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.”
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.
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
NEW HORIZONS come into focus
Altered capacities for feeling/OTHER INTENSTIES.
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-
A single event twined round a reel of Time.
Thought is fertile Thought,
thought which takes root,
And from seed shoots upwards
flinging branches into outer air-
unfolding, fernlike, from
the initial KNOT.
EXPANDS into the space
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
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,
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,
Full giggling with
Meremen terrified in fairy wood
When fauns join giddy circle
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
In this world, everything can change in an instant.
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.