A Breath Of Potentiality Poem by Riano Harp

A Breath of Potentiality

Nothing is sweeter than the air dissolving,
Horizons erected to veins choke dull lights
Swallowing the space of bed-sheet crease-canals
Wrapping the blind man decaying in his sleep.

The cliché of euphoria quickly succumbs
To what negations of childhood try to keep,
A man is fixed, proud to know, always thinking,
Clinging on to what he believes to be right.

This is the tragedy of our own delight,
The collective weight is always conceiving,
Always repeating, always trying to sheep
The boredom of a Sun carved by sell-by-dates.

Never lose breath of what you love in this sleep -
Spaceless, breathless, grey and alluring, we fight
Only to seize the moment as ourselves,
Only to give worth to dust blinding our sight.

Rajah's Prelude pt.1

Rajah has never tasted music -
He hasn't known the prick
Of the sharpness of wholeness -
Words are his favourite demons,
Neglected to their control
Of being abused by his own soul -
His shadow hangs like a branch
Swollen with the stench
Of a rotten tangerine,
A hue chiselled by his gene -
He carries on, unaware he is in a dream.

Urban Egypt

Trying to regain perfection by concealing death in each step, humble beings never realise the wires switching to the demands of the seasons of the mind - each scalp is condemned to mould itself into a glass prism, disguised through conversation of what's considered normality, the most pathetic - and most basic - catalyst for the self-persevation of a Godhead devouring it's own despair, a postulation of futility without any remark on the consistency - reason's necessity - of the growth of regression, a concept patterned unto the native boredom pulsating through the walls, swaying the purple flowers indicating the guarantee of your return. Here, kindling the small black smudge which is your monsoon, you walk alone with history's finest, changing the echo of their epitaph incessantly to align with the meaning of your life, an instinct inevitably untaught by those crystallisers of foam sanctifying the rigid currency of their scene - resting on the diseased platform of cynicism issuing forth the motion of a laughter shared by all, it seems this age of repression has defined itself through the relinquishment of correspondence, the ingredient enslaving us to recitals of cosmic infancy, as well as the primitive trait of breeding surprise when a new cloud sticks to the herd of blue in the sky; as a race, we guide ourselves into oblivion without realising the humour of having known each other at all, especially as something else. Still, I am possessed by the beauty of darkness, observing the Sun from a far, cementing my veins through the innocence of understanding experience without ever being present to any instinct of release. This, I assure you, is constant death.

Never is a breath muttered without a sound, never is a transparent effigy weaned off the backlash inside the beat of ancient symmetry's need for self-destruction; at least, according to the skyline ingrained within the claws of the tiger of suburbia, the prowess so inherently stained within London, Manchester and any place invested in the infestation of the justification to strip your shadow scarlet rather than releasing it unto yourself. We as a people have never indulged in the beauty of collective solitude, out of fear and ignorance we assume the simulamen's backbone of posterity - I only ever have understood nuance, I glide unnoticed as I present myself to all, keeping intact the contentment of never desiring the excitement of grotesque harm projected as surreal epitome, inbred and distributed by the sheep who managed to find themselves lost.

The secret of the Sphinx reveals itself to you every day, you're the canvas for its declaration as a being, desert beasts can't desert the age submerged within its own foundation - not here, anyway - and you mock yourself with the answers to your problems, shards of pyramids reflect aspects of your face, each on following the same code, dancing across the air and throughout the hammer clashing and sparking to life flints burrowed in the morrow of your throat, building infinitesimal bridges arching over the stars from the rubble you walk upon. The daily mass conducted for no-one. Understanding is the vein of revelation, the key of principally overseeing, without contamination, the versatility and potentiality of creation, that is to say the ground you set yourself so firm upon can only be the sky and the extravagancy of a naked twilight is merely the reflection of the vessels of instinct which through the sight of yourself propelled you to lift your head up. Ancestors should never claim specific, labelling the hardness of water only results in a staleness of freshness, the breeder of enslavement and un-navigated motion.

Eldorado, the slinger of horizons, bleaches windowsills in the hope of causing transparency to weep blood - can paradise only be a joke on itself? Surely this recognition of the soul alone is the ignition for a movement hiding itself in the astonishing magnificence of torment - But still...
My nucleus is a speck of dust that only goes as far as I am blind. I can only be nowhere. But still, here as another voice, the bustling crowds snuggled in the luxury of foreplay and the refuges who beg without asking remind me of a life that forever changed my death.

on fortitude, set before

What was left of the sweet puddle of Oasis rekindling the Sun hungover an endless mirage, blackening each apology inscribed on gravestones consuming any passer-by whom laid beside it, laying waste unto waste in this barren land.
Dark ached just as much as sand at noon - genesis had not yet forgotten itself, clouds were starved and the wind burrowed itself in fury, allowing me to perceive a distinct platform where a sparkling opal revolved, camouflaging the air less I looked directly in front of me. Each imprint destined to be filled away birthed the instinct for me to perceive a shadow walking alone.
To recollect life as you're living is to sink to sand in the desert, to erect the worth of a castle founded upon sinking sand - carving for no-one the glory of an abstract history; - a shape overhung by boredom and the pathetic fear of pretending there is no knowledge of how to rise like the Sun we praise as it burns our flesh, sticking us to the lumps and hills of a desert which only sways it's enormity and sermons for the next passer-by.