Trying To Shine To Blind The Voodoo Dolls
Trying to shine to blind the voodoo dolls
sticking sharp pins of insight dipped in stinging nettles
into my eyes like burning thorns that won't wash out
even when the blue rose of the sky
puts her face in her hands and cries her heart out.
Made my Icarian ascent to the sun
like a kamikaze pilot in reverse trying to be positive
about the self-destructive aspirations
under my thawing wings, now
I'm trying to keep my balance on my spinal cord
stretched like a highwire suspension bridge
across an abyss that keeps expanding my insignificance
as I juggle planets with my feet I keep dropping
like my head in a guillotine made for mercy.
I want to say this is the dung-heap, this is the dogshit,
these are the maggots that thrive in the corruption of it
like toxicara worms that get in your eyes
and under your fingernails, and burrow
like small black holes through your heart
and let all the light out of your life like a slow leak
somewhere in the pipeline of the universe
that's fracking me inflammably like a watershed
and I'm trying so hard to snow all over it
with the highest ideals of understanding and compassion,
every mystically specific flake sidereally designed
to ameliorate the repulsive and obscene
by cloaking it in white like an albino hypocrite.
For light years I used to believe if you
threw flower seeds in it, you could work it
like starmud blooded by a battlefield of torn corpses
into a bumper crop of zinnias and sublimely poignant stargrass.
Marvellous transformations of an outhouse
into the lunar beauty of the nocturnal Taj Mahal
making the black mirror, like the lost sheep, more beautiful
in a universe where love and light and life so often seem
mere mutations of the darkness.
Didn't really want to make an ideology of a wild guess,
that would only add to the mess of cultish concepts,
and not really born to sow stardust
into the ploughed wound of a worm,
nevertheless, I drew a gold sword
out of a philosopher's stone
and plunged it through the base metal of my heart
to suffer all those little deaths in life
and those liberating space twisting
indelible excruciations of cosmic transformation
that wrought this discipline of disobedience
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poem by Patrick White
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