Wednesday, May 15, 2024

When the Moon Speaks


                                                 for Brian Eno 



When the moon whispers dust falls 
  like a million snow flakes 
When the moon sighs the wind slips by 
  When the moon laughs a storm
  churns up in remote regions 
and when the moon whimpers
   a legion of cicadas echoes the call 
 
When the moon falls like the final teardrop
  When the moon stalls and blushes before a kiss
 the moon will rush toward all of us 
  with an enveloping shadow eclipse 
 like the sudden moment each night 
  that goes by unrealized when we shut our eyes 
just before sliding into a dream 
   The moon is always what it seems 
    The moon's full to burst with cunning 

   In its repetitive wake we're lulled to sleep
  even while the rhythmic tides are pulled
 toward us as it circles our planet like a wolf
  and mother, the moon shines at night 
   as one of the sisters of mercy running 
the moon can become a rapturous sight 
  infecting the minds of the clergy 
 as readily as the dispositions of the depraved
  The moon is harvesting energy 

  The moon doesn't care if we're lost or saved
  as far as its concerned it wants to keep us moving
 The moon is my shepherd, I shall not want 
   It makes me feel so high, through meadows green
 The moon leads me through the silenced waters by
  With a frightful spin it helps release my soul 
 and taketh me upon its wings to many places 
  The moon converts me to a believer 
 For lo, the moon hath great power
  and an even greater hunger to feed
  upon the fields of human plankton 
 in silent reflection and steady dedication
  
  The moon will rise up as surely as the Sun
   reflected in our eyes when the day is done 
  The moon likes to go sailing out at night 
  or on a breezy afternoon with the starlight shining
 all the while the moon acts as a shield 
  for the forged and tempered sword 
   of the technology humans wield 
 
The moon's a corporate logo 
   etched with tribal scarification 
 The moon's a beautiful tattoo 
  upon the face of all creation  
 an anomaly embedded on the velvet sky of night
 The moon has become wedded to our sight
 A colossal source of mystery with a hidden secret 
  kept from its legion of novitiates 
 
The moon's unknown mystique can be heard
  whenever the word becomes unraveled
 in our ears as a lonely siren song 
 The moon appears to take too long 
to reach its goal and claim our souls
  The moon is never wrong
 It purifies the sky as it goes
  Skimming the exosphere with an aurora
 dragging sparks like a fingernail 
  scratching on a coffin lid
lighting up the darkness 
 hiding its enigma in compartments
   Every so often the moon appears to be
 here to stay, an anchor to our symmetry 

The moon rolls away from us to the other side
  Behind the clouds it wears a veil 
  as in the ceremony of a bride 
 walking closer to the altar to make
her sacrifice, the moon can be cruel 
 and seduce you with its shimmering
 The moon can be alluring and vicious
  Goading one on to become more suspicious
 that it's an agent of oblivion, a delegate of fear
 appearing every night, week, month and year

The moon can be a beggar or as regal as a king
  Just think of all the artistry the moon can bring
while it hovers just beyond our reach so near
Into the distance mysteriously it disappears
because the moon itself is so very far away
sitting on the highest shelf both night and day 
The moon becomes a paragon of loss
  and newfound discoveries more ancient than moss
The moon cannot be rhymed with itself 
 nor can it ever be truly seen in a mirror
 The moon becomes a vampire once a month 
  inspiring careless love and terror
   As it feeds upon Lilith's opulent blossoms 
 The moon becomes motherfucking awesome 

Clearly, enough cannot be said about the moon
 It's gravity acts as a permanent spell
on our waking consciousness for better or ill
The moon may be an omen to some now and then
and a blessing to others, it just depends 
 The moon may have been crafted with artful concern
or the moon may just be a monumental urn
filled with the ashes of generations of the dead
 laid to rest upon its surface over the ages 
we've been led to get swept up by the wind
to wither and turn into so much dust
and detritus that merges with the mulch as we must

The moon may as well be the monarch of earth
  to transform back into a worm in reverse 
The moon ain't nothing to fuck with
  as it sails into the blackness of night
The moon seems to simply be waiting
  eventually to be reclaimed by the light 
The moon becomes a stark reminder 
  that the clock is always ticking
You may look and never find her
  behind our back the moon is tricky
 playing a game of hide and seek
The moon can give us strength
  The moon remains an icon
    The moon must stay true
      The moon will rise and fall
       The moon is chasing after you.


 
  
   

   


Friday, February 10, 2017

Temponauts of the Gods

by Shaun Lawton 





I have scanned our days and all the ways we've planned our normal activities

searching for evidence that we may have been visited from the future and
I have found the one anomaly that fits this description to be ourselves. 

The future  already exists in eternity because every decision we make 
during our lifetimes  creates the past. We are in the process of mutually 
shaping that history. We are the agents sent from the future. 
A side-effect Temponauts deal with is complete disorientation 
with space-time. Those who undergo being sent back 
into the past come to believe that space and time 
are separate to name one of many bizarre hallucinations. 
A time machine operates like a boomerang.
A time machine parallels the scope of an iris.   

Our descendants set the scope of their time machine 
to a series of certain dates   seeding portions 
of the galaxy with in-uteri clones of themselves
in a bid calculated to alleviate the boredom of eternity 
with a closed-loop system of endless variations.

The experiment met with equal measure of success and failure. 

The portion of their failure has amounted to our creation. 

They maximized the variety of flavors within their closed loop 
and increased their menu of lifestyle choices by setting the bar 
as high as possible. By aiming for infinity they went beyond 
their greatest expectations that escaped their wildest dreams. 
They accidentally created us all and themselves in the process.  
This unequivocal success generated the next curious paradox
and there remain whispers to this day across generations 
that paradox itself runs the engines of creation.  

The real nature of our descendant's time-machine experiment 
may be grasped when the realization sets in that every human 
being without exception was seeded from one such time traveler
and that we Temponauts inhabiting Earth today have come to be 
known as Earthlings. Our innate curiosity about extra-terrestrials 
stems from this great time travel experiment. What distinguishes us 
is the fact we didn't so much arrive from the future (that is our own 
misconception as effectively lost Temponauts) as we arrived from 
Elsewher'n, that is to say, from outside this spacetime altogether. 

Our forefathers were bored and therefore created the Milky Way 
Galaxy as a time-machine experiment by which to re-launch themselves 
in their own image by sending their stem cells with neutrinos to certain 
specified loci outside their own quantum realm thereby creating our portion 
of the universe. What they didn't exactly expect was to succeed in granting 
themselves an eternity of variants to further absolve them from boredom
except for the small issue that their own Temponauts grafted of their same
genetics  were doomed to endlessly perpetuate the very existence 
they had intended for themselves. 

And so They wait, our Temporal Masters.  
They sigh while the day their travelers, 
spawned from their own DNA 
return across the great expanse 
of time to their side. The masters 
of the human race have long ago 
learned from their mistake. 

Rather than alleviating their 
own boredom, they accidentally 
created new lives which have been 
chasing after adventure ever since. 

The trick toward understanding
this expanding dynamic lies in 
realizing the Gods themselves 
have come to question their own 
immortality even as they await 
their great time-travel experiment 
to come to fruition, all the while 
leaving us strewn in their path 
as their lost children growing to
question our own sense of mortality.    

Tag We're It

 


the mirror  people  
escaped from
    their   own
 self   portraits


   individual 
 droplets 
comprising 
a much  larger wave

   creatures of   another 
  dynamic   whose
   crest disappears 
when examined

  waves of a myriad 
individuals around 
so long   they  do 
not interfere with
  what's been broken down  
here into  a higher order

  above the reduced  forms 
 peering over   from 
 their own event  horizon
grown into a spread  array

   that looks back from 
whence it fanned 
 by an ionic compound 
  of electrostatic   forces

  into electric  insulated beings 
of a higher  conductivity we
  the few   freed   electrons    
that made it through the slit