25.4.16



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.

29.5.14



I.
I AM, a disturbance in the air, a flutter in the heart,
Collector of shadows
Gathering darknesses,
Haunter of forgotten byways, the vast vaulted forests, the hard fierce fastnesses,
The rocky glen,
     The bastard heath.

   Clouds occlude the sun
Life is
A Lapse of Memory.

Every Mask hides another, snarling in turn when uncovered-
What if, beneath all these masks, lay, not a face, but a hole?
And the Universe came rushing in.

What if everything revealed so far was just a series of increasingly desperate diversions?
Each one a masquerade, Enacted to safeguard a secret
           too terrible or too wonderful to bear.
               (in this reading)
     As the Secret is approached it throws out visions, as the sun, heat and radiance,
 each more opulent and grandiose
Than the last.
              Here, I am god, at the centre of all things, all things abiding in me.
Pass
By,
       Cast
Cold
Eye,
            horseman.

And all that comes to pass is simply and solely what I have written-
The Hind flees into yonder brake.
Or
What say Our
Secret is squid and
Every god and devil, each chamber of heaven or circle of hell, but
 a cloud of ink, opaquing the waters  
And every Answer ever given just
            A blackening of the blue.

Every Enlightenment, every vision vouchsafed by heaven, and every single word
Angel ever spoke to man-
 a ruse, or feint
And every saint
A species of Dupe.
     And yet,
         is this not triumph?
To have come close enough to the sun,
                   that it burned?

II.

Purge my meaty grossness, like an airy spirit go.
The world is dreamed into being,
Is
Airy nothing,
And Life, a
         Lapse of
Memory.

The Path is
The place where the buttercups
Don’t grow-

Follow path
Through field of flowers

Rabbits
Run
Away.

Stalk the sun,
From East to West
Till the great beast bleeds
on the
           far horizon,
                  gored on the
                  horns of the hills.

III
I AM the machine operator.

I and an I and another I,
Mudlarks,
Plucking treasure from The Silence,
A sword, a cup, and a jewellery box
From
Airy Nothing.

The tree holds birds to its bosom
She is the patron of that School of Music.

“he never missed a day’s work. That’s what was bred into you.
You must work for aliving.”

    We carry others with us. We hear their voices commenting on our thoughts and actions, on the scene spread out for the senses. Looking out through our eyes. Squatters.
There’s a squatter in The Tower,

8.4.14



What can writing do for you?
Make the hidden visible. Compel the Adversary to show his face.

“I AM NOT A GOD AFAR OFF, I AM A BROTHER AND  A FRIEND.”

COSMIC SLOP.
In the Room of Cosmic Plumbing,
Recalibration is in Progress.
The Recirculation of Cosmic Slop/pissing in the amitotic fluid.
‘Ok, just tuning you in now.’ Mild mannered technician turns dial, frequencies replace one another on a CONTINUUM OF INTENSITY.
Delectable fluid warmth, flow into and out of, release.
TERMINAL SEWER,
In WORDS of Burroughs, William.
                                                                                                                                 Wallow in terminal sewer,
                                                                                                                                  rather pleasant, in actual fact.
DEATH IS -ultimate voiding of the bowels.
     COMMODIOUS VICUS OF RECIRCULATION.

        As the dial is turned different kinds of
greatness
become possible
NEW HORIZONS come into focus
    Altered capacities for feeling/OTHER INTENSTIES.

                                 What once
Lay beyond the curtain of the imaginable
     Becomes commonplace/ what once was sweetest pleasure
Is now FORBIDDEN-
      -Outside the sphere of the possible
Quite cloaked in shadows,
                               
There is a current which carries...
                     The patterns on the surface are perpetually in process of disintegration
And reintegration in a different guise, each form just a suggestion,
                                 ((Flutter of the eyelid))
before the next in a fluid series
replaces it           DISINTERGRATION )(REINTERGRATION
the tension between these,
            MOVE and counter-move-
Watching water-
     A single event twined round a reel of Time.












          Good
Thought is fertile Thought,
            thought which takes root,
                  And from seed shoots upwards
flinging branches into outer air-
                                              fair
                       unfolding, fernlike,  from
                           the initial KNOT.

Thought which
       
          EXPANDS    into     the space

around itself,
                 


outstretching tendrils to know, each speculative outgrowth a question
we pit our wits against the page, send long limbed letter lines to twine around its margins,
seed thickets and bramble beds to knot its openness, to black out this white field
of total light, total sun.
THE WHITE DESERT.
The Silent Vod.

Landscape language, on this flat plain establish
Mountain and moraine,
Rocky scree where the goat scrambles and picks his way
Toward the proud
ESCARPMENT.
valley cradles meadow,
basket of wild flowers,
home of the ladybird, of flowers
and the inconstant butterfly
purple, red, yellow
sweep down with the river
 to forested plains, deer among the pillars of the palace
the living wood,
deer poised in pockets of silence
swift mustalids, snakelike, in hard eye, in coiled intent,
scything through leaf litter,
hunter
vigilantly
waits
on the
sacrifice.
Pulls a butterfly from the air
A secret flowering of toadstools on the dying tree,
On the body of the fallen giant
Beetles live here, and spiders
Ivy grows here, and hides the wren,
Hopping and flapping,
In and out of the ivy.


People planets with mermen and satyrs,
Fauns
Full giggling with
Secret laughter

Meremen terrified in fairy wood
When fauns join giddy circle
Dance, dance
Cries fulsome Pan,
Triumphant in full regalia
On his head a knotted crown
Of ivy, deepest green
Flowers woven in matted beard
And two bright buckled shoes on
Twinkling feet.
  
In this world, everything can change in an instant.
Dance, dance
Form is not stable, is subject to transformation
Roads change direction, loop around on themselves,
Returning the Traveller
To his point of departure.
And any one thing has always many names.