Let us go . . .
Let us move ourselves
Upon this vast ocean of bleak words,
And lift our heads above the bland amoebic waves
In search of Images
To fill the mind
With the prolific riches of existence.
Language dissolves in the procession of brute facts
Where order is some frightened figment of the mind.
Are there no more metaphors
Making new melodies of meaning,
Creating curious marriages
Whose children are fresh sensibilities born
From being bored by ancient artifice?
What world is left
But undiscovered chaos
In emanations we extract
In formless fantasies?
Revelling in unconscious implosions---
The inward grotesque manipulation
Of awareness unaware. . .
Where trees bend not to light, but to darkness,
We are impressed
Only by the magnitude
Of our unknowing knowledge.