A charmed death

I do not drink,

But I am living under this mountain

That might crush the life out of me

Any time, any day,

So, I drink anyway.

Too much grandiosity

Dims the soul

Makes us old.

I hear the wise ones pleading, pleading when on fire,

So much screaming, as the flames they get higher:

Hebane, belladonna, mandrake, datura

All of these, like mescaline, can see right through yer.

A broom, a pitchfork, a basket, or a snake

The old religion of love,

For love’s old sake.

The beautiful Cathars

Heard the rumble far below

Looked at the surface,

Saw nothing, only snow.

Hares' prints lead me on,

Lead me to this folly

Red berries on it,

The christmas holly:

I shall go into a hare,

With sorrow and sych

And meickle, meckle care;

And I shall go in the Devil's name,

Ay, while I go, I come home again.

Sometimes phantasma

Strip my wits away,

Sometimes for a minute,

Often for a day

Glad to be rid of them

Pfff they are gone.

My wits, for a minute,

My wits, for a song.

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◄ i.m. Pte Jack Prince

The magnificent Moors ►

Comments

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John Marks

Tue 11th Feb 2020 07:53

Thank you Jennifer and Tom.

Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood.
C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

What comes, when it comes, will be what it is.
Alberto Caeiro, The Collected Poems of Alberto Caeiro

I don’t have a philosophy: I have senses...
If I talk about Nature, it’s not because I know what it is,
But because I love it, and that’s why I love it,
Because when you love you never know what you love,
Or why you love, or what love is.

Loving is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not thinking.
Alberto Caeiro/, Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa, The Keeper of sheep

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