renaissance

serve me up
like food

spoon up the substance
of my flesh and blood
and drink my marrow

take the offering of my life,
all my love,
all my precious youth
and the few fleeting moments
we've been given. . .

while we are here together
take it all

repay me only with your scorn
and curse me with your contempt
call me a fool
ridicule me in front of my closest friends,
because i loved you in my foolish way
laugh at my pain
and all the bitter tears
i shed in silence and solitude for you. . .
all the while i pray for your redemption
and the dawning of your awareness,

for this gift
desecrate even my memory
and defile my remains. . .

in the morning i will be born again
from the dung heap
a beautiful innocent youth
free of guile, pride, and deceit

and i will give my life for you again
without a moment's hesitation
. . .

copyright Peter Asher Watts 2011

holy wine

blood of prophets is the wine,
in time entwined between the lines

the sacramental
soul of earth
fermented spirit
breathes at birth

upon the lips
of dervish mouths
which twirl and build
galactic fount

from the spilling grace
like grain
they cast upon the fertile plain

seeding stars
and spheric worlds
as the scroll is now unfurled

as a planet spiral winds
the beating stellar heart
inclines

the valley etched with gravity
falling feeling ever free
but following one destiny

engraved and etched
in aether's skin
the imprint of the god within.
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2011

epistolary for the old gods

within a grand crystalline circuit

with electric tendrils of plasma

stretched across timeless motionless void

here and there accretions

of molten metal

of ice and gas

and surface islands

among grand swirling clouds

and canopies

of living cable

that hold the soil down

in a net of rhizomes

erecting mineral statues

and viaducts for living water

sap and oil

grand cites for the arthropods

and avians alike

so with a gnarled bit of deadfall

he entwines the finest bit of volcanic silica

with the sinews of a fallen beast

and the various mineral bones of the earth

an array for coalescent gossamer from the aethyrs

and to his eyes

the leaves gleam

even at night with the blood of dryads pulsing flow

and in his most fevered nightmare

he dreams of us

with our radioactive handsets

chattering through the ionosphere

the most vapid miasma of misinformation

clogging the noosphere like a fearsome clot

but he is comforted to be greeted

by another psychonaut

far away with a frame drum

and a bit of fire

to carry his chanting to the auroral

signal from the heart of the galaxy

so the gap is bridged
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2010

reflux

a jagged tear
in this gossamer
thin membrane

which will not seem to open
gracefully, subtly,
on its own

now it is rent with sudden force
like a torn envelope,
it releases it's contents--
saltwater, red with iron

so they may return to the ocean,
the menstrum from which they arose,
and the sky,
the vapors from which they condensed

and at last the crystalline aggregates
can dissociate again
free from life's bondage
and the structures it imposes

possible

impossible dreams
impossible scenes
i weave with inner eyelid beams

imagining a future time
when beloved souls entwine
with the essence
seed within

when former strangers
become kin.

the  mystery,
the soul conjuct

dichotomies become defunkt.

no "I" nor "Thee"
but only we

twin strands spliced
infinity

is what i see
in fevered dreams

then wake and try to map the means
to reach you where your soul resides

beyond the reach
of changing tides.

wake and try to chart the notes
of novel spells not sung by rote

the living melody, create
which soon attunes
and resonates.

in consonance we share one voice.

impossible
once held me still
resisted  all exerted will

but now, grown strong,
the will can  mold
impossibilities most bold

before your eyes
beneath your feet
the future path will rise to meet

the footsteps of the fool who dares
to leave behind all mortal cares.
abandon name and fame and pride

where cautious trudge
the madman glides
unencumbered with the thought
that law and fate the world have wrought.

the world is truly forged by mind
'impossible' i've left behind

in favor of the lover's urge--
to paint a universe with words
and visions fair
which may yet be.

it's possible you may be free.

so i will woo
and tempt and pry
until i've lost all trace of I

. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2011

soul invictus

as if you could break this,
ridicule and mistake this
for one micron less than time-refined straight bliss,

through eons forged
in the furnace of sun's cores
never diminished by venomous scorn,

not once deterred by your profane contempt,
propagated in deserts, like afghani's hemp,
in all of the places you disdain to search
the outcast who harvests from heaven and earth

the immortal nectar,
pure as starlight,
pulled from what you thought was barbarous night

climbing, entwining with etheric veins
beyond what you reckon--material claims,
from the abyss to the womb of all suns.
feeding on thistles, and all that you shun,
assembling from refuse the crystalline stair
that takes one beyond dialectic compare.

between one and zero,
your yes and your no,
is where soul can thrive
on the lucid unknown.

while you categorize,
weigh, rank and compare,
i'm here, busy feeding on ionized air

and tasting a bliss you may never know.

so berate me and judge me,
if this is your aim.
disassemble my form,
make a curse of my name

as if it protects you
by contrast, deride. . .
and see if it alters
my epoch-long strides.

and as you regress, clinging tight to your shell,
your name, fame, and pride, you will forge your own hell.
within these projections you may yet reside,
denying whatever you wish you could hide.

when, at long last, you've exhausted this way,
i'll give you the keys to the dawn of true day,
which is also the crack in your persona's face
revealing your form to be vacuous space.

if you see that this love is the light that will fill
the outcast you scorned will offer it still--
a measure per day you reject and resist,
for each vessel opened, a surfeit of bliss
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2011

wine of the mystic

intoxicating
to bathe in your radiant presence

even the memory
or the thought of you
sets me spinning inside

and if anyone is watching,
i have to catch myself.

if not, i just reel in it
revel in it,
like the irresistible gravity of flight
one feels, although only diving. . .

now i know i am only diving,
but on the whole i do not care.
i am busy glorying in it.

the only thing that gives even a moment's pause
is wondering how i appear to others,
in these moments.

they surely think me mad,
foolish, a nuisance,
or a pity.

it is only for their sake i ever attempt to appear quiet or reserved.
on my own time i am singing your name,
even in my silence,
and enraptured. . .
in the heady swoon of love

it sure looks like being drunk,
heedless of everything beyond this moment.

the best i can do
by way of consideration
is to beg your indulgence. . .
because i am not going to change;
this feeling is not going to wane one bit.

though i pity you, who can never know such intoxication,
i am not going to waste one moment of it
trying to explain or justify.

it's a pity you will never taste the fruit of this infinite longing,
which is infinite satisfaction.
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2011

votive

perhaps some future archaeologist

will find them

these fragments,

time-worn offerings

for a goddess

who looks different to each beholder

all the women praying

to concieve

or to win love

or to keep the love they had

men praying

to catch the eye of some beloved. . .

and from the scholar's point of view

i can't imagine that my offerings

would stand out. . .

except perhaps in sheer number

but from within i feel they are different

since i am not asking for any boon

or prize

i tell myself instead

that i am somehow feeding

and strengthening the faculty of Love itself,

and that these gifts are symbols

of energy and effort

expended and offered

where i thought they might be best used

and as the years of my devotions passed

i must admit i did lament

that all of it seemed to pass unnoticed

and that the longing within

never gave way to some ecstasy

of absorption

but once

in the twilight of my life

she did come to me in a dream

not the fertile young maiden

that lent form to all these statues

but the mother of nations

of motherhood itself

and her likeness showed

all the signs of decades

that took their toll

and in sleep my face was wet with tears

when she spoke

'why have you sought me so long?'

'because Love is the single thing that sustains the world of men. because you are all that stands between our city and the barbarous wastes of the nomads, who live like wild beasts.'

'you must have heard the tales of my devotees. . .i have known many names and forms before the ones you have worshipped. great kings and warlords have all come to power by my favor. but they are not the ones dearest to me. in the end they all fall, their lines fail. death and loss come to them most painfully, because they have known my opulence and the power i bestow. but you are indeed dear to me.'

'then why have you been silent to me for so long. refusal or disgrace would be much less painful to me than being ignored completely.'

'Now you will see. . .'

and in that moment a great light dawned upon me and my weariness fell away

'it is your devotion that purifies you; it is your longing that purges you of ignorance and humbles you. Those i reward with the gifts of this world--love, pleasure, wealth, power--they stop seeking me and their growth is arrested.

to you i give the gift of completeness, so now you may know there is nothing outside that you need to seek.'

 . . .

copyright Peter Asher Watts 2007

racketeering

ceaseless streaming laser beams
and microwaves are weaving dreams
false realities and cubes
to capture helpless minds with tubes
and cables stretching everywhere
as spider webs creating lairs

chances are we'll all be caught
except the hyperpolyglot
who speaks in tongues not corporate-wrought
but ancient words before the rule
of science-pontiffs' ridicule
of anything that crosses lines
of any travel for the mind
beyond the tightly bounded world
and bombs the corporate whores have hurled

intimidate the innocent
and silence all informed dissent
coercing how their money's spent
with "news" that recasts all events
to fit their global fascist script
all growth of mind is quickly clipped

turn to father, he's been bought
turn to mother, now robot
sold away for pittance wage
poisoned and swept off the stage

to make room for the future crop
of lust and rage and thoughtcrime cops
to carefully control the herd
and tell them that spirit's absurd
"you are your body" they all say
and claim their "science" lights the day
in a world devoid of gods
except the dollar bill and odds

so gamble with them if you will
your life and labor pay their bills
and keep their kingdoms all afloat
humanity an offered goat
whose blood will never slake the thirst
of RexMundi though his guts burst

and if perchance you once break free
from mental-fiscal slavery
i'll meet you at the edge of day
where lust for gold can have no sway
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2006

griot

i saw the deep down man
resurface from his trance

and heard him
slur and rant
and string notes and words together
until they wove into a tapestry
that unravels you as it is being woven

the echo
of concussions
beneath the molten sea
the core

he starts singing them to the surface
and goes too far for man
up to the birds
and the angels

and has to turn around
to come back for us

slow down and break
his vowels down
into words for us.

for we only know the clipped staccato
of man speech

and the deep dark man
contrary man
from the bones of the eath
dissapears

as soon as his song has unraveled us

good luck trying to catch him

his appearence is a surprise

a concentrated moment that will last
and echo

until he startles you
at the edges of your cell-block-zone

shaking a withered staff
as a systrum or some death rattle
beating his chest in time
stomping on the ground
so you can feel it in your toes

and reminds you that you haven't got it all
quite packaged yet
there is something beyond your neat little
packets
which you will never enclose

and when the deep man returns there
you are usually afraid to follow

. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2008

once the breath goes out. . .

"it's fit to burn
you flesh will burn like tinder
your hair, like hay"

in some surreal landscape
i broke the rules
and came to the spot
where all paths intersect

all the possible trajectories
terminate
in this single inevitable crossing

legba opened the door
st. peter or charon
or whomever your stories refer to
as the cloak of death
some gatekeeper at the portico of infinity

and when the door was open
all of the lies and limitations
and false dichotomies
fell away
and where once everything was discouse
there was only unity
and all illusion ceased

as if the final set had been struck
and all the scenery wiped away
to reveal the mechanism behind the curtain

but all the actors were gone
the audience was gone
and the stage itself was rapidly fading
even as a memory

and the wrathful guises
of every regret
each fear
and every prohibition
threatened to steal my focus and resolve

when they failed
each temptation and desire
and every fantasy of glorified self will

tried to perturb my pivot

i passed them all

and came to the abode of the seven wardens
and i gave them grips and tokens as keys
and each barred gate was opened

until at last i came to the heart of it all
the solar unity at the center

and alone i moved as the blood of the swirling planets and the vortex
of the solar sea

but even this passed
and unity
passed into nothingness

it troubled me not a bit

no more than a sculptor is troubled
buy the shifting forms of his clay

and conquering only the idol of form
fear itself is vanquished forever
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2008

panopticon

if thine eye be unfolded, thy body will be full of light

matt 6:22

 

a vessel for an arc of light

ever noontide

never night

 

for those obscured

and withered

shades

 

are those who,

sensing light,

evade

 

through habit

fear

or some pretense

 

perchance their elders

scattered hence

and hid behind a slatted fence

 

to behold the light by turns

and hide their eyes

from lucid burns

 

'whence burns?'

i ask

and 'whence retreat?'

 

above all things fair lux is fleet

and not outrun by mortal feet

 

in truth what burns is simply fear

let it go and remain here

 

as the false self burns away

leaving only shades of day

 

refracted, yes,

but not obscured

or subject to the body's lures

 

for all hues in their arc return

to solar foci,

there to burn,

and arc again

through all abodes

 

through trough and crest

and axis nodes

 

what some name many

i hail 'one'

the efflux of the myriad suns

 

as one player plays all parts

one lucid flame's dance

drums all hearts

 

. . .

copyright Peter Asher Watts 2007

transmit

playing with the pipes of pan
measuring the pitching span

that tilts and spins around the heart
and counts the beats as song departs

in search of ears attuned and primed
for what is riding on the chimes,

a signal or a hidden word
that resonates though its unheard

in the hearts and ears nearby.
as delicate as fire that flies,

the heat you feel and light you see
obscure the hidden remedy

for all that ails the heart and ears
panacea for all tears
arising from departed love,
and still leaves clouds of doubt above

overarching
dream and wish
making small talk seem remiss
from the task of
finding bliss

deep within beloved hearts
a gift of lovers' ceaseless art

recieved from sails on all four winds
what space has severed union mends.
. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2003

phoenix

self-assembling
from the discarded refuse
of this, most recent, techno-babylon

from the decadence
of those
swollen with their own affluence

insensible
from satiety of every kind
their wits and conscience dulled by excess

mortgaged to the hilt
borrowing against the labor
of starving farmers half way 'round the globe

building skyskrapers
on a crumbling mound of trash
and coffins. . .

but,

the future's child
is scrambling
diligently
out of necessity

building cities of mud brick
and straw

catching moisture from the sky
and fire from the earth

praying once again
to the old gods
of beasts
wind, water, sky and sea

praying to the life force
in every stone and subtle particle

scavenging the necropolis
of the dying gods
of techno-babylon

among the corpses
the faithful adherents
of cashocracy

finding shiny bits of silicon, plastic, chrome
with which to decorate their mud city

dancing once again around the central fire
where they can see their neighbors face to face
without the 'lectric go-betweens
their forbears  relied on

and after wars and fire
and black cloying smoke

life is victorious

. . .
copyright Peter Asher Watts 2009

riot

let your grip slip
as i rip this
living circuits encrypt this

just witness

the quickness with which i just drip this
no black hole sun could eclipse this
i drip mist
designed like wine to the mind of the mystic
spraying the bliss thick
if you cant find
the magician
you miss tricks

weavin lines and ecliptics
ellipses and glyphs fixed
in arcs polyrhythmic

but you still wanna nit pick

so i slip out the grip quick

fluid flying my mind
through the fabric of time
but you're still chillin' blind
drawin lines with your matchsticks

while i'm surfing the circle
galactic back curl
spiral into itself
just before it unfurls

behold scrolls unfold
with the message i hold
but it's hidden to all but the bad and the bold

worth more than your gold
never been sold
its been told

so you've got no excuse
once you've been rolled

back into the cage
you're on stage
in a play
see a candle at night
and think that its day

cause you live in illusion
with falsehood you fuse in
cant see to be free
on this light wave i'm cruisin
deeper violet than blues in

the eyes of the mind-blind kind that they're usin

a planet of slaves
speeding into their graves
lost beyond hope in material maze

drinkin up all the posions
that make your lips moisten
the business of death you've put your path choice in

and choking out leaves
green lungs of the earth
chase plastic trash
thinkin' life's what its worth
to live for one moment
sedated and still
surrender your mind and your flesh to it's will

the merchant sells men their sweet coated doom
once all of the light has gone out from the room
you'll conjure a dream
full of vice and black gloom

for he's never known light
for all his caged life
engineers from the ashes
his limitless strife

and tries to prop up
his still crumbling dome
built on the first lie
he ever was told

"you can take it all with you, wherever you go. . ."

which forms the ruinous base of his tower
of electric babble on high wattage power

and add to it just one more false axiom:
"it's us or it's them, something's gotta be done"

and so ends the world in a clamor and strife
man chases illusion and loses his life

but i still spin on
out in spirals of light
recoursing all time in a limitless flight

for i clutch naught and crave not
for any fixed thing
i'm just a brief note on a vibrating string

. . .

copyright Peter Asher Watts 2009

beloved

every move
for me is like riding
the crest of some oscillation

ringing around you
in endless orbit

at each moment approaching
never reaching

this movement is what i am
i have been falling so long
that doing so defines me
and sets the edges of my days

to say that i long to be near you
is really missing the point
this longing is what i am
as long as you are in the bounds of my perception

somewhere in the fabric of my design
you name is etched
within the substance
that fills me

all of my wanderings
in search of you
are merely the execution
of instructions

the inscriptions
that chart the path between us
the scripture of devotion
which seems to have no end

now
this is the verse
i am sending you
so you may guess
why you always see me
stumbling
whirling
falling

treading all around the tracks
you leave
like a wake
in my ocean

(copyright Peter Watts 12.08.2010)

lux

before my eyelids separate
i see you

an imprint
of your face
inked with golden fire

it is hard to shake it
like an afterimage
of the sun

anything i see afterword
is outshined
and it seems a weak, pale shadow

my days are framed
as i try and chart your passage
here and there

they start and end with waiting
for you to cross the shortest line
between infinity and I

my waking and dreaming
find you in my eye

alabaster,
gold
and rose

and the limitless blue of vast seas beyond measure

i call you up from my memory
by the force of lionging
and gather your likeness
out of motes drfiting
in a shaft of light

you speak to me in echoes
fractal transformations
in untold repetitions

octaves in consonance
older than time

all my days spent remembering
in fragments
what you told me long ago

without words
in the medium of numbers
scattered rings of particle coalescence

like the ridges of sand beneath the waves

and all the work of human scribes
is merely a cypher
mapping the trail of your scattered shards

as you break
and skid around every boundary
and fan out in ripples

all these years i have follwed you
without knowing

making verse
from the fevered patterns
of the search

at this moment
i have given up
trying to trace your tracks
with words
or tones
or numbers
with any kind of signs

i am leaving
this imprint
as a marker

i have lost your trail
your prints have been
trampled beneath my own

motionless
till my thoughts
slow
then still completely

then dream till dawn.


. . .

copyright Peter A. Watts 2011

conjunct

twine
as vines
around again

embracing,
stitch up
what time rends:

the space between
the flesh and bone

with whispered words
like spells intoned

their purpose
all discord to mend

with heat-loosed limbs
and melting minds
 adrift from all the ports of time

eternal instant
while we grasp

what slips away
now into past

but here and now
we are just one

without a veil 
all unison
. . .

Copyright Peter Watts 2010