Earthbound Angel # 7 New Age Angel: Muse Of Cafe Apollinaire

Poem By gordon coombes

Drifting from cafe to cafe
as light as air
his presence barely noticed
judges no one
accepts everything as possible
talking from midnight til dawn
gets exited when someone admits
to being a writer he asks for samples
praises all their efforts
it's all so subjective so who can tell
what is good & what is not
creating strange eccentric short plays
& stories & poems being put upon
the chopping block but he is humble
to an extreme & always says his little
works are second rate
as he writes about a Minotaur
& the farmer's daughter
& the traveling sales man
& engages in discussions
of secret Druidic Cults
of the lost knowledge of Atlantis
& Shangrila
of guiding angels
of mystical mental powers
for healing & talking to the dead
for flying through the air
for gaining immortality
for seeing our past incarnations
for Vision Quests & Sweat lodges
& massage therapy & aroma therapy
& the magic power of lighting candles
& the cleansing effect of enemas
& sensory deprivation tanks
for floating listening to recordings
of the sounds of nature of ocean waves
of song birds & gentle streams
& Eastern monks & sages meditating
& chanting & standing on their heads
& walking up & down mountains
at such a pace no one can keep up
living to a hundred and fifty or more
deciding to die when they've seen
& done enough Or after having
the ultimate vision
& so my friend dreams of a lost Golden Age
of pure spirituality
shares tales about Edgar Cayce
& other mediums of Madame Blavatsky
& the Theosophists
& the Order Of the Golden Dawn
of Alister Crowley & Yeats seeing gnomes
& faeries in his garden
& in hushed tones speaks
of the Egyptian & Tibetan books
of the dead
sees only the good in everyone
prays for all who are wounded or slain
fears getting too tangled up
in the everyday mundane world
of the profane as he thinks
of all these wondrous things
as he folds clothes fills & empties
washers & dryers in the Laundromat
where he labors for his daily bread -

& I wish I could dream as much
as he & Don Quixote
& not feel so much the burden
& indignities of my daily forays
into this world-

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trying on one identity or another
where is my true face you ask
& I wonder about it

Let's Get Surreal: For H.P. Lovecraft

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let us crawl inside paintings
roaming ancient ruins
crossing ancient battlefields

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tourists trampling the world
into dust
trying to get a last view
of a dying world

Runawaytrain No.2

It’s the price of fame
you’re on a runaway train-

love is just a game

Oh So Sweet Weed

seems like centuries
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crawling along

Walking With The Dead

spending an evening with the dead
as i take my nightly walk
along the streets of this sad little town
along the streets of that sad city years ago