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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476836" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>PsychoBabylon Wouldn't Trade One Real Star</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">PsychoBabylon wouldn't trade one real star of his implausibility in <br>for the smallest flake of that tinfoil spiritual life you're passing off <br>as an iron pyrite cure all. PsychoBabylon knows the serenity of the dragons<br>who've learned to make peace with their own fires<br>even when they're bringing the rain to temper the swords <br>they forged in hell to kill people back into life<br>who've stuffed their pillows with too many feathers <br>and not enough scales to be credible even to the shadows they cast, <br>not to speak of the torment they put their dreams through <br>trying to divine and sign them like a message from the dead<br>for their eyes only. PsychoBabylon suppley practises<br>a discipline of subtle tenderness and recurrent doubt<br>in the face of his ambiguous revelations of what it's all about. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">PsychoBabylon might tilt at the hull with the mast of his moonboat <br>from time to time, thinking he's whaling with the Kwakiutl, <br>but he doesn't turn his lions loose on the blackflies of insinuation <br>knowing their prowess depends as much upon <br>the quality of their enemies as it does their friends.<br>And surely it's the folly of flowers and stars that have led him <br>to certain incongruous conclusions about life that constitute <br>enough of a starmap of independence to go his own way <br>like a rogue planet sustained by the dark abundance <br>of his own homelessness as if every orbit he jumped <br>like the looping threshold of the mystery of life discharged <br>another photon of light on the black matter of space and time at hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">PsychoBabylon would rather light candles and fireflies in the abyss<br>with his incendiary insights than blow them out <br>with the kiss of a fraudulent angel who traded her harp in <br>for a fire-extinguisher foaming at the mouth like a rabid cloud <br>to smother the protected species of hell in the first snowfall <br>of a nuclear winter. PsychoBabylon doesn't demonize <br>the third man on the match for smoking in No Man's Land <br>in front of a firing squad looking for scapegoats as a way <br>out of the irreconcilable dilemmas that keep breaking them <br>like wishbones and the horns of the lapis lazuli bull harps <br>strung between the crescents of the moon like spider webs <br>disguised as dreamcatchers apprenticed to Venus fly traps. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sick people go to hospital. Bad people go to church. <br>PsychoBabylon heads out to the woods by himself with a noose <br>as often as he does a telescope. He risks a wary kindness <br>toward everything he sees, and even more excruciatingly <br>he doesn't replace the thorns of the wild rose bush<br>with the fangs of the rattlesnake coiled under it <br>that struck him in his throat in the middle of a song of longing <br>like a rat snake in the nest of a nightbird whose blood <br>has just turned to moon rock in a transfusion of toxins <br>to counteract the mystic elixirs of his enlightened lunacy. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you can't hold the prophetic skull of the moon <br>in your own two hands by now, without fretting it <br>into foretelling a lie, PsychoBabylon blues his view of you <br>in the aerial perspective of his compassionate distance <br>as the victim of your own siege works when you're the first <br>to start throwing stones at the windows of your own crystal palace<br>because where there used to be chandeliers of stars<br>radiant enough to open up the chakras of the dead <br>now there's nothing but a mobile of swords above your head<br>and all the tongues of serpent fire you split like cedar shakes<br>to go witching for enlightenment in your celestial watershed<br>are now swimming on a different wavelength like a holy book <br>someone read in passing, and like a folder of soggy matches<br>that smouldered, but never flared, threw into a cosmic ditch<br>along with the angelic road kill and the rest of the spiritual junkmail.</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=476836" data-title="PsychoBabylon Wouldn't Trade One Real Star de Patrick White" data-description="PsychoBabylon wouldn't trade one real star of his implausibility in 
for the smallest flake of that tinfoil spiritual life you're passing off 
as an iron pyrite cure all. PsychoBabylon knows the serenity of the dragons
who've learned to make peace..."></div>
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