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Ice in the desert

Across the icy tundra, beneath the flow of silk and dust grows an earthly figure.

Sprouting from adversity it stretches it's slender form through the light.

Forever searching upwards for an ever changing goal until it settles in your arms and is forgotten.

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Parallaxical by Richard Lynn Livesay

Avesta illuminates rumblings

as man murders man

extending nature’s existence into nothing

 

Creating thought in freedom’s choice

a bonded humanity breaks open

without purposeful truth

And yet, emotions dry

as we surrender to cerebral philosophies

 

Soon, the psycho-vested collective neurosis

of soul-sufferings spark images,

dreams and symbols of astro-consciousness

then fall into the shadows

of dream-time’s juxtaposition

aspiring to a soothing madness of consciousness

 

seeking atonement for our earthly falls

deluded in nightmares frail dreams 

we drown in memories

into nothingness,

traveling hills, interpreting transitory imaginings

we try enjoying silent nights of spatial brilliance

 

 

abandoning our psyches

to relay angst and frustration

infecting all larva-evolving meta-spell, flying muses

 

surviving insanity, I write,

then dance like a helicopter into Rumi’s moonlite sun

floating through eternity’s magic pond of silken neutrinos

then I rise as Lazaretto

and begin some poetic promises

past epiphanies enshrined evermore on higher links

then 

crawling sideways across the page, hear echoes in my brain

channels open into ancient passages, revealing prophecies

 

then I release my human passion

and light the proper candles for heat

I recline to a Ferlinghetti diatribe,

Ginsberg howel and Eliot lecture.

 

In the kitchen of the last supper, I sip my wine,

I bless my bread pre-phonetically

as Sistine walls fall on the Pieta’

prolapsed with Papal paste and puns

 

secretly, I groom my goats

then remind myself of all the gypsies, artists and poets

leaving notes to me in libraries

engorged with pristine print; 

ovid oracles

vested villanelles

surreal sonnets

giving life its rhythm

but

then splashes of TV news  release rabid underdogs as Alice falls

and bloody black-watered scorpions attack dead babies

wings in the cradle smolder in vain

scratching, I claw dung- crumbs of burnt notes and smoke

from my psyche

 

…dejected and wounded, I remain

 in parallaxical universes and watch butterflies become blind

                                           and white doves become crippled

my latest poem becoming tear stained in sorrow, I light another candle

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Tri Mitagated Solar Flux…by richard lynn livesay

 

On grounds of tri-mitigated instabilities,

breathe out

spreading meta-splinters,

reversing star systems without

throughout  Jupiter’s dark nightgown.

Grabbing Ganymede

 We transcend beyond Earth’s simple dichotomies

to deliver promised philosophies of holy transparencies

 

Deep within,

does not abide in a solid faith of sequences

but as below

we see through a wine glass of dark illusions

to be sure there is a reason to rename our galaxy’s ascension

but will Andromeda dive into the ocean’s gleam

across the serpent’s belly,

leaving nothing  but the same blood turned to crimson wine

 

Crested below,

Neptune’s shadow passes above the shadowed waves

shaping singular quantum quarks,

encasing metaphoric rise,

inverting triangles of shame,

and behind the walls of human delight

are fires of greed and need,

nothing being as it seems,

the guiltless are invisible

But shameless,

dead skinned sapien-scales climb toward the sky, in limbo.

 

In time

the lowly will revolt through their poverty

and claim the throne

soon a shining vortex of radiation

 will beckon from afar,

become our twin star

We welcome the Water Dragon

Bringing eastern changes of fierce justice

sentencing indictments, tracking turmoil with a vengeance

and applying conditional forgiveness

but being slaves of the dead,

we will rise up and claim our inheritance

 

 

golden glimmers of inner beingness,

brightens the glow of ecstasy

focusing on thought,

realizing consciousness without fear

upheaval will be the natural change,

transitioning to a softer dimension

 

unpossessing possessions

of dogmatic and metaphysical entanglements

becoming real,

yet unreal as surreal as sanity in dreams of unreality

Morphing thoughts

On a changing journey

into light, patterned into the future

 

I touch you

and the feeling broadcasts exponentially into time and space

the butterfly in Brazil,

pollinates an orchid which is given to a queen

So fly,

with the butterfly,

expecting change to be divine metamorphosis.

 

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Snippet of Thought

For so long I've felt like my mind was a glass cage with no doors, only windows all around. I could only ever look on the world around me; the glass house was the only safe place, and the air in here was my air, completely separate from the outside air, which could look so poisonous through those windows. With time, the cage became a house, to shelter me from the darker weather of the world, but which I could always leave from time to time, to feel the sun on my skin, and to learn how to survive the world's wildernesses. I am free to leave when I wish, and free to enter, to let the air from inside refresh the air in my home, and to let the words I utter in my solitude float out on a gentle breeze.

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Paragon of the Pen Part 2

I wear a mask of paper, to hide my cuts and scrapes; my bruises, bumps and flaws are all hidden under the perfect. The god I have become through my pen. The honorable soldier I have become through my parchment. But there was no God so perfect as the what I am, no soldier so pure. Even the rebels, the ragamuffins the imperfect characters are perfectly imperfect. Loved whilst hated. Perfect. Me? I am human, nothing, dust and a pen. So far as you know there is nothing under the mask. I am a shell of perfection. My innards are corroding magnificently. There is no longer a set “reality” for one such as I. I have created many realities, scenarios, many friends. The man behind the mask is no longer a person, He or She no longer exists, the identity of this person means nothing. I have become my mask. A living pen.

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Paragon of the Pen

I have no shield only a carapace of words, no shining sword only a dull black pen. Each letter protects me each word builds upon my armor. I am no hero, nor am I a demon. I can not fight nor protect anyone, all I can do is write. Writing word upon word, losing myself in the letters, in veils of false identities written out. I have many faces and all of them are prettier than mine. On paper I can be a hero, on paper I can be a demon, I can even be a god. In reality I am nothing, on paper I am everything. Who would want to talk to the plain teenager when they can talk to the protector of worlds, the destroyer of universes, every whim easily achieved in a single sentence. So you ask who am I? I would disappoint you. You are much better off knowing the genius villain or the brave hero I am on paper. You are much happier talking to the paragon than the average person. So why don’t I stay a work of fantasy so you can stay happy?

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Skins

We leave those around us so why should we be surprised when they leave us too? We shed those around us like a snake, each skin an old friend or associate. We leave them, forsaken, dried up and forgotten midst the dew sodden grass as we progress with our lives not phased except for  a momentary shiver as they leave. Those once a part of us are gone an forgotten. Shed like a worthless skin. Replaced by a new skin that means no more.  

   
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When I Look Into The Mirror

I've thought of myself as everything a person can be and beyond what a person may be. I've thought of myself as a hero, a villain… as an annoyance or a worthless abomination not worthy of existence. I've pictured myself fighting the monster and as the monster itself. I've become these things. I've thought I was clever, I've also thought I was stupid. At times it seems we must remind ourselves of our humanity, of our flaws. I am reminded daily, but I am also reminded of what I can do, what I am good at, perhaps even that I may be loved. When I look into a mirror I see not myself, I see everything. Everything I could be, everything I should be, everything I aught not be and everything I couldn't possibly be. 

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I've Grown Old

I walked through the pastures of my youth today. The bright green grass that once held endless possibility in the eyes of a boy now only shimmers with the pleasantries of a fairly decent landscaping job. The boulders that were once mountains to be surpassed and conquered by my minuscule hands and feet are now simply rocks that can be surmounted in a single step. I step on one and view, what I once thought of as an endless world, a frighteningly small plain of natural growth between a dense aggregate of housing. My sad eyes turn up to the sky and wonder when I will grow so large that it becomes as tiny as what I see before me now. I take a moment to ponder the feeling, questioning whether it is nostalgia or remorse. On my walk home I realize with a shudder… I’ve grown old. My childhood has ended. Whether it ended when a pretty flower became lush vegetation or when the mysteries were explored and conquered I don’t know. Perhaps it was for the best, I shall never know… for a childhood once lost is never recovered.

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Packet loss

Touch my shoulders or stroke my hair — if just to let me know that you are real.

My world has dissolved into an endless stream of data that flickers in and out of existence when the wireless network congests. Everything is binary: every friend, every conversation. Human interaction has been replaced by the assumption that the bits making up my life will not switch off to be another null byte, barely readable in memory. My world disappears when the power goes out, and running barefoot through a thunderstorm loses its value when you have no one to tell.

I have always walked the bleeding edge — the callouses on the soles of my feet dulling all but the deepest cuts — but packet loss is much more disturbing when broken transfers leave behind a life in tatters. Entrenched in ephemeral relationships and tangled in wires that do not exist, I realise that absence from this world would be noted most by those who cannot be sure if I existed at all.

Touch my shoulders or stroke my hair — if just to let me know that you are real. But I do not hold my breath, I would have turned blue long since.