before the hissing surge

washing the stray life down
& into the remote wave

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where the brazen shadow

fell across charred roads

& a foul fate – – –

all mute beneath

the branded flesh

your bones have their haven

where no sky stone fell before

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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On The Hippocampus

Therapy isn’t curing somebody of something; it is a means of helping a person explore himself, his life, his consciousness (…) Every human being must have a point at which he stands against the culture, where he says, “This is me and the world be damned!”.

— Dr Rollo May

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my nightmares burn

with dissolute flame

& the liver golems feed

on hot depleted waste – – –


breathing in

I phase-shift

into the void

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where foul winds carry

airborne germs of fear – – –

 

life’s heedless couplings

& the rain continue,

blindly

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weeding out the fungus

the liver golems shuffle

in couples through the corn – – –

 

space-time

returns to focus:

it is a grave

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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The Echoes Of Your Lies

“You see… innocence is the knowledge that you can do something and experience is the knowledge that you can’t.”

— Len Deighton, Billion Dollar Brain

 

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the echoes

of your lies,

Elaine

still

hurt


 

listen to my gravestone

hatching true time

grain

for grain

 

 

just as our

tainted kisses

contaminate

the night

 

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Peter Bies © 2010

Divine Madness #2

The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad.

— Salvador Dali

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There is no logical impossibility in the hypothesis that the world sprang into being five minutes ago, exactly as it then was, with a population that “remembered” a wholly unreal past. There is no logically necessary connection between events at different times; therefore nothing that is happening now or will happen in the future can disprove the hypothesis that the world began five minutes ago.

— Bertrand Russell, The Analysis of Mind (1921), p. 159 Full text online

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Am I looking for a life

in all the wrong places?

In random poetic noises

subserving my death wish?

In flighty words dissolving

my clotted psychic stasis?

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Is all of my life eventually but

a sullen and traumatic effort

in one-way space-time traffic?

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Am I looking for a life

in all the wrong places?

In mute electric tides

where the dead have their heaven?

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In the deep silent shadow

where I have sung myself to sleep?

Where the heat of my flesh may languidly waste

as soothing nightmares shine their light?

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And the mad poet cried:

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O wayward rays of sunlight among the haloed trees –

I’ll paint my vision across the innocent sky!

O gentle madness!

In your promise are things which torment me –

things which I cannot drop because they are too wry!

Unto Thee I will sing seven songs – and the clouds always come! always come!

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Am I looking for life

in all the wrong places,

among soaring lies?

Squinting their eyes,

the clowns toil and toil,

piping ancient moonlight

across my future gravesite

into the

loyal

soil – – –

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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Divine Madness

I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs, or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.

— Hunter S. Thompson

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madness emerges

from dark and shallow pools

teeming in my moonlit brain

with anaerobic life

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madness submerges

this swaying ship of fools

afloat on frozen silence

my old unruly soul

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on alkaloid currents

my old unruly soul

luminous silent

while

the

snow

fell

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forlornly

adrift like

frivolous flotsam

on a tide of images

made to appear prophetic

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Peter Bies © 2010

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Ghosts of Energy

“We are the ghosts of energy, let the tridents strike unsuspecting flesh!”

— Tristan Tzara, 1919

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O these brittle white squiggles

among flowers of ink

 

floating so languidly

 

on sombre silence!

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O the sparks that I’ve picked

 

on the black autumn nights

 

dusting with fine gold

 

the quivering windshield!

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Ions are dancing

 

in a grazing frontlight –

 

wistful eyes towards where

 

the stars are sleeping!

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And in the sacred neon

 

 

I was floating down the dark withered plain

 

 

among souls too pale-eyed

to know the skies,

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as ghosts of energy

 

with soft little shivers

 

ooze random patterns of radiowaves

 

into the tide

of the night.

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by Peter Bies & Arthur Rimbaud

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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L’Absinthe

(For E.)

“Sex, desire, longing and solitude.”

Allen Ginsberg (on the essentials of poetry)

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I do not mind what it is about you that disaffects
and hurts, there’s only something in my breathing – – –


a smell of glands

and corruption,

wasting my soul

so gently – – –

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And the mad poet cried:

Let rest in your dark almond eyes

the shadows of your wanton rage!

The echoes of those choice torments

kiss me with silence,

absorbing tears and organs

with each hiding – – – !

Heed what I am to whisper

into this auburn night:

the iron of your laughter

is true to more than fire

and rust –

no night has ever heard

such hateful noise – – –

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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