The belief in the mundane or reason disfigured. A Tautology of Hermetic Thought.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Commercial Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Complexity of the Ancients

Submitted: December 11, 2008

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Submitted: December 11, 2008



I. Hanging fire.

An old dusty player

The best in the world

Played across the screen

Some downfall of the world

One based on all the others

Single, large and glazed

Reflecting an old room

The eye of the century

Chiaroscuro, sat an old man in an armchair

The speech of this player was strange

Simple Science Fiction of the late sixties

The first real signs of alien life

Come visiting when we were young

Important he said

An event in history

Then there was old music

Before electronics

Old groups

The darkness of the room was all wood

Rare wood

The man sat in baroque darkness

The man spoke

He said

There are no great musicians anymore

And then later

This music has many many memories for me

The screen flashed as he pointed at it

He stroked the cat on his lap

Four eyes flashed

As a light faded from across the room he began to hear voices.

II. A Book of Days

A blazed, blessed window match

I've lost what has the wonders catch

in throats of steel in common lies

incompetent hight incessant cries

lock up your daughters catch each son

allow them not in hopeless fun

ignore this wretch, this common man

who only greets what dawns he can

indifferent to what beauty came

any excuse mud lost and lame

and fright the ghost of longings lust

never known this woman's trust

for all to savour memory bights

is not the same judged by these lights

Oh! common grace across rough waves

Deliveries to which we save

for distance is as time once was

we only listen to spells because

we'd like some pleasure some written line

to compliment what's left behind

Increasing daily by your score

I do not wish nor beg for more

be left alone perhaps is wanting

and stop the incessant finger pointing

for cry the sore what is the point?

Between your legs my head anoint

Do you think back and state a worry

Dark wicked one who'd now be sorry

and lies indifferent spout as ways

to give unmet a book of days

Deep heat, deep down, distinctly crown

and common gift in mood now frown

for interest sounds a sulking roar

and magic lost your wish for more

that all you feel and all you see

does not accept what comes from me

slight of mind and subject cost

of all the wonders now short lost

for what you are is bitch now dog

your second hitch a whining flog

and if this wanting force a path

I'd rather that than risk your wrath

for what is dead cannot be played

and cause upset a book of days.

Oh distinct and drink I do no more

What ever cup you hold.

To watch the war.

To believe the score

I'd never be so bold

Contain my wrath

its there because

I put it where I will

As all these things

we try our wings

and Daedalus watch us still

for feelings plummet

reach now no summit

and stupid is the pill

III. Daedalus Watches

As I contain these many maim and most the wounds are succoured. For increased lines are felt combined in luckless careless daggered. All friendship pleasant becomes incessant and divination slopped. Into a mire of woman's conspire and what I wish of you. You never want, you poor infant, your wishes all come true. I hope for this for all that kiss my heart suspended thither. To take this shot, you will this cost, the arrow from this quiver. Suspend this time complete the rhyme and endless themes considered. This Icarus has paid his cost and will not consider more. For all I weep my sense will creep towards that which I soared.

IV. The belief in the mundane or reason disfigured.

A Tautology of Hermetic Thought.

As morning comes with some fool as the rain

the ancient of days writes a tune in his pain

in later retreats does the sun burn away

constricting the world into lays of the day

the belief of mundane, the reasons disfigured

create complex riddles within words undelivered

for reasoned support and subtle ideal

collapsing frontiers in this sense of our real

command arcane arts and our conscience retreat

we stand as though nought within reasons defeat.

In light speed up the way that we see

we join in the tactfulness of real company

But if were not, not and nothing yet so

we change our constrictions as above, so below

would ancient belief fathom the last?

and cast out his dogma in charity past

defender of proof conspirator of fools

common denounce forge less useless tools

and if our found objects as art we succeed

we condition the light to observe caution's creed

Companions life to hide soon from this blight

and heretics burn our confusions aright

on the throne of the Queen we see the worship

apotheosis constrained for phantoms gloss profit

and wandering lights give us threats all the more

to delight us and weaken the head round this door

from Bacon's brazen bright head to Paracelceus score

we scrabble and scrape push our face to the floor

For weeping and debt are stained in our ears

as calamity beckons and sucks licensed fears

elements grace of four streams does she take

for crystal communion does not a crowd make

And secrets once lost do but once come about

and it is all for nothing if our joy do we shout

for secrets they are and so shall remain

a myth wrapped in a mystery within this domain

A Golden Bough of uncertain demand

a rough jointed circle now drawn in this sand

the king now defeated goes back to his life

his son, his oppressor now marries his wife

forgotten what fought for, forgotten what pain

in the reasons for light and the shine of bloodstain.

Beelzebub's tales to his Grandson or fillet of spleen

give a right to this writing and excess in between

so believe mind afore matter in all that we say

in terms of this magick where's there a will there's a way

so complex your reading to text esoteric

and rhetoric leave to material pathetic

for to sound what you will soon understand

that nature does source deep in her own steep remand

and to understand all of this alchemical right

you must stand yet alone within inner sight.

© Copyright 2017 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.

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