Following funny fingers,
flickering by infatuated flesh.
She finds comfort in embraces
long past midnight.

Flight,
into gentle arms
laden free of troubled past.
What will last?

Only afraid of
what might come next.

Foreign bodies feeling out
the space between.
It’s a vitruvian dream
of perfection.

Understanding these things
that happen past midnight.

Work nights blown,
caution to the wind
meeting a gentle friend,
an hour past pumpkin time.

Searching for the divine,
a trip into the unexpected.
Journey into darkness,
into a felt bliss,
another carrier of consciousness.

It’s all in the wrist,
and the hips,
feminine fingertips.

A look from pale blue eyes
makes me blush,
a rush
of fluid to waiting capillaries.

It’s really quite scary
to look into a strangers eyes,
lose my disguise
to unarming grace.

The world love is a waste
in the presence of such a feeling.

I’m still reeling,
and it’s been a day,
truly afflicted.

Smitten,
some would say.

No roll in the hay
could provide such power.

A precious flower
in a patch of daisies.
Subtle movements amaze me,
even ratted hair drives me crazy.

How is it she phases me?

Archie Underwood
5/1/2009

Love wraps you up in comfort,
in safety.

Love does not uproot the tree
but gently prunes the branches,
sweeps up leaves in fall,
and composts the seasonal shift.

Love is gentle and yielding,
soft and open,
calm and assertive.

Love is free of judgment,
of fetish,
of false platitudes.

Love is easy.
Love is a gently warm summer’s day.

Love is being recognized and admonished.

Love is being truthful,
honest without boundary.
When I cross her line
she lets me know.

Love is never angry,
perhaps sad at times,
but sharing this experience
we can both let it go.

Love is like the ocean,
wide and deep,
room to breathe
and to move free.

Love is never interpreting
words you don’t understand.

Love is asking and sharing.
Love is.

Archie Underwood
9/2009

When I was young I dreamt standing up,
fever pushing one-oh-four…

When I was young I dreamt standing up,
the real is what I look for…

When I was young the ice swirled around the bath,
the thermometer couldn’t do the math.
Sleeping in a puddle of sweat,
waking embarrassed my bed is wet.
Temperature spikes heated up my eyes,
soon enough I’d realize,
reality had shifted.

Drifted, into another dimension,
a young boy who could handle the tension.
Handle he may, handle he might,
it’s no use to put up a fight.

At a certain point the hallucination takes control,
a deeper trip than any I’ve been told.
Young at heart and young in mind,
soon enough I’d feel old and blind.

Does that mean senility?
Is that the gentle penalty?
Or is it the wisdom of the sage
embodied at this young age?

Conflict arises confronting the adolescent mind,
I look and look for something that’s mine,
something to hold onto, perhaps someone,
something honest and bright as the sun.
But I see only darkness when wisdom is nigh,

I can’t turn around to see that sun in the sky.
Stuck in the shadows,
deep in thought.
Traipsing desert meadows,
alone I fought
off my demons,
one by one.
Thrilled by life,
energized – but the sun,
I still couldn’t see it,
I daren’t look,
I know I’d be it,
I don’t wanna cook.

So I turn away,
the vampire emerges,
Feeding on the night,
keeping everyone nervous,
I repent
this daytime visualization,
It’s not solid,
it’s just sedation.

Cause I know the truth
behind your rods and cones,
One day you’ll get it
if your every fully grown.

This reality is so liquid,
physicality ain’t about the Id,

You’ve got to let go,
or it’ll take you over,
These waking hallucinations
keep me sober.

Or somber…
a little melancholy,
I felt I knew what was holy.
I still chose to turn my gaze from it,
I wanted to know simple things
so I dug myself a pit.

A hermetic existence in a flood of humans,
detached from all that I’m daily consuming.

Personification of the intro-vert.
It’s how verticality began.
So I ran.

Looking for the solution,
I ran into people that knew what I was doing.
Ripe for the picking,
ripe for ripping,
ripe for life lessons that are crippling.
But I ain’t tripping,
I’m not falling down,
I may not look up
but I do see the ground.

Mastering the darkness,
embracing my lie.
Looking for the deepest
way my Id can die.

Detaching from emotion,
from what is real,
looking for any way
not to feel.

How can I get there,
to my highest Zen?
Trying to get back
to that place I’ve been.

Realizing that I live
in this standing dream world.
That emptiness is form
and my forms unfurled.

I’m still pressing myself
into a non-existent mold,
Playing my hand,
not knowing when to fold.

But there is a place where wisdom lies dormant,
the way I know although I chose self-torment.
So I reel it in despite the temptation,
to participate in emotional masturbation.

Finding the space where all is clear,
maybe not today or even in years.
Patience my friend will lead the way,
a mantra I’m repeating to this day,

Trust is not easy when the visions are truth,
giving into emotions like a psychic sleuth,
denies the reality that we are here to learn,
denies the truth left after that ego burn.

The flames that lick at my nose,
they’re here to question what I know.
The fire that burns so brightly,
that fire is a fantasy.

Am I flighty?
Am I here to fight?
Can I stand firm despite the light?

Archie Underwood

Anarchic sensations
disturb order.
Archaic ruminations
brought to the fore.

Vulnerable once again,
caught in sunlight
after many a dark day.
No shade.

Forlorn shadows beckon
this creaky heart,
dislodged after all
this
time.

Broken free
of its stable holding pattern.
Gone missing
from its well-worn throne.

The priestess
has torn this fast beating,
bloody organ from beneath
its skeletal cage.

Pulled back ribs
to expose an open chest.
Her soft, delicate fingers
caress the warm, fleshy meat.

Heart reacts
like a creature
unto itself.

Fear of the unknown;
heart rate jumps.

At a crossroads of
fatality and resurrection.
The future unclear.
All that is left to do is
breathe.

Breath calms a rapid heart.
Breath sooths a shaky soul.
There is a foothold here…
somewhere.

Archie Underwood
5.4.2009

Searching for something permanent I mark my skin.
Looking for a way to begin again,
a new walk of life, rebirth my soul,
allowing my heart to let go.

It’s permanence now lives on my skin,
constant reminder of where I’ve been.

It was not my… it is now my skin.

I’m staking a claim,
it’s my pain.
I won’t feign,
it’ll come again.

Like clockwork,
I won’t jerk,
or pull away,
deep I stay.

Deep in self, the pain and pleasure,
keeps my skin tougher than leather.
Tight, wrapped around my soul,
once bludgeoned, I need a little control.

Not gonna let go,
let go of my soul.

I’m bold, I was once quiet,
humble, during an internal riot.
Pray peace, let the pain cease,
if not forever then just this one crease…
in time.

I wanna live in that wrinkle.

The pain, I put on my skin,
depository for transcended sin.
My own,  and that bestown on me.
The deepest of humility
is forgiveness; I don’t want less.
Holding on to the past won’t let me rest.

So I mark myself, branded for life,
manifestation of internal strife
transcended.
It’s ended.

Archie Underwood

They say lightening never strikes twice,
but the fire in my belly is electric,
I’ve felt this flame before.
Burnt to the core.

My skeleton’s smoldering,
flesh feeding electric currents,
surging through my liquid body.

This sack of fluid burnt bones rest in
makes an ample conductor
for this moment of truth.

As flesh falls to the floor,
oozing off an already scorched skeleton,
I am calm.

A detached observer.

Perhaps the first fatal strike
numbed my nervous system.
Perhaps this moment is just
a figment of my imagination.

Nothing feels real these days,
the surreality of it is my detachment.

I am the charred skeleton that remains,
the flesh dripping of these darkened bones
is reminiscent of impermanence,
that life is transition,
true death is immobility.

Move through the fire,
let flesh fall where it may.

Archie Underwood
3/21/2008

Buzzing body’s fill vacant space,
emptiness recoils in agony,
blown free…

These sparks ignite ashes,
returning from dead coals,
revitalizing stagnation.

Doubt looms,
over this darkened heart
filled with light.

This sad creature
given form once more,
a smile once brutalized.
Scars still apparent;
mouths corners upturned.

Sweet sadness rushes forth,
something old and beautiful,
trite yet illuminating.

Led by nothing but sensation,
rationality takes a breath
as both feet hit water,
expectations abandoned.

Old fears loom.
Memories of a fragile past…
broken.

Hope
slowly
creeps in,

as do tears.

A bond of blood
broken only
by incision.

Shards of the past.

Bleak futures rest
on weary shoulders.

Hope
swells
forth,

this faltering heart on overload.

Balancing extremes
of then and now.
Fighting for a foothold,
how to capture light?

Technique is a fleeting illusion
cast by rapacious demons
seeking immortality.

Freedom basks sunrays in the summertime,
and hibernates for winter.

Archie Underwood
9/24/2007

Legs cramped,
stuck in this plasticized mold.

Hold me
back from experience.

Hold me
so I forget what’s outside.

Hold me
contained in safety.

Falling out of these arms
leaves me with no skin,
fluttering,
formless.

Freedom scares me,
how dare me
release the net.
I obviously haven’t let go of it yet.

Makes me sweat,
experiencing this post-indecision,
post-derision self sanctified solitude.
I found her nourishment hollow food,
I still ate.

Came back for more,
emotional whore,
s o l d   o u t.

We would talk about
the lack of connection,
a drama filled reflection,
bad feng shui.

Cluttered thoughts clash,
mirrors turn to broken glass.

Sharp terrain to tread.
Feet cut bled red.

We turn away-
bloody footprints follow
two directions.
A red stained glass intersection.

Archie Underwood
5/2007

I paid my penance, but there was no fee.
It was just my own mind bargaining to be let free.
Striking a deal with the devil that owns me.

What is the price to be owned like a slave?

Born in debt, born a sinner, born to owe for what I am.
Born _never_ to understand.

Why?

What did I do that killed poor Jesus?
What do I do that this killing never ceases?
I could be your prophet, but I’d be dead too,
Just so you could silence what I knew.

The God’s are not evil, they’re laughing at us,
watching genocide through political blood lust.

History is this repeating game,
seemingly different, but it all ends the same.
Powerful rulers, powerful wars,
fighting for what is righteous, a “just” cause.

“Just” is defined by some theoretical position,
an objective perspective that supersedes contradiction.

We’ll fight for God,
fight for freedom,
fight for a system,
fight for a reason.

Kill for safety,
kill for love,
kill for hell,
kill for heaven above.

Call me old fashioned, but reasons aside,
death is death and a chide is a chide.
I don’t want to fight for a rulers petty quarrel,
my understanding’s adrift in this unsettling world.

When I sink down to feel that undercurrent flow,
there’s something quite deeper I suddenly know.
All the petty tyrants and all their misdeeds
are just part of this systems dehumanizing greed.

There’s no one to blame in a bureaucracy,
it’s always the other guy and never me.
A system created akin to religion of old,
always an excuse for what we aren’t told.

There was the saying “God’s will be done”,
Of course these days it’s “Politics as usual”.

I’m trying to understand but my limit’s been reached.
Won’t somebody suck George off so we can get him impeached?
Terrorists promote terror, but what is war?
Killing innocent people and what for?

Weapons of mass destruction,
have we looked at ourselves?
A massive case of seduction,
“Mission Accomplished” fails…
to fill me with encouragement.

My heart weeps at what’s there
even if the news keeps me unaware.
There’s still a war being fought,
mass destruction being wrought.

I’m scared of the retaliation we now deserve,
scared the United States won’t be left undisturbed.
I’m scared that Osama might have been right,
not in his methods, but in his fight.

Iraq has shown us worthy of hate and rage,
proven to be an animal let out of its cage.
We’ve been let loose, feral and free,
the largest beast in human history.

A system where humanity’s been replaced by the bottom line,
raised in a world where money _is_ time.
Once those in power held influence through gold,
but cash turned into credit, or so I’m told.

Credit is time,
credit is sublime…
Credit determines the worthy,
we once were rated by piety.

We have no God;
but give religious extremism a nod.
We have no preachers;
corporate media is our cultural teacher.

Mass control in a convenient form,
instant communication, perception reform.
Technology brought us to a new precipice,
Television now the new printing press.

Gutenberg’s Bible once the most distributed text,
Television’s brought us to what’s next.
Informed by a handful of media giants;
staying in business as long as they’re compliant.

Control comes down to who can distribute information,
who holds that power determines societal sedation.

Where is my vote?
Where is my choice?
Where is my freedom?
This is my voice.

I am still free to speak,
but when will that go?
More secret trials,
are courts just for show?

Democracy baby, “By the People, for the People”
begs the question, who do we consider people?
And who’s buying?

-Archie Underwood 3/2005

Pitted parchment aged by time,
sublime lessons written in rhyme,
tough tendrils softened by will,
torrential downpours reflecting still.

Puddles quickly ripple,
distorting reflection,
sinking feelings know
no other direction.

Down is the current,
rivers to oceans,
painful is the delta,
splitting devotions.

Fragile and frail,
push over my autonomous pail,
dumping distortions downstream,
life is like a dream.

Dissolving autonomy,
into what is not me.
Oceans of relativity,
crossing paths with foreign minds,
leaving me completely undefined.

Sublime merge,
binge and purge.

Entering oceanic community,
definitions created through unity,
putting pretension on hold,
allowing autonomous reality to mold
around symbiotic superstitions.
Inundated with communal inhibitions,
narrowly navigating noxious minds,
covertly considering what I find…

to be a glorious gateway,
nebulous new ideas may stray.
Beware the gatekeepers, traipse lightly
around superstitions moored tightly
into the communal mind.

Fast currents circumvent,
catch them and you’re sent,
flying ferociously through dark waters,
avoiding perilous pitfalls.

Earthen dividers hurt when hit,
but painless if you can avoid it.
Navigating dark deltas without hesitation,
knowing the flowing currents by sensation.

Archie Underwood
1/15/2007