Random Bukowski

Originally posted on wivsworld:

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Quote Selection for LEO’s

Truth – http://pinterest.com/pin/547046685958226669/

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This sums up my desires and expectations of any and/or all human beings that I carefully chose to be a part of my introverted life I

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Emily O’Neill, ‘BORN TO DIE REDUX _after Lana Del Ray’

edr33:

Emily O’Neill is a poet that I recently found and she is now among the top 10 poets of 2014, in my opinion. Read her and see for your self!

Originally posted on Serendipity Point:

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BORN TO DIE REDUX
_after Lana Del Ray

Let’s go get sad. Cry the road wild.

Get down pouring rain blind, Montana

black as a doorjambed finger. Let’s choose
our last bad man at the next truck stop,

twist him like stem from cherry before the pie,
tear him from skin like a Band Aid.

The mountains are fallen women like we are.
I pray they keep me shameless. I know your wife

& she tastes like Pepsi-Cola. You left when she went
flat as North Dakota, when the radio ground its teeth

so hard the molars cracked. Your pretty baby is me
a decade younger, asleep in an American flag.

Our mothers forgot how to pray us good again. We grew up
scorched, are the same black smoke, burnt as the Badlands.

Last I heard my coast say come home I kept driving.
The horizon’s a donkey when it…

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Newman’s Type: -A, The Blood of Memory

sepe sceperos

NEWMAN’S TYPE: -A, THE BLOOD OF MEMORY

 

 to Daddy ‘doc’ Otis D. Newman, my muse, my lost animus, my fatherhoods absence, my lucifer, my true color…

                     "We judge a man’s wisdom by his hope."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

31 days have past still I write as I seek out a single flattened pause that may or may not freeze time into a metallic plastic picture frame

Cheap and flexible, I bend a cracking lightening bolt spread. A stencil made of stuff shadowing a simple dance so the history of you….

the history of me….

can and will be seen as hands feel destructive ruts with curious eyes reflecting alienated must-haves of a time when real was the only flash-

Flashing orbs of sequence glittering the deepest obsidian screens that lit up the nights alone without help or sound

just the pulsing randomness of archaic light, speeding blindly in straight raying lines or snail snarling slows in zig zagging predictability

Yet very precise
Very seasonally

punctual

the winking exhaustion of obsolete suns are still

probing a exploration

Into the darkest onyx
where time may or may not tick
but a line aligns

forming a wait
waiting one by one
to fully experience a relic of a past

Taught to us all only in our dreams by faces that hold nostalgic eyes. The familiar electricity sparking smokey vestiges to evaporate a moment to gravity’s sleepy side

The subconscious ones that hold swaddled newborns within their crystalline essence
are the place absorbed by flash-frozen things
like the 4×7’s that fill up my 3 ringed binders of time

Before weightless life moved into the collective psyches waist
leaving a long ebbing line of lost ageless faces

staring into the void of life

a stranger is missed

a absence is absent

As the multitudes gather
one by one so life in the living can be passed around
(the light of dusty lost life of yonder years)
and can be weighed and wholly solid….

enough to reflect the time’s shadow
that rather it is seen or not seen will

dance
a living kind

the only space left to hold on to time

whether or not time is less or more or even

paused in a real moment only

which gives and gives and

so it gives

preciously

it really gives

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Emily O’Neill, ‘BORN TO DIE REDUX _after Lana Del Ray’

Scan 1-011

BORN TO DIE REDUX
_after Lana Del Ray

Let’s go get sad. Cry the road wild.

Get down pouring rain blind, Montana

black as a doorjambed finger. Let’s choose
our last bad man at the next truck stop,

twist him like stem from cherry before the pie,
tear him from skin like a Band Aid.

The mountains are fallen women like we are.
I pray they keep me shameless. I know your wife

& she tastes like Pepsi-Cola. You left when she went
flat as North Dakota, when the radio ground its teeth

so hard the molars cracked. Your pretty baby is me
a decade younger, asleep in an American flag.

Our mothers forgot how to pray us good again. We grew up
scorched, are the same black smoke, burnt as the Badlands.

Last I heard my coast say come home I kept driving.
The horizon’s a donkey when it kicks us in the teeth.

We tumble past heart-shaped sunglasses or blue ribbon
anything. Outrun our shadows until we meet them new

on the other side of a wasted night
when the truck seizes & I pledge

allegiance to my dad with every whiskey swallow.
Gold coins of light. Trip sevens. Las Vegas, like hell,

is just south of now. How many times
can we die embalmed in stars?

http://emily-oneill.com/

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The Gate of God, by Gary Osborn.

Originally posted on Idea Solar:

‘Where the skull divides there lies the Gate of God.’

The Taittireeya Upanishad

The history of the world is profoundly scattered with elements of mystical enlightenment and all the wonderful symbolism that surrounds them. From ‘cosmic precession’ and ‘ley lines’ to crystals and “magic mushrooms” – there is a whole range of different theories, which endeavour to explain the unusual effects.
However, there is one paramount and unique portion of this folklore which is utilised by all of them and held up as being the most important aspect of the human mystical experience. As Philip Gardiner and I have shown in our books, The Serpent Grail and The Shining Ones, something of importance is being referred to in the myths and legends associated with the Grail and this “something” exists in the head, or rather the brain. Those readers, who are familiar with “new-age” literature and its various concepts…

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