veils of perception.. part 1

one idea that prys into this echelon is that of the wardrobe or closet.
John Locke C17 suggested human understanding is like " a closet wholly shut from light, with only some little openings left, to let in external visible resemblances, or ideas of things without".


to be continued..

ode to socrates' last hours.

that roaming quest; the
stumbling through a dejavu
dimension; what is this new
recollection, morphing in
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it's shapes and sizes. it's Form's;
that when born sparkle in
Reality's spectrum, like some
celestial symphony, or Nature's
--------------------------------
chorus in fierce harmony;
slowly lose their appeal.. Time
builds itself slowly with battlements
and turrets, the clocks unending
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rotation like circling vultures:
poised; hours in linear
infinity like some relentless
march. and that deepest
--------------------------------
Fear. when the heart pounds
it's last, the cerebral frenzy
ceases it's functions. the Ultimate
Fear. the shaman's nemesis,
--------------------------------
the beast of the wilderness,
with it's fierce Roar. Then
perceptions doors glide open. The
Cave's darkness no longer
--------------------------------
corrupts sight: the slits in the
wardrobes exterior are
smashed with colossal outburst,
Energy's eflux, the atom's crux..
--------------------------------
into the open, the emancipation
of dimensions, where Idea's are
explicitly apparent. Absolutes
govern like a superorgansisms
--------------------------------
invisible hand. the pointing
fingers amongst this cosmic flow
no longer loom in paradoxical
scents, the nose is long gone!
--------------------------------
synthesis replaces sensation.
the imagination is
as-it-once-was.
existence seems to add a
--------------------------------
burden of transience, make the load
heavier: whilst rivers
thunder and the Sun's splendour
crafts shards of beauty
--------------------------------
in Nature's delightful
outburst.. The Thirst
unquenching, venturing into
Potential's glorious infinitum.
--------------------------------
yet confined to a set
of time. the mind ever relapses.
forgets from whence it came,
engendering it's own demise.
--------------------------------
the spiralling pit: bottomless.
thought with light at the
end of the tunnel. the
apparent omnipresent dawning..

fate poses it's paths.. is
the route decided? it
seems Decision's turbulence
warrants the contrary; but
the bleary future is
as clear as the now....

tomorow never knows...

frantic and furious
thoughts, streaming
consciousness of fanciful
whim, yet in rapid

fluctuation: unpredictable
in immediate comportement,
yet its outcomes, its
transience: a vivid annoyance

dicing with death, to
be drastic, but these
seismic trips and
acidic furore are

a nice glitch, a key of
mysterious locks, some
adrenal crutch, a flux
for reality, elbow grease

for the mind. with
setting and set components,
rush can be potent
amongst the beating waves,

violent sea's: the minds
spree, disassociative but
pertinent, perhaps spiritual,
or just whimsical, the

mind talks: freely,
beyond mother tounge,
thoughts run through
cosmic expanse, dancing

happily, Realitys beauty
magnifies and morphs,
psychadelic deas, under
tinted blaze, glorious day

enthuses intellect,
thoughts collect from far and wide en masse.
yet microcosmic.
the jungle of experience

roars at my face, embracing
the light and wind, with
soothing sea to cleanse
taut muscules. time
unendin. light refracts in rainbow complexity.
melting into reality and the virtual
is apparent. the whirlpool of experience.

philosophy: occams razor

occams razor:
it is basically 'keeping it simple'.
the idea was developed in the 1300's by a philosopher called William Occam, and the image of a razor was used to portray the trimming of unnecessary excess.

where the simplest most logical answer is appropriate, but this is far from always appropriate.

a poem on poetry

sentence wrought in iron,
words erupt in rainbow
complexion, the enigma of
lexis is even in metamorphisis,

better thoughts exist in greener
pastures. But the land treaded
is always patchy: itches and
rashes popping up and

multiplying in volume, those
inklings that erupt ... where
lies the corruption of this
spree? Through writ and

learning? Or through head-long
-charge into the
abyss? ~ ~ ~
That Goddess, Literature. Her

tender kiss and delicate
hands, to lead wanderers
into the Imagination,
mysterious eyes: no iris

to point just swirling white
star like light. Seeing but
not looking, her turquoise
skin, now a diamond hue

eyes transformed t'an orange
glow. Travelling through
paradise: time and
space not her dimensions,

so wheres the need for
convention? Retaining skills,
combing with tooth-picks
~ ~ something's unfixed.