Hairy knuckled Kabbalist unwittingly unlocks the the 72 demons.
Flaps about, like a man who's just set off the smoke alarm.

The concept of the Secondary Personalities refers to the interlocutors inside.
We create them and they come to assume a degree of individuation and autonomy, with their own set of responses.
Sometimes, one may hear them muttering away at some lower level of consciousness.
They are distinguished by a certain crudity of conception, like the characters in a daytime soap opera.

They are created by the Self to explore different modes of being, different scales of values, different desires and aversions, while maintaining the facade of a unified and coherent self to the World-at-large. The experiment is not without its dangers. Secondary personalities can displace the Self, if only temporarily. One awakes with a start to find an idiot has been behind the wheel.

It sometimes happens that the Self is such a demanding taskmaster that a coup is staged, the responsibilities are too great, the workload too onerous, the punishments too severe.

The secondary personalities, as self-created, must be distinguished from the Squatters. Squatters are other selves who have taken up residence in the Tower. There are two main types. Spies, who wish to remain undetected, hoping to come across some secret, and those others, often family members, who make a point of being obtrusive. Noisy, hectoring and domineering they are deliberately trying to govern your behaviour, police your instincts and override your will.


In grey and tender morning
              the trick it seems - is a mere
Matter of faith.

Separate or a part, entwined combined and untangleable, so when the Web quivers

We tremble too.

Agapanthus, the heavy headed flowers, turn
                                and look toward the sun.




Hello again, have you missed me?
I’ve been meaning to get in touch, but somehow,
I haven’t quite felt able.
I hope you understand.
I’ve had so little good news to share.
I’ve been unhappy
And you’ve seemed so very far away.

I wonder sometimes
What would have happened
If I’d stayed on any road long enough
To arrive at its terminus.
Would I have been happy there
Or have found only a slightly different
Shade of unfulfillment?

I’ve grown old and pot-bellied,
Sour, corrupt, bald, and drunk
And you ask why I don’t call on you?
There was a time I felt I deserved you
And we spent each day in each other’s arms.
Look at me now! Look at what I’ve become!
I daren’t face you.

I had great plans, or rather, I had great aspirations.
No plans, only aspirations, a daydream perhaps,
Just a gauzy daydream.

Why not

Sad songs are the best of songs
For who has not met sadness
And who feels he has not failed
If only in some detail,
some unalterable particular
Some trifle, fleeting,
Clumsy, yes but…
And with that,
The whole world is lost.


I stood upon the shrinking beach 
                           and watched the waves approach
knowing the tide’s in league with Time 
                                  and Death in league with both.