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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476593" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Get These Golden Nets, These Chains, Off Me</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Get these golden nets, these chains, off me, <br>these dreamcatchers, cobwebs, suspension bridges<br>swaying like sticky spinal cords across the shoreless abyss. <br>I'm smothering under these pillows of sunset <br>you keep pushing in my face to soften <br>the impact of my meteoric heart <br>trying to induce a new species<br>out of my own extinction<br>that might accord me a retroactive purpose <br>for having lived like a root <br>in the dirt of their flowering. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">More compassion spent on lies <br>than truths, the sun might come up <br>in the morning and pour honey <br>all over its head like bees in the dawn, <br>but it isn't the same for active volcanoes. <br>Half the world waiting to receive <br>what the other half wants to take from them, <br>via positiva, via negativa, sure <br>all roads lead to Rome eventually <br>like most rivers make the sea<br>but haven't you noticed the mystic path <br>is cobbled like a calendar with the lunar skulls<br>of birds and gurus all along the way<br>who mistook the windows of opportunity<br>in their third eye, for the real sky up ahead? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know you believe time heals all things, <br>and day after day, this implacable pace <br>can be construed as some kind of advance, <br>and even the dust on the windowsill <br>will be redeemed as the pollen of windblown stars, <br>if someone would only give love a fighting chance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">May it be so, sweet one, but life isn't <br>the agenda of the blossoms, it's in <br>the corporate boardrooms of the roots <br>trying to put a good spin on death <br>like the propaganda of decay. But even <br>castigation has lost its joy in life<br>and the sages that might have saved us <br>yesterday, are muttering like madmen to themselves <br>in murderous alleys that end <br>in cul de sacs of laughing children<br>without any idea of how absurd <br>it really all is for them as well as the homeless <br>they stab in the back in their sleep<br>for ratting life out like the black plague of their dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even if I had no legs, I wouldn't want to spend <br>the twenty or less autumns and springs of life <br>I have left, if that, walking on water with golden crutches<br>like the principles of the dilemma I stand on, <br>I stole like oars from a lifeboat on a shipwreck<br>that had no more use for hope. I don't <br>want to cook the books of my cosmic home recipes <br>and make a diet a messianic way of life <br>that greets the moneylenders at the door of the temple <br>and feeds the people the tongues of doves. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was born into life raw as a new wound. <br>The same insights that touched your eyes like fireflies <br>were runically striated across mine <br>by surgical glaciers without any anaesthetic.<br>A street gang flashing its smile<br>like an iconic switchblade of moonlight<br>trying to leave its mark on life like scar tissue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've seen diamonds on the fingers of adamantine saints <br>turn back into infernal coal bins of ungratified desire <br>as soon as someone blew the candles out like photo-ops.<br>I'm wary of good people these days.<br>I've mythically inflated the illusion of my isolation <br>up into a rogue planet of habitable solitude<br>where nothing's ever wrong or right <br>but endlessly intriguing in an interstitial kind of way <br>like a fish that swam out of the sea <br>or a bird that flew out of the sky<br>to adapt myself to the inchoate spaciousness <br>of a new medium of transformational events. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've jumped the synaptic gap <br>between the earth and the heavens, <br>like the sound of one hand clapping <br>at its own performance, the sonic boom <br>that ruptures the eardrum of the sky <br>like a clown shot out of a cannon<br>without a safety net to disqualify the risk. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whether I'm Zen duelling in the snake pit of the Id, <br>or studying the logic of the lightning <br>in the mirrors of prima donnas putting on their make-up, <br>to let the trees in the open fields know <br>where it's going to strike their nervous systems next, <br>I don't cling to things like a bat in the burdock<br>or a monk enduring the earthly ordeals <br>of his immaculate detachment like spiritual velcro. <br>I live in a world without handles, where the atoms <br>free associate into elements of their own choosing <br>and base metal can as easily be seen <br>as the grey dawn of gold, rather than<br>the long, hard discipline of learning how to be <br>self-destructive creatively and calling it a sacrifice<br>to the new moon on the altars of occult learning.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't sail my poems down river like <br>paper-mache swans in a labyrinth of locks <br>trying to make their way gracefully to the sea <br>without waiting for a gate to swing open <br>like a crane on a backwater loading dock. <br>I shed them like the blossoms of the moon on a lake.<br>I can't dance to engineered versions of this lunar ballet <br>that can't walk on water without <br>feeling vertiginously out of its depths <br>whenever the road leads through a black hole <br>like the easiest way around the mountain of the world. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Slavic enough to take the whole burden <br>of the integrity of pain upon myself <br>as one of the eventualities of suffering <br>it's as crucial to live through as it is not to, <br>I still reserve the right to shake my fist at the sky <br>like an extra gang railroad lineman <br>at four every afternoon before I fling a shovel <br>like an inkwell at the decapitated sun, <br>all the fruits of my labour you shall know me by<br>surrealistically Sisyphean as the tracks I'm laying <br>keep on decoupling my thought trains in the wilderness<br>as if this were as good a place as any to jump off.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476593" data-title="Get These Golden Nets, These Chains, Off Me de Patrick White" data-description="Get these golden nets, these chains, off me, 
these dreamcatchers, cobwebs, suspension bridges
swaying like sticky spinal cords across the shoreless abyss. 
I'm smothering under these pillows of sunset 
you keep pushing in my face to soften 
the i..."></div>
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