Monthly Archives: March 2013

Art Games: Spirits On Mortals

A glass of milk Français : Un verre de lait

The Imp

The Imp (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The little spirit is in his element tonight
The wine is particularly sharp at night
He is a teetotaller though
His pet-monkey is not
But the spirit loves milk
And the milk is particularly white tonight
The monkey’s eyes now red with wine
The spirit’s teeth now white with milk
And as whenever he’s drunk on milk
Inspiration barges in through his door!

He doesn’t quite write in ink or bytes
He doesn’t write on paper or screen
That’s ordinary level art
He delights in skilfully weaving romantic fantasies
Into the mind of that lonesome teenager
Those are the most gullible sorts
He enjoys craftily presenting visions
Giving the uninitiated ones “spiritual” experiences
Making them believe they just had epiphanies
He fancies softly forming dreams
Which the sleeping man is kept busy with
Yet some live their waking lives under these dreams’ shadows
He favours sparking the writer’s imagination
“Eureka! Genius!!!” The poet screams
“Pawn!” the spirit sneers
He doesn’t mind teasing the artist
Making his head burst with “ideas”
That only render him insomniac without real result

Who shall sue this mischievous being
For Writing Under the Influence (WUI)
And his only defence:
He was performing advanced level art!
In drunkenness he had forgotten
That the Creator-Spirit watched in silence
A Spirit much smarter with a stranger sense of humour
“Artistic ingenuity” the little spirit commends himself
“Predictable imp” smiles the Supreme Spirit

Now how’s that for art!

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Of Mysteries

Bullet the blue sky

amazing grace

Okay, go on now
Amaze me more
Do your worst
You speak as though you were commanding
Well you got my attention now
I am the enchanted writer myself
Yet you speak as if to lead me captive
Chained to the very things you say
So have you met him
You have sat at table with him
You spent last night on his bed
Did you grow up in his vineyard
Listening to him whilst sitting on his thigh
You speak with very plain terms
Yet the things you say are mysteries
You speak impossibly simple things
That could undo the philosopher’s mind
How can you stand there and talk
Like you are no longer a mere human
How can you stand there and talk
Making me feel dumber than a mere human
How can you speak so coolly
Like it’s not a big deal
Well, you got my attention
Don’t lose me now
At least let me understand
This… this thing… thing you are trying to say
You got me destroyed by all these
My brains are out scattered
Into many different parts
Trying to piece together these things
How can you just stand there
Unceremoniously
And speak these things about God

As if it’s not a big deal*#!

The Ghost’s Rants: On Beautiful Dark Things In Men’s Souls

Roll the booze out into the streets
The writer is awake now
And unlike some of his psychedelic colleagues
This one is a complete teetotaller

Darkness creeps in on the globe
And the viperoid children dance out
Spawning “goodness” all over the place
But thanks, I’ll pass
I don’t need your charitable donation
A lovely venomous gift
Perfect poison for the pure soul
Birthing the gentle worm of darkness
The adorable monster that men are addicted to
The silent dark shadow following them
Even in broadest sunlight
Despite their sparkling wears and smiles
The soft white delightsome maggot
Laughing sweetly with them
With sparkling teeth like a saw
Eating away at the soul of the host
Soon that man is seen for the rot that he really is
You wriggle your seductive hips in my face
But I want none of what you are selling
I have lost appetite for that forbidden fruit
Let me write and live and sleep in peace
What more can you want from me
After all, I have made my bedroom
Six feet below the ground level
At perfect unison with earth and bones
Will you rock my knocked out senses
Or can you corrupt a dead man

Heck! I am not praying for the day to dawn
I am not hoping for an escape from the black
My light may not be more than 12volts’ worth
But in the darkest of periods it will shine
Despite the corruptions of souls and institutions
Though the grave burns the ghost still R.I.P.s

Insane Spurts of a Sober Mind: Life’s Seasons

Winter forest

SIGHTS OF THE SEASON  /  Autumn of Our Lives  ...

Let us dance to the spring
It is spewing wine for us this year
But we get so drunk
With the goodness of spring
We forget the harsh winds of reality
Seasons come and go
But I am none the better for it

This winter past
I was found in the jungle
Caught in shivers of emotions
Till I let them all freeze
It was all I could do
As I lay lifeless-frozen
E-motionless

Before then was the autumn
Which appealed to some sobriety and reality
As I saw leaves dead and dropping
Death blowing in the autumn breeze
Please pray for their kind souls departed
Life is a 50 metre dash
Very few of us have lanes long as 80

And there was, and shall be, summer
A fickle mimicry of a hellish existence
Oh please cry for winter again
Let the cold arms comfort you
For if you shivered in the cold
Resonated with spring’s life and slowed with autumn
Then you are not made of a material
Tough enough to stand the heat of summer!

P.S.: lest you see me as cynical,
Cheer up!
Seasons are only for “a short season”
Whilst on earth
The last autumn will come soon
Then you shall rest and be done.
With the seasons ON EARTH!
(I guess I am cynical!!!)

The Scientific Confusion: a tottering thought

The Earth seen from Apollo 17.

The Earth seen from Apollo 17. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

English: Artist's conception of the spiral str...

Let’s throw out the pots into the gutter
Though a little cooking is good for the soul
A little confusion brimming in the primordial soup
Bubbles of ethanol rising from the bottom of the pot
And now all the great sages of the earth are carousing
But eh, who can judge them
When they are stuffed with monkey soup
I hope they managed to eat it standing erect
And within a space of a few million years
Many even forgetting to shave whilst at it
Will they successfully prove evolution
By reverse-evolving
Why the obsession with this cookbook
Will seeing the recipe for the primordial soup
Bring back the flavour to this planet-kitchen
Maybe they are not really looking for answers
To the state of man and the kitchen
They just want them bubbles!
Them blissful bubbles of ethanol
And they’ll feel fulfilled by the rush
Or stagger happily under the weight of titles
Professors and Philosophers of them bubbles.
The kitchen lies in decrepitude meanwhile!