curled within that one-dimensional leaf,
and slipped feet into that slipper,
that shell is your shell
and worlds are tucked
into these plains and whorls -
i dream thus a citadel in my fingerprint
that becomes a labyrinth
walled by conjecture.
There's always a reason
but never an excuse
for there is no
You stood there
with your great spotted mushroom
of vodka-soaked expeditions
with the white rabbit.
His frown directed sweats
from hairline to temple and neck,
his eyes held fright
like a cup holds black coffee
in some overlit complicit petrol-station roadstop restaurant
distasteful but untried;
bought out of habit
like an afterthought
insinuating itself into second nature.
The styrofoam of his collared shirt
stiff and mundane,
destined to be disposed of
with dregs gritting the white and
staining the armpits,
now lies crushed,
abandoned on his laundry floor.
When heaven's clouds' temperences,
in spring storm whimsy,
most magnificently bank and rear
great walls of white appear and
break, create arbours.
absconding angels peer
at mossy-trunked tree - their tusk-branches veined
with fruited vine,
inviting sylvan recline.
Without directly mentioning the perpetrator,
or the victim,
this thrumming summer tide -
an adrenal ocean froment
(and unforgettably near to the bowels),
is at times mentioned as a reason for living.
people would die for feelings like this,
and it does give us something to drown in, though
this would be an admission of defeat
to the seasoned modern warrior.
Tempered in such heat
things may develop
at their own pace and
within their own contexts,
but is that any excuse for this??
Dreams become complex,
expectations and desires press them,
make heady wine
dissociative in its effect,
somewhat like absinthe in fact.
It is easy to see why they say
that the great poets and artists
got drunk on absinthe,
it is the closest thing
to an amniotic fluid of doubt
in which sensitives of the world swim about.
Not to say that this is immature,
but life is nothing without its kiss,
but derided dust without its kiss.
To say that true feelings
can be accurately separated here from delusions
would not be true,
and one can perhaps 'protest too much'
of what is, at best,
a tremulous conviction.
This belies a predilection
for rhapsodic fantasies and
delusionist nighttime luxuries of
simultaneous solitude and company.
Perhaps it is only an
that is delightful, also
torturous in its many small and
breathing is sweetly rendered nonetheless.
Daring is encouragd by shouting blood,
and there is a delicious horror can be felt when
even minute transgressions rear their head.
It pleasantly confuses as weighed,
upon divine and delicately tared scales
are each subsequent action,
whether expression profound
or imbecilic absolute,
(at best a point-mute),
and subtleties of entropy
become the greatest boon,
the fiercest, most inimitable of enemies.
i can never seem to find you when i need you,
you grow, in part, inside of me and
i let your blood constantly.
i let your blood constantly
by taking other lovers
for they masquerade as you,
i can never tell the difference until
You still wear your masque
it is still you, Harlequin,
who can see me only
and i spin around
and around and
my long golden hair
becomes loosed and flies -
no-one else can see me.
can ever see me but you.
i let your blood constantly
as you grow inside of me,
in a way, like a poem
so that i don't get you wrong.
oh how i like dancing with you for
you are quite invisible, yet
feels every sinew
as we prance through
this harrowing tango.
i am a cobra spitting
when those masques
Those kisses fade
and dryly smack
upon arbitrary contours, and
all that is left
is that feeling of need
for something else.
Harlequin, can you see me?
Columbine, where are you?
These veils only part
at the behest
of some fateful breeze,
or tempestuous storm.
i spin like whirlwind
i gather the dusts up
of civilization, and
will leave no rock unturned,
no tree unclimbed.
i am pursued
is it always to be so,
is it always invisible you?
There is a forgotten place
Music reaches for it for it is there...
in some faery realm
down paths known only to folk
as live deep in velvet green
amongst timeless mossed forests,
and deep down in rarely discovered valleys.
It is there in intermittent
tinkling of tin-cans, bottle tops,
(hanging for mysterious
on fence wire),
for the wind plays these things
and it knows...
It teases at our senses, touches
the lost and displaced part of our souls
with a hint of gorse-flower
with a dying refrain
vague powerful dreams, and
of wild irish midnight
The rocks and the stones know.
They are still, silent, and holy
the carved sacred remains,
of a civilisation,
bones of some kind of hindsight heaven,
bones of a Brigadoon
or a Summerland
all but lost to us now.
It is like a whispered secret,
its ghosts sit on logs in furs,
around welcoming blazes and
they walk everywhere.
It exists as a spirit
in the lilt and the laughter
accents of fast-spoken gaelic -
language in which every word
sounds like an ancient spell,
evokes heather, dragons, and peat flame.
It is to blame
when the wind whistles hard in the eaves
when frost reddens your nose
when a hearth-fire sings in the silence, and
when the moon says "run away with me,
i will show you",
yes the moon knows.
I can at last write to you without guilt
I’ve left him and you are back in town
I can feel it before I know it
Your smile was death’s shadow stomping around in my heart.
I creep in the fields
Of your distaste and I learnt to hate.
In my young life I’ve learnt to hate
And this is a love poem.
Well the fields are lit by moonlight
And my creeping obsessions have been here
For so long they are furtive
They have learnt to survive under the guise of dreams
I’m surprised to see them here at all
It must be a trick of the moonlight.
We live in interesting times my friend
These indeed are interesting times.
I and he
No longer have to practice the subtle art of self-deception
We had, and still have, true love: it was born here
Right here in my bed
Right here in the kitchen
But now he is our only true love and there are to be no more of our children.
Now the heart again begins palpably to beat. A strong calm beat.
I was startled at first that it was not pounding
And feared a loss of passion swallowed up by this sadness
But its life it wants now, not a heart attack.
We stare with limpid lights blinking, a morning’s misted rain on lashes
Fur milky white and blue
Tremble souls in the face of beauty
Travel souls in a secret place
A pale face in an upstairs window sees through for a moment
The palpitating air
And then we are gone
Mist spirits that make your dogs growl
And you call us obsessions because you fear to follow us.
We return when the dogs are sleeping or dead
When your eyes are open right to the soul
To the pith of you
Then you can see
And feel, and know why we hid.
Know the secret of us, why we exist at all.
Our spontaneous form flies then into a curl
Of a swirl
Of a morning’s mist.
I dreamt my friend that I picked up my own skull’s tooth and held it in the air.
I dreamt of the morning that I held my son and our shadows formed as one upon the wall
as we looked at each other
I dreamt of the world after everyone had flown for a day: the resultant art, architecture,
Their dreams after that one day.
Sometimes I have nothing to do but watch a candle melt
Life and wax-morality quick, then slow down a pillar.
i was on the lip of sleep breathing a vapour of dreams
there rising from some pit of consciousness;
some song of self,
the notes of which were ascending images and impressions:
i must be screaming, i must be dreaming.
For if we climb one upon the other,
be a ladder of hope and help,
we perhaps would crawl out of this pit
we stepped into.
i saw your nose last night and
the worlds i remember poised upon its shape.
Those memories keep themselves warm in my chest
and make me hungry:
hungry for the kind of love that makes you shiver,
and bunch your knees up
and turns your toes inward and curls them.
i saw your smile at this communication
and obscure jokes passed between
and so too the thrill of recognition.
i hope you eat an apple today
and have a delicious bath
or hot, hot shower
and a conversation that brings to light
a bit more of our immortal soul
our everlasting inner life.
i hope i heard you say "i hope you sing a song."
i dreamt that we were talking
i dreamt that you were telling me some intrinsic truth.
i dreamt that if we had made love
that we would’ve released the hounds of hell.
i walked home from the longest night of ninety-eight,
the moon and its star this morning were as some decoration
upon some goddess or other,
i sat upon a grassy uprooted tree stump
and watched its tree burn
and I fell into myself,
into my foolish self,
and knew that it was alright.
The dawn was an abalone's inner shell,
the sun was a jewel.
i saw the land,
valleys with lakes of mist -
mist fjords, solid enough perhaps to walk across.
i drank mulled wine and spoke of fairytales.
i can see the sun now from its reflection upon the leaves
warming the tops of things as it begins its southward curl.
Spring is heralded through the sap of a budding peach tree
and a growing pumpkin.
otherworldly, beings -
perhaps they are sirens,
called up from the depths
of every flyer's Thanitos:
these sepia nymphs
with caring hands,
and gentle breasts upon a fallen cheek.
Would that i were laid,
in the end,
in such arms.
crowding, in sympathy,
some creature dashed and wasted upon the rocks.
I was talkin’ to this joker and she walked by...
A small look, a laugh and chat to her friend...
My companion speaks again,
Belonging to the world before her:
“Will we be seeing yer out on Saturdee?”
“The races? Sure”
“Too fat to race anyway, me backs not what it used to be-
visit some when I’m passing through though”
and I stood there thinking that I was trapped by my own society.
There’s a whole world out there mate,
the sun that we see here burning your fat face
is the same one that rises over the pyramids
and touches the face of the Sphinx.
Bet life don’t ask you any riddles,
But yer carn't say that to 'em
they whisper sweet nothings
to the lonely
to the dreamers who stare
for wont of anything else
they swing us in sweet circular exstacies
to sleep at night,
lonely skies with
such dreamers who
they are the voices that chirrup constantly
when dark is quietest
the stars are every latent wish
waiting to fall
every undared kiss
limpid and exalted
who still must grow at the wall.
i am most absorbent today
soaking up my company
i am a sponge for dialect
slips of the tongue
and awkward moments
have kept with me all day.
i feel people stare,
just for a moment,
at something dubious
something i cannot quite
put my finger on....
vague feelings of doubt
which plague happiness
i have this momentum
which bursts over them
like i am cresting waves
fate may be fleeing with me
and time burgeoning ripe.
secreted in the fold of nature
swallowed by its green throat
silence that cannot be broken
a being in the realm of thought
fact of the matter
the only one
a fleshed idea
a paradox of representation
aware of disparity
a tension in the room
a figment of my own imagination
a bad temper
(for I feel
was a time
when each point of contact
a vivid shadow
within my skin
a crack at the fray
a decipherable reality.
and I want solitude
as deep as the loneliness I feel ...
of all events
Templum could be configured thus
the sensation of an
esprite de corps
this was destined to be monumental
the stirring of spirits
and inert humanity
able to recognise
the power of truth
great truth proclaimed
the subtlety of these
turned its inner eye
in a healthy reflexive
this side of justification
this side of a
awakened by true curiosity
opening the eye
with an open category
like the centre of the
I find myself here navigating
between the apogee and the nadir of this, my subsequent life …
the leaf of the tree, the growing green, the restful airs,
the utopia that is not another place … its humus,
would that I could
i'd survey a herd of deer
mouth of it,
stoop awhile in the afternoon sun
of how to present such
and the best wall inside for it,
grinding the ochre.
With the subtle involuntary eyes of vast
curiosity polite though only but vaguely moral accidental
panopticon bearing witness to the better potential of our
all too human song, rising constantly like
cicadas, rudely interrupted by a prurience, and this is a
collective noun – a prurience – of such busy determined
creatures, creatures that here will be dubbed peeping
Tomasina and peeping Tom. criminal minds bent on devising
many a complex and visceral persecution, truly
challenging infinitely more reasonable philosophical
phlegmatic thinking. They are gignomai nonetheless. The
agonism any iota of their presence, which is mental
torture, brings about is their only boon; wrung from terse
and repeated isometric gritting of teeth and silences
contracted from protracted biting of the tongue, after
compassion has been milked dry, wrung from the indignant
imagination, from the rebelling mind, no stranger to
trauma, to the basic aporia, in the anguished “why, why,why!”
– wrung dry from all this drips this last drop
of exasperated wish, a decidedly fanciful desire, for some
kind of solution, some lightening bolt epiphany from out of the
Therefore, about them there angry memories
pa, these almost phantasmagorical people; there be
placed, shining like a silver lining, this most sanguine
hope: that, by virtue of the offended milieux, gathers
some sanely arcane collective force of utter utter
maturity, culminating in a wonderful spell, a spell which
facilitates these hypocritically counter-intuitive blindly
categorical types to actually find each other on their walk,
literally to meet eye-to-eye.
contraction of the sudden confronted shyness of the quality of
the blinking startle of surprise - lens to fleshy
Where then will they try to hide, scuttling from the
pull, the cognitive dissonance, of their unexpected imminent
coalescence, and the shock of misanthropy, nurtured for so
long it is habitual, as it dislodges and sloughs. What blessed
hiatus this for the rest of us if us there be, whom I these
days hardly believe in hope for the existence of feel the
Imagine the sweetness as Fate's
irresistible sweeping rip draws their mean heat seeking selves
completely out to sea, latched firmly upon each other: it will
not stop, will not retreat back to shore like the
predictability of tides; what they have ignored being of a
greater potential than that twisted semblance of power which
their constant transgressions and aggressive spiritual-powerful
alter egos perversely project, then aspire to harness, and
control, beyond what their manifold lack of respect could even
begin to think to dream of.
It will subsume their
demagoguery in pure molten irony.
helpless they their disbelief landing them in that
pocket of reality. How seemingly cruel in our heady relief,
the knowing watchers-on I hardly believe in pained no
more, indulging in the very great pleasure, the final
luxury, of the last delighted laugh, enjoying a certain
quality of bemusement : many a lip-twitching sotto voce
observation, antithesis to their obsessively overzealous
manipulations of the gift of our joyful sensual moral
While drowning in that moral ocean, after
their mutual discovery of each unfathomable perplexity of too
similar other, while lost in the wry contingency of the
facts, suffering such consequences of subjective asymmetry, as
were wrought by their vengeful abject self pity, perhaps they
will find forgiveness, humility, and a particular apex of
humanity they, with their construct of eye, could
have, ultimately, been born to see.
they regressively flounder upon shoals of more reasonable
dynamics of personhood where, sacred and simple, respect
juts conspicuously, a snagging rock, most threatening to their
Only, I fear, in the best of their
fetish-based ideals of what ought to be, fantasies which could
never suit you, my Love, or me, and within moral interiors
full of premises supporting cultures of appropriation, and in
approaches, justified in their intellectual worlds constructed
from nothing short of ulterior motive, excusing the various
realities they convince themselves of in order to dominate so
as to perpetually compensate. Realities in which they 'allow' no
agency but a voodoo-doll idea of other, and whatever the
resentment is that comprises this image of 'the other' that
we represent it thrives on pernicious and dedicated
sabotage, burning needles of jealous intent leaving but a
shriven smidgen of our own innocuous pleasures, whereupon they
'grace' us with their intrusions, accuse our self's quick, the
intimacy of our very sensations of being but a thief's touch, and
so seek to practice their especial self appointed 'veto' upon
our every decision. You know the type, you feel uncomfortable
with the very idea, not to mention the strong impression, that
they might be thinking about you at any one moment in time. In
actuality the result of all this is that they merely manifest
as a rat-tat regular event of ideological profanity, chinese
water torture brand of insanity; but nonetheless it is only in
these places that they inhabit can any site can be
found ground be cleared reasonably expected to yield the
latent fruit of their humanity.
Though pretending to
help, their narcissistic righteousness sticks them fast in
patterns of derogatory methodology, it creates a parasitical
loop, Möbius strip treadmill.
Caught up thus for the
while in this poisonous hypocrisy, their brand of love, its
pundit-flavoured cooing celebrating the dullest kind of
clever, their greed surely would resign itself,
to stronger redemptive forces
pertaining to the
of their ultimately unavoidable
They are jaded now,
but perhaps the poignant
best in them
will be reawakened
by this hoped for meeting
for what it is worth
it must be remembered
that we wish
them to meet
and for each of their
realisations to spill free,
to make for a fertile
compost of mistaken,
misguided ideas and grotesque
ending up blessedly breaking down
around hungry new
the solitary composing eye.
But these themselves
are ideas of ideals,
platitudes implying desperate appeals
layers of delusion,
signalling their obtrusion.
This is but my ire
this turmoil of psychic energy
in bewildered introversion
at their most mistaken
are but transient beliefs
becoming in their own right
from out of agonism.
Dreaming, in solitude, tender Narcissisms; these silent songs are running through this body as blood in the night the stars are in there and still memory is but a simulcrum - all that remains of event - dreams dreams dreams
consider reality as so small and light so intricate in its relationship with matter, so structured such that all which is not 'now' truly becomes dream.
Goethe thought so.
it is a thought has become my solace
It is almost so that our frail fears of impermanence have created these delusions of solidity which haunt us with the complicity we attach to events in this world
this world drifting in dream
madly swirling in convection around event stretched between its singularities: the stirrings of the universe
intricate slumbers these - thinking of the self as an eddy
all night i lay
a shadow in the white room
on the hour
depending on the spectators
down to the half hour
reification of Miss Prim
felt like a spider
a life sized mannequin
for the purposes
of rest oh yes
sleep would've been most welcome
within a vigil
the body was moved
all around the floor
the door sealed
such that the light
was evenly diffused
along the walls
the absence of colour
the figure it's primary coloured contrasts
a pile of limbs
a faceless creature
of fine hatched silver always open
balls and sockets
ropes through the torso
knotted then carefully cut
sourced in a timeless responsibility
the Vala billows in winds of change
between the seeds of dreams and
is the midst of rapture
visions hold us there
within the song of rhapsody
flinging forget-me-nots in the void
soul incubant in the matrix
intrinsic in its virtue
extrinsic in its vice
which is open
to the grounds of truth
that sunken place where the sense when falling
finds necessary to accept
as a given reality
where the compass needle at any one time is
what the heights address
in order to orient themselves
the parted skies
above the abyss
milk drops down to this point
anything that will do any good
must observe this point
where it lands
at any one time
i am breaking open
my nadirs exposed
to let all gold in,
innocence will blare like
over the breadth of horizons
sometimes i think thou art a flower expanding sometimes i think thou art a fruit breaking from its bud - William Blake
a small pile of earth
in the middle of a vast floor space
hovering above it
a pair of Sphinge
used for various purposes
open to the scene
all the elements
of a life
each in its place
dried flowers hanging upside down
walls of stone
the occasional bird visits
the fire burns
on lonely nights
while the vigil
the suspended Sphinges
glint in the light
made of brass
they are like small deities
the cauldron bubbles
bread is broken
baked on stones
from willow picked
out of the past
dreams into form
dessicated leathern sobbing sighed
from beneath flaring sands
from those entombed
in stone and gold;
shifting cobwebs rippled,
fine dust haze
settled after a storm,
choked a citadel
silenced by its violence;
scoring and white-hot,
penetrated the perfume,
ran over silk
like molten lava,
found perfect oiled skin
those mummified hides,
shuddered as cry after anguished cry
an asp curled
around her fingers
struck and struck
at her breast.
limping Theseus wanders into view
searching for a lost
on the ground
near the pond
raging within a bull's head
somewhere in the dungeons
by the pond
stretches its wing,
at its tips
grace of airs
upon that water's surface
before liquid gold drowns
all killers' whispering woes
in predawn indigoes
the cold depths
of this pond
by strathing gold
are the magi's
lilies grow at its edge