Enneagraph or Nine Slices of Time

By Adam J. Pearson


Oh, the longing, the aching longing
To hear the singing of the sirens
As they perch upon the rocks.

Many ships they draw
To deathly fates upon the stone,
Shattering masts
And crushing hulls.

But oh! these siren songs
Which spell dark danger
Also bear the riches of Muses,
For it is from them that ideas spring
And course headlong
Through the hungry minds of poets.

In creativity, danger lurks,
Even as danger itself contains
The fertile seeds of imagination.
On we walk, towards the edge
Of a cliff and a great drop;
The closer to our death we draw,
The more alive we feel.

So forceful is the longing to hear the sirens’ song,
The lovely, deathly call of the Muses,
That it drags great multitudes through the dirt of drugs,
The dirge of death, of murder,
The nocturne of lives risked for thrills.

Its secret is truly this:
That we risk life to appreciate it,
That we crave death to blast value into life,
That we look into the hollow holes of our own bare skull,
And find in there, the great flowering gardens of creativity.

For none who have not tasted of death,
Who have not known the tears of suffering,
And drunk deeply from the well of sorrow,
Are permitted entry into that inner Sanctum,
From which the greatest inspiration springs.

To those alone who hurt,
Are the keys given.
And it is them alone who understand
The sirens’ song.

Children – Baby crib. Photograph by Mike Savad.


The cradle of civilization is
The cradle of a child
Weeping, crying, oozing mucus,
Tears, and feces.
Her mind, blank,
Empty of experience,
Bereft of knowledge,

Bearing only burdens,

Worst of all,

The burden of being.

Utter dependence is her fate,
Deep dependence on her dears,
On those who came before.

The child of today
Is tethered to the chains of history,
And yet, is ever breaking free.

The dregs of civilization are
The diapers of that desperate child,
So many products of the bowels of
Her imagination–
All the thoughts, feelings, and art
Of those who came before,
Are shit in her diaper–

So pressing at the time,

And just as soon forgotten.


Jump upon the trampoline
Up we go, on this machine,
Great technology, my love,

Carry me onward and up above.

Crank the gears of progress now,
Show me knowledge, show me how,
To do all things just by your book,
Show me how to see and look.

Bombard me with a thousand things
Endless sweet advertisings,
Mesmerize me oh so well,
Hypnotize me with your shell.

Your shell is flesh, but hides its gears,
And all the cranking work of years,
That crushes hands and minds and self
To make a product on a shelf.


Oh how we wear such pretty masks,
Bright images that we display

To show our fellows in the market,
Every night and every day.

They must not know just what we are,
And what we do and what we feel,
Their judgment is a painful scar,
Better to live a life unreal.

Social life is like a game,
We play to hide our real being,
We all pretend to feel the same,
Through all the blindness we are seeing.

Never would we lie or cheat,
This we swear by all god above
Yet we walk on deceitful feet,
Hating at home and preaching love.

How polite we are and oh how kind,
We treat you well when you’re around,
But what harsh words we speak behind
Your back in bitter, cruel sounds.

Our pretty masks are beautiful
We mend and shine them up each day
We run on empty we call full
And live and die a lie away.


Racing heartbeats in their chests,
The loving two, the loving two,
Oh can you hear their shallow breaths?
The loving two.

Her lips so soft, so close to his,
The loving two, the loving two,
Oh will they meet or will they miss,
The loving two.

Oh off they run through night to meet,
The loving two, the loving two,
Hiding away, just off the street,
The loving two.

But oh! the junkie, selfish, cruel,
The loving two, the loving two,
He shot them dead, the brutal fool,
The loving two.


She dreamed of a wondrous, perfect place

Without a tear upon a face

Without a bank and without gold

Without the young, without the old,
A place without all evil kinds,
Bereft of all the good that binds,
Without a judge, without a thief,
Without a logger or a leaf,
A place cleared clean of all machines,
No raisings up and no demeans,
A wondrous, perfect place it was,
Perfect for there,
Nothing was.


Up, up, up
The coursing sparrow,
Soaring through the heavens!
While we are bound
To walk the Earth,
Without airplanes,
To tread the dirt.


Bright green leaves,
And deep pink purses,
Bright white smiles,
In a row.

City lights and
Country nurses
And sparrow.

See the violence of the lover
Beating love into her face

Hear the preaching priest above her
Telling her her awful fate.

In sheep’s clothing, mighty wolves,
Roaring whispers so polite,
Hiding secrets in alcoves,
Until the day they come to light.

Sooner or later, the yawning world,
Spits up all secrets that it hides,
A cheating man, a lying girl,
Are soon found out, sentenced, and tried.

Yet evil yields oh! So much money,
To those who work hard at ill deeds,

They spread the dark with smiles sunny,
Peddling their useless weeds.

Oh bright green bills,
And deep pink roses,
Bright grey concrete
On the street.

Tragedy and hopeful looks,
Light through all the fog we see,
New moments and true old books,
Guide us to futurity.


Oh, that sweet Muse has sung again,
And poured her milk into my ears,
I worship her, my siren dear,
Who’ll meet my goal
And take my soul,
She’ll meet my goal,
But take my soul.


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