"I need a trembling angel in this scene,"before I go up the magic river, the director thinks,
"no more glamorous on-screen smoking or fidgeting,
c'mon baby, show me some real-ass trembling."
He turns his head aside to announce to the crew,
"Forgive me while I remake your favorite scenes
with disturbing views resembling mass confusion."
Liberty walks in her ruffle nightie,
torch burning with mothering light.A perfect blend of yang and yin,
her strangeness clears the world
for all other symbols to come.
There is only one Liberty, indifferent to the eye.
The universe of which I sing doesn't care what you see,
will dissolve in man-made fumes and blue thought,
impressionistic, looking better from ninety feet away,
conjuring a mood too subtle for consumer reviews.
She will interrupt staid eloquence with a slang rip,
no moral issues, nothing political, least of all sentimental,
and the dream of her takes over all sensation,
like a game of color scheme and vowel sound,
a Rimbaud ramble, streamlined conscious poem,
red for bed, or blue for view, a violet hidden ravine
beyond the yellow-green, a storm of thought
between the muse and her thunder-violet theme
for all her golden yield, the straw, the fields,
a flash upon the path she hikes high-heeled
in melting hyacinth, her orangey lipstick aura,
bend of elbow, rainbow glove in dream glow,
flickering blue and purple lightning strikes.
Defiant image from the avocado age of symbols,
she comes to crown the arc-instant picture tube
of personal computer algorithm and code blues.
We shuffle and shag arse, looking for limits and lights
along the world-lines in the desert of universal forms.
We want more jazz action, bebopalulla, salvation,
ruffles and garters of Goddess Magna Polynomial,
cyber-anti-war, clean-room concept, ritualistic
anticipation of the coming Hollywood brain-child,
El Niño-Niña, Ragnarök & roll of thermoplastic,
weekend break-up, Winnebago toss, and fault-line
lover's lurch in the quake zone, a serene bondage
of who-knows-what, perhaps the next voice you hearmay be the singing snake-goddess figurine herself.
"Slam down on my mystical yes-button once more
as you tickle me along my cerebral wire-trough
just before the shattered remains begin to fall,
before I ferry across that murky, dark river
whistling on the promise of a miracle."
"Give me your unbridled imagination,"
she demands, "attention divided or undivided,
right-brained messages from hugging Sequoias, OK?
Run-away imagination, your leering paranoia, OK?
Self important, far too serious imagination
with or without a bridle, OK? A body of handed down
belief that no thesaurus ever talked about,unlimited, wild imagination, nervously twitching,
deer hoofed, cat footed, stalking the forest of images..."
But this creature will learn patience before the fall
where death does not end it all or degrade feelings
as long as one imagination feeds another.
It just comes back weirder than when it left,
wiser, older, more experienced in theory, that is,
more alive than governing bodies, nations,
or all those long dead cultures you could ever revive.
©Jimmy Warner Design, 2010
