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A sweeping largo strings crescendoing should inspire me to do something creatives do

 

A sweeping largo strings crescendoing should inspire me to do something creatives do

 

A sweeping largo strings crescendoing should inspire me to do something creatives do, make content & someone said which I agreed, that art about art is the endgame. & so I thrilled to the music & dreampt I saw a tiger’s eyes, my friend slept with a tiger cub, movement, the tiger’s whose eyes opened my soul was blakelight & wild & godlike, so the astrologers were right to adopt the totemic because our human centred age is uniform & banal & the best supposedly we can do is a socio- or psycho- path. The wild is something very different, something whose psychology is mythic not pathologic, it does not think in words but in volcanos & shadow/light flickers. It enters our being from deep within/beyond the universe. If there is a stillpoint as Eliot suggested, it is the wild. The tiger paced back & forth our eyes locked. It shook me from my illusions & I dreampt I was the first man, as I took my nephew’s icecream from his sticky hand, while he took off his windcheater. A bird whistles imitating a mobile phone ring & I return with it to art about art. Our tantric poems do not last, like our hiccup orgasms. Modern Post Modern yawn! Time to finish. Our age doesn’t allow us long to commune, prolonging the waiting room, to the stars final return!

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.

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