I have forsaken words,
forgotten feelings,
thriving in the speed of time –
the muses of these millennia
only favour bees, and yet
intuition strikes, the anvil churns,
and all that once was true to me
returns like frayed and burning cloth
a dead volcano swept away.

flow is a state of cosmic oneness,
its presence known when all is lost.
a harmony of mind and feeling
growing into twisted shapes,
because where else could it land
but in the hands of tyrants?
tis’ a privilege of unburdened bees.
explain the pros and cons to those
trapped in fearful symmetries.

style is form, a stylish state
experience reveals to the hungry bee.
pickle the fruits and honey, quick,
splurge them on the yearning.
the tyrants are coming, they always have.
they’ve always been in every one
with eyes and hands of supreme nature
like you, me, and the giants of lyrical poetry.
they’re all dead, you know. your idols, parents,
children and lovers. we all go alone
into the churning void.

life began in still water
the sun chose to evaporate,
and your ancestor, the lizard,
emerged like the world from nothingness.
here we are, perplexed
by the daily bread of everyday,
surfing the surface and deafly dancing
to unending rhythms below.

but there are moments
when you feel the sublime ultimate.
they would have you forget and kill
every harmony of flow and state.
bee up, double down, and thrive
in the speed of time,
no matter where poets take you,
always wake on time.

it’s so easy being raw. just draw a card,
ignore the pamphlet, and let your supreme nature shine.
all the times in eternity, like connected dots
take being from vibration.
drop the ball and watch it stop –
it never stops, you just cannot see
the state of flow it achieved on its own
or perhaps helped by the unknown.
there’s things noone can see –
like your dreams of what could be,
yet every day brings an ecstasy
withdrawal from the scenes of bees recognizing beauty..!

how liberating is the recognition
of impermanence of every state?
that a train of thought can disrepair
the cobwebs in one’s intuition
gives hope to every poet.

I have nothing more to learn.
I have already read your critique
and your words do not speak to me.
sit down and listen to this ancient madman
respect infinity.

I have seen your visions and every dream
to make the world a better place.
all and none were poetry.
I have been to every planet
in every potential history.
there is a reason I choose to speak
in this twisted tongue symmetry.
I have read the scripts for society
by the great experts in maya.
only clarity can rival our primal need
to desire more dots to connect,
more planets to see and destroy
tools to building vanity.
old souls die young
and tyrants cannot ever die –
the tautologies of vying cause the
paradox of constant dying.

I have overgrown your schemes and frameworks.
words are useless and not reality.
there is a wisdom in understanding me
and letting your world fall apart.
wisdom aged like marble on a pliant tree
whose bark in silver shards reflects
upon the tree’s most gleaming leaves,
the bee inside you cannot see.

there is so much to say, and so little time,
so little space to project my mind.
I’ve long dreamt of times like these –
unburdened, singing with ease
for the sake of joy. the churning anvil
screams at me: express the worlds that cannot be!
lyrical wisdom and golden hue
a pineal gland owner must interview.
the dialled mind freed of tunnel vision
explodes the artificial ceilings,
transcends all axes in the blink of an eye
and concentrates all space and time
to prime its inspiration.

the drug craving is you
returning to the ecstatic void
of before and after.
life becomes of bliss, hence the suffering,
hence the bliss of crossing styx,
escaping the paperweight of consciousness.
hence all the questions on life’s purpose,
seeking to glimpse the lines with clear, bee eyes.
but the craving is the same —
verticalist tree-climbing animals call it getting high.
same as the craving to die, to reunite with the godhead ultimate,
to become the world and mind-feelings of a death-spiralling soul,
to become the textural experience of unending ecstasy.
dopamine circuits too are modelled on the invisible lines
that churned out galaxies, economics, and the myriad.

nostalgia unravels with the speed of time
as inspiration rains upon the myriad things
optics shift like fractal planes
with only you at the centre.
in our dualist realm death is life
and dynamism staticity,
life dialectics, death paralysis,
yet decentered the deity shrines
collect the shining light of time,
of life in death and infinite energy
pouring upon the myriad things.

ideas are frail, far from immortal
– it is energy, will and intent
that put them into beings,
hands and minds in pain.
visions come and go, ideas change
faster than the youngest creature.
the spirit inspires equally,
yet there are dissonances among the myriad things.

and then you see yourself again,
doing the same things, content
with the inspiration granted, changed
by its form of styling content,
inspired to change the myriad things.
the world transforms upon your gaze,
your centre gazes upon your transformation
keen to be touched by divine inspiration.
observing its event horizon’s ethereal glaze
in consummating the clandestine DMT trip of death
and becoming the action of inspiration in holy death,
all flesh returns to the ether.

the swirlings of memory, potential, lores and realms,
in time like lightning needles inject
into wet, conductive walnuts that bigly bang out
the seeing of the world, inspired to reinforce gods and holy spirits
of millennias passed back into the present day.
muses rape us into speaking up how
the kombucha of the soul sees and feels about the myriad
it so claims to create without participating.
they force us to accept the reality of transcendence
and testify against worshippers of endings,
and oh, we love them unto death for the realities shown
for art imitates art.

chiseling square petals from stone
for the aesthetic sake
hoping to bestow the soul with cringe
to blow apart what constitutes sin,
reemerging free of data lakes.

vanity jades never pay off
the debt incurred from opacity
to sour guilt from times before.
the yellow liquid comes out,
bruising the venal routes it takes.
the sense moves upwards into the head
and all that’s left is putting it down.
putting down the pain of truth
unseen upon construction.
they who first seemed potential
then turn into an awkward place
where truths are told at half-glance,
a deadly parlance to say the truth.
too many words say too little, 
I know you know as times go by.
too soon is better than too late
to turn around the twists of fate
in human feelings of the mind.

where’s the joy in being down
when the one and gods bestow
the soul with grace for a mere nod.
there, residing upon your crown
shared by all, if differently,
the right words can constellate
and dawn upon your fear and hate,
rejection, guilt, and other ballast
merged into your architecture,
but it was you who waved them off.
will them now out of your being
inspired by the ultimate, 
as white light fills the night inside
bringing you back to reality.