Last Updated On February 26, 2017

 

“The Hawaiian creation myth relates that the present cosmos is only the last of a series, having arisen in stages from the wreck of the previous universe. In this account, the octopus is the lone survivor of the previous, alien universe.” -Roland Burrage Dixon

 

 

Love is a Many Suckered Thing

What if love has eight arms?
In turn whirling and curling,
Independent and interdependent,
Kissing and caressing,
Grabbing and drawing,
Incurring small welts,
Broken capillaries for good cause.

Every appendage is its own master,
Each having their own sentience and temperament,
Some arms are more goal oriented than others,
Some serve to dazzle and distract,
Some are cool and patient,
While others are fiery and impulsive,
But all searching, hungry, moving.

What if love has three hearts?
One for private desires,
Cloaked in camouflage,
Imitating the murky depths of the sea,
Misty and mottled and not at all transparent.

One heart for another,
Bubbling up to crimson horned skin,
Emerging with playful siphons of sea water,
Exposing tenderest of underbelly,
Evident on the sleeve of all eight arms.

Lastly, the practical heart,
For love encompasses all three,
Steadfastly pumping,
Copper enriched blood,
As blue and infinite as the sky.

What if love is a mighty hunter?
Curious, agile, intelligent,
And swiftly propelled through its element,
Capable of capture and deceit,
Capable of appearing to be,
Whatever is advantageous at the time.

What if love has alien eyes?
Inscrutable and incomparable,
Very unhumanlike,
With their subdued horizontal dashes,
Giving away nothing,
Yet clearly noticing everything.
Perhaps love knows too much.
Privy to every vibration,
And change in composition,
Compiling and interpreting,
Remembering and integrating,
Requiring rest and dark conditions,
And bony white exterior,
Just to take it all in,
To make sense of it,
Before senility and biology and mortality have their way.

What if love has an inviolate kernel of truth within?
Whereas the rest is flowing,
Shifting and shapeless,
Negotiating the smallest of cracks and crevices,
Limitless and beyond expectation,
Both liquid and solid,
Effortlessly pouring itself into any container,
And yet able to escape them all.

 

Last Updated On February 26, 2017

 

“The Hawaiian creation myth relates that the present cosmos is only the last of a series, having arisen in stages from the wreck of the previous universe. In this account, the octopus is the lone survivor of the previous, alien universe.” -Roland Burrage Dixon

 

Love is a Many Suckered Thing

What if love has eight arms?
In turn whirling and curling,
Independent and interdependent,
Kissing and caressing,
Grabbing and drawing,
Incurring small welts,
Broken capillaries for good cause.

Every appendage is its own master,
Each having their own sentience and temperament,
Some arms are more goal oriented than others,
Some serve to dazzle and distract,
Some are cool and patient,
While others are fiery and impulsive,
But all searching, hungry, moving.

What if love has three hearts?
One for private desires,
Cloaked in camouflage,
Imitating the murky depths of the sea,
Misty and mottled and not at all transparent.

One heart for another,
Bubbling up to crimson horned skin,
Emerging with playful siphons of sea water,
Exposing tenderest of underbelly,
Evident on the sleeve of all eight arms.

Lastly, the practical heart,
For love encompasses all three,
Steadfastly pumping,
Copper enriched blood,
As blue and infinite as the sky.

What if love is a mighty hunter?
Curious, agile, intelligent,
And swiftly propelled through its element,
Capable of capture and deceit,
Capable of appearing to be,
Whatever is advantageous at the time.

What if love has alien eyes?
Inscrutable and incomparable,
Very unhumanlike,
With their subdued horizontal dashes,
Giving away nothing,
Yet clearly noticing everything.
Perhaps love knows too much.
Privy to every vibration,
And change in composition,
Compiling and interpreting,
Remembering and integrating,
Requiring rest and dark conditions,
And bony white exterior,
Just to take it all in,
To make sense of it,
Before senility and biology and mortality have their way.

What if love has an inviolate kernel of truth within?
Whereas the rest is flowing,
Shifting and shapeless,
Negotiating the smallest of cracks and crevices,
Limitless and beyond expectation,
Both liquid and solid,
Effortlessly pouring itself into any container,
And yet able to escape them all.

Last Updated On February 26, 2017

“The Hawaiian creation myth relates that the present cosmos is only the last of a series, having arisen in stages from the wreck of the previous universe. In this account, the octopus is the lone survivor of the previous, alien universe.” -Roland Burrage Dixon

Love is a Many Suckered Thing

What if love has eight arms?
In turn whirling and curling,
Independent and interdependent,
Kissing and caressing,
Grabbing and drawing,
Incurring small welts,
Broken capillaries for good cause.

Every appendage is its own master,
Each having their own sentience and temperament,
Some arms are more goal oriented than others,
Some serve to dazzle and distract,
Some are cool and patient,
While others are fiery and impulsive,
But all searching, hungry, moving.

What if love has three hearts?
One for private desires,
Cloaked in camouflage,
Imitating the murky depths of the sea,
Misty and mottled and not at all transparent.

One heart for another,
Bubbling up to crimson horned skin,
Emerging with playful siphons of sea water,
Exposing tenderest of underbelly,
Evident on the sleeve of all eight arms.

Lastly, the practical heart,
For love encompasses all three,
Steadfastly pumping,
Copper enriched blood,
As blue and infinite as the sky.

What if love is a mighty hunter?
Curious, agile, intelligent,
And swiftly propelled through its element,
Capable of capture and deceit,
Capable of appearing to be,
Whatever is advantageous at the time.

What if love has alien eyes?
Inscrutable and incomparable,
Very unhumanlike,
With their subdued horizontal dashes,
Giving away nothing,
Yet clearly noticing everything.
Perhaps love knows too much.
Privy to every vibration,
And change in composition,
Compiling and interpreting,
Remembering and integrating,
Requiring rest and dark conditions,
And bony white exterior,
Just to take it all in,
To make sense of it,
Before senility and biology and mortality have their way.

What if love has an inviolate kernel of truth within?
Whereas the rest is flowing,
Shifting and shapeless,
Negotiating the smallest of cracks and crevices,
Limitless and beyond expectation,
Both liquid and solid,
Effortlessly pouring itself into any container,
And yet able to escape them all.