SUPERSYMMETRICAL FLUCTUATIONS IN MY GOD PARTICLE FIELD

SUPERSYMMETRICAL FLUCTUATIONS IN MY GOD PARTICLE FIELD

Supersymmetrical fluctuations in my God particle field

are oxymoronically balancing my asymmetrical

quantum mechanical relationship between matter

and antimatter into sacred syllables of sibilant sparticles

so I can go on living substantively losing my balance

by creatively annihilating myself against a background

of perfect harmony. Is it love? Is it poetry? Is it

the amorphous music of becoming someone mystically specific

with mass throwing its weight on the side of my humanity

by loading the dice with one eye more than the perfection

of my non-existence knows what to do with,

or is everybody playing the part of an extra in their own life?

Languid apples of knowledge dancing naked

to the wavelengths of snakes playing moonlight sonatas

on the plectra of their pentatonic scales as if my photons and photinos

were all blissed out by Liszt. It’s as hard listening to a painting

that doesn’t know how to sing, as it is to see

how an omniscient secret could hide from itself

until it wished to be known. But as every dragon intuits

it’s not an elixir if you’ve got a formula for it,

and when the universe wants to speak if it isn’t

talking to itself in its sleep, or trying to come up

with a poem or an equation to fit all occasions

like a unified field theory with a burning bush

for a voice box addressing an indentured prophet

in a desert gully, pleading his brother’s superior eloquence,

it’s mourning the ashes of books that were burnt at the stake

for interrupting the silence. It’s harder to break the rules

after you’re dead than it is to discipline your disobedience

to the greater challenges of rising from Pandora’s box

to the greater miscreance of not surrendering

your insights into life like real stars refusing

to give up shining for the sake of a false dawn

the roosters and the wildflowers aren’t paying any attention to.

The flower bows to the butterfly. The shadow

enshrines the sundial and the star reveres the eye

as a child of its own. Nothing could be clearer than that.

The opposite of mindlessness isn’t the death of intelligence.

And the complement to love has never been hate.

Hate wastes too much energy underwhelming

its own inspirations like a pornographer

with a home movie camera, starring himself.

A swerve of the God particle and love

one in seven times has no opposite to collide with

just to keep a preponderance of creativity in the world.

And the rest is just nemetic lust out for a good time.

Everytime you whine for a muse to help you celebrate

this little potsherd of eternity that keeps turning thumbs down

like an ostrakon at your exile, you shame the Big Bang

into believing that she wasn’t muse enough to keep you occupied

over the last 13.5 billion lightyears of your lifespan.

But I would tender, respectfully, of course, it’s not the world

but you that have lost your charisma. Your shabby sense of wonder

is wasted on a face like that, and your tongue talks

like an old shoe that’s never wandered very far from home.

Enlarge yourself like a plenipotentiary paradigm

your children will be able to look up to like a constellation

that refused to stay within bounds but coloured outside

its fifteen degrees of separation in a sexigesimal zodiac.

Reverse the spin on your mirrors once and awhile

and take a good look at yourself on the inside as if

you weren’t trying to build an empire founded upon

the quicksand of somebody’s else’s miracles. Who doesn’t

love dancing with the Persian silks of the aurora borealis

their flesh shapeshifting like lamias and snakes under their veils,

cyanotically blue moodrings turning the pallor of death

into the irises of a chameleon that’s learned how to paint

a supernaturally toned oil of whatever comes before it?

Do you see how enlightening it is to turn

the high-livers on the catwalks out in the street in homespun?

Get back to the the roots of things like the radical

you’ve always told yourself you were from the late sixties on?

If you’re not worthy of the madness, how can you reasonably

expect to live up to being sane? Nothing worse

than a careerist with the ambitions

of a prophetic skull in an asylum

trying to listen in on cosmic office gossip

like the afterbirth in the background hiss of the universe.

Come withering, come fire, come hungry flames of desire

that will apocalyptically transmogrify your limbs into a great forest

consumed by lightning into a flash of insight

that knows enough about annihilation not to light

a match in a black hole that’s teaching you how to see in the dark,

or, more recuperatively creative, resilvering,

as the progenitive dew of the moon was once reputed to do,

or moonlight on the Byzantine leaves of the metallic Russian olives,

parabolic mirrors with an aquiline view of the stars.

Get ready for this. It’s approaching as if it were already

behind you like the light you see from Al Tair tonight

is merely the shadow of what it’s becoming without you

knowing anything about it like a surprise birthday party

that doesn’t leave your tears singing in the rain among

the myth floods of Babylon crying out like uterine waters

breaking all around you for arks to lullaby your cradles

of civilization on a Turkish mountaintop that’s about

to put its forehead to the ground in an avalanche

of asteroids and shepherd moons surrendering

to their foundation stones like an unmastered ship

going down in its oceanic awareness of the Pleiades,

or a humbled man, who realizes belatedly,

at the drop of a heart, the mermaids were always

singing to him as if he could swim without taking lessons.

PATRICK WHITE