Tuesday, 20 September 2016

If there is a perfection
of the hidden self

then self hidden is perfect
and that it is hidden must be part of this perfection.

For self to be self
which is to come to its perfection 
self must yet be turned out into the world.

Wide Wanderer they call self, Wide-Traveller. 
It is said that the self will re-shod your horse. 

Leave it by the smithy overnight
no payment
just an appropriate gift.

Self to self giving. 
Self to self given over

the wandering, turning self out
from the hidden to the open 

road travelled to seek the activity of the perfect
tattered paths of the simply sought.

The perfection of the hidden self
which is hidden therefore perfect
cannot yet attain perfection anywhere but in the open.

The wreckage of destabilised tribes.
Stones in the dell.
These stubborn dreams still trip us up.

The self in the world is ever an imperfection;
the scruffy re-run
the back and forth vulnerable
made available, made safe, made and unmade.

Tuesday, 13 September 2016


Sharon;s carefullyy calibrated mental adustments for the karmaic force cease to b life necassary

I wrote thus whilst asleep.

Who is Sharon?

Can I not get out of here?

I cannot get out out of her the necessary adjustments.

The force of a calibrated life.

To not get out of here.

Whilst asleep a growing sense of familiarity grows around the day to come and the day just gone.

Waking and the sleeping submerge one another and neither can quite remember the other.

It is home. It may not be your home. Here is an alluring body, here are a known set of pleasures.

The connection is already set, introductions are hardly necessary.

Beneath the surface there is everything, yet we slide one over the other, always on the surface.

Familiar old patterns.

The limits are also the comforts.

Sharon;s carefullyy calibrated mental adustments for the karmaic force cease to b life necassary


I wrote thus whilst asleep.

Tuesday, 6 September 2016

Coincidentally beyond coincidence
by the sheer fact of multiplicity.

One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a funeral
And four for birth

Magpies line up in the hope of meaningful significance, their message yet ever extended into meaninglessness.

Four and forty birth birds mirthed of the earth. In the tree the sorrow, up the sky we scale. When the sky was hollow we all began to howl: Now was not this a pretty fowl to sing us through the day?

Only when the magpie population attains the critical mass of becoming lumpen - a large entity onto which significant projection may be secured - then will the flock be transformed from the accidental and to the meaningful.
It will be single.
It will be singular noticed. A cursing sponge to sop up all our unease.
This is the point at which a determined eradication programme begins.

Saturday, 3 September 2016

From a ceaseless wandering
until an ornament of demise

being prepared to go with the shrug of freedom,
being prepared to take the scrying and fill in the detail.

The curlicues and corners of culture

am I reflected there, in this environment
made so much the human.

So much I am

I am also reflected there but barely,
slightly distorted.

And in the throws of distortion I also
push in my image. Pushed in, despite,

creating the line and loop
this ceaseless wandering.

Mental conditions for freedom 
under-gird the material.

Conditions for the material conditions of culture may be continued
in and out of division 
in and out of prison 
on and on.

To act freely is not taking freedom from another,
therefore freedom is always an exploration of relatedness,

a ceaseless wandering relationship with the ornament of demise.

I stand in this built environment which is designed and 
ordained so much to reflect
the owners
who imagine they always own

therefore I am excluded
except for my ownership,
for which there is none,

therefore it is in the excluded I am.

This made-so-much-the-human is a temporary fake
a human imposition on an inhuman profusion

of nature always grander
of nature always pressing
of nature which will inevitably reclaim 
and is rigorously excluded, now, of this
I am
in the curves and curlicues of of the pressing 
in the fluids and in pollen and there dispersed.
Vividly here, I also vanish

Saturday, 20 August 2016

A cloak and a box for the hungers
the degree
and the shadow

of the disallowed
as means by which to define the body.

There is no single hunger

other than life. Or there is but a single hunger called life, endlessly nuanced

unto the raging obesity of the civil.

Original stuff, not yet differentiated stuff, this shapeless clay of being: Being in need. The mud born of deep sea vents, super-heated chemosynthesis, the discharge washed ashore as a tidal friction of the possible.

The body as medium by which to format the great hidden greeds. A clay mesh of combed and re-combed base information. 

This ongoing savour can be read and re-read

forming different aspects and different bodies 

and difference is the inheritable means of re-reading inheritance. 

We both take in and express the nuance, we twist and touch the marks, live in hunger, live in the manner of our reading.

Abreaction brings expression of the hidden to consciousness. A ragged shoreline of living and re-living; waves of relief and leaving, a saggy pool of thought in its own purgation. 

Walk along this beach. If the line is continued for long enough, then the expression may be integrated. Integrated lines are woven into bridges. 

Some lines dissolve. We hide our trail beneath splash marks, we float out to sea on an inflatable.These dissolved lines make for a monstrous immediacy; these are the sea-devils. The sickness of panic. 

These forms, not welcomed, refuse to form, and the unformed must be urgently repulsed. They are pushed back beneath the cloak. 

The sea is a cloak. 
The cloak must stored in a box. 
The box is built of shadows, sunk in the sea, buried in the earth. 
We wear the earth as our body.

Sunday, 14 August 2016

The gesture solidified
makes type.

The figure of type, reduced to mark,
is an alphabet.

An alphabet, trailed through
is a mouthed gesture 

tracking the dissolving

as it returns to gesture.

Monday, 8 August 2016

We have but one memory
everyday this is stored or retrieved, stoned or recalled.

We have but one memory ever, recall of our long and single being.
This solitary complex recall, wholly present in-all-in-all and yet

the forgetting is beguiling.

If there is a solitary memory, complete and available, distributed over all the remembering connections; so there is a single opportunity to forget. The pressing need of the day-to-day-to-day seems to be one of disconnect.

We have but one memory and in our multiplicity chase it down so we many turn off connection after connection after connection.

yet every storing and every storage and every rupture and each dangling line

every memory made to narrative
plunges on for the wise.

The one memory is ancient and not ours. Sometimes we resent this, and our scissors and switches are pushed toward fury and fragment. This is to say; this little mess will be ours, and not that.

And yet the calculation
of a single memory
need not be so