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.