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.

17.11.13

QUESTIONS ASKED OF THE MOON.

1.WHO AM I
2. WHERE DID I COME FROM
3. WHAT DOES THE WORDS  POET MEAN
 

we are the ones who court Death. We are those that hunt the Great Beast. we are those coiled crouched in the darkness
in stillness and in silence
with mind empty
inviting the revelation
of
The Quarry.

15.11.13


I am
The Forgotten Man.
       Unremembered
By my own self even,
        GHOST IN THE SHELL
A haunter
        Of my own body,
Spiteful poltergeist
Resentful saboteur, of whatever hope
Still remains.

Graves says, a man lost is lost forever.
        So what is left?
Nothing but a haunting.

Define Success-

Young men rev the engines of expensive sports cars, sunshine.
Tanned left arm draped carelessly out of window, the wrist is adorned
With a thick, gold watch.

The relationships between the rich young men and the young women they associate with is characterised by mutual opportunism and private scorn.

Define Failure-

The total inability to affect events.
The Poet, catatonic in a damp room, in maze of magical thinking,
Confusing coincidence for cause.

                                                    FACEBOOK FRIENDS- 37.

      I’ve revised my demands, downsized my ambitions,

GIVE ME REFUGE.


Hawk, with wings clipped, how they mock and point.

            I flew once
Had home in heaven.

                                                       WHO AM I?

The hobbled hyperborean,
GHOST IN THE SHELL



8.11.13

whirl wide world and, in spinning, weave warp of time through weft of space
A PARABLE.

a dainty silver key tied to a piece of red string is dangled into a cage. Once our eyes have become accustomed to the gloom we are able to discern the shape of a man hunched inside the cage. His hair and fingernails are long and dirty, his beard is a tangled bush. He is on his haunches. His chin rests on his chest and his eyes are fixed on the floor. He is very thin. People who see him are shocked by how thin he is.

When at last the man notices the key above his head he howls and leaps up, grabbing at the air. The key hangs there, just beyond his grasp, swinging gently in the disturbed air.

This continues for one hour. The man, although appearing at times to grow disheartened, does not give up. Once the hour has elapsed the key is dropped, without fanfare, onto the floor of the cage. The man screams in triumph, he is overjoyed. Holding the key in his trembling hands he dances wildly, his happiness knows no bounds, and yet, the cage has no keyhole and cannot be unlocked.

30.10.13



Not because A, B, C, D not because POLITICS, ECONOMICS, CULTURE, TECHNOLOGY.
A, B, C, D are not the cause.
A, B, C, D are the grass which makes wind visible.
         
Which way is the wind blowing? Watch the grass.

Happens because happening is what happens. Do I make myself clear? Below the surface manifestations, a current which can be seen in all things it moves through.

This is the basis for all divination.

23.10.13



Whilst we concede that LIFE is a plain of interminable tedium punctuated by spurs and outcrops of pain and bleak despair, what we will insist on is that LIFE retains the capacity for surprise.
Tossing gratuitous messiahs into the gears of HISTORY,
wanton miracles, sunbursts of outrageous happiness,
 if only rarely and always capriciously.
                 Paltry poetaster, don’t encourage him, no sense of civic responsibility.
    Never understood what things are worth.       

The game whirled around me, this slack jawed idiot, unaware of any game being played at all.
Everything is clearer now, though the rules and goals remain sketchy.
Is it ethically permissible to win? Even if it were possible? I would be a mascot, allowed to kick the penalty when the team is 5-0 up. Rather not be patronised. Better to snarl on the margins. Loser.
They break people.
NURTURE RESENTMENT. Something to feed off. Become
FERAL.  The enemy may be smiling, may possess, ‘an easy bonhomie’
                DESTROY.
I can do anything, anything at all. Why should I only use my magical powers for good?
I might use them for wickedness, I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet. I am the feral child,
 whim-blown, petulantly idle.
             When I was young I done a drawing, a good one, was showing it off to the class
And some other kid, Simon, grabbed it from me and ripped it up. I was upset, probably on the brink of hot tears, but now, I sympathise. Nowadays, I would do the same thing.
Who are you to make something pretty? Who are you to try?
Here is one school of artistic criticism. My school. Who are you sucking up to? Who are those words addressed to? Who are you trying to impress? Who do you think is going to give you a gold star?
Rip it to shreds. Watch them cry. Good. Take that to the headmaster.
                                            I know better. That’s why I’m in charge.
Picture me second guessing myself. Picture me curtseying. I don’t beg favours. Let me in,
Or leave me shivering in the doorway, it’s all the same to me. I can pretend to like the rain, if that’s
What’s needed,
 to deny someone else
the satisfaction
 of sending me out into it.

I can do anything, but we all know I will never be anything but perverse. If you clap, clap for this, not because I stood on my hind legs, jumped through a hoop or chased a bedraggled tennis ball.
Clap for something you don’t like, clap for something you don’t understand, clap for something you want dead. That’s a victory worth winning. No novel of manners for you, no high minded essay, no insipid lyric that’s not deflated with a bad joke. TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT. I don’t have to prove how clever I am. I don’t have to simper through a degree, I don’t have to beg for publication in a journal I have nothing but contempt for, won’t pretend to share your values or the complacency of your assumptions. I can cope just fine. SO, now that we understand one another, let us continue...
I am a long term practitioner of self-sabotage, an artist of scuppered opportunities. I want the gold throne and won’t be fobbed off with anything less. Scorched earth. That’s what I offer. Want in? Show me what you got. Wild Bunch. Ride through desolate plateau of misshapen rock and sand storms. Exit in flurry of hot lead. Barge through salon doors, spit tobacco on the polished floor. Will you be cowed? No cowards allowed in my gang. Got to be quick on the draw and savour the smell of cordite.
Pfft- blow smoke from the grey barrel.
                   Write a poem like the ones in Faber books. Get it printed in the Observer.
Ventriloquism. The tone of voice. Insipid. Neurasthenic. Faintly irritable.
             MAKE A NAME FOR YOURSELF.
Begin by talking about poem-
              The poem is
A cereal box, out of which, one might pull
A small, plastic toy.
             Feel pleased with oneself, sip lemsip.
EKE OUT SLIGHT THEME,
A few lines, don’t try their patience.
    End on deflated note,
Parp!

Mere semantics.
The reward for abstaining is revoked for indulging.
The punishment for withholding is lifted following the offering.
           
Smoke summons gods to the feast-                 
In the long grass
Where crickets sing.
The yellow stalks (summer) enfold us, ward off evil sprits
Children of the sun, reflection of the sun’s radiance
In golden cradle, and sun overhead.
Possibility of REDEMPTION
 is renewed with every INBREATH.
Where willows swoon, the wee one
Doffs his cap.

Long yellow grass excludes the world, within its walls, a different reality can be enacted.
Preamble-what is the writer? The one who writes/
Encodes, from one order of reality/
To another.
Embark-
            In the suave air-
The long yellow stalk, the flowering
EYE -chasing a butterfly through the flowers, meadow roving, pausing in the flowers. 
SATANIC ENGINES threaten this idyll
Depending as it does,
On a background of stillness,
Against which movement can be registered
And a background silence,
Into which birds cut their song.

To dream of marriage
and wake wearing a ring.
                   Fierce constellation.
“all my dreams are coming true,
the proper prelude to any disaster.”
            Yellow roses out the window.

The heron exists within its own field of silence, is marked out by it
                  FIERCE CONCENTRATION.
This is why the heron.

IDIOT SPEAKS-
Who was it? Mouths mouth words mind never formulated. Convention speaks.
       “see ya mate, yeah see ya mate, see you mate, yeah see ya mate”
Who was it, wandering blankly through the stage sets? I don’t remember any of it.
Maintenance of the Ritual. I am what I yam.
A FEW FACTS.
What is true in condition a, deflates, becomes comical
Under condition b. Is still true, but not here.
King at point a in gyre, fool at point b.
     Don’t hold tongue, wait too long, and it won’t be true anymore,
     Spit it out while it’s still hot. Act.
The words can become hollow when the sentence is still in the mouth,
Trail off, embarrassment.