Poetry

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After a chat with Shitou Xiqien I wrote:

written by: Seanif

When asked if he
tired when lashing grass into thatch,
he said nothing.

When asked if he
generalized to abstractions,
he was still.

When asked to
recite his favorite poem
he said my own:

"Ideas are illusion's product of thought."

He thought science
but a mere approach
to reality.

Only fluid rounding motions
reify the continuous bending line.

He told me that borrowed
thoughts are still in your mind,
that when on the brink of saying
something, the priceless moment
before an utterance, all the
moments and all the matter are
never what one truly speaks; for
this, the impossible, the never ending,
is not saying of what one truly converses.
The forsaken shink of glory
is what one thinks one does not know.

Systems, maths, patterns;
define what is what to say what
is wrong.

The silence in music is music,
the black behind stars is space,
beer must be contained within
a receptacle in order for it to be drank,
god is dog spelt backwards.

But opinions are like handshakes,
always offering them up.

Though it will forever be, as it was then,
after that talk with the great master;

We watched the dissident
freedom bankers
leap forward, and ague
the poets pen.

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