In The Nameless Realms Of My Mindlessness
In the nameless realms of my mindlessness
where everything that could be said
has been spoken
without being understood
the multiverse keeps repeating itself
like the decimal point of an incommensurable.
The needle of an early sixties record player
worn down like a diamond with cataracts
in orbit around a black LP of the old celestial spheres
still trying to waltz to the picture-music of their chandelier tears.
I'm expanding the available dimensions of poetry
to give myself more lebensraum
without goose-stepping across Russia
as if I had a golden egg up my proverbial.
I conquer in diaspora like the stars.
And I don't really care
if anyone believes me enough
to understand this
but if they look into my mind
without a mirror between us
they'll find their own
as clear and unique and homeless as space.
And the darkness that scrys
their prophetic skulls
will conform to the lines in their face
like a love poem
deep in the heart of the night
when it's raining crystal balls.
And the dirt on the window
that was drawing all day
people the size of its thumb
will show its masterpiece to the stars
to be hung like a new constellation.
And the green bud who cut
her throat on the moon
to free the rose in her voice
will speak to her lover
like a scarlet ribbon
around a gift that she meant to send him.
And you who judge these affairs
as mere rumours of the heart
will come to know
what longing means
when fact falls in love with art.
In the nameless realms of my mindlessness
there's a room that is waiting for everyone
to show up like a door.
And in the vastness of this mental state
their feet are the threshold and floor
of the last address
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poem by Patrick White
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