Of Screams and Dreams (for Marc Creamore)

A doleful sitar sings evening ragas through curling wood-smoke;
its bold coloured notes, borne of mother India, cry out their liquid pain
and limitless love in simultaneous ribbons of Ganges incantation.

Truthful, mystical notes of holy countenance emerge like beauteous butterflies
from orchestrated cocoons of Bamboo flutes, blowing hope above
mother earth’s dying rainforests and her draining river deltas,
uniting all within the ember graced serenity of your
diamond mind lagoon. 

And in Creamore words:
I see ancient temples of divine inspiration and spiritual direction lying strangled by the bubonic advance of ivy twined arms and the encroaching vines
of insolent, earthling indolence.

I see savage animals binding themselves to the sea-sick moorings of false dawns, sucking cold marrow from the loveless, tired and browning bones
of devious prophets – so reverent in our making,
still blinding the lustful eyes of our vacuous consumption.

I hear prairie wolves howling hoarse on winter’s bitter winds,
bitten raw by the bleached teeth of humanity’s turmoil
and the half-wit histeria of blissful,
fucking ignorance.

I see hope being purchased from dark cabal kiosks,
sold out by society’s captains relentlessly peddling
deception masks of democratic freedom amidst
ranks of clunkless Zippos and iPhone incredulity;
all deigned to dupe that machismo moment in most of us
and cast us into calamity cots of
boxed-up, boxed-in,
comfort.

Once more, I hear your words:
oh how the mighty ambassador of change
and the divine emissary of consciousness
speaks in an exemplary tongue, inveigling
the orchards of abandoned poets and invisible moons
with words so iridium clean, so platinum sharp, yet mellowed by mists
of velveteen melody that dance delicate upon the soul.
Words as calm as the dawn that pours a hopeful sun
on all that is, that was
and that perhaps, one day,
shall always be.

Your words
rain down as feathered bullets upon
the bone-dead skulls of bogus moguls,
masquerading as Rothschilds and rattle–sheik achievers
flying battle flags of inglorious exploitation
in universal fields of nature's waned resources.
I feel the crash and coil of weak and naked men
reverberating in bastard baths of fool’s gold
and a stone cold throne
called oil.

I hear your voice:
a dawn of words that breaks wisdom waves
upon our troubled shorelines
and bathes the eternal fires of human shame in flames
of soothing, scented-candles, infused to the core
with the elixir of consciousness ascending. 
A star field more of wisdom, breath and warmth;
expressing all violence and pain in beatific passages;
exposing the stark void of eternal horror and embracing the
misguided murders of our being
in arms that scream of nought
but love.

How we shall bathe in the peace of your boundless hope
and rile with you at the gates of a million media-fuelled montages.
How we shall rally with you against false state imperatives
and impervious infections that jackal bark
godbluff and superficial bluster
at the multitude not listening.

I watch your brittle fingers crush strains of scent from
a billion bruised petals of history’s wild magnolias
and
smell the senseless perfumes
of trickery dressed as Kings. 

I hear the resonant notes of Indian flutes calling me
from the dust-bowl of my
mind.

How I drink your words and steal your light
and, as I crawl from the rubble of human hopelessness
to walk manipulated pathways of divine evolution,
I know at last
that there really is a god.

My god is called love

and fools shall dress it in white flowing robes,
hang a grey beard upon its face
and worship it with devout armies that suffocate all reason.
                         
                              . . .


I hear again those sorrow songs
in the screaming of their whispers 
in the soft undertow of a drowning ocean
in the rustling leaves of Himalayan forest
in the melting snows of dissonant permafrost
and in the iron heart of irrepressible ignorance.

They are the songs of poet dreams

close your butchered eyes
and listen.