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