excerpts from the Talamos Scriptura

   by Shaun Lawton 

     Before the Orb of the Ruby Eyed Queen had settled its tendrils fully into and around the city of our dreams,  Talamos, we never did give much thought to the municipality amid the Floating Clouds.  

   Things had changed in the wake of the contagion. Traffic between cities had dwindled down and then eventually diminished to nothing altogether.  People had become more deranged, somehow.  Their thoughts were affected by the magnetic interplay between their brains and the Macro Solar System, leading them to become unable to tell the difference between a tale and the truth. Believing anything does not always optimize results. 

   It was said that the great cameras positioned around the city that kept watch on an industrious populace to oversee their safety and keep an Eye on the general order of things could also project their footage into the minds of people long dead (who used to be alive on other star systems) and whose histories have long been buried in the past. That's everyone's story in a grand nut shell.  

    The same wave of light passes through all star systems. That's what long term memory reaction in a molecular chain linking back to ancestral programming is all about. As the program of corporeality continues to execute, the blossoming Hallway of Mirrors continues to expand along the same vectors of chain-reaction.  

   Standing alone before the court of the Red Slit Canyon, we drop to our knees to bow our heads in a moment of silence.  The distance and depth afforded our vision yields a panorama of rippling possibilities, charging the atmosphere with an invisible turbulence felt vibrating in the bones rather than seen, like a precursor to lightning and thunder in a rain storm.  

   It's the circulation of the light that we mistake for the illusion of motion caught in the amber of the Eternal Stone. The circumferential aspect of how light travels allows for a contiguous nonrepeating endless loop of configurations left behind in its wake. 

   As the dead are so often fated to do, when the last vestiges of their existence fades from view, the starry night glittering overhead gradually comes into sharper focus for the rest of us who manage to survive the cold intervals of the spaces in between.   

   

      

     

History of Legend

 

The captain by painting with brush strokes a song from his blood 

reveals an egg-speckled voice the cantos of rhythms have captured

soaking into the canvas of bandages a multi-colored flagon

with a puddle of paint as a singular alphabet molded into a serpent 

 showcasing one character easy to spell out a one word story with

the history of legend once again threatened to rupture

  if only the strength of conviction lent to articulation 

 could produce the bright tone of a cascading harmonic

 reflecting a saint captured in a lenticular portrait 

  without succumbing to any disease cast from Hell 

 to focus a blurred glory into sharp contrast to defend 

 the intent we'd originally agreed upon together here

  having been meant to carry us through any sort of storm 

  that may arise during our relentless journey there.  

 

 

Curtains of Division

  

 When the bitter ending lights out of the draperies that hang in a shroud

 breaking from distributions with a disunion of detachment 

in putrefaction and fragmentation of demoralization's dissolution 

from the centralization of hope and our disintegration's will part of 

selection and choice when it comes to a favorite natural preference 

like when discretion demands 'a cup of tea' then what's the point 

of having catalogued the reference to shadows creeping along 

the well hidden walls in the umbrage of the folds of power when

amid the hanging curtains of division in deference we may begin again?

 

The Communion Key

   

   Before asking what's going on in reality all about us every day of our lives (for that's one thing we all have in common, life seems to revolve around each and every person while we're all stuck inside our own skulls) we must consider, what does meaning itself appear to be?   

      These are not the thoughts we ordinarily want to pursue, me and you while we float on down the stream together or apart, but we can take the time to give it a shot knowing that a side of us would always look back and wonder. And if that's not as good a characterization of understanding as any, I may not know what would be.  

     In centuries past the scope was grand and moved with slow, methodical growth. Across those spans of time, and in between humanity's generations of offspring, the polishing of our collective memory performed its trick and the paragons of history transformed into the champions and monsters of our dreams. 

     The technological singularity may only have one explanation...one interpretation...one form. Billions of people flourish and die while others are generated to crawl out from inside us to be dumped off on the margins of this road like everyone else. 

 

     The thoroughfare resembles a woven spirallelogram describing the path we've taken for longer than anyone before us (far ago gone and long dragged under) could have known. These passages may as well have bobbed up like corks out of the darkness. The solid ground beneath our feet has felt as if it could never be swayed. 

     If one denotes that which persists intended to signify something fixed or static then we won't find it in the mechanized fulcrums of the evolving universe. Significance then by definition becomes that sense which we impart upon the chaos of our lives.  In other words, there's no analysis to be discovered, only invented.    

  One man's perception, identified by others, may grow to be revealed and one day consume the world.