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.

And all that comes to pass is simply and solely what I have written-
The Hind flees into yonder brake.
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?


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

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

Follow path
Through field of flowers


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

I AM the machine operator.

I and an I and another I,
Plucking treasure from The Silence,
A sword, a cup, and a jewellery box
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,

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