Autumn is abundant, infuses, and bemuses; it is pregnant with fruit; but it prognosticates the decay: Autumn is a marvellous display of death! The eye-of-the-bull chrysanthemum stares at you with the autumn's orange stare, in a hypnotic anticipation of perfidious putrefaction: it suggests that it is the time to prepare the marrow in your bones for the frozen times of eternal hibernation: the bleak, albic terrain of desolation and damnation. It says bend on your glacial knees, and pray for spring to de-congeal your static blood: go back into the forest and eat eagerly wild-strawberries and horn-fruit, and spit into the ground the pips of your frigid dreams!
Autumn is the hungry Earth, with its earthly colours of grave, craving the manure, the compost of your flesh, blood, and bones; it eats your veneration: (your body, which, you thought is your possession!) : this Terra is a terrific terror! —Do not worry about your spirit: —it has wings! Birds die in the sky whilst still flying: you are a bird! —Smell the earth! You will return with a body made to be devoured again by the vulture-earth; nothing apocalyptic: you will live, again—and again, for thousands of years: —you are truly immortal—defying Thanatos!
There is megalomania in the occultism of ambiguous and aberrant dreams and illusions: the welter and the caprice of life! From time immemorial, the human-flesh dreamt of immortal petrification: the paradox of persiflage! The virgin paradise of your brain moulded in the hands of your ancestors: sculptures of future perpetuation—
the clay of your thinking in the potter's hands! —Take back your brain: hold it in your own hands, (your childhood's hands,)and create it again: perceptions, ideas, senses, sentiments, fantasy, feelings, and imagination: —be the artist of your own brain! Play with the ball of your creation: colour the grey, put rainbow in it, roll on it, sing to it, powder its nose, and put back the diamonds in its eyes…(The Light of that third eye!) , put lips that sing milk and honey: and beautify its greyness!
Walk the earth with pink fluffy boots, to feel your feet in a pool of pink candyfloss-clouds, even if, the earth will never become pink! Pink amalgamated with brown: let the master artist tell us the resulted colour! —It is the pink colour that you crave: the rose-quartz lungs of the Earth that still breathe in asphyxiation, the crystal chandelier of nervures: those neuronal electric impulses in your brain; the chalk of your bones, and the fiery ruby of your blood. I dream in pink: fire and snow: it tempers the contrast; it has certain equilibrium of unity, a promise of stability, and comfort for nightmares: a warm breeze for cold shivers. —I want my being to be dipped in the pink of tenderness and affection; harmony and serenity: I want back the little girl's dreams: —I crave the doll of my evanescent childhood!
Topic(s) of this poem: surrealism
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