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.