Borderlands II

                                                   We found these
                                                      secret entries
                           into darkness—

                   come on 
you’d barely notice
                                                        you’d hear it
          a horn
                   calling—

             the air
turned to mist


                      wind
funneled through
a chamber
                                   of dreams—the corridors
                       of where we met—where
                                          we are—

You can feel it breathing

these two tones together—


                        in
the middle of it—
                       

Like you struck a quartz

string in slow motion—                  dragged


                         it across a silver tube—
       

                                          Look—
                                                      there are the cracks
                                                                    in the fabric
                                                               of the known—

                              it
seeks to be kinetic—
(the gears of light
we tell when
and how
to function—)

                                                     The
resonance will find the living

membranes metallic—it waves


                 like it keeps coming

         from itself                             fades out into
                               the soft spots
                                                              of the tyranny
                                                              of matter—

Polyrhythmic AI
   assembling itself
sends messages—clicks
   out it’s matrix—ti
ny little box—

a living cube

                                      where did it all come from—

It doesn’t sequence
itself linearly—
                   it’s circular—
returning—can’t help
but want to follow it
                        echoing—driving away

                            to where forgotten days slumber—
           and the ones you can remember
keep changing—that’s where
                                                       we drop the sticks 
            start listening                                    downwind

              Where you exist
in the distance
                           of yourself—every note
       vibratos—some would wonder
                          why you have to bitcrush
          just to speak to me—I
                                   thought it was obvious
                        growing like a colony
                                 of bacteria in the appearance
                                                   of it’s sound—

                                                                   a gathering
                                        forming along a wheellike
                                                             axis—we knew
                                            what was coming—we’d
                                                   heard it all before—
                                                              yet it was new
                                        each time—

We used it
to line up
our existence
a sort of
divination—
it wasn’t magic—
it just was—

                 Where these
ancient hurts              dwell
              does the winding—
                                        dry spinning
               timbre of light                     know
                                           every inch
of your bones—

Ripples
upon ripples
intersecting—liquidlike

                the flower of light
         snaps back                              retracts—

                     The channels
accumulate                       precognitive
                          octaves
fold in and out            of the dark—
                 
droplets of water                with their own color
                          deciphered
by some light reflecting black in shadow—

Imagine hearing a soft piano
while drowning—or falling
backwards
in slow motion—for almost
seven minutes an eternity—
the freedom found
in surrender—



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38 thoughts on “Borderlands II

    1. pseudonymous Post author

      Gladly my good man—so this poem is nothing concrete like some of my others—I couldn’t give you a definition or true reason for those two words being there and going together—it’s pure reflection. What you take away from it is what it is—I should almost be asking you what those words meant to you—but I digress. I could stop there—But I like your style so I’ll keep going. Perhaps that bit alludes to how I’ve heard the song before I was listening to while writing—this piece largely stemming from a synesthetic musical transcription—could also allude to the precognitive nature of consciousness within the realm of phenomenology. Could be both and/or neither simultaneously.

      Reply
    2. pseudonymous Post author

      Another thing you might be interested in—this was heavily cut up from it’s raw form. Not traditional ‘cut up’ in the sense of Burroughs with his box of cards but I do a similar thing in my mind.

      Reply
    3. pseudonymous Post author

      I even just now found a different way of looking at it—when you get way out there like I tend to do—things—in their symphonic nature—seem to have been expecting you. Or the waves created by an instance can be dissected and reapplied to the mind no matter what frequency—or octave—history repeats itself even in waveforms. Take the expansion with a grain of salt. At the end of the day I’m just getting high and fondling language.

      Reply
      1. danielpaulmarshall

        getting high from fondling language or getting high then fondling it? i couldn’t write shit when i got high, was great at studying, but write either came out in pseudo-hieroglyphic runes translated into cuneiform or a series of lines & squiggles even the best of linguistic psychologists couldn’t make sense of.

        i feel a lot of Americans are into a sort of automatic writing, a sort of waiting for being washed over by something back beyond, from that ‘precognitive octave’. even Nabokov who is said to have mapped entire novels before writing them puts in John Shade’s final poem quite a substantial chunk of conjecture as to the source of the opening lines of any work come from in the poet, finally throwing his hands up & acquiescing to unconscious origins; which always led me to assume Nabokov was interested in it too, despite his supposed total apperception of things.

      2. pseudonymous Post author

        Ah you perceived it as unconscious! That’s quite fitting indeed. I really love your insight and commentary here my friend. It is so totally different from my own. It’s the contrast in our world I find the most value in I think. It helps to expand and refine ones mind in ways one never could imagine on one’s own.

        Now that you mention it though definitely both! But for someone like me getting high is getting normal. I just use the phrase because it sounds better. No two endocannabinoid systems are created alike! You get different effects with different compounds, and different synergistic entourages of compounds…and how everyone responds to them is unique. Like a signature. I got something lined up for the new moon tonight. Not sure how much writing I’ll get done…if any at all. O but the ideas… you never really know. Flashback to reading the patriot act on LSD the new years eve it was signed into “law”. I know I can already feel what I have yet to ingest though. Always a clear sign to me.

        I’m not familiar with your references. I’ve taken notes. I feel like I understand the gist of it, but have so much more to. Fiction is something I have been dabbling in for a few years now. I’ve yet to hit the vein with it like I have with poetry but hope to someday.

        Tom Robbins would work tirelessly to perfect the first sentences of his novels and then just improvise the whole thing on top of it 9-5 M-F. I always loved that. I couldn’t tell you where my first lines come from. They usually just surface like a sunfish from the unconscious yes. Jung’s writing on awakening to one’s true self and his work with the unconscious has been hugely influential on me and my writing though. The tesseraction has some very clear references. Beginning stanza is one. It’s different with this piece since it’s ‘cut up’ and had a base to work from. The rest was meta-alchemical.

  1. Iris

    This is outstanding. I love your style!

    These are some of my favorite sections:

    “some would wonder
    why you have to bitcrush
    just to speak to me”

    “does the winding—
    dry spinning
    timbre of light know
    every inch
    of your bones”

    “Imagine hearing a soft piano
    while drowning”

    Reply
  2. Pingback: the weather of samsara

      1. pseudonymous Post author

        O yes—when she tugs my waters starward—I’m sure the chalice leaks again. Now I sit empty—fulfilled—silent—like a drum that was tuned for ceremony that now cools into a shadow of a dream.

    1. pseudonymous Post author

      Reminds me of: ”dedicated to breaking the so-called natural laws of the universe foisted upon us by physicists, chemists, mathematicians, biologists and, above all, the monumental fraud of cause and effect” Kim Carson, The Western Lands by William Burroughs

      Reply
      1. Donna J Snyder

        Yes. Also, that we can’t fight the inevitable deterioration of our bodies, the cruelty of the aging process. There is no escape. We are at the mercy of our physical manifestations, to a great extent, despite every attempt to hold on to youth and desirability.

        I like to write about the “laws of the universe,” which change often.

  3. bushboy

    I enjoyed reading this poem. I also read it in a random fashion as well so the eye just flowed down the page. so I read for instance………..

    precognitive

    of the dark—

    with their own color

    reflecting black in shadow—

    The run of words could drop in and out of my conscious and still satisfy

    Reply

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