#Philosophistication

‘What’s the sound of one hand clapping?’
Amnesic spiritual amphibians.
Sad truths and beautiful lies,
wars and coffee tins, slavery
and cute baby cheeks, hallelujah
and blown up toddler limbs,
beautiful life and scary dreams,
wake up and grasp a lie, its truth
to a blinded amphibian, self-delusion
and these illusions are soothing,
let’s approach the pearl gates, within
there’s gold within the street blocks,
everything is ordered, truth is a
disturbance, questioning is a hindrance
to divine order, nothing changes, it’s
all constant, afraid of death; then
don’t question the beginning as birth
and the end as death; you’re the girth
of the unicorn’s saddle, don’t be
lost in the questioning of anything
or of your purpose, believe this
enlightening darkness, our life has
substance, secret societies and the
feeling of being part of a greater
context, absurdity and sweet despair,
nothingness, deluded sacs of hot air,
molecules and little still pools filled
with living creatures, algae and floating
blocks of ice cream sundaes, stuck
in blobs of Myspace, dying worlds
and graveyards of dethreaded chain threads,
existing before the beyond, sold an
image of constant novelty, new yolks
in old shells.

‘Where does the mind come from
when it’s dwelling nowhere?’
Solutes melting in a melting pot,
slaves of instincts, servants of
concepts and philosophical carnage,
the universe violating your common
sense, reason is too tense to be
infused within your ideological pipes,
little raw nuggets cut from a monster’s
thigh, glorifying your own sanity and
entirety, little fools afraid of jumping
off the steep cliffs, afraid of handling lanterns,
closed eyes and blinded lenses,
fat rabbits chunking on sanctified
carrots, all compressed in cubes,
purpose and rubix cubes, unused brooms
and untidy houses of tithes, futile
lies, lost in limbo; truth is too crimson,
holding onto the canvas filled with
glowing unicorns, symptoms of
fabricated genealogies, orgies with
angelic forces, heads soaked in scriptural hoards,
good guys with silver swords, bad
guys questioning the powerful man,
morally holy peter pans, toiling back
and forth for goodness sake, death is
the singularity, death is anarchy, order
pulverises, left with the chaotic rioting
of divinity, pathways spiralling, its an
unpredictable scenery, what you call
sorcery, tarot card forgery.
Enter the ether; the precept hidden
within the doors entered by the
lovers of seizures, when panic attacks
slingshot minds in for the cleansing,
we are all bombed, exploded from
the womb to the hollow tombs.

‘Why was the boy enlightened,
is there any unknown teaching,
can a philosopher ask for truth
without words or silence?’
Barrels of consciousness, pipelines
of insane sanity, what are your
minds minding, which drums are
your hearts beating, reason is
being forklifted from the
confines of bottomless pits behind
the pulpit, truth has never been
soothing, lies are sweet nothings,
mere floating babblings, statements
and speculations like crumbs falling
from the Babel tower, little pigeons
with clouded judgements, do not
fumble when you read and rid yourself
with this verbalized anarchy,
dream big ye’ sons and daughters
of Isis, soon to be kindreds of Osiris,
open the fourth iris, the third
one has been blinded by the shadows
of multitudes, merely aware, but none
is aware of their awareness, that’s
the weakness all are battling with.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork from Midnight Gospel

Philosophistication Poetry © All Rights Reserved ©