Brahman

Right-angled troglodyte,
eyes skew-whiff,
eyes me strange,
laughing,
wrapping me in
purple-green sunbursts of
insight;
transmuted tidbits of
answers invisible,
indivisible,
beyond the veil.

Holding court,
caught out by
thoughts folding
and weaving ways
into my
slipstream,
dripping dualities
down my throat
and eyes and ears
and nose.

Flecks and whirring;
home cinema projector beam
stares outwards:
eternal
moments of creation
in a streamlined
layer cake
existence;
an analytical mind
with the rug
pulled out from
underneath
its feet.

Insanity brewed
in a teacup, stewed
in an asylum
of poly-vinyl chloride
in an
in between
realm,
senses spilling
across
boundaries:
inside into outside,
self into non-self,
everything and nothing
all the same
all the while
all at once.

Tempests rage
in pinprick epiphanies,
rising to the
surface
for hungry gulps of air:
comforting
concrete reality;
thrust non-consenting
into a rather
pleasant meaninglessness,
no external gravity
keeping me
detained.

On the cusp of
the void,
I emerge elated,
winner of a
cosmic lottery
riding on the crest
of a gold-plated wave
across a sea that
looks just the same.

Find the cord
for the curtain
to throw
light
over
this whole charade,
this game,
in blue-grey refractions
of a consciousness
thrown into
chaos.

Find the biting point,
relinquish control
and let it flow;
there is no choice
but

let
it
go
.

Satori

Everything just
waiting
for something
to happen.

Everything just
racing
towards an end
we invented.

And when we cross
that finish line,
no fade to black
nor credits roll.

Tireless
we carry on,
we set new goals,
waiting for the
tension
to be resolved.

Take a breath;
gather yourself.

There’s pleasure in that
out-breath,
but does it ever
seem to sate
that undeniable
appetite?

Did it live up to your expectations?

Dissonance
strikes
a chord
within us all.
It eggs us on
to help our hands
close over that next
rock on that
cliff face.

Ever reaching
ever higher,
but what when we reach
the top?

The finality we seek,
always out of
reach.

Taste the bittersweet
in that release
and it’s

over (adverb):
a kind of death.

It lost its lustre
when you looked it in the eye:
the beauty that
eluded you.
When it slipped through
your fingers,
it looked so pretty:
a flash of colour
dancing on the
edge.

Reality lives in the
peripheries;
the floater in the
corner of your eye
you can never
quite
see.

There’s nothing to get
and we’re all in on the joke.
Put down your framework,
your language,
your bias
and just
be.