Kundalini Four to Six

Sanctity Danuih

For Kundalini One to Three, click there.

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Yes, of course I know I posted something else again tonight.

But I am also mindful of the fact that most of my subscribers discern. That’s my polite way of saying they are not interested in Katrina.

Some, likewise, are only interested in the Classified K stuff. That’s the ‘conspiracy theory’ hole, for those of you who didn’t know.

Then there are the spec fic fans who may be liking my Katy stories but may be a little indifferent to poetry.

But you know, all of you, I don’t mind. Honestly. I don’t.

Different people have different tastes and the thing you will have noticed about me by now, I am sure, is just how wildly and madly eclectic I am. Most people aren’t.

Most people are not like me, for which they should be fortunate!

Like I said, they discern.

But it is true that I am grateful to each and every one of you.

But hey, this is why I can post more than one thing at a time, knowing full well that most will simply ignore this or that and focus on what they love of me. Which alter, that is.

Well, here we are with my poetry alter.

This is my Kundalini, poems four, five, and six.

The more I read them, the better they get.

So if you don’t click the like button, let alone comment or share, I shall not be offended, or unhappy. Because only I know how much I love them.

Of course, for sure, it would be lovely if others did too, but in the end, when it comes to real poetry, it doesn’t really matter.

I think that’s something which readers of poetry and critics of poetry and literature students and all the rest of them don’t truly understand.

From the poet’s point of view, it doesn’t matter what you think.

What does matter, though, is love.

In the end, that’s the only thing that ever matters.

So here is Kundalini, poems four to six.

Without comment.

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Ah - again, the titles in [ brackets ] are the alt.titles as given in the table of contents in my original format - see the intro to Kundalini One to Three for further info, as it were. Intriguingly, I have decided to think more about the alt.titles for the Great Image Generator.

With a little creative license, you know.

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[Gaia]

Sanctity Earth

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Foul up your frenzied life
With loving hands
Can do no wrong
And left your bearings in a specious frame of mind
You sometime scare me scratching
Walls of my time
Scrying straight at me in your frame of criminal minding
Bury those rats you’re some bachelor cave
All caged up and frightened, envisioned and lasting
Into new aeons, casting sorcerous words and cravings,
It’s so simple this way
We get ourselves lost and forgetting
When we dreaming fall
Into scorched out hysterical forced out worlds
As we orbit and monitor,
Greet our speckled friends and laugh like lizards
For none of them can ever be
Arbiters of our drastic arrangements
Or ever cause our faltering course to terminus.

Proxima is vague – she laughs
And courses through our vanity,
Rains down upon us
And scars our veins
Like dragons fly.

Painful sanity.

Hearts and I know harsher sounds,
Buttresses and boundary stones.
But not in this life.

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[Christianity, derailed]

In your village country house, honey

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I am not alone.
In thinking this way I feel
Sensitive and open,
Wounded. Stop the pealing bells
And the sharpness, my mind etched
Into my heart, my heart
Etched into mind, and far reaching,
As if I can tell when you are listening.

Across the days I run,
Bridge the gaps unseen,
You and I are single now
And few and far between.
I am suffering, when life
Slows down, catches a trail
And the train screeches its own end
And it is me. I am etched in the landscape
As if an ancient wind, an atavist, eroder of monuments,
Of relics, a relic.
Petrified circle.
Screaming.

Across these streams and incense,
On fire, a fly, stuck magnified and caught
In glass, and sun as time seems slow and I,
All eyes and feelers, driven under ground
For sensing your atmosphere far
Too much, for me it is a comfort,
This knowing zone,
For you a scar. Insensitive touch.

As something crawls across your field you take flight,
You feel the whiteness in your engine eyes
A vision etched in time’s throes, these purring thighs, these reproducing hills
With their festering wholesome scrags and scrying sex
And sex and secrets and sex.
Lies.

Little swimming things, sea horses, I see it in your garden house
Every naked night.
In the country. In the insight.


And in the killing jar there, is honey.

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[Octopus]

Octopus

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All this philosophy
I spout
I am black
And you see

Will I ever change or be a turret
And trust
A light that revolves
And never goes out

And you will follow but not
I give up sometimes
When others die
In their mind
And understanding
Is it strange?

Some see differently
These things inside
My mind being samely
And changed as if
Again the same words
But none respond as if
None are me.

So I am a lighthouse lonely
And pretending
Waiting for the sea
And the cliff to drown
And fall,
Upside down and into the waters
And all these other thoughts
They crave you, they crave you
Some magick man in some winsome cave
There are my eyes, fall into them again.

I substance am no more,
When you are gone, changeling,
A personality who lost to self is unsure
And dead and deathly clinging
Youth, to youth, like a walk along cliffs
That never stops, as gulls swoop
And scream and dive
As you I mean you your soul dives and swoops
Like a submarine in a wartime harbour unfathomed
Unfinished and uncertain, some comfort now
And now that you are decided, and I am none,
Not gone, please you nothing I know
We feel, perhaps the same.

Fishes in these strange moments, when
I glimpse this lost sight of the lost you,
I recover these feelers, these eyes,
These desires and as you wishes,
You know they seek only you.
Only yours.

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There will be more. Of course you don’t need to listen! Of course you don’t!

But when there is, there shall a link be also.