POETRY IN STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS - PT 1

By Darcy Prince (knowledge variable)

Tossed into consciousness, became irritable living in

reality, it was intense. Struggling flare. Veiled to the

outside as madness. Wide-eyed and gentle soul.

In art, my own only dream is to avoid the cemetery.

I just wanted to be dwelling in immense wisdom,

I wanted to break away from what I fell into. Almost

mundane, like everybody else. To which, I almost

ended up like being like everybody else. Dull and

local. An overbearing insult to my own yearning

fate. Vivid and unforgettable. Mysticism quivered into

my life. Fascination with the occult. A delight in the

exploration. Her death, stills lingers around in me,

as much as the air does and as close to me, as my

private thoughts, that consumed in her. Building a

life within me, something stronger than the Romans

Empire. Bathed in glory. Soul's decor. Intimate, like

the virgins losing themselves in both lust and love.

Abstraction. My actions to build up and to make something

of myself, coming into conflict to the exterior world.

Breathing flower, providing perfume for the world,

resulting in social wars. Wild and restless, contriving

into mediation. I’m a deliberate gaze. Risky in poetry.

Flamboyant artist. Longing in actual love. Where I

had once truly loved, days and nights are gone.

Absorbing myself. Threatening systems. Battling and

brooding. Punching the pendulum. Passion and

tender, poetic, the skies darken and the land filled

itself, with burning bodies, dead, not the sight,

the scent. Their souls go to Heaven or Hell. war.

Minds mastered, lead, foot soldiers who enslaved

to own illusions, ignorance produced and raged

war for them. Over surge in emotions. Global war.

Glamour in fan-fascination to fame, creating or

attempts to do so. Not coming to grips to ordinary

constellations or to acknowledge most are single stars,

that just personally shine. Highly cultured, compositions

like being borned from the Balzac period. Blue scars,

owls and moths. Crips of heavy mind, standing on Earth.

Punch Ken Burns. Morph from mere mortal, to immortal.

The kingdom comes, in global sweeps, some weep in

private whimpers. Empire. Republic. Neo-World

Kissing damaged flowers, scent still there. Human

identity, not what happens to us, what we have, it’s

what we do. No hi[[ie poetry. Just philosophy

Between the thought and the fruit of it

I wrote the poem for the void between

Why?

Because I am going to end up dying

I wrote it for her

I loved her since I first laid eyes on her.

Why? Well, why love anything?

I love her because I she’s perfect and touching immortality

And meaning to life, is based on her

Do I dare go into her own kingdom, at last

I whisper poetry, quiet to her, under the dry sun

Uninvited colors, gestures of love maybe,

Will she meet me in the same romantic soul

Lost, hollow and waiting for meaning,

I’ve meet her in my dreams

And in her kingdom is where she is

Distant and potent, let me go nearer.

Like in paint, would rather go with no masks.

I know how the world end

Not in fantasy or a yearning.

It’s in her revolutions, where what we know now,

Will belong in the past.

As she creates new dogma

I’ll leave homage at her kingdom,

I’ll leave her kingdom, in a man’s private whimper

The only person I seek to be accepted by,

is thy lover. Until then, I’ll do my best, to

accept myself. Conscious and waking in this

reality, we all contribute to, unconscious of

it or not. The poppy’s break from sealed

cases. Muse, what period of mankind

is this? It feels like almost a crime, to talk

about true love, where everything seems

to be based at aesthetic judgment, in

layman's terms, ‘face-value’. Will I quit?

They’re labelled me a major threat. Can

remind people what society has made

them forget.

Glimpsed around, i notice a red glow, like

cities lights in the distance but around a

different area. Stirring thoughts to what can

create such a glow, that kills all the stars

lights or at best, damper their light. Archers

I assume, stand at the base. Poetic perhaps,

or something more secretive in plain sight.

Narrow does not waste itself. The top

Conspiracies are the ones that cannot

be proven and very transparent. Rough

and ready, in the mattress to where

some of us sleep on, with old tobacco

smell in the bedroom, with access to

endless amounts of coffee, wide eyed

and ready to kill. Dream nets, dropped

over society. Bankers and merchants. Streams

of blood, flow from head to toe, I go sleep

reading william blake. Maybe the piece

‘Howl’ if I’m lucky enough.

Malachi, the sound is strong, hold

my hand. The silence is deafening.

Poetry, I have a life to live. Let me not

be swallowed in by you poetry, let not

my either, labyrinth, my mystique, or

my veil or parts of my character go in

to your fog poetry. There is more to life

than to lay down and read you poetry.

Regardless how raw or immense, or

how much I could benefit from. I have

a life to live. I just want to live. At

least as I live in solitude, you poetry

eases the pain I feel. I’ll give you that.

I’ll give you that poetry. Clean clothes

only to cover the corpse, please. No

pictures, because of regardless who

died, life always goes only. Pictures of

me in my last physical stage, fiction.

You can glance, you cannot believe.

Frogs and crickets will only feel for

you. But do not render to poetry for

thrusting comfort. My body only represents

a ruin of memories that will never

come back to life. Perhaps it will, in

exile only. Perhaps death is the freedom

fighter and not poetry itself. Perhaps. Let the painters keep all the colours to this

world. I’ll keep all the words stored away

in collections of poetry. Sell these words to

Novelists and playwrights. If the painters sell

me canvases of paintings. I’m loving Vincent.

Poetics can claim innocence

as vixens claim sins

spreading over the innermost sensation

pagan's walk amongst us

instead of looking for love

we all look at lust

either alone or together - public or private

Thinking thoughts, thinking poetry, i want

fulfillment not the kind from apples. Not

forgetting that history is not a novel. It

grows from somewhere. Holler at me,

I don’t want to be trapped, neither in the

mundane or in the alluring sinful world.

It’s appealing and so easy. A gun in one

hand and a blunt in the other, how long

can I last on the wrong path? How long

can a good thing last? Even though I

listened to the sermon by the Antichrist

and learnt true names and meanings, from

people had kept from me. So I hope I can

fly high and retire from the life that never

gave me my proper payments from my

labor toiled. Terrestrial death. Earthly days

filled with the cradle to the grave. There’s

a certain burden to be a mystery, enigmatic

on purpose. Trying to stack a mystic. Solemn,

without a sound, I slide down, assembly

of emotions in forming poetry. After my

human death, I’m worldwide. Feel me dreaming,

and you can experience the touchable thoughts,

through my softe breathes, as we lean towards

one another, as we kiss. I’ll kill your whole crew,

in ease and never to look back, in sorrow nature.

The game is potent with poison, thinking, mystery

failures and success. The perfection of experience

actual love, will never be expressed in anyone’s

language, how can I lean on them, in times of

hardship. All my comrades are awaiting death row.

Or went on, in death’s kingdom, exiled as living

legends. Nothing doesn’t last forever, so, when it’s

time, let’s die together. Human history cannot be

arrested. It’s in constant flowing motion. Just like

the future and all our private desires.  

Poetry collected, a bazaar of flowers, grim duenna,

elegant shapes of dark figures, spanning vast based

on coffee shop strips in organics, sunflowers don’t

think about poetry, dramatic theatre, avoiding any

Shakespeare speech, framing pictures, talented, it’s

in the either, still and bland voices, no meaning in their

articulated words they breathe out, false celebrity,

no nearer to me, semiotic in lifestyle and intellectual

only at face-value.

Erupt a revolution now, or never do, if you want, later in the future, do no bother me, do not bother, I’d rather not. I cannot command history, because I will die. I cannot bring myself to dedicate myself to anyone dogma, I can commit to one God. lay me down now, my personal suffering cannot continue. My life in a constant continuing living form, I highly doubt that it will be relevant to any one person. Do not pity me, do not pity me. I am not in the business of mythmaking. Still I die and still I shall die. Than I’ll be worldwide and won’t be hard to find, left in echo of breezing winds, a living legend. Amounted to nothing to blind people in the circles of normal mundane, I’ve became apart of, throughout the duration of my life, I had not end up, in social circles my inner-world desires for, even worse, I had not become of the person of my youthful dreams. Do not weep for me. For I am already dead. It’s a revelation for me. Craving revolution on a global front, stretching arms for the interstellar classes, to who are already here.

Tragic lover and chased Queen, awe inspiring

poetry, poverty for riches, class to lower, touches

are new, the same with thinking thoughts,able

to at on, against the grain of humanity. A drop

of dew, in the grand schemes of the intertwined

cosmos. But highly instrumental. Tantamount to

kill all current culture. Where innocence is drowned

as-well, celebration happens. Tragic lover, oh lover

from destitution, conquer the Queens heart.

Oh how the poets will suffer and cry praises to you

Queen, if you return the favour and conquer the

lover’s own heart. All dancing to a frenzy drum.

I often wonder how many words have been used and spelt in poetry? All that poetry as comfort, a hug, costing emotion to level out. Croaking always, strong junkies, huddling together.

I starting to think that I’m made to be tortured. Maybe not. I’ve always felt the void in my life. It’s all I got to show for myself, my angst and insecurities. It may not be much. But it’s mine, those emotions that I constantly feel, they belong to me. As much as I belong to them. Slight. We’re going to be under a rouse, well most is, just wonder how many people forget about death in their daily life. We’re going to die.

I read Jane Austen.

Also Charles Dickens.

I’ve read Jack Kerouac.

Herman Hesse, I love reading his work.

Cello symphonies. Poetry made for them. I defend myself in the silence, the muting silence, deafening the lives that I turn away from. Not in my voice or poetry. I open from the inwards, to those who effort wants to inside. Life is joyus when it’s lived now. I do not revolt. As for the wives, please forget. To the husband, I feel sorrow but not guilt. It hurts when you love them and they don’t love you back. Love is pure, and it’s holy. When it’s experienced, you’ll know, for all I know, all love art, it’s romance that it creates, it’s derived from existing reality. It’s out there. Love, soulmates, lovers, they don’t belong to any art or idea. Poets weep waterfalls, creating potent love structures in words. They know.

If society wants to go to war with the other side, that’s fine. They’ll lose. Not in prophecy. For I’ve seen to what they roll with, I hate to be a burden, since birth, every individual is doomed. If it’s not them creeping in the daylight, death will conquer. That isn’t injustice. The injustice happens when the individual learns which deity and dogma is false.