The Trip Poem by Laurie hill

A prism of light, seen by the third eye,
rainbow hues, undefiled virgin lights,
echoing back, my minds haunting sighs,
through caverns acoustic, dark as night
creatures from mists, of myth and time,
unicorns and nymphs, from woods of Zeus,
creatures of Hades, from flaming slime,
grasp tools of death, the knife sword and noose,

Words of bejewelled letters, coloured cardboard scenes,
blocked, bedecked, escaping from the eye into the past,
scenes macabre, witchcraft incantations, sacrifices screams,
whilst sirens sing, your tied, your mind a spiritual mast,
a blatant smear of scarlet, from the saviours breast,
relive the jews prime murder in the crystal ball of truth,
then ride the waves on dolphins backs, sailing on the crest,
but stay aware your mind is still within the judges booth,

When a star explodes to myriads, of stones of countless sheens,
and halos of symbols and words caress your mind.
recollect an afterthought, though it might not be seen,
gaze through the jigsaw puzzle, an answer you will find,
catch the slipstream of your questions in a net of coloured holes,
like a fisherman, search your catch with care,
shout the answers to the horsemen with the spurs of tempered souls,
ride with them the oceans, on a winged and silver mare

Then ride her through the ruins of the crystalized figurines,
past the coloured sands of father times aged glass,
through the holy cities of the pagan nymphet queens
and the prophets crying what has passed is past,
swerve, avoid the plasticine birds, flying with the winds
swirling through the rivers of your veins,
whilst the never dormant conscience, relives your tearful sins
and the wheels of fantasy corrupt your brain

There's a coloured little Buddha, inhaling on his hookah,
while the fish are swimming gaily round his head
in the corner, two blind men, are busy playing snooker,
while the mourner asks how happy are the dead?
in the backroom, two stalwarts, from women's liberation
whilst a third is meditating on the floor
the two were locked in sighs, of mans cruel domination
and Jack the rippers knocking at their door

A gaily painted Indian, a refugee of Custer's stand,
is busily firing arrows at the moon,
someone leans towards me and takes me by the hand
and i sense and see, the spinning of the room
then she lays me down with her, my head upon her breast
the stillness and the quiet hums its song,
with her heartbeat as a lullaby, she leads me down to rest,
and the dreams fade back to where they all belong