In Memory of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
The Angel of Death Loves You
for Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
I
The Angel of Death loves you
wanting you
through this veil of dreams
to please remember who you are
and where you're going.
The Angel of Death
black for laughing gods amusement
colors ... colors...
Deadpan reaper,
bittersweet breath
no smile
no words can clothe the truth.
Gentle to the sunset
dark dream love of yesterday,
catching fireflies,
the summer nights await.
In the velvet of that sky (seek nothing)
find your dreams.
Stand alone on a silver spire hold
around the corner up ahead
the place where dreams are born.
Party is forgotten now
the rounds you've made
(or was that someone else?)
all left behind.
Familiar eggplant-rounded face on doorknob
reflections in a mother's eye,
touch of flash,
changing partners.
All is left behind.
Understanding Now
the Why
of Home and Family
of Mother, Debts ... all the rocks
you've pushed around this foolish hill.
The Angel of Death loves you
wanting you
to see beyond the birthday cake and candles
to where you live and who's at home waiting.
II
The bubble that is things we call by name
is coming to an end.
The membrane stretches
thin beyond belief.
Even generally accepted lies are now transparent.
The bubble
is about to pop
and fear is growing
as armies halt their march
to listen to a strange new sound.
The muted meow
of stretch beyond all size and form
is louder now --
Hear it just below the murmur of the waves?
The water's rising --
few will learn to swim
for all the good it does them.
Form is gone.
Form is gone.
Form is melting away like the wicked witch of the East
till all that's left will be the sea of all
that once was all of us.
The battle's ending as the bubbles
(within bubbles)
cry to tell each other
it just ain't so.
Destroyers of form are weeping now.
Creators of form are weeping now.
Purveyors of form are weeping
now that form and sense are going
gone down to the sea in shreds
becoming waves for someone else's seashore.
III
Nothing ends but is forgotten.
In this dream we race along lost paths
slide
dimension after one another
matrix into matrix
the curve is closed.
Die and be reborn
the curve is closed.
Leave the path
your journey done, go all the way
and now it starts again.
The curve is always closed.
The business always finished.
All the ends are starts,
we move so slow
we meet ourselves
coming back to where it all began.
Open up and speed along,
you've been this route before
you know you've seen that day
you've felt that breeze
you've touched that flesh before
and will again.
The curve is closed.
Work your will.
Your way a blob of changing form.
The artist has your face.
The curve is what you will
and where
and when
and all ways open. (always closed)
Touch the ones
the things you touch you'll touch again
(and touch your self.
Is very soft a blob a curve
of moving loving jelly.
Spread around)
Hurt -- the blob will wither
fry in pain of senseless crying acts.
Become your self
the curve comes wide
it opens grows
but no there is no out, the way is in,
the curve is always closed.
Forget yourself and navigate.
Nothing ends but in forgetting.
1971
Link
for Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
I
The Angel of Death loves you
wanting you
through this veil of dreams
to please remember who you are
and where you're going.
The Angel of Death
black for laughing gods amusement
colors ... colors...
Deadpan reaper,
bittersweet breath
no smile
no words can clothe the truth.
Gentle to the sunset
dark dream love of yesterday,
catching fireflies,
the summer nights await.
In the velvet of that sky (seek nothing)
find your dreams.
Stand alone on a silver spire hold
around the corner up ahead
the place where dreams are born.
Party is forgotten now
the rounds you've made
(or was that someone else?)
all left behind.
Familiar eggplant-rounded face on doorknob
reflections in a mother's eye,
touch of flash,
changing partners.
All is left behind.
Understanding Now
the Why
of Home and Family
of Mother, Debts ... all the rocks
you've pushed around this foolish hill.
The Angel of Death loves you
wanting you
to see beyond the birthday cake and candles
to where you live and who's at home waiting.
II
The bubble that is things we call by name
is coming to an end.
The membrane stretches
thin beyond belief.
Even generally accepted lies are now transparent.
The bubble
is about to pop
and fear is growing
as armies halt their march
to listen to a strange new sound.
The muted meow
of stretch beyond all size and form
is louder now --
Hear it just below the murmur of the waves?
The water's rising --
few will learn to swim
for all the good it does them.
Form is gone.
Form is gone.
Form is melting away like the wicked witch of the East
till all that's left will be the sea of all
that once was all of us.
The battle's ending as the bubbles
(within bubbles)
cry to tell each other
it just ain't so.
Destroyers of form are weeping now.
Creators of form are weeping now.
Purveyors of form are weeping
now that form and sense are going
gone down to the sea in shreds
becoming waves for someone else's seashore.
III
Nothing ends but is forgotten.
In this dream we race along lost paths
slide
dimension after one another
matrix into matrix
the curve is closed.
Die and be reborn
the curve is closed.
Leave the path
your journey done, go all the way
and now it starts again.
The curve is always closed.
The business always finished.
All the ends are starts,
we move so slow
we meet ourselves
coming back to where it all began.
Open up and speed along,
you've been this route before
you know you've seen that day
you've felt that breeze
you've touched that flesh before
and will again.
The curve is closed.
Work your will.
Your way a blob of changing form.
The artist has your face.
The curve is what you will
and where
and when
and all ways open. (always closed)
Touch the ones
the things you touch you'll touch again
(and touch your self.
Is very soft a blob a curve
of moving loving jelly.
Spread around)
Hurt -- the blob will wither
fry in pain of senseless crying acts.
Become your self
the curve comes wide
it opens grows
but no there is no out, the way is in,
the curve is always closed.
Forget yourself and navigate.
Nothing ends but in forgetting.
1971
Link
posted by Saintperle at
11:49 AM
