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From: "derek" <derek@dakkadakka.com>
Newsgroups: alt.surrealism
Subject: And it is all but only points
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Date: Wed, 30 Jul 2003 23:58:28 GMT
Xref: news.nzbot.com alt.surrealism:245
And it is all but only points
Points joined but separate
Like perfume in Egypt
A life Mimesis
Parody of no-thing
And Punitavati sitting
while the Olowe of Ise
diving
circles and spirals
composing the woman of Willendorf
And she blows life's breath
Onto cave walls
The tribe goes on
Even as bird-headed man waits e-n-ternally
A limestone bed
Bison Rhino Lascaux
In the future
<so?>me{t[I]/me}
years ago
15,000
seeking shelter in stone
animals humans
and soon
trilithons sandstone
by mortise and tenon
joined
bring forth a henge
so says the object
we are all
and we are
earthworks and openworks
man woman (prehistoric)
light but no shadow
votive
echoes that waited
past
cosmic homelessness
which is sealed cylindrically
being the least effect
her eyes, incised,
slipping on the edge
of high-relief
a m(e):ur:al{ive)
of intervention
the stele stolen
a code given
and high atop platforms
decorated palaces
fortified cities
are formed inside
the glazed and the confused
calming the beholder
held within Ishtarian wombs
crowned <(a)(m)>(I)(u?)sed
and the pressure
not spinning, weaving
nor knitting
together
a fixed rather than
swung angle
a day simulating presently
attending through the vanishing point
yet is it all but points
like a technique for money coining
more complicated and restricted
a grid transcending
both time
and space
a shift from single level
to multi-level the hieratic abstract
Neolithic river scene
a scintillating being
pardoned in understanding's beginning
mirrored in the ceramic crush
where I should be thou
multiplied in a fractal demultiplication
a ne0kenetic pyramid
bluer than the celestial color of Horus
and there is some evidence in the seated scribe
that I am he
or we are
tomb decorations
in the black bedroom
another file on the
windowsill
forgotten in some lost middle kingdom\
stepping into freedom
and if I take that chain off
will you run
run and cover
cover yourself in faience
like the faded s0n
while tension returns to faded muscles
which flower and bud
in some provincial lot
that is everything
within
and without
the book of the dead
a nothing seen tale
and an old one at that
which I shall give thee upon death
passing through its extremely thin walls
and so on
verse after verse
down broad avenues
and narrow alleyways
the citadel, Mycenae
shines white as bone
or my voice concerned
and there was nothing
no diversity
no difference
only restrained confusion
centered in the entasis
which rests on a pedestal
somewhere near the dying warrior
who is teaching calm
as he slips through the thin wall
realizing he is not a man
and an archaic smile pulls
a red figure free
while listening to a smaller man
a black figure slipping on
an amphora
and did I mention the suicides
you will find them there too
like Ajax, misunderstood
his sword fixing
the mound of dirt
called favor
passing into the s(u)bl(i)(a ni m)(I)nal
and I'll do what I can
Atlas spoke
In a letter to management
Which he dictated to me
And I delivered to Hermes
In the pantheon
And somewhere past the Nike
Temp(oracl)e
We adjust our head
So we can see
That color does not exist in nature
And serpents encircle the Sarcophagi
While we let out a sigh (Of low relief)
Challenging the solutions, successfully offered
And verifying verism
While wearing our death mask
We watch our empire crumble
And all but the arch in
Ruin are
And all these criteria
Come to us In
lion skin
Tightly worn
And like a good shepherd
Hearing of the ascension
We too enter into sanctuary
A reverse perspective on the chrome Koran tugra
And after the harvest was in
The false dervish told the tale of the tea
Yet to the settlement of chanhu-daro we go
And art possessed by success of it
Becomes a home of it
And we spin on the axis-mundi
By shadow and claw
And sentences are delivered to us
Then place in reliquaries to resonate with all
An image of a deity
Painted on a banner
Which hangs
Hidden in the rubbing of a stone
And we are mixed by the six dynasties, painted
Like a handscroll
Choiceless in our awareness
nearly overwhelmed by certainty
but left unglazed revealing our clay bodies
feeding the Hungry tigress
warping into the ceremonial center
a tapestry embroidered and worn
while over the shoulder we look
a chacmool in the foreground
pausing to rest, like the hummingbird,
on the heads of unknown African Kings
and in other urban centers
in a house of stone
Zimbabwe
Lies a complex forming a poem
Some name city
Some name I
Radiating from the shadow
And a simulation of me
Carved in a rune stone
Speaks to a wall so thin
An indirection of points
Fading and forming
The unseen process
Of the least pious position
And it is all but only points
-Derek Scefonas
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