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"Genius is thunder and sunshine at the same time"


*The 3 line works are all Haiku

Hypatia Society

Night delirium

Clouds, not the ordinary moon,

manifest and lonely

in the dense scopes of dark,

clouds accompany the polymathic delirium

of this night.

Aggravated by the black vacuum

of the sky,

pallid perceptions of distances

crumble to blindness

like a tired eye,

and madness of colours

effaces itself

in the intricate evasions

of imagination.

The untuned reticences

of desire

transfix the ego

like a fake light,

enhancing its delirium,

while palaver of lips

discovers the sacred spaces

of silence.


like old tune or voice,

the black load of fear

becomes tangible

in the capricious colours

of morning,

in the Phoenician sky

spreading over a reality

uncertain as faith.

There is a sense of panic

in the renewal of life.

The outrage of the years

is a swan song,

a remote surprise.

Canyon Landscape


The hours feat on torpor

in the empty theatre

of my mind,

lame shadows

mocking the frosty movements

of the clock.

They are fatigued with indolence,

veterans of survival

and yet unable to outwit

the deft opacities

of the tedium of life.

Their loneliness accumulates emptiness,

years seeping away

through the weary fingers

of dissatisfaction.

Locked in the threshing circle

of time,

they bravely drain the darkness,

waiting for a miracle,

a concatenation of events

in blue halls of visions.

The fake light

of the subtracting night

will see them

rot into soil,


under a sky

without stars.


Furor poetico

A flash of vision

intruding into the procrustean banality

of life

like a seeking hand,

blending colours

like drunken sky -

is this the ultimate vision

in the screaming confusion

of the real,

shining out above the chaos

of the self

and the muddy stream

of being?

It is an invitation to madness,

to join the stars

in their dance Ó rebours,

wilder than the tango

of thunder!

Furor poetico -

sweet suffocation

of mortal anguish,

shiny tension of the spirit


into the consummation

of nothingness -

is this divine madness

the beginning of wisdom,

the fevered surge

into the ultimate truth

hidden to the crowd of masks

floating towards their fate

like withered leaves?

The jettison of reason

is the defeat

of the chaos of potentiality,

the crack of light

begetting eternal bliss.

Poetic madness

is the sublimation

of the self.


III. (Morning sketch)

Swift copper fingers,

a steeplechase of colours,

coffee with sugar.

Fractal 3, Great Barrier Reef

VI. (Night impressions)

A shower of stars

dancing in the depths of night,

reverie of child.

Square wheel
Lurching in the labyrinth of life,
I see dead dreams
ambling with downcast eyes
in huge Garden of Eden
deserted by God.
Something moves -
beat of blood,
pulse of pogrom,
tumbrel of truth,
square wheel
panting on unpaved path.
In white empty room,
child sings nursery rhyme,
bruised little body
hugging teddy bear.

Endeavours of dawn
push through crevices
pale as smile
of disenchantment,
hints of shadows
under heavy steps
of light
crossing itself
with rusty nails
of being,
festering wounds
of time.

Not an Ordinary Sunset


At the edge of night,

impossibles stiffen

into potentiality

under phthisical sheets

of moonlight.

You have become a shadow

perched on deception,

a dream

in black and white,

for disbelievers.

Images emptying themselves

into the cave of fear

don't impress me

any more.

They are too eccentric

to be real.

The moon is a blue amnesia,

a magnificent absence

shouting behind dumps of clouds

like a wilful general.

It still feels grandiose,

eminÚnce grise without followers.

Ineradicable as hope,

the stars go their way,

white as a bandage.

Sun Shining Over the Ocean

VIII. (Child's prayer)

Buds of blue silence,

the fain prayer of a child,

guttering candle.


The quest

Like cry of gull

fading away in the quiet of twilight,

slinking through felicities

of light and shade,

the soul strives after its goal,

spanning flights of eternity

and snaps of visions.

Flying over shards of time

strewn over patches of landscape

pale with mortality

and songs of moon,

unable to stop

where sorrow laughs

like drunken clown

at the indifference of the world,

or where necessity deplores

its deplorable existence,

the soul hovers towards its goal.

Shaping itself

into explosions of light,

flights of birds

and bizarrie of winds,

the soul continues its quest,

unaware of changes

and extravaganzas of being.

Until one day,

one night, sometime,

after endless succession of seasons

and shine of sun and moon,

it cautiously comes down

and fold its wings

on the same branch

from which it departed,

singing its most beautiful song.


Fractal 36 (Garden of Eden)


In the miraculous spell

of twilight,

when syllables are cadences,

not music,

visions are alien

to the dead stringency

of algebra and logarithms.

Imagination doesn't know

it is an imagined thing,

and mistakes its affections

for whims of the will,

a supreme manifestation

of mana.

It transfixes objects

like a dance,

avoiding the intricate allusions

of entelechy,

hammering at the sill of night

like a frightened Muse.

At the edge of self,

the imagined imagines itself

free from the burden

of being.

I. (Dawn)

Orange blooms at dawn,

tangerine and purple hues

aglow in the sky.

It Was Late at Night


The stillness of the air

pierces my soul

like flight of birds

or flow of petals -

warm, unpredictable.

Too much has been said

during the day -

chaos of words

unable to join

into meaning

or carousel of innuendos.

The forced implications

of polysemy

bereft the mind

of the apocryphal comfort

of simplicity,


as in the beginning,

when the troubled reflections

of the ego

didn't sing a swan song

on the cliff of death


trail of drift

and debris.

Spokes of light

turned out to be

deceptive as faith,

vanishing in the apocalypse

of twilight

like a nursery rhyme.

Where does the ultimate truth,

beautiful Thule,

halt the excited efflux of the soul

and the chaos of atoms

taking hold of existence

in the name of some convention

never deliberated,

forcing itself into being

like a scream?

The stillness of the air -

bucket of ashes


over astonished souls,

enhances the uncertain light

of truth

in the Virgilian cadences

of silence,

dancing with shadows

on the threshold of heaven.

The inescapable rhythm of life

relaxes into a song

under the holy ashes

of sacrifice.

XI. (Evensong)

Vestiges of sunshine

in the dwindling vale of dusk,

bells and evensongs.

Three Sisters (Katoomba)

Drunken angels


in sunset sky,

drunken angels,

clinking glasses,

a peal of laughter.


Waves of silence

breaking against

a child's prayer.

Jeux du Soleil

XIII. (Sketch)

Snapping synapses

of clouds, sun fighting its way

through explicit black.

Genius is sorrow's child.
-- John Adams