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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477045" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Won't Mean Much If Your Eyes Aren't Open In Your Blood</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Won't mean much if your eyes aren't open in your blood. <br>If the stars can't see you because you don't know how <br>to read them poetry in the small cafes of your heart <br>accompanied by spoons and plates and broken goblets <br>of the cheap house wine that smash just like love affairs <br>dashing your skull against the rocks, hoping the mermaids come back. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you can't hear in the parking lot of a raucous industry<br>the colours of your emotions, you're a deaf chameleon <br>and who could make you listen to what you can't listen to<br>even if you had enough people who loved you around you <br>to want you to try to listen to your own tears when you cry? <br>Your ear on the same wavelength as a corrugated tin roof, <br>maybe you can see what I'm trying to say to you <br>if you close your eyes, and just listen to the rain without<br>trying too hard to make a big effortless effort to be <br>auditorily enlightened by the racket of your delusions.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can't remember when my life stopped being my own <br>and I went to bed one night, and I was as human as my toes are<br>and I awoke, I was merely the afterbirth of a visionary <br>I didn't recognize, as my eyes were being igneously wrung <br>from a cope of dark ore like stars out of the distant hills.<br>Not a lot of self-respect from the beginning, maybe <br>it wasn't that hard becoming everyone and everything else, <br>and I was a prime candidate for effacement<br>but when I looked into the mirror of my<br>ten inch, equatorially mounted, clock-driven, reflecting telescope <br>I used like a canning jar to capture and mount stars and fireflies <br>on a black velvet starmap, all I could see <br>was this abyss staring back at me that couldn't say <br>where I'd gone, but the last I thought I heard <br>was that I got a job as a janitor in an hourglass <br>sweeping mirages out of a desert of private school stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I say what I see as it occurs to me spontaneously. <br>And I'm compelled to say it without hesitation <br>so the vision isn't tainted by the colour of the jewel <br>it's passing through, from one eye to the next, ad infinitum. <br>No light pollution in the shining, though there's something <br>about the idea of purity that continues to appal me <br>because I never had so much against chaos from the beginning <br>and I sense a deep hatred of all that is soiled and flawed, <br>in which case, I'd rather be an outlaw than one of these monks <br>who disdain me because I can't help seeing their discipline<br>as uncreatively redundant. Eventually, if they're blessed, <br>all our faces are going to fall off by themselves <br>like the scabs of sunspots that healed the wounded light<br>like a wildflower shedding its petals like nurses' caps <br>and deathmasks frozen like a moment in time meant <br>to last forever though we go on being estranged by them forever. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Uncanny transformations of the solid into the real. <br>Maybe it's time to let the mindstream flow as it will <br>and let the burning bridges of our delusions cross us for a change <br>to get to the other side of a life that's only got one bank <br>and it's as clear as space, we're not even standing on that. <br>Hang on. Let go. It's just your hand opening and closing <br>like a door in a dream, and you'll find your falling <br>just as fast as you ever were and if you were to ask your eyes <br>they couldn't tell in this vastness whether your were falling up or down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you've dismantled all you've desired, <br>post neo-deconstructionism sets in like spiritual rigor mortis <br>and you can't tell if you're sleeping with the living or the dead<br>when you haven't got your mask on. You can wear holes <br>in your shoes, and windows and carpets, pacing <br>like a waterclock of the heart in an hourglass of waiting <br>like a boy at the edge of the curb with his elbows on his knees <br>and his face in his glum hands, waiting for a parade <br>with sacred clowns throwing away free candies<br>like stars along the route of the mystic Milky Way. <br>Just be sure to keep your eyes open like a spring thaw <br>so the light can recognize you like the flower that brought it <br>to full illumination this time last year like a candle <br>that keeps blowing its petals out so you can see <br>the black matter of what you are not deeper<br>into the eyeless dark than you've ever bloomed before.</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=477045" data-title="Won't Mean Much If Your Eyes Aren't Open In Your Blood de Patrick White" data-description="Won't mean much if your eyes aren't open in your blood. 
If the stars can't see you because you don't know how 
to read them poetry in the small cafes of your heart 
accompanied by spoons and plates and broken goblets 
of the cheap house wine that..."></div>
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