Daybreak at Postmodern


109

In the suburb of the absolute
I’m born a baby of silence
With the shrieks of the birds of creation

In my soul, I belong to burnt-out afternoons
Of love in being on a yellow star
In some green obscurity of history
I thought beyond portraits
Of will and admired the beauty

Of the known and unknown worlds
Nothing was alien, everyone
Was familiar, strangers like friends

In the bed of music I awoke
To time, and the immaculate extensions
Of how energy converses
Like sex or a transparency of union
With experience, identification became

A sort of mantra of immortal speech
I imagined how it was to be
Everything I saw, people, objects

Celestial events, I became more
Than a cell, greater than a self
I wanted to know what it was like
To live in a living temple
Of the bundle of all worlds

The ultimate expression of collective
Consciousness, wrapped in some cosmic radiance
I knew I would outlive cities, alphabets

And wander in forests, and visit stars
I would cease living in shadow
And remember lineage, descendant divinity
The instantaneous future that is
Everything, the identification
With all that has or will ever evolve.

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AGNES CECILE
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BRING ME THE SUNSET IN A CUP


6

i

My heart is empty of thee
With only the World in these arteries
My extinction’s date
Moves the blood of my will in me

ii

Subtract thyself, and what is left?
Eternity’s vast pockets of life
I shall not live in vain
Who knows if love can reach the Sun?
Or if it is the Sun that gently radiates all love?

iii

I have a heart made of light
Nicknamed by God to share this warmth
And since we’re mutual Consciousness
I am the Planet, her elements of Pain
I endure, her Infinite contains

iv

The recipes of Ancestors
Enlightenment of Descendants
My heart is thrilled with the Future
Further than Sunshine could reach
Each Species has a algorithmic Fate
Where we devour sunsets in cups.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-way2-455658256

Extract from the Shadow of Beloved Objects


25

The most beautiful and precious
Is the object that does not exist
Like the future wish of the halo of heroes
Or the ideal luminous and true

The most lasting and love-worthy
Is the object not within our grasp

Like the divinity of our descendents
Or the possibilities of space-travel

The study of objects is in the
Service of water, the refinement of light
Where Antigone once cradled her truth
The most beautiful is the object

Which does not exist, yet
Neither blindness or death can

Take away this object, this stream of love
Which does not exist, like the mark of God

Invisible on your placebo laden brow
The most beautiful of possessions
Is belonging, who negates our absences
And regrets, every mortal hearts know her

She swells like an ocean, beneath
The salty increase, the after-world paradise
Awaits like a vertical-horizon of angelic
murmurs, muttering, smatterings, smackings.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/M42-411487757