Psychedelic, Philosophical, Romantic and Mad, the poetry of Lew Blink is a decent into linguistic meaning, a fall into the unknown. This is the best from 2014 to 2021.
a mind palace
fortified with intent
a little bit of magic
a whole lot of synapse grids
muscular memory from past life spirits
unraveling post script pains
tribal roles born from condition
time and place in the stars
random blind luck
evolved like complex hyperspecies
in and out of ether on 45 degree turns
this place isn’t real
enough to be a mere floating sphere
missing time is just a discovery
an erasing what was
in wails of unbridled ecstasy.
Loops are like Moon-bows
93 million years from it’s source
bouncing off the ancient smiling face of night
with photon zest
counting off red, yellow and blue
from the bottom of the ocean
to meet under the full moon
as a rainbow through a reflection of light
illuminating this tribe
never in it’s final form
always becoming and fulfilling
life’s little drama
again and again
Never finished or in it’s final form.
Miraculous visions push through
reality like light in the leaves
orange glows of dusk and cycle ends
like holy union and loss of self
she tells me I push like a reflection
Black Orphean mirror to the upside down
patterns of entropy sneaking a little code
un-decipherable subconscious changes
little designs or eddies swirling from
ocean currents into living patterns
magical rites glowing heathen jaunts
meanwhile the faithful nod in agreement
knowing they simply followed orders
leaving those cynical box makers
baffled at the unfolding of sunset.
the Western movement
is filled with sorrow
and singular desire.
Ghost towns speak of
Holy missionaries fail
yet Biblical heroes
dart the tribal landscape
with Spiritual zest
the Brave march forward
into the unknown
You are not the thing
the role, the game, the steps
you are not illusion nor the dream
you are not rich or poor, hedonistic or plain
the contents of your purse, clothes on your skin
you are not your skin
wicked deeds do not reflect
altruistic intent is not the point
mistakes are vapor in the wind
you are not your genes, heritage and cultural milieu
you are not late night romps, fucking partners
lingering doubt, hopeful abandon, miserable-ness
each feeling is temporary
every psychological pang born in years of
disease ridden paternal upbringing
your mother is not you
your family is not you
your brain is not you.
we are the all singing all dancing energies
of every moment
we are it
what we are looking for
in each movement, in every quiet space
in baseline times, without enhancement
in pure Now, in the making of Time.
Your not it, but you are Us
As is everything and everyone
Deep subconscious places
tabooed and dreaded,
risky experiments in psychedelic gnosis
entrusting oneself to the uncertain path
that leads into the depths.
paths of error, of equivocation
misunderstanding. . . .
Unpopular, ambiguous, and dangerous
it is a voyage of discovery
to the other pole of the world.
(Carl Jung’s words…with poetic placement)
Ants in the sugar bowl:
Vast space of white
like endless crystal compounds
climbing relays on shifting grains
hungry ants gorge with manic mandibles
consuming all that is ….everything
bursting bellies full and translucent
burning with consuming sugary energy
the ants have become blind
in America’s sugar bowl.
(inspired by a quote from Zen Master Kosho Uchiyama)
This Edge: this edge is a pipe bomb
thrown by bearded anarchists
after the president is dead
she still wears a blood stained dress
these monsters wear suits and campaign
as drowning entitled selfies
with strong quick thumbs and weak eyes
fail to adapt from screen watching
and the survivor does what is necessary.
this edge is a slot canyon
too wide to jump and too thin to scale
only with grit in their mouth
pocket knife scratchers
severing tendons like a will to live.
this edge is a blindness
a momentary flash in the pan
stumbling in the dark
ignoring the screams of the helpless
as food is consumed by the
invading horde and our sons become
knights in the war of collectivism.
this edge is inevitable
this place un-salvageable
this space is exhaustible
our hope is unthinkable.
the saddest thing
about the modern age
is tasted on paper
wasted on ink
drunk digital rants
that are never heard.
the saddest thing is
we stopped listening
we just stopped
a lot of things
on line and on the video screens
the girl has a true epiphany
her tears are real
and no one cares
no one ….likes ….anymore
the fantasy worlds are far too attractive.
the saddest thing
boils down to a scent
it’s stale like spaceship air
floating in the vacuum of space
the smell is vaguely like
disappearing cleaning products
the absence of plant.
the saddest thing
feels like being truly alone
an untouched body
spun in it’s own juices
madness is the skull lining
forgetting its purpose as a wall
when we lose track
the saddest thing
is the modern age is
and we lose those digital files
the websites of lore
all the great ideas
all the celebrity dish
the apps crashed
when the ocean rose
these words are nothing
like all words written in
the modern age.
this is the saddest thing
isn’t just a period
it is an age.
The Great Dancing Place:
Kronos eyes the horizon
as planets spin like Sufis
the Divine shuffle of bodies
in the theater of human action
propelling our time divided by light
Balls of fire send emissaries
to the green globe and her companion
Moon glows with reflection
as mysterious as the dark corner
galaxies look outwards into the unknown
unsure if the dance is same
above as below.
Adam’s magic words, part 2:
The Garden walls were invisible
In and out
Desert and forest
Separated by a lack of water, healthy bacteria
He made walls when he knew cold
Killed those no longer worthy
Useful and dangerous
Herded that which was controllable
Hunted that which was above him
Ancestors took on the task and created
Mountains and valleys
Rivers and border
I grow here and you are from there
These people are mine.
Numbers came as a way of control.
We built temples to stars once thought as
Count them we tried.
Some explored to dominate
Some moved for freedom
Outwards with the sun to new gardens
Never Eden, never to return
The Meta-boundry is our construct and prison
Created by the snake winding its way
Into brain cavities using natural paths.
Count backwards from 10
When you reach 1 remember
It’s the loneliest number
Then remember 1 never existed in the first place.
Paradigms shifts and magic beans:
Fortean metaphysical beings
dance between walls and watch
Charles insisted they were real
As John Keel frightened West Virginia
with red eyed winged beasts.
Mass hysteria they called out
as thousands watched triangles
float over Phoenix.
DMT machine elves and multi colored intelligent basketballs mess with
While images of Egyptian Gods
Snakes and Mayan saints
Speak to the children of the elite
in Peruvian Jungles at midnight.
Jungian symbols clash with Campbell Myths and Law of Attraction mantras battle
in the invisible spaces of Magical realms.
Shamanic drums beat the brains to reasonable hertz levels for easy pickings
as the Mesmerized occult symbols
pulls wallets open with psychic
slight of hand.
It’s all real he claims
as mad as the rest ignoring laments of caution, while singing bowls
and gong strikes shift DNA towards
evolution, defecation and resonance.
It’s all been tried to prove a point
to shift a mind towards stated goals.
A million little beats, energy exchanges
history shifts, forgotten vibes
dreams built with material force
It’s a paradigm shift on a massive scale
so large you can’t the edge.
It’s not one direction, or two or three
It’s not new or up or better or real
It’s not the future or victory or phasing out
It’s just the unknown vast energies of the cosmic dance at play
As it’s always been
Always will be
This is the magic bean, the beanstalk to the clouds, swallow the pill and follow the white rabbit (to mix my metaphoric non-rhyming)
It all leads to one place
One specific point
found in syllables and tongue wags.
Creation is never easy
But oh so much fun.
Rausch: intoxicated with us
faces look ugly
when your unwanted
but beauty is found
in deeply submerged feelings
of mankind’s collective sign
elevated and enraptured
in the hustle, the roar of a crowd
smiles penetrate loose being
licking lips in anticipation
of that old Time Warp once again.
drunk, manic, hopeful nights
in shoulder to shoulder spaces
high as kites with thunder hash
dawning the hideousness that
reveals common thread bared
toe to toe, finger to finger
touching god on a cloud
you sly German phrase
saying everything and nothing at all.
Lungs fill with something
That is itself and yet
Nothing but space in minuscule ways.
Trees breathe out
Lungs breathe in
In unison if so desired.
That bubble with rainbows bouncing light in fluid motion extending gas outwards.
It is our place in space, blue visions
From astronauts peering through round bubbles of tempered glass.
To lens focus on lens in inner dialogues between merged gases separating into base elements.
A circle spins dust and bodies on fire with colors and the occasional ring.
Symmetric cycles millions of years in the making.
Yet here we are, moving animals given time by our forest family. The green perennial plant living in cycles of sun and giving us life.
In tiny molecular mechanisms seeping in pores, cavities and holy action.
Breathing is not just ours, it is theirs and solar system energy rejuvenating life itself with each contraction of essence.
I don’t breathe
I embrace everything that I am
With purpose and will.
Soft gray rain in the dark.
We sit in a refurbished tub with two Shiners.
she vaguely tells me the guy might not come home.
I don’t ask why we entered the back door or can’t touch nuthin.
Her sweet blonde hair laughs with a closed eyed roar of laughter.
We wake early and stroll into Zilker,
Stevie Ray in “Man with no Name” style watches us but he don’t care.
We talk about alt-country and pot which reminds us to stop and enjoy the scenery behind several big bushes.
South Capital was abandoned then but a great coffee shop with outside seating.
Asking in casual ways as to what was the plan?
She looked confused her pouts lips with edge.
We don’t make “plans” in Austin
and she devours me knowing my time was short.
Don’t remember much about that town, nothing i could pin down.
Only it’s where i learned to go with the flow.
Whatever that means where your from.
SEARCH FOR MEANING
Investigate the accident
Apple strikes the head of genius
Who, what, why?
Searching for meaning
Finding the patterns in chaos
Lysergic dreams linger in synapse
Hallucinating the rift
On DMT my head was halved
Sacred geometry spills like
Tron motorcycles on grids
Measure the distance
That shifts, moves, lingers and fails
Is reason possible when all is insane?
Shaking bodies sway as pixiladed guru
Smiles evoking energies of You.
Mind wanders with lack of stimuli
Be here now it screams
In the darkness of my skull it reassures
It’s just you and me kid, stay with us.
Schizophrenic voices of mind, matter
Measuring the immeasurable
Who R U?
Alice stands confused by
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BECOMING A PLANET
I think I shall become a planet one day
This tiny wave called me.
My verbal pulse is love
My wave gets bigger
Won’t you help me neighbor
Perhaps this human wave
Becomes an ocean
Or becomes a asteroid
I think I shall become a sun one day
This tiny wave called me
THE BEE HAS DIABETES
The Bee has diabetes
it hovers over mountain dew bottles
on the side of roads
in trash cans and picnic pavilions
Perhaps we die together
The bee and human
in vats of corn syrup produced by machines.