The Trance of B. S. & D. (birth, sex & death)
Take joy in the rattle of the pebbles, Yeats says,
as the spent wave returns to the sea.
You never know who's keeping the music in
or who is bent on shutting the music out.
You seek the meaning of lightning and aurora
as the constant night-long road sweeps by
sometimes a little drunk, slurring the name.Winding headlong out of the lead string,
and out of the bar-band's coercive cadence,
comes the groove body, mysterious valley gal.
She comes on like the voice of a hearth goddess
floor-board under-being, symbol of faceless mambo.
Her mud dress wedding tells all, her glass emeralds
wake us wide-eyed to the garden of the world.The trance of birth, sex and death is nearly over
before we think to gain control of all its pleasures.
The ritual dream is only part of the knowledge,We stalk the symbol hungrily by lone-wolf instinct.
Love looks out for itself as you gesture, sculpt air,
float your vision of pink-lit street-soul off-stage,
sound and pelvic double entendre forced out
to back alleys, all sacred directions grooved on
bumped or ground to a halt with bad side effects.Forget your science channel notions of life,
the random discoveries of social impulse,
or any home trial aerobic air bath escapes
and neurotic all-night infomercial indulgences.
Sound your belief system alarm when training
your inhibitions with jump cut erotic poses or
if perfection depends on bare navel outfits.None will save you from self destruction.
Breathtaking ideas will always lure you
down to hell-bound highway bar & grill to wade
through burger babes and trucker dudes,
or rooms full of dragon chicks and drug thugs.
Universal compulsion fuels all human engines.After encountering your dead corpse there,
the trick is to turn around and come back.B. S. & D somehow has become more attractive
at the far end of the road under that neon moon
than back home where it all started, clean, godlike.The meaning of life comes in too many packages
for a disgruntled modern soul to sort through, each one
aimed at personal taste or budget requirement.
Yet the meaning of death appears to be one-size-fits-allLife becomes art in a sex-crazed adventure,
tentacles of godhood or death waving on either side
when the human creation drug is pumping full-strength.Here is the real symbol, intoxicating vapors and all.
It’s a tricky recipe of age old methods and madness,
but enduring forever as an undiscovered substance.One true elixir is motive, and the trance,
a natural protection from that mating-stress
is knowingly prolonged by fluorescent shimmer,
neonic nervosa, and a spark of brightening
that once upon a time in our pagan mystique
only crossed the sky on summer nights or
draped the pole star with Bifrost trembling.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2010
