Evangelene Alaraj...Born in Vancouver...Grew up in Roberts Creek...Found her second home in Palestine...Has a BA from Simon Fraser University with a major of English Lit...works in the hospitality industry...
The Eye lifts its veil,
Dilates in a delirium of development,
Absorbs the light-facts and fragments,
All kaleidoscopic patterns of planet prisms.
Makes worlds inside worlds from old-world words
That still reflect other ways of knowing,
Still shine distinct in dark matter,
As stars in black permanence,
As directions for purposes lit within eyes.
The Eye at all horizons.
Its metal hull drifting through water
Its sharp wings against the sky.
Metaphysics and bestial body
Like tortured Greek mythos
Dressed to distract.
Heroic deviations towards the unseen
Find endless dispersion and optical obfuscation.
Material spectrums metamorphose into abstract mythology.
The Eye stares out to the horizon
In search of its own truth.
The art of visual apprehension
Extends empires into stratospheres,
Engenders political cosmology and immaculate ministries,
Televises totality for public awe.
No immaculate science in this horizontal, half-human bio-graphy can say,
“Purely THIS, and no strange otherness.”
What can they say?
Stare at the ruins…
Stares blankly back,
Ruin already in its teeth,
Whilst they speak of the sincerity of science,
And new worlds,
And you find it hard to have none of it.
The Eye in all Eyes
And determined thought process.
A network of fast submission
Into simulated structures.
Humans in unison
Follow progressions of coded visions
And submit to comfortable voyages
Through space and time.
To ideas shot through an eye-cannon.
You submit your eyes to systemic optics)
The Eye is wired-open to distant fields
Where death can take place
And not be remembered.
We have made war an allegory.
The Irrationalities take last breaths so distantly beyond
We can still sleep beautifully
And find morning slow to pick up
Deliberately preserved in newsprint.
Slow to draw conclusions over pleasantness.
Shadow-Eye dawns avoidance
Over its brow.
It will have no more memories
Slowly dying flames within soft synapses.
The Eye is full of ancient growth,
And we are weary creatures
Slumbering in the ruins of innovated structures.
This metamorphic repose
Brings nothing new
Just enchantments of beauteous form
Emergent from historic architecture.
The petals fall
Piece by piece
In silent truth of decay.
Beautiful to the last
Our false image still captivates
To the last
Open-eyed and worrisome
A Culture sits at its borders
And stares into the decline—
The silent coliseums,
The stairs that led to vanished floors,
And ancient scripts—
Every inspiration came from out of the dead,
Yet it served no warning.
Dead men’s eyes lit the way
Through tombs of glory
And cities burned
And utopian summaries.
Slow ruin still touches you
As if buried alive
In this soil called Freedom.
Think of Time,
And how it grows over the earth
And draws to a close
In its seasons.
The earth holds darkness ready
And envelops the moments,
And makes the visible disappear.
Totemic pillars of visualizations vanish.
The true always one step from the false
In this seasonal geography.
The falsely fortunate meet the falling of their over-drawn concepts
And they scatter like leaves
And they amass into collective superficiality.
The evil of an over-bloomed thought
Generates its own ruin.
Ideas grow and age
The decline liberating eyes
From hard structures
And solidified thought.
We do not live under the burden of one thought
For an eternity.
Mental geographies rupture
Allowing what was left unseen
To take hold of the mind
As a new growth
And inch itself over the relics
To form a veil.
So we speak only of eyes.
The coverings for nakedness
Until the sun no longer rises,
That is the extent of it until such time.
A world of veils
The shrouds of human truth have us tightly bound
In false preservation.
We speak only of eyes,
And the wise king who said
‘All things are full of weariness beyond uttering’
When he read the sky and applied absence,
And it became clear
That vanity is the other side of meaning
Through which we all pass.
Of metaphors and materials the Eye has much to say
And it goes on and on with the names of things
Wave after wave
Wind after wind
Slope after slope
Until what limit?