The Unheaded Talker

[rowens]

He's not saying there is no Crown,
only that thinking leads to invention
in a world of mysterious substance.
Thought-loopings, suspicious synchronicities
too coincidental not to be real
and too farfetched to be true.

That there is no Rule
in a world like that, 
is what he's saying.
There's not enough love for a single Idea.

Love itself is never a question.
Food is barely questioned by an ascetic.
He takes crumbs like smiles from a pretty face
different all the time.

There's not enough love to include everyone,
and Ideas take up so much of it (ideas of thinking and loving, themselves),
some must go without,

maybe live their whole lives as premature infants.

But beauty is incessant and inexorable,
even in the materialistic eyes of the retarded child
who sees the fruit of the flower in lips.

Puckering and crownless, 
the dizzy antic draws genius from the mishmash in his head
and the unkept dom of sensation,
or not even that. 
Some's greatest act is their abortion.

That's all the unheaded means when he's saying things,
there's no mystery in his clear utterance.

[Torkelburger]

"He's not saying there is no Crown,"

That's a double negative there. If he's saying there IS a crown, then why not just say so? Please ignore that if this is way over my head and I've missed some kind of deeper meaning or something. I know you write in a very highly stylized method.

Do you mind if I ask for a brief description of what this poem is about?

[rowens]

Why does it have to be brief?

[Torkelburger]

Why does it have to be brief?

Just a polite gesture so you wouldn’t feel inconvenienced; but if you don’t feel inconvenienced to give a lengthy, detailed explanation, by all means…

[rowens]

I can explain the poem and more in a manner of moments. I can't explain the poem, but talk about it.

---

The Crown is authority and understanding and perspective, intellectually, imaginatively, creatively.  Godhead. Selfhood. Leadership. The head of a body, the head of anything, and that part of the head especially. Kether and Qoph, and any other correspondences with the head and real or assumed sovereignty of and in mind.
The thinking mind. The imaginative mind. Fact and Ideal and Certainty. And Ideas.
There's not enough love for all ideas, when so much is put into one Idea.
And there are so many ideas, not everyone is going to love one Idea.
Ideas and thinking absorb so much energy, attract so many.
And thinking is fallible.
There may be a Crown, a grand Idea of all ideas.
The unheaded talker isn't bothered one way or another. He had no crown, no love, no thought. He is talking.

The helicopter, not in this poem, is official, but impersonal and often mysterious, surveillance and maybe authority.
And you have the fallible but doing the best they can or whatever they want to do with their authority parents and other guardian-types.
And you have imaginative authority.
And idealistic authority. And moral authority.
Those understandings and creative activities, structuring societies, realities.

The talker is talking. Is flow. Is living. The forms are inevitable. The structures that come of the talking.
Unlike the fairy queen, or a government, or a head of a household, the talker has no meaning beyond the talking.
He is pointless, and loveless, there being no point, no subject or object to love.
The unheaded talker feels, and feeling stimulates the talking. Love is division. Movement. Separation. Love is the invention of separation.
The unheaded talker talks through having nothing to talk with. And nothing to talk to but possibilities and duplicities.
So, the unheaded talker talks for no reason.
Whatever amounts to thinking in him is objectless and subjectless love. Experience of feeling moving from point A to point B and so on.

Love is instinct. A stylized concept and mode of experience beyond thinking, as per the words presented in the talking of the unheaded talker, who is after all here enough to be talking.