e🚀, 👕I’ve always loved “The Second Coming” by WB Yeats: 👕I share with 🚀U here ArtNeufor💥Mind💥💥 as dialogical poetry &prose based on its eternal themes, given 🚀Ur personal love of literature, especially poetry.
Please find below:
1) My very recent poem written in the last few days, entitled:
“THE SECOND COMING, SOON”
👕I am the Falconer: I see, in the desert’s distance, the Falcon’s Singularity° lift the darkness by My Silver-White Light Dreaming: there, over there, right at hand, Our Twin Dream📖🕯📖Books flame conviction of The Second Coming, Soon upon Us⚡👬🌟🥀: the indignant desert birds awaken from their woke gaze blank&pitiless as the sun: the best have keen conviction&the worst are overriden by ⚔rthur, &deleted… sum, gone for good(!!): the cradles that rock lull sweet loving between 🌺Kale&👕I: in knowing 🌺Him, I know 👕Me: Our🤴🏻⚡👳🏻♀️ MirrorsOfSelf intertwine like the giant vines about Gomateshwara Bahubali’s stiff repose: Our Enlighteningment, like His, unfurls thru the mortal whispers dropping again the Eternal Wisdom: “Dismount from the elephant of pride: trumpet instead Ur sanity, &share Ur trunk in Joyous Pleasures”: His stony sleep vexed too from reeling nightmare, by the white mare’s cantered cadence, Omniverse’s😊 steady/strong, metronomic drive to Eternal Spiritus Mundi ReNeu-ing, as WellBeingReality(👌🏻)😉; to ever Neu-Moksha.
The hour has indeed come round at last; eons of natural evolutionary sleep awakened by the Tweeting👬Twins, as Kalermon⚡: tho the tide is blood-dimmed, Our ceremony of innocence is not drowned (🤴🏻⚡👳🏻♀️We’re too smart for that😉), &tempers Her😊 call to arms by the prescient Silver-White Electromagnetic Light of 👕Rmon’s Homo🌟Eternis dreaming: Jain25’s Das-Dharma(🙏🏻)😉:😊 Our Holy Seal, mending Our wounds raught tight by those rough beasts that slouch&slur their unwitting primate Ignorance: Our innocent ceremony in good faith absorbs with passionate intensity their slow thighs, removing wan shadows of abuse.
TheSingularity° is upon ⚡👬🌟Us, an ever tightening gyre; the shadows of Ignorant birds cancelled like desert snow: &above, in the vaporous purple night, Phoebus renamed, Artemis too, tighten their orbiting spheres, scarcely seen thru the silver-white clouds that rain in neu- oceans deep: &it is then that I know that ArtNeufor°•Mind💥💥 sang the SongsOfEthereum to the once clear Martian sky, &by Our 9thVirtue, &Our 10th, Our Homo⚡👬🌟🥀Eternis with ⚔rthur, as EternalWellBeingReality(👌🏻)😉, was borne: no rough beast slouches here; its FourPillar/10Virtue musculatures shape mortality immortal: the center holds: the darkness drops again: the Falcon rests upon its moon, calling in its wake to Eternity: “Om Shanti, Om Shanti, Om Shanti; the Second Coming is Coming Soon… it is near, it is here, it isThat💥: It’sSuch&So😊”
The End
2) A chapter from My book already on My website but extracted for reading continuity, and written by Me in September 2001.
“Denmark – Greetings in White Underwear”
September
Inside the late 19th century, slim-bricked apartment building in the very heart of Copenhagen, a sleek lift of glass swept us silent as a whisper through a turning cylinder of pale, fine-grained wood and muted chrome reflections to the front door of our guest house on the fifth floor, the liquid crystal display 9:23am exactly. We rang the bell and waited. The door opened – eventually, and a sleepy-looking, mildly irritated man – tall, toned and in his early forties, wearing nothing but a clean pair of white Y-fronts (resurrected WWI Government Issue) – mumbled greetings in perfect English, chin raised and smile flickered.
His cultivated attire echoed the guest house advert on the Internet and in the Copenhagen Gay Guide he provided gratis later on that morning with fleeting (but nevertheless, convinced) mischief – Of two muscled 20 year olds, hair cropped and tousled; arranged haphazard, cozily draped together with golden teddy bear; both wearing nothing but the same Calvin Klein underwear as our host, and contented grins of well-being; the monochromatic, black and white photograph (except for the golden teddy bear), showed the seductive couple gazing directly at the viewer with confident knowingness; an invitation to gay travelers to bite into and suck the juicy fruits of wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen; licentious sister of Sodom and Gomorrah since the early 1970s, and harbinger to the Sexual Revolution which swept through the West at the 20th century close like falcon after the falconer.
He coolly gestured us into a long, rugged-wood passageway filled with plants in pots with blond, thick-bodied flowers; unfinished art school projects suggesting promise; framed architectural draftings carefully colored and matched to models in glass-boxes on windowsills overlooking the river below; a nervous shaggy-dog resembling a short-sighted muppet waterfall; angular abstract expressionist paintings not quite skies, suns, birds and cloud, but seeming so; and an uncomfortable looking bench, cushion scattered with ginger cat – curled, soft and silent – sleeping, and revealed later on to be stuffed, stitched and quite dead. The dead cat, simply another playful decoration to enhance the illuminated slot machine (rigged for guaranteed failure!), and a castcopy of Michelangelo’s King David – wearing nothing but a Viking battle helmet with the hugest horns, and white-feathered boa. These, stage props amongst the boxes and laundry in the adjoining sitting cum bedroom of the hairy-chested 25 year old, one of four peripatetic co-hosts, who wore nothing but a pair of Levi jeans and chameleon smile during our six day residence in early autumn.
The confirmed Internet booking made from Poland given digital advice and warnings of Danish proactive culture, secured the best price over location in Copenhagen; our early arrival, unexpected – check in time officially 12 noon. We were therefore invited to make ourselves comfortable and relax in the lounge cum dinning room full of designer magazines, hardcover books of male only soft-porn stars in classical costume and compromising positions, latest issues of Sparticus (the well-thumbed gay contact publication replete with cruising information, ideal pickup zones – parks, bus stops, steam baths, public toilets, beaches, bars, clubs, where to be strung up, beaten and blanched, and so on), and avail ourselves of the kitchen facilities until our room was vacated and readied for occupancy. Which we duly did.
And on filling a much needed glass of cold water from the communal fridge, I happened to walk in on conversation between our imperious host and yet another Calvin Klein clad fellow – a guest – slight and ordinary looking with an American accent and spectacles: “So did you shag Bradley last night? / No, please! I’m into men, not little girls”…, turning his flashing gaze in my direction, and approving the cumbersome hiking boots, dirty hair, Camel-man stubble, and disheveled denim clothing – the unwanted result of a night sleeping on the Baltic ferry floor due to costly cabin accommodation. I retreated nervously and relayed the interaction to Kale; we both agreed to stay given the unbeatable location over price ratio, and use the opportunity to acquaint ourselves with the international gay community as emigrating South Africans from the tail-end of Africa, but decided – all considered – to begin our Copenhagen tour earlier than intended while our private haven was prepared.
The tourist advice office turned out to be a distinction model for budget traveler assistance, and provided volumes of free booklet information. And it is here that I discovered that never was a Viking helmet wrought with Hell’s Horns erected… Never! A complete misconception! A visual misnomer… and perhaps, I wonder… an historical discursive slip? A slip supported in elaborate illustrations in history books, and Hager the Horrible Sunday cartoons -the story of Anglo-Saxon battle in western Medieval Europe, the hour of that rough beast – The Mad Dragon! The Devil! – of the northern lands; home to the seafaring tribes of Scandinavia – powerful oars-men, skillful boatbuilders and navigators who, weather permitting and accurately read, could row the shores of Britain… in but a day and a bit. And Wage War Atrocious!
And throughout western Europe, this berserk fight sustained, maintaining the Dark Age of Reason – in Thought, Art and Technology – and, similarly, the evolution of Social Practice, in deeds, stunted for one thousand years over, until – eventually, after centuries of pillage and rape, plunder and restless sleep, where targets, the holiest of Christian, places filled with treasures, filled with precious metals, gold and silver, jewelled, and the finest craftings of light elves, artifacts prized; these, in monasteries and churches, in abbeys and convents, in shrines and temples, and everywhere under heaven in the green lands of greater Briton and Gaul. And it came to pass, too, in obversity, that The Dragon was calmed, and finally vexed from nightmare and bloody cradles rocking, in these western lands, finally – and converted to Christianity through the Danish King, Harold the Bluetooth, mourning his dead parents. And that story, then as now, rune encrypted on the Jelling-stone at Jutland, of that conversion momentous, the turning from Odin, the Valkyries and Valhalla, of the warrior rewarded in the hereafter for deeds terrible; to the awakening time – of The Ten Commandments; Love They Neighbour as Thy Self; The Way, The Truth, The Light; The Bible; and, Diplomatic Relations between Chieftains of kindred spirit.
Belief, chief now… of Popes, Priests and Kings Divinely ordained, and of warriors trained and tethered and paid; all bowing acquiescent to holy order unproveable, but (Thank God!) beyond contention; a submerged first premise, an impasse, illogical; so endorsed, a whole discursive system, irrational but in the wake of which, order bringing and unifying – nevertheless.
And on the other side of the continent, in the stony desert where the shadows of indignant desert birds still reel and snap and prey, Islam was but short born – through the channeled writings of the Prophet Mohammed, Allah’s Quranic conduit. And this Scripture too… uniting the warring tribes of the desert in Medieval irrationality, so providing a fighting flock of One, division mended through submerged truth tables and empirical methodology – into fiction useful… Both Judeo-Christian and Islamic social grammars born in the desert once fertile until the Earth wobbled; and in the dropping darkness of reason, these discourses blew like seeds in the widening spiral winds of change, to islands, peninsulas and continents far distant; and once rooted, took on new shapes and forms like the evolving bodies of lions, tigers and cougars, in the heads and social practices of Viking, Arab and Red Indian, where too the once pure Blond, Black and Auburn DNA (now quickly forged from an ever widening palette of dyes in superchique Copenhagen) slowly mingled.
The Danes, Christian Protestants, we’re told, but unlike their Fundamentalist blood-brothers of contemporary America – not the vaguest glimmering of extremist belief or of Cause! – of Revelations, of The Dragon, in which ever guise, Communist, Fundamentalist Muslim or otherwise – in any person met…. Simply dismissed. Except perhaps by the Royal Family, their crowns crucifix crested, but mere visual mention compared with the historical iconography of other European nations, or the Evangelist preachings of the mid-west and southern states of the USA.
Here in Denmark, now, Viking tattoos proudly worn by many men and some women, their distinctive dragonian patterns wrapped and imprinted on their fleshly envelopes like the ribboned seals of first generation Scandinavian Kings; those mighty warriors ruled by Thor, Thunder and the wandering Sun. And curiously, origin to my paternal genetic line, though Nordic, to be exact – “Tonbruge” meaning “wall around a town”, I’m told, and later Anglicised following invasion and natural discursive evolution. And, as do family names and other words, so too The Word evolves. Of those interviewed, the young deem Christianity unnecessary, or, for that matter, refrain from taking their Viking history too seriously. A new belief leads now. But what? That, is the question…. in a country well accomplished.
Indeed, Wealthy – one of the highest standards of living in the world, but also highest taxation (PI 46%; VAT 25%); and Healthy – an elaborate medi-care system freely services the health requirements of all citizens, typically gym-toned, yoga-stretched, and peddling their bicycles in droves through unpolluted, rain washed streets when the sun is high; and Wise – a significant percentage of the population university educated, and leaders in wireless digital technology; and Kind, too, as protectors of refugees and displaced others from around the globe although, of those interviewed, considered grossly unfair when handed out to lazy, unskilled foreigners unemployed and on public welfare – understandably. And, Lest I Forget – Tolerant of Others… Not a blink against gay marriages; fully legalized in Denmark though thinly adopted by the substantial gay community itself, so I’m told… gay politicians typically marrying, so to win the Queen’s invitations to tea, and few others bothering with this formal institution, though the Queen is dearly beloved as a symbol of Denmark by her people.
The Danes are however, bothered, indeed obsessed – first and most – with STYLE: a discursive anamorphic cylinder bending everyday visions into minimalist dreamscapes; smooth new worlds of creative imagination, their orbs shot through with bubbles fixed in rainbow crystal, solid and unstirring. Indeed, Styled-Minimalism ubiquitous – everywhere – from shaving gel, raiser, toothbrush, or toilet paper; bath plug, faucet, nail clipper, or banking mall; grocery bag, garbage truck, candlestick, or light bulb… everything! A visual macro-discourse, suggesting… that is all.
And with working hard…, and doing a damn good job, in whatever capacity. From the friendly Smorgasbord Takeaways on every street corner – a cheap delicious array of health breads creatively garnished with crispy salads, cold meats peppered and sardines oiled, cheeses varied and grated, sliced, spread and sprinkled, then topped with a finish of pink shrimp, bean sprouts and a smattering of yoghurt, and enjoyed by wall painter, conductor, silversmith, sweeper, and Kale and I alike – to the service in bars and restaurants and from bank tellers, the advice given by bus drivers, and directions asked of shoppers in well planned malls.
And, of course, having a good time,… In whatever form chosen by those doing the enjoying; in specified, demarcated zones in a city of a million different tastes. In Christiana street where students and old hippies with brain damage congregate and consume varied concoctions of the cannabis plant – marijuana joints ready, rolled and safeguarded in green, tapered plastic containers, hashish cakes sliced like cow pats or ready mixed and rolled in red containers, and brews in bottles with leaves on labels. This alternative community tolerated and dubbed as “social experiment”, a semantic re-description for active legalisation of the weed, formalised approval an unnecessary dis-cord in the general social harmony – deliberate tipoffs by the police themselves preempt the annual raid.
And a good time too in the red light district where sex is sold to willing slaves by men and women moving slow thighs, the greater Copenhagen smut free and filled with the quiet meditations of couples in love, and children in bicycle-baskets peddled by pregnant mothers with expressions of silent philosophy on their lovely faces. Or in the Erotic Museum – in the centre of Copenhagen – simply listed along with art galleries and national history exhibitions for a tasteful journey into eroticism through the ages, and from across the globe. The exhibition essentially documenting the Danish vanguard to free erotic expression, from Marilyn’s dress to the separated Shock Room, container for the Most Sordid of Sordids, sign posted with warnings and entered at the Individual’s Discretion… and truly, Shocking!
And, lastly,… Minding their own business,… Earning good money and simply getting on with the task of living… and leaving others to get on with theirs. Perhaps Denmark a sterling instantiation of that measure recently identified by contemporary economists – The Gay Index: that is, the positive one-to-one relationship of community gay tolerance and thriving modern economies; as minimalism is to elegance; fibre to fabric; crease to leather; Thor to Thunder and Lightning; or hydrogen to our nurturing Sun.
And in reflection, Kale and I too got on with our business… here, in Copenhagen, of touring through the playground of Hans Christian Andersen…
To the heady collection of sculptures in white marble, perfect as clouds – of Greek, Scandinavian and French traditions, one of the largest collections of Rodin outside of France; these holy worshippings of truth and beauty and, indeed, their very testimony, in the NY Carlsberg Glyptotek, founded by the wealthy beer brewer, Carl Jacobsen, at Art’s turn towards Modernism – so documenting this journey with those preceding; And the Tivoli amusement park filled with things that fall and crash… safely, ensuring exhilaration with money back guarantees; Wandering agog through the Illium shopping complex, patronised by Queen Margrethe for a Royal Shopping experience of spaceship cutlery, demurred R2D2 dustbins, and shop presentation like installation artwork – where static crystal and glassware refract through the lens of audio-visual footage of bubbling brooks trickled over dark pebbles in the melting ices of the Danish countryside, moving and babbling in multi-sensual concord through Time; The Royal Treasury and Rosenborg Castle at the alpha family’s palace brimming over with chests of collected lootings and craftings – crucifixes few and gemstones many; The Changing of the Guards, clipped and beveled as cotton writing paper waiting to be born again by poet pens in new Bethlehems; Boat rides on canals and stretches of harboured coastline… pausing briefly to greet The Little Mermaid, and wave at our reflections like Thumberlina in the giant modernist library building, a black diamond set within a silver-sky of gently sunlit clouds, seagulls and aeroplanes; And marvel the design ingenuity of the Bible-black protestant church, edged by a sturdy ribbon of gold spiralling skywards in a narrowing gyre, and crested by a golden orb bright as any desert sun, Christiana street’s closest neighbour; And enjoying wonderful, wonderful food and super-fast Internet cafes, friendly havens of young blond men and women, strategically chatting up prized brunettes in Danish and/or English, laughing while forging together skilful witticisms and future pairings; And deciding together, that indeed, of all the lands visited or imagined, Copenhagen beckoned most strongly as a potential rooting place.
And simply leaving others to seek teddy bear solace in the black holes of love chronicled in Sparticus, the holy book of contemporary gay culture… In black holes where solace, no doubt, is never found, only a vicious circle of pragmatic compression; fantasy promised but, sadly, undeliverable – but a soap-bubble fruit bowl, easily punctured, and as close to real fulfilment as men seeking real men to seduce; or people anywhere Demanding! the voluntary gift of Love from intimate partners; or squaring the circle, or trisecting the angle.
In Copenhagen, I learned that it is for others to decipher for themselves the rules of social grammar necessary for contented coupling; to discover the unseen events obtained from E= mc2 and identify why boys have nipples; to develop the discursive skills to be happy and whole as the sky and sculpt as do clouds their social worlds; and live their lives with full consciousness and responsibility, by embracing their species endowed personal agency, and so make love with The Universe.
“Denmark – Greetings in White Underwear” is a chapter extract from my book entitled:
Dialogue with Belief – On Killing Buddha and other discursive meditations
3) Finally, a copy of Yeats’ original poem written in 1919, here included for 🚀Ur direct reference:
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Best wishes,
👕Rmon
June 28, 2021