Samsarame

An ancient language
Unspoken in any church
Or shouted in an alley
Puts my intellect to shame
Pricking my finger
I bleed in this place
Trying to paint my name
Onto my statue
Some kind of expectation
Some kind of extraordinary
Pleasure seemed to hunt me
Chasing me back into time
When Sanskrit was the poets rhyme
A simple Samadhi
In another place and time
Something secret I am about to hear
But my dear
I am all alone in here
Smiling like my consciousness has left my body
Fingering my flesh
It perishes
For I have no more wine
Do I have to have it?
my cellestial organ
thrums
hums in my ears
building pressure my dear
counting the beats inside the outside
of this hollow
what of it have I ever been sane
babbling like a brook
I roll my tongue with a snap
And clench my mouth
Slowing down the pulsating rise
Of the river raging inside
I gotta have it
My last day in the sun
Bathing in the river
Drinking every last drop
Choking on the muck
Trying to calm this ruckus
Trying to slow down
But I am too afraid
It’s too hard to understand
What has been written in an ancient language
And I have no one to read to me
To teach me about this ride
Alongside my shadow
That tries to leave me
Cause it hates me
Hates the absorption of my ego child
Saturating my oneness
And all of my issues
Reminding me that I hate the early morning
And its sounds
Especially on this Sunday
For I have no mother
No father
All I have left is this mouth that grazes
On the scorched meadows
Especially on this Sunday
Cause I don’t belive in time
Or its senseles capture of my mind
Bleeding backwards
I rewind
Walking in circles
Playing out the days of my life
Counting the notches on the headboard
Left behind from my flailing dreaming
Leave me in somewhere
A graveyard somwhere like a drive-in theatre
That collapsed in the coming crisis
Of the plastic flowers that never die
A simple duality
Curing any kind of anxious
Mescaline memory
That has been said to open
Hidden portals
To a higher plane
But here I am left to dangle on the edge of the
Temple
Waiting for the monks
To return
And cast it all out
Marching I want to hear them shout
And do it with some matches and gasoline
Maybe then we can speak
Meeting up with our ghosts
Tipping our hands
In a greeting
Then maybe I can understand that ancient language
And no longer cry in the dark
Shadow of my statue
And it wont be bronzed
It will fade just like this dream
Cause I know everybody has one
And its just like mine
My scalpel dies with my skin
And I cant take my blood with me
It’s all the same in the end
Feel I
Feel I feel
Free
Samsarame
Samsarame
Samsarame

~ by beingjohnsweet on September 25, 2008.