The Time Cursors of the Alblackica in the Baquytra Mother of the New Creation

Baquytra – Mother Eternal, Samij Datta, 2011

The Time Cursors of the Alblackica in the Baquytra Mother of the New Creation 

Consciousness-Analogue

Romanesque tiles are put one on one and turned on the sides as if the twilight had its wings stretched to meet the amorous night, she sat on the ivory pillows of the rubric not waiting for it to happen but she knows that the last is the first attempt in some distant dream of the eye’s vision, the domain was the function not of time but of its space that no longer had the room for itself except the words that floated unseen on the tabula rasa of the prima matra – rivers are shadowy cats that grow longer as the sun recedes into the cocoon of the silkworm verse: today the rain brought the helicons from the far east into the north node and the stars in their feast abandoned us on the desert highway that goes further into the emptiness of the storm, and, through the eye of the needle the red purple bud of some flaming ethereal plant was watching the creation in the cradle of the woods. That was Baquytra in the ionine aquanto resembling the blue sea in the leaf of the rest and falling like the motion of the flying birds southwards into heaven.

She was alone before the sleeping hours, when the earth and its planets didn’t talk or shared their dream, before the candle formation of the fire in the hills, many light years away, waving at the wave, at the point, frequency not touching the feet of the curve but obliquely smiling at the crowds, in a comedy of errors where no gain no loss was the staple diet of the actors and the men. Sign into the eleventh dawn take away the three and the remaining is the status of the new mother eternals of the creation. Thou has seen not the word with the tongue, its navel was the teeth of the alblackica time, churning the vast in the Metropole, its walls are covered with snow dust frames that move without moving in the fluid senses of the zabber-mind; Baquytra was the song of the ripe gold summer months with laces of autumnal winds that take away the cherries before the weevil can hide beneath the grey musk of the badger; another way of this time was not shot but ideally framed on a canvas by the space differentials of the eternal function.

– Joy Roy Choudhury

Ref: Album cover for Meddle, 1971, Pink Floyd

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