from a far distant minus point

What if mathematics began it all
if some equation
some logical construct

What if mathematics began from a far distant minus point
if it reached 0
reached and stepped

What if mathematics began to breathe its own I
if this intelligence grew
grew to inherit

What if mathematics began it all
if this reality is nothing but math trying to understand its beauty
beauty from a far distant minus point

Is it possible to feel

Stars
hairs upon skin
her universe
ever growing
light
falling into death
naked beneath time
silent in the study of life

Stars
how many heartbeats will it take
her open copulation
laughing in the dark
birthing shadows
gargoyles
crimson pools of thought
expanding
dying
silent

Stars
is it possible to feel
her soul
light
life
the beginning?

Is it possible to endure creation
without losing one’s mind?

Watching the snowflakes

Silent explosions of creation appear beyond the window
as I listen to, or am bombarded by, the eternal ringing in my ears

Silence is an impossible dream

Watching the leaves in spring stretch and yawn
Watching the rose petals romance the world
Watching the beautiful deaths colour the postcards
Watching the snowflakes’ individualities show us how

Silent explosions of creation appear beyond the window
and here I sit crunching ginger biscuits

Silence is an impossible dream

Artificial Atmosphere of Civilization

~

Listen to, breathe in and taste the pungent
where once music sang amongst the trees
where once the air invigorated
where once eating was real
and where each was once one’s own mind
but now
in this time of greed, futile deaths, global one-upmanships & scaremongerings
and the religious balloonings of creation
we are surrounded
by an artificial atmosphere of civilization
where trees are shrouded in tentacles of grease and darkness; their songs all but forgotten
where our lungs are attacked on a daily basis; antibodies scream in disgust
where chemical wrapped food tastes of food wrapped chemicals; painful temptation encroaches
and where what we think, what we are and what we believe is no longer ours …

in this artificial atmosphere of civilization, where only the perfect make the shelf

; sorrow begets perfection begets sorrow

~

~

With thanks to Achilles Daunt for giving me the title