Thought Row

I think it was an archaic Portuguese map that led me to to the opening sequences of eternity, that’s what I tell myself anyway. I have the triggering capacity to choose what I need to be closer to. The Swiss people dive into azures and dance around me, the ultramarine finish and I’m finally freed, freer than my corrupt feelings. How the yellow lights glimmer warmly around me and I can catch all the graciousness and slide it into a fresh pocket on my faded velvet vest, I was still preparing for climbing the suicidal pulpit rock to attain a rewarding varnish. I feel colorful amid the rocky parades celebrating all the good people; when I’m hit by heavy hitting happiness, when I’m concentrating on all that is pointing towards a still and unimportant infinity that will never kills noble refrains. Shadows of the swan’s shrines and the meadows of cypress trees, with a cloudy clarity kissing the lips of land as it reacts to my introduction, my manifestation of an alive unreality- life’s afterword. And I had watched from my window the squalling flamingos, the bouquets of hydrangeas and a symbolic pizzazz withstanding albums of the horror of a burnt time past-the truths that bring a humane world so much closer. When I was receding the last land of synthetic fallacies, the stairway and the following tunnel ran until I wanted it to; as I cycled my tandem alone with all my souvenirs and felt the arthritic rhythm of the demonically painted ramparts, on a dark night of ripples and the final calls of religious video games. What I’ve had was enough to suffice the label of a happy mess. I do realize now that I was, in fact, a speck whose only movement arose from the tantrum of a screaming child of an evolved creed, and most other times I stood still and the normalcy and insanity were in my flying head. Wild daylight spent feeding vagabonds in the lake. Prints of celluloid making trances chalking heaven and translating it to a happy-happy afterword. A thousand kilos could always help a little in the heat of a staggering sentence and gesture thanks to the pullers who helped me knock on the tolerating temples of the seventh heaven. È una casa celeste che desideravo e amavo, amore vero e prese magiche che fluiscono dal detto vero amore. But its too late. I’ll be hearing fanfares and violins to greet me at a mansion, the home of the firmaments.

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It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

18 thoughts on “Thought Row”

  1. I read this Watt, in both night and now, in full sunshine. It is very rich indeed.

    However, I would like to pass on to you that my mind – both times – rested at the end of the sentence which begins: I do realize now…..

    Everything after that sentence is in another country and is a separate writing to my mind. While I can go there, I don’t want to because i have lost the coherence which preceded it.

    Saying this respectfully because the mind seems to crave coherence of whatever kind. Or all sense is lost and our lives may well begin, at that point, to blown to nothing, like dust.

    It may well be that my sensitivities are heightened becasue you are, by your own admission, fascinated by those whom the gods took early in their lives. Lke Icarus who flamed out for coming too close to the source of his (our) power.

    It is Icarus to my mind after the sentence I mention above.

    Please take this Watt, as coming from a pilgrim who is not a poet and does not know the writer’s art.

    Best, Sarah

    Liked by 1 person

    1. How much effort do you put in understanding my work? I’m so flattered.
      You are absolutely correct. Thought Row is about ascending upward and forgetting about the times spent descended. Therefore the thoughts are racing through the head.

      And you’re a great poet – Liberated men. The line in which you said “some of these men weren’t only hung, they had also been hanged” felt like a hit.

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Thanks for your generosity!

        Undoubtedly the kind of education I had, but we were led by poets from very young and I, for one, do badly without them. Graphic artists also. But poets first because of the weight accorded words. A weight which has moved now, kind of, to images……..

        Liked by 2 people

  2. Like psychedelic fallacies clawing at the firmament mixing waters above and below only to suppress the flames we use to burn our pasts.

    Liked by 1 person

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