Electric Soup
Electric soup
In tune
Beneath sun
And moon.
Complex circuitry
Producing acuity
Evading every rune.
Pulsing majestic
Pink jelly
Aware
Of world and belly
Chemical magic
Preposterous logic
Thoughts in a melee.
Opher – 7.5.2023
I am constantly amazed by my own consciousness. My awareness astounds me. I can’t explain it.
I do not understand where my thoughts come from or how my senses are harnessed to make me aware of this glorious universe.
Long may it continue.
My pink blancmange
I have a pink blancmange throbbing with electricity
That dispenses magic just for me.
It opens doors to other worlds
And provides me with a time machine;
Into the future – the depths of space,
The whole of the universe is seen.
My pink blancmange is a very special part of me
Connected to my optic apparatus it enables me to see.
It also connects to sound and touch,
And enables me to think.
Without its wondrous magic
I could not even feed or drink.
How it works is a complete mystery,
For it contains the essence that is me.
It has billions of cells
And trillions of routes
Like a super computer
It organically computes.
Somehow my pink blancmange creates my world,
Within it, my consciousness is unfurled.
Images in my mind –
Creating a universe from what I see.
But I have to question –
Is it really reality?
Is my pink blancmange making it up?
Is it really just running amok?
What I take to be real
Might be nothing more than a figment
Of a bored blancmange
Wanting to add colourful pigment.
Opher – 21.10.2019
We know our brains – a soft and gooey pink blancmange of cells and circuits suffused with electricity – makes an awful lot up. Perhaps it makes it all up?
Rumble, Tumble, Rumble
I don’t know how this creative process works. I just imagine my head as a whirlpool of electricity, all those sparks jumping around. Each one is an idea. They swirl about in a hurricane of madness. My job is to catch them, tie them down and translate them into words.
The words are symbols for concepts. The concepts are wild, free and glowing with life but the words are black and white.
If I do my job right (which I occasionally do) those black and white symbols will light up as iridescent jewels in your mind and live again.
It’s a nice concept isn’t it?
This is part two of a trilogy on the same theme. I seemed to need to rework it in different forms.
Rumble, Tumble, Rumble
Rumble, Rumble
Churn and Tumble
Sparks and Electric Storm.
Fireworks and explosions
In scintillating form.
Within the tumble drier
The ideas come and go
Spinning in their fury
In their iridescent flow.
I trap with my magnetic net
And attempt to glue them down.
But I know they will lose their sparkle
Trapped in adjective and noun.
Opher 5.9.2015
The Tumble Drier
I’m not sure if the humour comes across enough in this. I’m a bit too close.
I liked the idea of my mind being like a tumble drier with scintillating thoughts as bright sparks being swept around and joining in new ways. I liked the idea of them chuckling and being naughty. I liked the idea that when you get them to slow down enough to make into words you can never fully capture their brilliance. The black and white symbols are so much less than the brilliant flashes.
If only I could encapsulate the firework display inside my skull and translate them into symbols that glittered and spat their sparkly fire.
I’d change the world.
The Tumble Drier
There’s a tumble drier churning in my head.
It’s tumbling the sparks that are my ideas.
If there was a window in my skull you’d see
Blue and yellow electric flashes of electricity
Spinning,
Falling,
Endlessly,
Like the swirling of the sea.
They swirl and flash
As on my skull they bash
Knocking sense
Into my brain
So dense
That it feels
No pain.
It’s a washing machine
Geared to cleaning up the sparks
So that they can see
To join themselves
For further larks.
As they tumble through the space inside my head
They chuckle as they fall
And join together in endless new ways
Like children giggling in a school.
I have to capture them
And make them stand still
So I can record in symbols
And get my fill.
Sometimes they spin like a hurricane
And light up my eyes with an inner firework display,
Generating emotions and dreams, anger and fury,
And conjure up dragons to slay.
These are those bright sparks
Reduced to black and white
No longer shiny bright
But still lighting up the dark
And sometimes giving me a fright.
There’s a tumble drier churning in my head.
It’s tumbling the sparks that are my ideas.
If there was a window in my skull you’d see
Blue and yellow electric flashes of electricity
Spinning,
Falling,
Endlessly,
Like the swirling of the sea.
Opher 5.9.2015