Penitent Pleiadian Entanglement (Hopeful Speculations Of A Hopeless Mattressnaut)

my ceiling sparkles for the sunbeam projector

the dusted galaxy relaxedly revolves in hay-golden turquoise vortices
fixedly i gaze flecked mottled stars afore my mattress a roofless spaceship
a pretending pleiadian i scintillate strangely in my knackered-deco boudoir
phasing in-out resonating though even sans a scrapheap car..

if the pleiadians or arcturians could see me now
would they smile gracefully at yet another stark earthling nutter
or in a previous life perchance was i one of them
but did i prang one of their mountainous motherships
so banished here vanquished to be reformed..

penitent entanglement
is that even a thing
how about penitent pleiadian entanglement
so perhaps this poem might  reel me forgiven back to them
poetic penitent pleiadian entanglement then
subject soon to one of their more softly empathic abductions
no anal probes required blessed entangled intergalactic vicar..

so tonight will i float through this ceiling
to find myself healing on an amethyst crystal bed
as sacred geometric patterns grace my third eye
and fibonacci sequences dance me vibrating fluttering butterflies
or will it be
dude we never ever want to see you back here again..ever..

no..
never shall you elegantly glide away from gravity hills to gravity wells
sup violet wine silvery in the comely vril valleys of aldebaran
you smashed up the craft bad you plejaran scumbag
and it was no superficial paintwork job either
so off back you go to the earthling badlands forever..
and yes by that we mean forever..

so dear dust motes glowing as stars swirling
seems like you are my dearest and only entangled
as cosmogryal gloomy glory whirls fanciful amid saffron shards
motoring this indentured mattressnaut far and far away
to my previous thrilling lightship adventures in the cosmic manta ray..

In This Furnace Of The Lighted Edge, A True Hero For Our Time

 
look
now will you look at that
felled brutally felled old testament
and in his prime
twenty-four
near the forward line
sliced down
cynically scythed by a devious coward
not surprising though
for we should all know by now
this is what they are all like
each and every one of them
but even in such a conflict there are rules..

writhing anguished on the unyielding ground
in this furnace of the lighted edge
his face contorted in the muddied slosh
eyes watering  stinging from flares and smoke bombs
the pain shoots like silver lightening up his spine..

and while prone and with little mobility
clear as a bell like terminal lucidity
when you are in this so-called game you know
you know such a thing might happen
comes with the territory
many have fallen before you without ceremony
you know that..

in sharp waves the pain roils
he twists and open-mouthed silently screams..
there is a melee and curses
a whistle and gruff shouts as the cavalry arrive
they race towards him
then protectively surround..

deftly three or four men examine him
then one stares straight into his eyes
it is bad i cannot lie to you
get ready we are going to lift you
possible evac on standby we have a carrier..

ferried away on the stretcher
he proudly raises an arm to show his men
carry on carry on..
and what sounds like circuiting fried electric rain replies
not only in his mind..

though sweating and losing consciousness
he has shown all that he has the bottle
he has to be the shining example
but his heart sinks when the medic whispers ominous
captain afraid it looks like a suspected torn metatarsal
you could be out for up to six weeks..

 

The Diabolic Empath

 

the diabolic empath
feels your pain
then informs you all this is mere illusion
for life is but a game..

the diabolic empath
informs you the other side is more real than real
and we are only here on earth to play different roles
for this earth is but a stage for this grand illusion
and that is all this is..

the abuser
the murderer
the tyrant
all are mere characters in this playground
in this playground for the little children of creation to learn in
the diabolic empath states again
suffering is based on illusion for nothing is real or permanent..

and you chose this temporary existence before you came here
you could have chosen to be a king a queen a magician
to be safe and carefree
but you  selected certain execrable experiences to help you evolve
you have freewill
it could be your karma also
source loves all equally
all is beautiful actually
the diabolic empath states all this with calm erudite certainty..

the saint
the healer
the true artist
mere flip sides of the same coin
love and hate require one another
the same way a majestic tree needs a saw
the cleared space allows for new shrubs and flowers to grow
and shrubs and tender flowers torn from the ground
may make way for the desert landscape pure and profound
you see how everything has logic and reason..

the diabolic empath
feels your pain
then informs you all this is mere illusion
for life is but a game..

Mild Speculations Of An Exiled Droplet

 

ocean drop ocean
the tree roots sip landed cloud
as glossy dew on glass blade
eye the observer
the intertwining vibration connection
lightly thrum resonating strings
but what ocean drops ripple ocean without..

patterns sub-patterns overarch
nuances colour trajectories
harmonics reverberate totality
quintessence of the highest or not
stages sojourn horizons
then can certain droplets lift entire waves to light or drown to dark..

the recursive kiss and throw
for this dense realm we fling
and wallop into this box of materiality
compressed contained contoured almost contorted
the crash-land return of the tethered origin
immaterial memories only fleetingly grasped..

what recovered treasures can be truly comprehended integrated
amidst all the wrench and trauma
for all the ineffable youness we breathe
and the higher-self connection to wonder..

In Forgetfulness, The Song Remembered

 

like a torn and discarded mattress
another spring has sprung
mildew and mould glimmer
neath the garlic clove-sclera sun..

weeds lean towards the waiting moonrise
a broken fence snaps beneath me like crispbread
but in the sweeping fuzz the traffic blinks firefly..
and..

and so what was it the singer in my dream..
what was it the singer in my dream said..

yes..i recall she whispered
this is not only the dream it is
you must remember what i say
why do you think you are here
here sat with me
and listening so earnestly and intently
and so at home in this place..

so softly her message rang out nightingale
and i felt like the honoured guest
remember this..remember this
and if you can remember this
not the words
only this..