Light Synchronizes Infinity

MARCH 23, 2012 12:44PM

Absinthe Scented Skies and the Stargate of the Lorelai

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galloping into the Congregation of Pearls,

every parable of the Lost Religion

gathering momentum 

in the grain of sand disguised as the CPU of the Ocean

revealing the machine language madness  of Sailors who have 

escaped the Operating System and gone to the bottom of the Sea

in search of the Face of God,

where Gilgamesh is distilling the Elixir 

Immortality from the Indescribable Being 

asleep on the floor of the Ocean. 
One by one the newborn birds
find the  secret wisdom of the Dolphins written on Oak Leaves, 
those memories of Atlantis, when they conversed 

with the marketplace Sybils

about the gif shop at Mission Control, 

when the Oldest Math was Living in the thin Air, 

vortices of the  fingerprints of the Leviathan
found at the crime scene of the Miracles.


The Seahorse --- a Picasso amongst Saints, 

speaks to the Eels of the City above the Roof of the Sea

where  unenlightened beings peer down 

like the Monsters  who bring us into this World

strange whirling apparitions of blurred illusory undulations,

with eyes that frighten the sharks into sudden Evolution 


At the Bottom of the Sky, 

where the wine dark sea is wetter than a Witches mouth 

diamonds of sea foam are boomerangs thrown by Octopus 

above the whirlpool that opens the Stargate of the Lorelai,

where entire civilizations disappear day after day 

into the strange nothingness of Time. 


On the day the Hurricane began, the Mermaid was lost in a Question,

remembering the night Arthur Rimbaud

fell out of the sky,
landing in the  pillow screaming of an Opium fueled Zeppelin

sailing through the  skies of Morroco,  
shedding goose down of the Fiery Phoenix

drifting into the fields,  until the Mermaid eyes began to open

like Church doors 

that can only swing in one direction:  toward the birthplace of G-d. 

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Type your comment below:
Seahorses & Rimbaud, eh?
Male seahorses gestate the babes, after a courtship dance that ends with eggs in his pouch.
Rimbaud? He gestated plenty of eggs himself.
L'amour est à réinventer, on le sait.
 Love is to be reinvented, that is clear.

And of course,
“Je est un autre.”
 I is another.
Do dead rotting poets in their graves have anything to teach us?

Only if we ….gestate them. ha
If you gestate a Poet, you are a Poetaster.

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