Poetry or Sex, not love

[Sepia]

We are driven men, driven driven driven. We feel it in our bones when we hold a conversation with you, we feel it bad when we dream about you, we feel the need and brutal desire to elevate ourselves into something more grandiose, something bigger than who we are, what we are, where we come from. We've kept diaries for our entire lives as we toddle through it but this is the day we come home from school with a desire to report, a yearn to tell our tales to spin the stories noone will ever read and which we will burn three years from now, perhaps two.

There was a norwegian poet who once wrote a stanza, telling us that the most beautiful words ever written, the finest of poetry is what we write in our diaries or notebooks, the things we let noone see and I tend to agree with him. These things are that which will touch us whenever we read it again, picking up these books years from now, from then they will touch us like the first time we read yeats, eliot and plath. Poetry is a form you should grow accustomed to in the beginning of life when it is malleable, like jazz. Like hearing a love supreme in a tender young age, knowing it is not for you now but you'll pick it up later on, you'll learn to love it and you know it will be wonderful, you envision yourself in a sturdy old chair, draped in dark colours, sitting in a bathrobe with your slippers, smoking a cigarette in the living room, not yours, but your grandmothers, perhaps she died or someone else died to whom you were connected with and it makes sense to sit here and exhale, with a glass of port or a glass of sherry and you shall feel older than methusalem himself, the blue smoke will be packed with reverence of the situation, at that moment you will sit at the throne of god and you will know, there will be peace in your soul until someone knocks and ask if you're alright.

I wrote a story once of a perfect love that went unfulfilled. I was into shakespeare at the time, devouring his plays and poetry and as I reread that old yarn now, I understood a lot. Simply watching the words I'd understood the bard quite well but underneath it I saw the confusion, the desire to be gauged up against him, my idol. Later we understand it can't be achieved as we're different people and there really is no better than, the desire to be named the new shakespeare is a hollow desire but so much we believe when we were younger is hollow, is a husk discarded and in promethea alan moore calls this feeling qlippoth, the reverse/inverted part of the tree of life in the pop monstrosity that is kabbalah. Magick itself is useless when people talk about sigils or changing things by their pathetic wills alone but magick is invaluable when it inspires people who don't take it too seriously. This is true with many things but the stories they tell from magick are always more complex, more true than everything else. The tarot is a game and nothing more, the tarot is best used when drunk and high. For tarot to be believable, you need an old gypsy woman sitting in a tent, a circus act, you need the weight of age, like poetry.

So many debutantes begin with the form, they begin with poetry and they read books on how to perfectly make poems, they use dictionaries often to construct beauty on the paper but that is also what they create, constructs that are static and will be handed down for generations if they were a success at a time, their timelessness will be defined by the nerve they struck among critics and the few of those who cherish poetry, who love the form of poetry, like those who love sex but care little for love but they drive themselves to find something of substance inside the act but no light is here emitted.

[The Johnny]

We are driven men, driven driven driven. We feel it in our bones when we hold a conversation with you, we feel it bad when we dream about you, we feel the need and brutal desire to elevate ourselves into something more grandiose, something bigger than who we are, what we are, where we come from. We've kept diaries for our entire lives as we toddle through it but this is the day we come home from school with a desire to report, a yearn to tell our tales to spin the stories noone will ever read and which we will burn three years from now, perhaps two.

There was a norwegian poet who once wrote a stanza, telling us that the most beautiful words ever written, the finest of poetry is what we write in our diaries or notebooks, the things we let noone see and I tend to agree with him. These things are that which will touch us whenever we read it again, picking up these books years from now, from then they will touch us like the first time we read yeats, eliot and plath. Poetry is a form you should grow accustomed to in the beginning of life when it is malleable, like jazz. Like hearing a love supreme in a tender young age, knowing it is not for you now but you'll pick it up later on, you'll learn to love it and you know it will be wonderful, you envision yourself in a sturdy old chair, draped in dark colours, sitting in a bathrobe with your slippers, smoking a cigarette in the living room, not yours, but your grandmothers, perhaps she died or someone else died to whom you were connected with and it makes sense to sit here and exhale, with a glass of port or a glass of sherry and you shall feel older than methusalem himself, the blue smoke will be packed with reverence of the situation, at that moment you will sit at the throne of god and you will know, there will be peace in your soul until someone knocks and ask if you're alright.

I wrote a story once of a perfect love that went unfulfilled. I was into shakespeare at the time, devouring his plays and poetry and as I reread that old yarn now, I understood a lot. Simply watching the words I'd understood the bard quite well but underneath it I saw the confusion, the desire to be gauged up against him, my idol. Later we understand it can't be achieved as we're different people and there really is no better than, the desire to be named the new shakespeare is a hollow desire but so much we believe when we were younger is hollow, is a husk discarded and in promethea alan moore calls this feeling qlippoth, the reverse/inverted part of the tree of life in the pop monstrosity that is kabbalah. Magick itself is useless when people talk about sigils or changing things by their pathetic wills alone but magick is invaluable when it inspires people who don't take it too seriously. This is true with many things but the stories they tell from magick are always more complex, more true than everything else. The tarot is a game and nothing more, the tarot is best used when drunk and high. For tarot to be believable, you need an old gypsy woman sitting in a tent, a circus act, you need the weight of age, like poetry.

So many debutantes begin with the form, they begin with poetry and they read books on how to perfectly make poems, they use dictionaries often to construct beauty on the paper but that is also what they create, constructs that are static and will be handed down for generations if they were a success at a time, their timelessness will be defined by the nerve they struck among critics and the few of those who cherish poetry, who love the form of poetry, like those who love sex but care little for love but they drive themselves to find something of substance inside the act but no light is here emitted.

I have several tarot cards decks, i think they are pretty.

Sometimes ill pick up a deck, shuffle it, and throw down certain arrangements to make them "speak" (jus as i am right now)- this "speaking" i mention, its just a proxy to invoke my unconscious.

If these three cards show up when i "call" for them to "speak" of my recent past, present and near future:







Is it synchronicity that the first image i found thru google was indeed the "two of cups"?

Just as they speak to me in a certain manner, they speak to you in a different manner, if you try to find a meaning thru them, something will resonate; the law of fives in the context of subjective symbolism.

The personal meanings that they can evoke, is the paralels i draw between card divination and poetry; it can be merely a pathetic swindler, or something profound.

[Brotep]

Sepia, this reminds me of a line from Steve Goodman:
"And little white boys with their shiny guitars would follow right along at their heels.  They learned all the words, and they learned all the chords, but they never did learn how it feels."


If there is no structure, there is no way to contain the light, no way to give it form.
If there is only the structure, there is little point.

The Light of the Endless is transcendent, unreachable.  The Tree of Death is a structure that blocks light.