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But is there truly, a Nature as it is?
Here’s to you, Socrates, to Plato your play thing & to the Middle Class Hellenes who couldn’t give a damn to know you. Wouldn’t dare, touch the sticky sandals you never wore. Nor kiss the ass of the most prestigious logistikon of all of Attica.
Alas, in the busy emptiness of our delusional cities, where’s the Hemlock, what of you?
Of your fig tree, the Athenian Sun, of Glaucon, Critias & Atlantis; the multiplication of the cube, its volume? From one side to adjacent thru the Triple Diagonal augmented. And of those wonderful City States…
Which sprang up like little Disneylands far from Samothracia?
But thanks to you, were eventually all brought to ruin!
Now if you wish to know my dear, I’ll tell you if you really want to know:
God is an Archetype for a barrel of beer. And Satan likes his fill of draft.
To know you as you are?!
“Not even your demon, without a wink from you, could beckon, say enough. Tell you what to do, whom to chose, or what to counsel. What good was he when you were set asunder? From your abstraction into the highest spheres. A Plutarchian orb of rolling Flames! Jettisoned toward the starry Swan.”
A godly spirit noise, somewhere inlaid within the melancholic Great Void did gently thunder:
«My Love is for the forgotten souls who do battle on unlabored lands. Where a human breath emerges into a desert, forsaken from the start, happy to play a sad & lovely singing stance. Loving all the same the drummer man. The Faery Queen. The dark woods where pixies play, who reek havoc on the cairn. The one-eyed Odin leaning like the fool he is on the shores of Ash & Elm. One eyed, unfaithful. Dragging a dead tree, lice mawed, the remembrance. His body all a rune.
A babe & yet a Man, paragon of the ancestral species, pensif for instants, when the Eternal Spirit stops, to ponder, at a dead end.
A Proof, awe inspiring. Terrible. A Shiva Eye revulsed to the gaping all embracing love of life, & love in life: a Will to Being in a place of Sands.
What is it of the intangible ever present misty Soul? Fleeing the addictive cage of prejudice. Commanding the impetuous social horses. Charioteer. King &/or Peasant. A pigmy. A hillbilly. A beggar. A prostitute. A priest. A perfect politician. A wife.
My nature doth hint at the big sky in your hairy chest. Those long far away forgotten smiles, deteriorating slowly, thrilling illuminations on glassy cardboard now fading. The Love instant. The god in you! The cat in the bag who did not get out, but did!»
And Nature aye, would be as it is!?! A permanent thing to take with you, to the mossy covered grave?
Ô what a magnificent & huge big mirror Bright, in front of us. I can see myself in it. I see you too.
A circle. A cup. An empty chestnut wooden drawer. A treasure trove of useless babioles. The gardian keeper of our Souls. Pluto’s weeping Proserpina’s departure for the surface world.
The Mother of good fortune. Laid bare to tease the urge for you. Immortal happy desire. Good thoughts. A sheltered place, some well cooked mutton & salt, a fire, a pretty Maiden.
«And again I hope a Noble Birth.»
But in another Light.
Happy to regret. The Nature that wasn’t, but that we believe to be else than us. Surely She has no remorse. Doesn’t spit on anybody. Misses me when I take a nap!
When Home she gives me kisses. But I prefer She stopped. Just to catch my breath.
Here in Paradise I will breathe easily. Take a walk in the woods. Watch the geese putter in the glades & glens. Adorn my neck with a white rosary of dog roses. No longer mutter.
dedicated to Seraphim