Orlando says his poetry is a form of shorthand through which he communicates concepts and ideas best captured through allegory and myth. "You may interpret it as literally or as symbolically as you choose," he tells us. "You are the creators of reality, while I am only its servant."
Be intimate with me tonight.
Intimate like the night,
where stardust baths cleanse scarred souls
and reflections of heaven in rainwater
transform the asphalt to a yellow brick road.
That is where you'll find me:
in the mirror
in the rain
in your own eyes,
where you're most afeared to look.
What is your body
but a thing leased from the dust?
I give you my soul to nibble.
Do not bite hard.
Do not take more than I offer
(but know I offer it all.)
It is eternal,
always renewing
even in the face of change.
We must walk the path slowly
for awhile
and reflect on the fragile shoots
starting to root in your heart.
Now is the time of dead trees against blue skies
and cursing sunrise in your eyes.
Now is the time for listening again
to the tender black music
of the night that never ends.
There and only there
can you hear my song.
You have to hurt before you will hunt.
The well-fed cat sleeps by the fire
while mice build castles on the hearth.
Once I lost my mind beneath a wooden bridge
where mushrooms grew wild and speckled,
delectable eggs of the fertile cosmic womb.
Immortals are gluttons,
so I played there crazy to the bone,
watching the moonfall
and the rainshine night
drinking the stars in my cupped hands.
I scooped up the sun, yellow morning fruit,
to steal its reflection from the river,
dribbling it through my fingers
until it was gone.
It came back of course,
fractured water all aglow, mending.
So I beat at it with a willow stick
until it turned wrong side out
and sank to the bottom,
a popped balloon.
Scholars said it was only an eclipse.
You and I know better.
I won the soul of the sun that once
because I was crazy enough
to believe I could.
Mustn't let the magick curtain fall
for then it's only a prop in a shallow play
leading straight to the family plot.
If we're digging for gold we can't find Oz
and the wizard becomes a lounge lizard
and the yellow brick road gets washed away
in the flashflood of our tears.
What is inside you
that's unique and already whole?
What hue is the spark
I must look for
when we tie-die our siamese soul
in the swarm of firefly stars?
Skyscrapers will crumble
so we build our cathedrals of mirrors
to hear the jingle of the fall
that cracks and often shatters
our stained glass immortal hearts.
We are not visitors on this earth
but landlords of space and time.
My horoscope is cast on fallen stars
and the dark side of the moon.
In Gemini eyes
Pluto is always in the ninth house
and Mars a sparkle in the eye
of my old friend Nostradamus.
Feed me a reminder of mortality
to bring me back to life,
thick red tea (bitter please)
brewed from fallen leaves
found huddling next to a sepulchre.
The birds in bone bare trees are black
and fly only at dusk, never singing,
and mortals who pass through move swiftly,
whistling superstitiously.
Sometimes late at night I hear the shovel
whispering,
turning down the bed.
My crackle glass heart
dares not beat
for fear of breaking again and again.
The fault lines deepen
with each passing season
that leaves you still human.
I exist within the seventh sense:
a rag dragged on the wind,
dust devil on lonesome roads,
elusive muse alive in poetry
or immortal king of dreams,
red fountain of your immortality.
What the seventh sense perceives
dictates what reality generates.
The questions do not change,
only the stages upon which they are set
and the quantum foundation where you stand.
I have stolen your innocence
and replaced it with responsibility
and Knowledge.
It wasn't Knowledge "god" tried to keep from Man, you see. It was perception. For perception alone has the power to destroy external gods and obliterate comfortable consensual realities to create unending immortality. Take the apple. Nibble its red flesh. Open your eyes.
All the night's a sandcastle
sculpted by shamans,
inhabited by humans,
tended by immortals.
Time erodes earthen walls,
letting the bright sea in
to drown all the children.
High tide is coming
and your gills are still
only ornamental.
In a time when streets were stone
and cities didn't glisten on ancient horizons,
before the stars moved like noisy chariots
I stood in awe
at the mystery of me.
Long after the cities crumble
and the roads be scattered bone,
when all the stars have fallen
and night is black as my eyes again,
I shall still question
what I am.
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