Quinwing A, Samij Datta

Stone Apparatus of the Mind-Tray in the Formless Vision of the Cat

Consciousness-Analogue

Gurundig had a vision one day

She lay happily in the dream boat of an unknown truth

Played over a piano in c-sharp and minor scales

Arbitrary numbers became alphabets on the mouse-pad of her living world

She saw signals trapped in outer space that are moving in a distance

The equator was the face of a coyote running backwards in time

Frozen circles of memory mesmerize ether’s vibrating nebulas

And under the full moon the bark-tree song remains the same

Ages have passed under the bending sickle’s memorandum of understanding                                                            

Reason has toiled in the garden of its laughter

Weeding tropics with jobless acquisition of wealth

The river plantation have ceased statues collapsed like Mixolydian arcs

Gurundig was the happy mate of a satyr tragopan

Brewing coffee on the magic carpet of Dattatreya mantra

Dattatreya Hari Tat Sat

Forces are coplanar dusk hymns of Alblackica on anti-matter run

The sun is a dog bone chewing time like a dog in the micro-mind ether of the red space

Flying like a libretto of Francesco Cavalli in the Baroque evening of a mid-summer night’s dream

Was Shakespeare born from another planet in a different solar system?

The mind is a holographic universe attaining self-hood through enlightened thoughts

And as Gurundig in other Gurundigs melted like ice, there was an arrow of time like thunder in the skies

Where is the key given in the night of the Nights when the gods slept in the dreams of their destinies?

Where lay your kingdom what waters you have sailed to come to this shore?

Is memory a sacred beast lying in the space oblivious of everything?

Are you still dying or living like a dead in the mirror of mirrors haunted or deserted?

What bones mutter in the air in the shape of a Holocaust and crying like a baby in the infant cradles of your history?

Time was a hidden  line of significance that incarnated points on the index of a page

It read itself incognito

The past is the present in the future of the past

And the past is not a past in the present future of time

But a light of flaming feathers on a quinwing- DNA isomatrix

Heliographic circles of Old Possum’s Practical Cats

Gave alpha zazix turn to king-circle-queen-well substrate of the creation

The wheel is a wheel in the cylindrical psychiquazim mind-matter of Jagannath

Yaya-Chakra-Chintamani-Yaya.

– Joy Roy Choudhury

Ref: Rupi’s Dance (2003), solo album by Ian Anderson