See, it's happening already, as we
suspected it might, unsustainability
of a system of grab, gut punch
at the tender core of earth, where
emotional intelligence is stored in
wax paper bags & empathy is sliced like
bacon. Happy-go-luxury lunch-
time is over & it's back to work
at the bomb factory, children,
anthrax breath & semtex testicles
scattering paper dollars, while wind blown
bankers & shit smeared CEOs catch
butterflies in newspaper nets.
So how do we, what do we,
where do we go from here?
Back to ancient Rome lit crosses app-
earing in the sky, the corporatisation
of something intrinsically beautiful,
the corpulent indulgence of
decadent empire,
the - - -
At what point does desert
become a city, a meditation, a skyscape
of hermit fires?
Breathe the flowering of a movement
out, a disassociation from contagion as
control, inconsequential aristocratic
flatulence - - -
Out, out to the desert, detach-
ment & transfiguration, reactive elevation,
rejection & resistance of a psychotic elite's
desire to devour every morsel, poison every
well, the contemplative surge of love
while empire crests
& crumbles.
Someone flew a jet into a mountain.
Capital floats down the rivers
of the world, pollutes the waterways,
chokes the pleasant streams. Outside
the city, mothers labour for alpine plutocrats,
insurgents live in tents. The planet needs
another sacrament.
***
For a while, they lived in caves, grew
flowers in the psyche, crops in the
heart. The desert became a quilt for
those incapable of sleep, heat levitation of
coptic astro hover, airtight prayer cells,
synchronistic, yet rapturously mis-
aligned.
They birthed an audiovoyant Jesus Prayer,
built castles, ladders of ascent,
fig cradles for luminous infants;
they wove tendrils through unified fields,
sung saplings from hot sand, made the
moment universal, sunk
soul in liquid
time.
Out & into
the essential fluorescence,
the desert a projection of man's eternal light -
PURIFICATION
ILLUMINATION
PERFECTION . . .
With a subtle temporal alignment,
our time tune whistling to shut down,
interactive soul melanoma.
Unless, of course, spirit is not
virtual, but a web, a breath matrix, sub-
sonic circular love cloud, resonant at the
speed of skin.
Imagine! -
Raised from formlessness, being I AM, or just
BEING.
Our brains are already aerated by a process of
long, slow sighing; oneness is the sound of a
gong.
I myself am devotionally drunk and all set to
play.
Broken beds are stacked at back doors for
bugs & hero bin men.
Here comes the weather!
Here comes the obscurity of sunshine!
Here comes the little god in babies, buds &
tiny bottles.
Now is the time for shifts in the desert,
where there were & will be forests.
Now is a time for seas!
Stephen Nelson is a Scottish poet and contemplative whose books include Lunar Poems for New Religions, Flylyght (both Knives, Forks and Spoons Press), YesYesY (Little Red Leaves Textile Series), and the ebook Vital Source. His visual poetry has been exhibited in Manchester, London and Budapest, and is included in The Last Vispo Anthology. He blogs visual poetry and other writing at AfterLights.blogspot.com.
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