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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476991" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Trying To Shine To Blind The Voodoo Dolls</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Trying to shine to blind the voodoo dolls <br>sticking sharp pins of insight dipped in stinging nettles <br>into my eyes like burning thorns that won't wash out<br>even when the blue rose of the sky<br>puts her face in her hands and cries her heart out.<br>Made my Icarian ascent to the sun <br>like a kamikaze pilot in reverse trying to be positive <br>about the self-destructive aspirations <br>under my thawing wings, now <br>I'm trying to keep my balance on my spinal cord <br>stretched like a highwire suspension bridge<br>across an abyss that keeps expanding my insignificance <br>as I juggle planets with my feet I keep dropping <br>like my head in a guillotine made for mercy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want to say this is the dung-heap, this is the dogshit, <br>these are the maggots that thrive in the corruption of it<br>like toxicara worms that get in your eyes <br>and under your fingernails, and burrow <br>like small black holes through your heart <br>and let all the light out of your life like a slow leak <br>somewhere in the pipeline of the universe<br>that's fracking me inflammably like a watershed <br>and I'm trying so hard to snow all over it <br>with the highest ideals of understanding and compassion, <br>every mystically specific flake sidereally designed<br>to ameliorate the repulsive and obscene<br>by cloaking it in white like an albino hypocrite. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For light years I used to believe if you <br>threw flower seeds in it, you could work it <br>like starmud blooded by a battlefield of torn corpses <br>into a bumper crop of zinnias and sublimely poignant stargrass. <br>Marvellous transformations of an outhouse <br>into the lunar beauty of the nocturnal Taj Mahal<br>making the black mirror, like the lost sheep, more beautiful<br>in a universe where love and light and life so often seem <br>mere mutations of the darkness.<br> <br>Didn't really want to make an ideology of a wild guess, <br>that would only add to the mess of cultish concepts, <br>and not really born to sow stardust <br>into the ploughed wound of a worm, <br>nevertheless, I drew a gold sword <br>out of a philosopher's stone <br>and plunged it through the base metal of my heart<br>to suffer all those little deaths in life <br>and those liberating space twisting <br>indelible excruciations of cosmic transformation <br>that wrought this discipline of disobedience <br>I practise like an art into the absurd freedom <br>of the crazy wisdom that's needed to make <br>a start somewhere, somehow, however small <br>by adding my crystal skull to the shining <br>like the sacred syllable of a dropp of water <br>off the tongue of a silver leaf in the moonlight<br>that listens to it fall like a cross<br>between a good word and a tear on deaf ears below.<br> <br>So I throw flower seeds on it in passing, the way <br>I throw all my loose change into a guitar case<br>trying to sing for a living against the impossible odds <br>of a dungheap laid like the corrupt cornerstone of things, <br>the ship of state expurgating in public like a sick whale <br>spinning the Parisian potential for the screening myths <br>of expensive, narcotic fragrances of rot on the Perfume Trail.<br>Say it isn't so, Joe, but there you go, it is. <br>The terrorist oilwells are planting i.e.d.s <br>of inflammable water in the faucets of everyone's kitchen, <br>so we can all burn to death <br>drowning in our showers in the morning <br>trying to chill things out <br>with corporate hellfire and brimstone <br>and legions of demon lawyers that give lying a bad name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Been trying not to get so down I get <br>knocked off my axis like Neptune <br>ducking down below the celestial equator<br>and be dragged down into my own depths <br>by the snapping turtle of the world <br>that's founded upon it like a totem on a gantry. <br>Barring the occasional eclipse to keep <br>the calendars tuned to the prophecies of doom <br>ranged against the small beginnings of the new moon <br>that might squeak through the third eye of the needle <br>just like mammals did at the end of the late Triassic<br>as the insignificant consequence of a cosmic event<br>that upgraded scales to feathers and fur to skin<br>as wolves turned into whales. Creative destruction <br>evident in extinction and evolution the same.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I try to keep my spirits up like a lead kite <br>by approaching it all as if it were <br>delightfully and horrifically absurd spontaneously <br>but an unmeaningly free and creative medium nevertheless, <br>and even if it isn't etc., the most intriguing of delusions <br>it's taken me light years to adapt to<br>without sitting in perpetual judgement <br>on the immensity of the darkness<br>that intensifies the nebularity of my enlightenment <br>with starclusters of insights that flower <br>like a mirage of fireworks in my dazzled mind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even if it's no more than a flash of light out of the void <br>richocheting off the facet of a grain of sand, <br>or a firefly trying to stand up to the lightning, <br>or slim volume of igneous poems <br>wedged like a matchbook between tomes <br>like anthers of fire with phosphorus pollen <br>that will spread like wildflowers when it finally blooms<br>like foxfire in the ashes of an old growth forest. <br>Even to stand like a lighthouse on the moon, <br>having lost its sense of purpose, and yet, <br>still keep the fire in the tower burning as if <br>there might be a storm the way things change<br>and there could be a shipwreck, some nights <br>are so strange they're like waves or cats <br>that leave things like dead moles and snakes<br>on the threshold of the far shore of your door out of here, <br>I've tried to keep on shining like a candle <br>trying to stay awake at a black starless mass<br>trying to make things dark enough to make an appearance, <br>and even when I haven't managed it, <br>and all my shepherd moons are scattered like black sheep <br>by the snarling wolf of my mystically liberating nature, <br>suddenly showing up like the skull and crossbones <br>among the angel fleets grazing on the waves, <br>I've elevated waterlilies of constellations <br>that sat below the salt in the lowest place of all<br>to the zenith of my dreams like starmaps in transit<br>I've kept alight in a nightwatchman's eyes for years<br>as he makes the rounds of the zodiac <br>like a candle still burning in the lanterns of his tears.</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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sticking sharp pins of insight dipped in stinging nettles 
into my eyes like burning thorns that won't wash out
even when the blue rose of the sky
puts her face in her hands and cries her heart out.
Made ..."></div>
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