Tuesday, 23 June 2015

Crazy Synaesthesia





Crazy Synaesthesia I

Green field, lone man
Dark path-line, waist high.
Sky spike, blossom tuft
Horizon rail in Bicester.

Cloud-wind, window smear,
Small flower below me.
Age crust, out crop
That same old story emerging.

That ancient ocean teemed with life. You are just a photon caught up in Indra’s net; one speck of muspel-light plankton seen through Nightspore’s window. Sometimes you have to run.

Wall light, hedge flight
Crow, gull, magpie, rook & wren.
Eye-like orbit window pair,
Each set off from the other.

Dead street heat
Warmth & smell removed.
Cars, cars, cars, cars;
Cars, cars, cars & bridges.

Electric blue root singularity; one green leaf upon the tree cannot hold it. It could even pass through the centre of the Earth. It is no longer dark underground.

Ivy on the grave yard wall,
Legs flashing bright.
Washing on the line,
Walking down the road.

Klarwein colours & textures, like a Salvia-dream;
Jamais vu tobacco stain cutting.
Like watching the dance
From a balcony with the Lady Mayoress.

So let us not begin to anticipate & fear the Winter’s coming just because Summer is here. Let us not hide from the sun either.

Let us sing the songs of life in reed beds, upon hillsides, in sea wind,
Through train windows.



Crazy Synaesthesia II



The texture of experience
Rucked up like a blanket spread on
A wooden floor
Nerve woven & shining with
Patterns that cannot quite be grasped
By a consciousness built out of ideas,
Has naturally fallen
Into a shape which reminds us
Of the ocean floor,
Or the surface of the sun.

Pareidolia however, fails
To capture it’s taste, smell
Or proprioceptive crinkling
& a blanket cannot turn itself inside out,
Eat itself
Or give birth
To that glorious hermaphrodite
Who is, at this moment, dancing
In the meadow.



The Secret City

His angle of departure
Cuts the city's gravity well
With arc of intention,
Death posture magus
Has seen the stories
Self-liberate,
The archive burn with words,
The music thrash
Itself with chords,
The beat, beaten.

Walking the borderland,
Against the lines of force,
Across the morphic field,
A contradictory power
Upon a transgressive path
Among dim trees
Along unseen hedge lines
Inward, onward
Into the movement,
Contrarily agnostic,
Counter clockwise.

The crazy synaesthesia
Hits him seductive
Sway of boundary
Fringe petticoat
Looms life low
As seething tiny freedoms
Burst out from
Green veins to
Caress the stem brain in
Clasp spasm seizure;
Tag lined, hazy
Luminous script
Read only by initiates.

The secret city
Is not a city;
The unbounded wall
Self referenced
Reflected illusion light;
The story is not a story, it's
An archaeology,
A geology
Of meaning & pain
Into which we fell,
With which he has fallen
In love for ill good.

Sigh distance haze
Through leaf limb waving,
Tragic romance of
Summer's odour
& streets' lines,
Of tangled scent
Will place a kiss
Upon your brow,
Pave the secret layer
With seal of leaf fossil
Sleep imprint,
Word shouted by an ecstatic
At the corner's end game.





A polite note: I am not neurologically synaesthetic, "Crazy Synaesthesia" is a term I use for a meditative experience in which the senses all contribute to a feeling of an instant, intense, spacious texture.

No comments:

Post a comment