Wendy


Some call her wisdom, some call her earth, I am Pan, and I call her home!

Wendy senses shadows from each lonely boy’s needs, especially when battles of life is at his knees, and when that tattered head of hair has sunk to dark dirt below, Wendy sets her will to let the boy go into the woods. Wendy runs in ruins, her breast pointed forward till, to bring the last of sorrow, to best the captains kill. She is the dream of solders, the Vikings on the keel, to optimize their childhood, a man that is real. Wendy is the status that test cannot reveal, the psychosis of ancients, Olympus was not a hill, and there she is standing, her blazon smile so shrill, to bring this Pan to ever land, the clock is standing still.

Summer over played, good form we end each day, and every tunnel, every tree, the blessing of what we can’t see, you know each path in forest leads us home. Territory is not here, it lies in fourth dimension tears, every sign throughout the years is shown. For I have known my Wendy true, she leads me back and forward too. From arcs and treasure through a great display. Into a mystery where body’s play, it could be I have seen Babylon rise, and fall through Wendy’s eyes. A boy is not home, until he has known, the man’s true treasure in disguise, “The Fisher King“, to rescue the shadow inside, the great find, and all the time sweet Wendy shines. Throughout a Pan’s life, throughout a Pan’s life.

Is Wendy wisdom, is she strife, and is she like Helen that moves an army’s tide? Is she annoyance, is she so shrill, does she do magic, or does she kneed your conscience, to its black and white? All of these questions for Wendy’s life, could it be she’s your spiritual mother, man have you not tried? To forward your arms to where she goes, to have her mentor your shadow so, to fight your hook, and let your daemons flow. For Wendy lies in deep archetype, a royal sentence all of your life, for man is man until he learns to fly. Then Wendy smiles, as Pan learns to fly, she smiles, as Pan learns to fly.

Some call her wisdom, some call her earth, I am Pan, and I call her home! – 08.30.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Uncolor Your Hair (A Psalm of Fine)

I am a dragon, spun in a cavern, I am the shadow of mind. What is you want to, to make yourself stronger, you do as I say all the time. Be you young fellow, or girl shaped a Sybil, I speak what you should look, and it’s all in your mind. Still there comes a young knight this way. He’s poor fighting windmills, but in his own thoughts I have heard him say.

(Uncolor your hair)

Come step to a mirror, a solid reflection of those ghost of your body’s way. Can you scream louder, your looks come not prouder your hips need to learn how to sway. Here in this hallway, high walls that fall round you, your dragon says you have to play.

(Fine)

Make your eyes, look up at the pictures, lights that spin quicker, so it goes for that some fella, did you take your birth control oh my, dismay. Come this way wash your naked body in the river of grace, and don’t you cry, for this sweet spring of love it taste your life, and uncolor your hair, be anything in style, your soul can bare. A dragon does not play, he lets your soul fly, and eats all your conscience away, and snares all your promises, takes all your ego, he bends yourself over, and starves you of time and dear space.

(Uncolor your hair)

All the promises your mind could ever snare, a feminist of time but do you care. Fly into another place, break the sound of barrier space and uncolor, oh my love uncolor, your own hair, be the strange virgin that knows your place, uncolor all your hair.

(Fine)

Rapunzel come on down. She found her grief in color, spinning blonde oh turning colors of the day. Comes through a sharp blade, takes your strength away, and you in the twilight, while her naked body turns, and you so grey, why did you ever learn to color your hair to play. Oh my soul, I try to meet the strands of color, television runway yellow, is it all the dragon sends your way. Teeth so white, baring skin into the dark black light, you spin around into your place, what’s color bright has turned to gray, a simple word that would beg and say.

(Uncolor your hair)

Uncolor your hair, be the way I ask you, be not wild or strangely desperate, and know I always love you, in a simple way.

(Fine)

Comes a place, when life has surely bit you, took your body to a temple, that fades away. All skin and bone it surely drifts away. Uncolor your hair, be strength of what you want to know its lessons, that he wants you, to play. In all the lovely features of your face, my, my….Uncolor your hair. You my friend are beautiful, so full of what your made of, my, my….uncolor your hair.

(Uncolor your hair)

I am a sorceress, lit by an apple, I am a sweetener that ruins in my rhyme. What is you want to, to make yourself stronger, you do as I say all the time. Be you young fellow, or girl shaped a Sybil, I speak what you should look, and it’s all in your mind. Still there comes a young knight this way. He’s poor fighting windmills, but in his own thoughts I have heard him say.

(Fine)

Oh very young and very old, uncolor your hair, he hath made you fine, he hath made you fine! – 04.26.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Kiki Sang (She Just Wants to be thin)


All rights to photo to Debbysh at Deviant Art

She wasn’t an old man, a year ending in review, a staff carried, a cane, a tattered resolution not come true. She wasn’t a scorned bitch snarling at the door, talking of her anger a revelation underscored. What year was she then, this, that ended in pain, the one that started with promise, a thought, and a claim? Was it then, she was a baby, a chick, with a dream, that thought of the days ahead starting clean. Did she hear Kiki, hear what Kiki sang, when the previous year ended, no resolve, no gain. The day at an end, and she just wants to be thin.

In tides without moonlight, the ones moving fast, the dream that just happens, when the years closing fast. The promises of January, the ones without sin, still she’s a little uncertain, just wants to be thin. She still needs a reason, a thought that shows real, to leave all that history of food and the thrill. It could be this death now, this passing of year, will bring her a new time, a shattered mirror. Through monochrome speakers that lie shallow deep, still in the flood zone, Kiki’s voice leaks, and Kiki sang. Because it could still be better, “the dream she can’t show”*, the starving of selfdom, the losing of soul, and if next year’s better, then wonder it’ll be. December is ending and still she’s not free.

“There’s no easy way now, to learn how to fly”*, to bring in the New Year, and leave life behind. She see’s moving shadows obese and grotesque, waving and willing, to weigh than attack. What words in pure logic, that lie in her wounds, that tell her, to try again, the new year starts soon, and Kiki sang, “wasted, so wasted on the floor”*. The truth it resolves her to try just once more. So when this dear woman stands tall on the first, and stares at her waist line, deceived by her girth, she’ll promise earth’s models, the ones, she’s told win, she is just beginning, she just wants to be thin. – 12.29.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

It is estimated that up to 4.2% of females will have Anorexia Nervosa during their lifetime. It is estimated that 4% of these Anorexia individuals will die from complications of the disease.

*Sugar on the Floor – Kiki Dee


Sugar on the Floor – Kiki Dee

Yeats and the Borderline


In the evening we read “Yeats” to her, that sound, monotone and dark, assuring her the night had come, and we were with her. Angels, fallen, watching, some running to touch her wrist reassuringly, when she cast her eye’s cunningly upon them, for she cast a note of a minor key, and as “Yeats” himself, that Irish Bard, had written, “Her soul was in division from itself“.

Cast, cast yourself upon a broken shard, define your need in shattered arms, and carve upon yourself, personality, so wily and winsome. “A crazed girl by climbing and falling“, need she not know herself, need she know “a beautiful lofty thing“, or less in the darkness anything. There she resides while we recline, and observe her diffusion of mind, seraphs, such dark angels, soul, ambience, without feeling we bind.

Wound, wound” laceration from spirit, addiction of pain, how we find her, “Oh sea starved“, wanting open water, but yet she despises it. Her breath so fragile, her thoughts divided, that line where she cannot decide, that contour where “no common intelligible sound” could abide, that borderline. We pass her by, slowly, then quickly, “where the bales and baskets lay“, always passing, never leaving, always listening, to “her poetry” (thoughts) “dancing upon the shore“.

She waits, in darkness, she baits, the point, abandoned, the answer, she thinks, “heroically lost, heroically found“, colors muted while we smile, so close now, so wounded, now she cannot refuse. She unwound, split, young child who cannot walk upon her own, “her knee-cap broken, that girl” we “would declare“. Still she stirs, her wild eyes untamed, changing light into darkness, music into sobs, notes lost, path unseen, she stands, “in desperate music wound“.

In the evening we read “Yeats” to her, to her flesh, to her carved arms, to her pinioned soul, and there we find fusion by design, as “hiding amid the cargo of a steamship“, such as we cannot describe. It is there toward sunrise, “that crazed girl improvising her music” is found. It is she, that we love, for she, is she, a wonder, and how she shines, that crazed girl shines! 11.15.2014– דָּנִיֵּאל

A Crazed Girl

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and the baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea”

William Butler Yeats


Beautiful oh Beautiful (Leary’s Psalm)


Timothy Leary saw lightning in the desert, he said beautiful, oh, beautiful. Testing hallucinogenic, thought by drug a master, Neurologic telepathy, Exo-Psychology. Was his life disaster, or did he find the answer, when the sun goes down in his Mexicana town, he said, no authority, question all wisdom formally, do it dutiful, be equivocal. What now you telegenic prophet have you heard from, Richard Nixon, you are dangerous, your thought outrageous. From the thought, of cell you have risen altered vision, synesthesia, spoken pharmacopoeia, tell your children as you leave them you have seen their spirits moving when their dead.

Still you say….

Hollywood in color brings Winona, as your god daughter, he said beautiful, oh, beautiful. Respond in kind you’ll see people treat you as they see. Act so natural, not artificial. Yet we wonder reason, did you live for just a season, did you structure your rebellious thought, were you a tyrant or savant. Flashbacks in your mind, Psychedelic Prayers online. Did you think that life extension comes from biological convention, when the chemical intervenes, falls through neurons and screams, and you hear your voice outside you say, beautiful, oh beautiful.

Still some beyond you say….

May be superstition far away from mind or reason, may be addiction, could you think of it that way. Could be natural creation comes and takes hallucination, could be G-D or Autism could be anything, of being that blows you away. Say there Mr. Leary who took a synthetic to reach beyond the stars and still what did you say. “Hearing, breathing sucking, light dark and laughing, what is come is in the past, beyond my mind”. What about a star that falls from the sky, do you not know that cannot replace your mind, and he says….

Beautiful, oh beautiful!

I first became interested in the writings of Timothy Leary after spending some time, with one of his students who had mastered Leary’s Personality Indicator, a combination of the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI), the Myer’s Briggs, and a whole lot of LSD in the Mexican desert. I found that once I got beyond the psychobabble, the addiction, the beatnik, there was a mind, which was multifaceted in its brilliance, and uncanny resolve to find the light. I hope Leary did, for in many ways he was Beautiful, oh beautiful. I have taken some liberty with a couple of Leary’s poems above “Hearing, breathing sucking, light dark and laughing, what is come is in the past, beyond my mind” I would encourage you to read them for yourself here. I think you will agree they are brilliant! – 10.28.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Milton Erickson (American Warlock)

There now, the distance of your arm now, that miracle you seek, to touch, inches total numbers from lengths you can believe. Deep there, everything is seconds, everything is heavy like your sleep. Listen, you’re always fair and hearing, always contemplating, always accommodating, rest you can’t share, home bound inward need. Values, experience is believing, assumptions predeceasing, integrated pleasing, you don’t need to, and you’re just asleep.

Does a Shaman trump a prophet, does a seer know a dream, what of high turbaned healers, and medicine queens? Now sit you tight inductee, and think of what you need, I’ll heal you of something with what you now read. Predictor of unseen and untrained of sight, from Wisconsin his spirit was born in foresight. Inscribed of pure logic of healing of binds, a cripple a walker, hypnotic in rhythms. This could be a young boy, a son who barely sees, indeed he is a color blind, in summoned tight hypnotic wells he heals thyself by light. Three doctors told his mother, by night you see he dies, not so for this young warlock with death he will not abide. Bring me now a dresser mirror and lay it on its side, oh mother dear, the sun will set I want to see its light. He did delay his still death with sketch and paper fill, for he did block the dead of night with what he drew surreal, for it was he that drew the sun that died and held upon that hill. He would that sun would not set for ever till one day, and in it, was his last breath that paper went away.

Now so many stories, but now let’s make time still, for it can last for hours, with what you want that’s real. For you live in an unconscious world that plays upon your soul, you speed through all your joys and life, your pain in time congeals. Let’s move that time like clocks that shift and bring your hurt to nil. Your love and bliss is more than time, your hours it should now fill. Is that now something that you believe, the time you now command, to choose your seconds indefinitely, lift pain by your command.

Now this old man with polio, the one that staid the sun, he delved into the mind of lore, and made dark nightmares run. He pulled induction from the space that held where time stood still, he bent strange habits and made them fade, with man’s unconscious will. In everything he taught and saw, in everything fulfilled, healing by the minds own eye, a composition sealed. Parts and space, and neurons run and paths of parts now healed, juxtaposing heaviness, he made joy standstill. We bow our head just as he said, hypnosis habit real, in ghost of rhythm where he now lives, I’m sure he’s laughing still.

There now, the distance of your arm now, that miracle you seek, to touch, inches total numbers from lengths you can believe. Deep there, everything is seconds, everything is heavy like your sleep. Listen, you’re always fair and hearing, always contemplating, always accommodating, rest you can’t share, home bound inward need. Values, experience is believing, assumptions predeceasing, integrated pleasing, you don’t need to, and you’re just asleep.

 

For those who have never heard or read the works of Milton Erickson, now is a good time to try, It’s remarkable the magic placed in mortal eyes! – – 07.06.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל