Shining threads

Shining threads

Thursday, 15 December 2011


The bigger your vision, the wider your head opens until the atoms of your being unite with all who share your smiling dream.

The stars all tell tales of the adventures of their own revolving children.

Our universe is only one story of many and within each one an infinity of stories which find common ground when illuminated by a redemptive light.

Our life is meaningless yet meanings hinge on each particularity personal to us, so our eyes which track the pathways (in front and behind) see and interpret uniquely. This is freedom, to be reclaim our sovereignty from the hands of oppressors - a candle unto ourselves and holding our own light up to the sun, along with all the other bearers of hope, of beauty, of glory, of thrill.

We are the ones that kept going, the ones that kept chinks open in our minds, the ones that looked beyond surface appearance, the ones who searched, the ones who found enough, sometimes just scraps, sometimes an abundance to keep the journey in motion.

We are the fruits of our labour, the children of our savouring of life's sweet nectar, extracted from the terrors of a world that can be bitter and together we write the pages of the fulfillment of our dreams.

Question the question mark

Question the question mark - the curve and the line and the dot.

Question the clouds and the wind and notions of beginning and end.

Be in the middle, unfolding.

Unfolding the mystery train.

See the layers we live by -

the accumulated assumptions of our society.

Look at me.

Look at your judgements.

Look at me again.

Do this for everyone.

Look again and again and again.

Shift your perception so

it sees both sides simultaneously.

We see lives.

So many people.

All people with a life.

A trajectory.

Each life is open and has a question mark

whose answer is partly determined by you.

Stay in your power and responsibility.

Be the curve, the line and the dot.

Tuesday, 13 December 2011


The guy baffles me. Diametrically opposed. My nemesis. He delivers an anti-kiss. Refuses to pay a debt. And my world is rocked. Way out of proportion.

My dreams say stay cool. He's just trying to provoke you - this is just a test. Some things don't make sense. That dimension which does not respond to reason.

Too many seasons have passed. Way too many and now I see a clearing ahead. My head has cleared and I no longer make excuses for people who deserve no excuses.

Our dealings were outside the law and so we make our own rules. I find out how I fare in the jungle where there are no officials to protect me. Dylan said - 'if you live outside the law, you must be honest' and I have layers of honesty, that's for sure. But to let it cut all the way down takes massive courage and faith. To see clearly what is not true is to dismantle the foundation of this world and stand on virgin ground.

To really speak the truth is to live in a constant rebirth. Uncover lost dimensions from the earth which we were treading on all along but got lost in this edifice of pavement and phones, yearning for saviours and the latest ring-tone, when actually all we have is ourselves, having unpeeled the layers that hide us from our own being.

Unveiling the spiritual existence that is existence - nothing different to what was always here, just now it makes sense - whereas before we either craved or denied which add up to much the same.

So I stand here and he stands there (on the same ground - herethere). Two very different paths. Different values. Different futures perhaps yet unfinished business keeps some cords still intact.

I see the possibility of redemption in anyone since I've been down to the bottom rock - yet not all want to climb up and not all will.

Just as some people can take a punch so some can bury their sin and carry on forth. Guilt only weighs heavy on those sensitive enough to tune in.

For all I know (and I know this is not true but for poetry's sake) he might have led a blameless life, save for this one infraction. Something told him not to repay. To leave me out in the cold. Some instinct which allows him an arch cruelty which he would not dare inflict on others.

So having asked, having nagged, having angered, having forgiven, having scolded and appealed again. I stand without answers and look him in the face. A non-dual state is the end of all quests. Where we are as much part of the seen as the other. We sculpt our characters through the choices of our lives and hang the result in the gallery of humanity. So be it.

Sunday, 11 December 2011

The magical veil

The visual is the way through,

the magical veil which we cannot dismantle,

but must both penetrate

and open to

in a simultaneous pose

of participation

and surrender,

so we can touch and be touched by its richest treasures,

of which we are each one particularity.

We are bearers of our own discrete veil,

lamps of the divine,

in a field of lights,

some nothing more than smouldering embers,

smothered by other concerns;

others ablaze with ferocious glory -

our open end to be a unique strand

in a kaleidoscopic tapestry,

weaving our broken beauty

into a path that heals

in its collective magnificence.

A poetic massage

She gives poetic massages -
tongue flickering
across the contours of his lithe body.

Enlivened by literary darts,
sent forth from her lips,
to caress his receptive skin
and penetrate deep into his cellular structure,
hitting the subatomic target called

'erotic mystery'

that no scientist has discovered
outside the bedroom
and their own instinctual field.

Their meeting,
between the pages of a grand narrative,
author(s) unknown,
and partly penned by themselves,
embodies all the qualities of their deepest yearnings,
that their conscious minds were miserably unable to map out.

Only poetry,
only the transfiguring of language,
the lifting of the ordinary,
to a sacralised space,
can satisfy the primal joy-urge
of humanity's being.

Saturday, 3 December 2011

The tunnel of light

There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Get on board the train, give up hope and enjoy the ride.

It's all light!

Sunday, 27 November 2011

How long?

How long?

How long is your desire?

The length of your yearning?

The strength of the burning of your soul's agenda.

The splendour which is caught up, the thunder that got boxed, your treasures which got plundered and buried by the events of our containment.

Now is the time for a rupture in business as normal. Now is the time for a rapture that lifts up the hungry, aching to be fed with the bread of satisfaction.

The actions that we take, the art-forms that we make, the dive into the lake of the world-soul, from the precipice of our crumbling society.

Each step takes us closer to the edge that spells the end of the known and rebirth into immense possibility.

The way I see the future is a ride into unimagined terrains of creative endeavour.

Having passed through the portal of paradise, all the nightmares of history will seem like the first stutterings of a film-reel, irrelevant flickers before the fire ignites and the Divine Imagination is set ablaze.

The end of the world is the Garden of Eden: Redux.

Friday, 18 November 2011

Raise up

Raise up the Body of Christ - a self-selected collection of souls from humanity in an new, enspirited, empowered network of lovers, creators, carers, dancers, wizards and free people.

We are bigger than any system of oppression or institution which stands in our way.

We are the resurrection, we were meant to stand tall on this fertile earth and be bold, be free and dare to be all that we can be.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

Against and through to be free

I am the archer and the arrow and the bow.
I have my sights set on a target in the distance but first I need to overcome and clear what stands between me and it.
My potential tautens and I spot the blocks which will need to be transformed or flattened by the momentum of my motion.

All those dominators who want to impose their will onto me.
All systems of oppression which subvert the stream of life into putrid waters.
All energy-thiefs and complainers who want to dampen down the fountain of brilliance.
All ideologues, partisan spokesmen and half-baked revolutionaries who build prisons of vision to block my panoramic view.
All liars and cheaters, game-players and power-seekers, who try to control the dance of energy.
All promisers and apologists, those who don't listen and can't learn.
All drags and pathological sceptics, pessimists and doubters.

There comes a time when another no means never so don't wait until it's too late. All nice people and polite people and aggressors and taunters - you've each a side of a coin I'm tired of flipping. Time to transcend the duality.

Tuning my thoughts and feelings to my sense perceptions, I become a distinct and responsive agent of life.

Sunday, 30 October 2011

The hero's path

The hero's path flees from the jaws of the dragons of regret and apathy and depression.

There comes a point where there is nothing to do but progress - burning the flame called 'forth' aloft.

The unseen cuts in both directions - invisibly imaging a glorious future and a dismal decay.

The hero rides on the razor's edge of decision, bound for the point towards which the blade's tip is directed.

Tuesday, 25 October 2011

The manifesto of the goddess

Her beauty shines in all she does - from the tender hand of comfort to the fierce strike to quell enemies.

The majesty of her divinity made manifest in the play of humanity. Not one, never one - she only responds to the peacock fan of the many.

A moving rainbow which loves the journey because she is the journey. She loves the sequence since she is every letter in the story - she is every note in the score. Each face is a different chime of her glorious song of becoming.

From the feet of the goddess - the soil which absorbs death and sprouts new life - to the crown of her jeweled extravagance - beyond dualities - transcending suffering, tragedy, pleasure and laughter - yet revelling in abundance.

She is not the solo star of the sun but a glittering necklace of stellar radiance spread through the sky. A scattered mosaic with room to breathe.

The charge of her energy circulates through the system, endlessly transforming bodies of experimentation - dancing, metamorphosising, vibrating.

She is the field which contains many flowers, many blades of grass, many many.

In her flesh we inscribe the stories of our lives - like wax she holds the impressions of our intentions yet paradoxically remains beyond any of the pressures of humanity.

She is diversity, the plural play of people perpetuating the poetry of performance and the process of procreation, pregnancy and perspiring birth to wondrous new formulas of possibility.

Sublime is her nature - unnameable - though men may try in their unquenchable vanity.

The only resolution is to be struck by her overwhelming presence - awe-ful, endless, ravishing. A cycle of infinity which delivers either madness or illumination. A spiraling, shape-shifting, phantasmogoria of playful inventiveness. Only those who can face dazzling beauty will survive the test.

She is beyond gender. Beyond the petty framed creations of artisans and crafted letters of poets. Beyond splits of sacred and profane. Her look is like lightning, which flashes where it wills with the power of wild electricity - the devastating gesture of raw expression.

The secret - the great open secret is that she is within - present in the eyes of every being, embedded in the nervous system of all, aching to connect. Aching to burst forth.

She demands engagement - not a monkish learning, nor a wry detachment, but a thunderous cry of affirmation - Yes! Yes! Now! Now I embrace. Now I jump in.

Once the jump is made, hubristic personifications of the goddess dissolve and we become.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Revolutionary lips

Our lips must become poised to be sculptors of revolutionary statements.
Each touch, each kiss, each word charged with erotic majesty to set worlds on fire.
Loaded with light.
Each lifting of a finger and cycle of breath done with the awareness of our embedded existence
in a realm which can be lifted into love.

Matter is neutral but in its manipulation we show our colours.
Those tones and shades we choose to be our markers.
The flags we wear for others to identify who they are dealing with.

Nervous systems register instinctively when we are connecting.
The electricity of life resonates at fine frequencies between lovers and friends.
Energy tickles, insinuates and surges through and between.

This eruption has no singular source
but will be the outcome of a collective yearning and dreaming.
A period of gestation with brief manifestations and flourishes over the years
but only Now come to full fruition.

Let's burst forth with the open confidence of people who know not precisely what is to come
but are willing to unfold the process with every step of our dance.

Thursday, 6 October 2011

Two - one

Two steps forward, one step back.

Poised in between white and black.

We are the flow, we are the ebb.

We are the weavers, we are the web.

The portal of now

Massive trees flash the subtle sparkle of their cells.

We join hands. The connections go deep.


The portal has emerged.

Walk forward.

Everything that ever happened is dead.

Only the steps you take matter now.

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

A space to breathe

A space to breathe where you can breathe space. Inhale the stars.....dust coursing through your veins.

A space to see what your real vision is, besides this construction we've been walking around in.

A space to leave the memories and assumptions of neverlands behind.

A space to weave new dreams from the cloth of the imagination.

A space to breathe where you can breathe space.

Tuesday, 4 October 2011

Skating on thin ice

She's out there, skating on thin ice.

Seeing how far one bodysoul can travel into translucency.

This game is only for the light and those willing to risk all.

She has heart but also an imperative not to melt, since all would be lost then.

Skating on thin ice, on the outer regions of lake-life, just a tiny layer separating the air from the deep cold depths.

The sharp, clinical, metallic edges cut gliding lines into the icing of nirvana.

Circling and pirouetting for an audience of birds, she's here for a while, a spectacle for the sky.

Then, her luck vanishes and the lake opens up to receive her.

Forgotten apart from the trails of her skates, etched on the icy mass, soon to evaporate into the warm stare of the sun's gaze.

Thursday, 29 September 2011

Soft mistake

She made a soft mistake.

The bread dropped, butter-side down.

And sat there - stuck on the floor.

She smiled.

The drama of the movement had shifted her attention and now she was utterly present.

Soft mistakes are agents of grace.

Don't judge too quickly.

Be through the sequence.

Friday, 23 September 2011

Black is back

Black has its back to the light.

Black is the dazzling darkness.

Black is a cocktail gown. A suit for all occasions.

Black is the colour of death. The funeral hearse.

Black is the night.

Black is ink - a series of etchings pretending to meaning.

Black is our pupils - the wide open eyes of learning.

Black has its own attractions - an aid to make a body seem lithe.

Black is a colour of glamour and business, of religion and ceremony, of brooding and depression.

Black is here in varying proportions and sometimes is near total but never for long.

Black is back.

Black is the dog which pulls at your heels.

Black is your shadow which is most apparent when you stand in the light.

Black mines a pathway through opaqueness.

Black is majestic.

An evening dress to die for.

A cape to wear to lose oneself in the night.

Black is a chasm, a pit, a cave, a box of unknowns.

Black is the screen which masks the play of the visible.

Black is the backdrop to the season of temptation once night falls and the psyche is released.

Black is the colour in which evil hides and is able to dance.

Black absorbs all attempts to shine the light.

Black masks all depth of vision yet reveals what is furthest away.

Black attracts the parts of us which are tired of the garish gaze of daylight.

Black swims in an ocean of obscurity.

Black is anonymous.

Black is back.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

The beat goes on

The beat, the beat, the beat.

The beat bangs. The beat throbs. The beat pulses.

The beat of the heart and the beat of the drum.

The kick-drum kicks the beat into your belly.

A series of belly-beats.

As long as the party continues....the beat goes on.

Sunday, 4 September 2011

Many pharaohs

There are many pharaohs and still the cry of freedom is called afresh in each age.

There are many temples and still the call of liberty rings out under the open sky.

There are many teachers and still the voice of love breaks out from beyond the classroom.

There are many traps and still the spirit of victory triumphantly asserts itself.

There are many shadows and still the light welcomes those who confidently step into it.

The pace of peace

The pace of peace is a tempo ranging through the spectrum of possibility - though at times too slow the opportunities are missed and at times too fast we skip over vital stages.

The pace of peace is a sexy rhythm, where two bodies of experience meet to share difference in unity.

The pace of peace is not a cruel sprint which leaves most in the lurch but neither is it a slothful lingering which has no direction.

The pace of peace is a dove circling the skies above all lands of the earth. A pack of birds with representatives from all tribes of aviaries, now at liberty.

The pace of peace is a heart-beat listened to - the synchronisation of inner thought and outer expression mediated by consideration of circumstances.

The pace of peace is beauty personified in a stride called graceful movement, beyond effort or exertion yet efficacious and exalting!

Thursday, 1 September 2011

Running in heels

She wants it all.

The perfect work/life balance.

She wants to run in heels.

Immaculate skin and an indulgent lifestyle.

A strong man, comfortable with his vulnerability.

To have the door opened for her but not be patronised.

Financially independent but still open to being whisked off her feet.

She wants to run in heels.

And if the worst comes to the worst, she'll just take her heels in her hands and make her way barefoot.

Saturday, 27 August 2011

Juggling worlds

Atoms trade secrets with angels by the office water-cooler.

A lion-king sits behind the desk, deciding who to cull in the next few months.

Gorillas fly spaceships past the upper floors of the skyscraper.

Zeus applies some make-up whilst looking after the reception area, awaiting the arrival of a rather late Pharaoh who may be bringing a promising deal to the table.

This time the dimensions have been opened and the rules are all mixed up.

Animation meets film meets history meets fantasy.

The gods juggle worlds in a blazing show of cosmic wonder.

What is the opposite of eclectic? Neat - partitioned - pure. Enemies of creativity, except as exceptions to punctuate a soup of symbols and scattered references.



She takes a healthy bite from an apple...crisp and juicy. I feel a good way.

For we have resurrected the apple back into bright reality from the tortured strictures of a Judeo-Christian symbol-system (along with the snake and the lamb and the goat and the dove).

Yes. The apple's back. Fully innocent...and delicious.

But back to her.


She's taking a series of steps through the passage of civilisation, stopping off to stand tall on the edge of the jungle.

'Fear not the wild.' She says. 'For once all was one.' Again the split by religion has fucked up our minds. But we resurrect. We integrate. We become ONE.

She comes and sits by my side, eating the apple, with the airs and graces of a lady who allows herself to focus solely on the present moment and full enjoyment of the fruit in her hand. Not the fruits of her labour but the fruit in her hand. Since the apple was plucked from a gift-giving tree - as all trees are - as all beings are - for we are gifts - to one another - we've just forgotten - we've just fallen ASLEEP.

Fallen, fallen into religious understandings. Fallen into divided territory. If the tree of knowledge was the origin of our division then perhaps a new perception of that tree will remind us...(whisper it)...we never left the garden.

We just stopped appreciating.


Taste your food. Be here forever.

Tuesday, 23 August 2011

Points in love

Every bird that flies the sky - a point in love.

Every person that lives and dies - a point in love.

Every plant and every tree - points in love.

Each flower and each petal within each flower and each fibre within each petal and each cell within each fibre - points in love.

Faces representing unique individuations of the whole.

Nodes in the network of community, sharing a common unity.

An infinite lattice of energy - incarnating and discarnating in an exploration of being.

Every business, every enterprise, every tribe, every nation - a constellation of points of consciousness - held by collective beliefs.

Each perspective determined by their beliefs and actions in a circular feedback loop.

Points in love, connected by a relational perception. Each with their own definitions of different concepts.

Each point pulses and moves in a dance with all the others, defining themselves in relation to one another.

Points in love meet and connect - a web of interrelations - conspiring to collaborate in an endless adventure.

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Freedom (part 2)

Freedom is an empty space to be filled.

Freedom is movement.

Freedom is expression.

Freedom dares.

Freedom goes beyond.

Freedom is unchartered, spontaneous, adventurous.

Freedom leaps.

Freedom transcends boundaries.

Freedom travels all roads, including secret passageways and if necessary, forges new paths.

Freedom does not fit.

Freedom is not in a box, category, label or job.

Freedom is unique, unrepeatable, fresh, alive and unrepentant.

Freedom sings.

Freedom is not a recipe.

Freedom knows.

Freedom is purposeful.

Freedom dances.

Freedom celebrates.

Freedom proclaims.

Freedom creates.

Freedom is a series of steps into a chosen uncertainty.


Physic slowly insinuates its fibres and muscles and roots up....from below.

The body of a killer, a hunter who has been split off, his stealth and poised senses repressed by many degrees of separation.

Yet the killing continues, out of sight. Taxes and extra costs cover the expense of the killing fields and slaughter houses.

The wild voices of the South, suppressed by the clipped tones of the North.

This is a global thing and we must integrate.

Tattoos, dreadlocks, drums - all the features of a tribal network reassert themselves amidst the crumbling structures of society.

This concrete reality has found its ground after a long detour to the stars.

There is nothing tender about these shoots, crude and vital, connectors to the earth, visceral communication lines to base emotions and needs - security, protection, anger, territory, hunger, family, lust.

Physic returns. Hard and foundational.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

The inner orchestra

I have an orchestra within me and sometimes I play different instruments and sometimes I let myself be played.

What I hear without resonates with what I feel within. The keys of life chime in my soul - sometimes a great harmony, sometimes dischord, but always reflective in a perfect mirroring of my perception.

Love has many faces and seasons. Morphing through different relationships, yet the instinct to connect remains the interlinking thread.

We smile and a portion of those around us respond, setting off a chain of events. Wisdom circulates, like a butterfly, allowing flashes of beauty to ricochet through time and space, initiating a wondrous game of hide and seek, which once discovered is never forgotten and the obvious and occasional becomes universalised to the hidden and eternal. The butterfly being only one card in the pack of nature, which hooks people in to drink of sacred mysteries.

I have within me, something indeterminate, which allows itself to be described through an infinite range of metaphors - from instruments to animals to fantastical beings to elements. What I am is impossible to say and too wide to be contained in words but silence can say something if you listen.

She captures

She captures. The moment.

In a single frame.

She hooks in my curiosity with that one card amongst many.

We are whole yet made of many strands. The strings of life woven through our choices and attractions.

She seizes the attention of the audience.

Holding a few hundred in a field of devotion.

Her manner executes a subtle imperialism, whose captives are willing and surrendered.

Added ingredients

Why do they put the child in the pot of whirling things?

The child who arrives weeping.

The child whose eyes speak of untouched qualities. The light of nothingness.

In amongst the soup of ten thousand things.

Like a chef scatters a pinch of pristine sea salt to season the mix.

The purity is lost in the endless churning.

Yet the taste it adds is unmistakable.

And through a process of discernment can be extracted to reveal that original purity.

Why do they put the child into the pot of whirling things?

What strange game of chemical experimentation is this?

(this was inspired by a book called Aglaja Veteranyi which a friend told me about)

Sunday, 14 August 2011

A second look

Not drowning but waving.

Not investing but saving.

Not walking but cruising.

Not drinking but boozing.

Not screaming but orgasmic.

Not flexible but elastic.

Not mocking but laughing.

Not crazy but barking.

Not sinking but diving.

Not successful but thriving.

What is, is not always what seems.

What seems, is not always what is.

First snap, second look, third process, fourth evaluation, fifth summarise, sixth update, seventh integrate, eighth forget it all, ninth see freshly.

Saturday, 13 August 2011


One is unchanging. One is single. One is alone. One is all-knowing. One is the person.

The globe. The universe. One is the primal unity of heaven and earth. A circle. The fusion of transcendent and immanent.

One is the all-seeing eye. One is divinity. One is. One (whisper it) is God.

One is the resolution of all opposites. One is simplicity. One smiles. One is being.

One is peace and love. All in one! There is only One. One is the first and has an urge to continue but restrains itself.

One stays put. One is the ancient regime, the status quo, the perennial philosophy. One knows no other.

One is the creator before the act of creation. One is humourless yet is caught in an eternal punchline.

One is self-referential. One is a goal. One is fixed. One is the source. One is the heart.

One is when you realise that everything is connected and everyone knows one another and there are no secrets. One is a one-off.

One is unique. One is the start and the end. One is where autism and pure love meet. One is complete.

One is where narcissism and extroversion join. One is the whole. There is nothing to say. One is silence.

One is white. A golden white. One-der-ful. One has won.

Take two

Two - for a start what a genius to match a T with a W. That happens very rarely. Twist, for example. Between and betwixt. It takes much wit to take those two words and turn and dance.

For two is the number of the dance of duality. Only with two can you have reaction and responsivity and communication and dialogue. Okay...only with at least two.

Two is the number of fingers to make certain gestures. Two is the number of legs, arms, hands, feet, ears, eyes, lips, buttocks, bollocks, breasts and nostrils of a human being. Where would we be without two? Hopping mad, I say. Two allows us to compare and contrast. Two has two sides. Without two, we wouldn't have the concept of a side. Two is doubt. And boundaries. And distance. Two is in time and space. Two touches.

Two is relativity. Two is all your relations. Two is a line with two ends. Two charts the course. Connects the dots.

Two - don't ask me why - is blue. Maybe it's in the rhyme. Two is rhyme and rhythm and poetry.

Two sees double. Two is a pair of cards. A pair of Aces. A King and a Queen.

Two is a couple - partners - all those modern terms to describe a relationship. Two is respectability. Two is socially approved. One less and you're single and suspect. One more and things get kinky. More than that and you're getting religious or orgiastic!

Two is a blend, an interaction, an interweaving. Two gives birth to something new, arising from the fusion of elements.

Two is perception. The seer and the seen. The hunter and the prey. Two is the chase, the search, the race, the process, the dynamic, the unconsumnated and incomplete.

Two is a conversation and a chat. The mutual exchange of information for love, for business, for gossip or for conflict.

Two is sex - the meeting of bodies in so many different ways the mind boggles. Two is licking and sucking and kissing and fucking. Two is frisson and flirtation and friction. Two thrills to the soundtrack of desire.

Two is an endless series of combinations - a kama sutra of relations - mind-boggling in their variety.

Two is opposites - on the surface conflicting but in the depths complementary. 

Two is separation - teasing apart the fabric to distinguish two distinct lines. Two travels on different paths, sometimes together, sometimes divergent, but never exactly synchronised as one.

Two is desire. Without two, without space, without longing, there would only be stasis. Two is the gap and the movement to close it. Listen to the silence of the gap which plunges between two. Two is waiting and anticipating. Hoping and fearing. Wondering and dreaming. Two is the tension between what is and what may be.

Two is split. Railway tracks. Two trees between which the hammock lies.

Two is contradiction, duplicity, hypocrisy, the pull between persona and self, social and personal, explicit and implicit, stated and desired. Two is divided - perhaps by fear, perhaps by class, perhaps by restraint. Two has a foot in both worlds, awareness in both hemispheres.

Two is trade and exchange. The flow of currency. Negotiation and barter - deals struck between canny merchants.

Two is war and conflict - clash and friction, antagonism and argument. With two comes the possibility of hierarchy, of domination, of oppression, of slavery.

Two duels in a contest between players for their own hopes of glory, romance, justice and progression. 

Two may be equal in their difference but never exactly the same, for then they would be one. Two is an equation, delicately balanced complex sums. Two hold hands, linked by relationship yet distinct in character - points of intersection and points of autonomy.

Two allows shadow aspects, a hidden dimension, a sense of perspective, a number of levels, a distance travelled, a pair of sides, a co-existence of feelings and motives. Two is the new element that displaces dominant routines and subverts ancien regimes. Two is uncertain, two is in two minds, two wavers, two is not simple.

Two is a bicycle and a pair of glasses and a set of taps. Two is the knife and fork. The lighter and cigarette. The bat and ball. The rider and horse. Start looking and two is everywhere!

Two is gender, two is difference, two is contrast, two is translation. Two is complementary and co-existing. Without two, you and I would not exist. And for that we should be happy.

Two is day and night. Hot and cold. Home and away. Heaven and hell. First and last. Here and there. Up and down. Lost and found. Two is travel, drama and adventure. Two is the journey. Two holds the space that we call the middle. Two is both. The best of both worlds. And the worst.

Two is a pair of record decks - manipulated by the DJ to mix and blend tunes, creating a sequential flow from many records.

Two is double-edged. Not easily fitted into a box. Two cuts both ways. Simultaneously different.

Two is the world. The platform for polarity to be experienced. Like ping-pong balls we humans are sent careering back and forth over the table of duality. The players occupy different ends of the spectrum at different times and the game is in the movement and variation. Never will we land at exactly the same spot but many times we cross the net to visit each side.

The concept of balance is predicated on there being two. The closest two gets is paradox and the furthest it gets is alienation but two is always in relation. The tension of two gives rise to all kinds of dreams of utopia. But two is where we are and two it is.

Thursday, 11 August 2011

Teenage kicks

Passed notes around the classes. Crushes rush to overwhelm the emotions.

This is not an age to strive for balance and serenity.

Snatched smokes in between lessons.

Life is not a school but a dangerous party to push the limits at, when you manage to break free.

A chasm grows between generations. We are the first human beings ever to feel this way.

Music is devoured feverously.

A series of experiments with different substances knocks consciousness into previously unrealised configurations.

The voice of rebellion and sulkiness and rashness and excitement.

Nobody knows impatient anticipation quite like the teenager awaiting something good.

What would be a pathology at later stages is par for the course.

Half of the teenager is straining at the bit to launch into wild freedom whilst the other half is tamed by controlling forces wanting to direct the child towards safety.

This is a world of assumed immortality which seems to encourage hell-bent behaviour.

A catalogue of firsts - the privilege of the young - first kiss, first night out, first time drunk, first drive, first exam, first trip to the psychiatrist, first sex, first vote, first time living away from home.

The energy of the teenage years, like all ages, carries over through a person's life. Some keep the fires stoked, others try to forget its excesses. But the memories are there....bubbling beneath the surface with rampant glee!

Tuesday, 9 August 2011


My spectacles interpret the spectacle.

My glasses bring to a particular focus, what impresses itself through my senses.

Each set of eyes sees a different take on what many of us call an elephant, though there are those who deny that such a creature exists and have their own, unique, interpretation.

Nobody knows what is right.

Nobody knows.

We agree. For some time. Until we don't.

All I know is, I like you.

At least I like what I see through my lens.

Monday, 8 August 2011


The four horsemen dance in a circle - souls ablaze with the possibility of a rapidly changing context.

Christ's resurrection fills the sky and the Devil bursts forth from the annals of the earth, flaring up in impotent rage.

Rainbows fill the sky, perfect visions of water and light but the prophets say 'it'll be fire next time'.

Apocalypso reveals the nature of the dancers.

Monday, 1 August 2011

The rider and the horse

The rider and the horse.

There is a conceit that the rider tames the horse.

From wilderness to a harnessed subjugation (and as with all conceits there is some truth in that).

But perhaps this is a case of animal and human synchronisation - each affects the other.

As one they course across fields.

As one the centaur moves.

As one.


Saturday, 30 July 2011

The sky and the sea

The sky sighed to see the sea looking blue - 'Don't be down. Blue does not have to sink its ship but can grow wings (and things) and fly high like me.'

The sea replied to the sky's lofty words: 'Word, brother, for you are my brother - made of the same stuff. I hold the visible and you the invisible. I make waves in the world whilst the swaying of the trees makes you blow. But what do you know of trees? Higher and lower doesn't mean better and worse - just different vibrations in the architecture of life.'

The sky saw the sea's reasoning and let his compassion melt into the choppy rhythms of the ocean. 

Friday, 29 July 2011


She's my birthday and Christmas rolled into one.

A pagan and Christian mix.

She's the place that capitalism and communism meet.

The space where masculine and feminine collide.

She's the bridge between heaven and earth.

The mid-point between up and down.

She's the middle-way within poles of left and right.

A blend of work and play.

She holds a fusion of East and West.

A good balance between hot and cold.

She hangs together between extremes.

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

Many peaks

From the peak of the mountain, she realised her enlightened awareness was only partial. She knew the terrain of the humble trail she had partly followed and partly forged on her way up and now could enjoy the view across valleys and rivers to see other peaks - yet the knowledge of those on the other peaks remained unknown to her apart from general principle.

She had held a conceit that she would be Queen of the world once she reached the top and mounted the throne but now realised that there were many royal positions forming a council of Kings and Queens, each surveyors of their own realms and in sometimes communication.

Not only this but there were many others at the peak - some had stayed, others had reached the top and then descended to help those lower down.

Monday, 25 July 2011

Kissing the ground

My feet kiss the ground as I remember what I've found, in the past and the past and the past as it seems today.

Somewhere I seem to be - like a fish out of the sea - and my memory is crumbling like an avalanche of snow falling away - to reveal myself to all who could not see.

Castles in the snow

She builds castles in the snow in the land where they have a million words for sand.

And the sun loves everyone equally, whatever they choose to become.

She builds expectations in my mind so I find when we meet it is on the crest of anticipation.

There is no disappointment. For how could there be when it is you who makes the picture complete.

Saturday, 23 July 2011

The dazzling light

The dazzling light we perceive crashes in from all directions, gleaming with meaninglessness.

It is we who create the meaning - we are the creators. The light is merely given and sets off the process.

Cells invented photosynthesis. They're clever like that!

We invented log-fires and gunpowder and i-books.

From the shining threads of majesty we weave sculptures of gods to which we bow.

From the jumble of sounds we make discrete letters and then assemble them, through various alphabets, into complex works of literature.

And flowers just smile for a while before fading back into the earth.

The blessings of life are transient and all the more so for that.

The dazzling light might wink at us if it could and it does from our perspective, but my feeling is this light has no on-off switch; only we do.

Sunday, 10 July 2011


The ability to split hairs and discern which hairs are worth splitting requires a high degree of acumen and an astute mind to tear the wheat of wisdom from the chaff of mediocrity.

It is just a heart-beat's distance to move from useful hairsplitting to destructive fault-finding.

The pedant's task is weighed down by the responsibility of precision yet paradoxically rewarded by the levity of clarity.

There are three levels:
1 - the realm of fine-tuning - subtle phenomena - poetry of precision
2 - the realm of practical achievement - manifestation of desire - walking the path
3 - the realm of slovenly mass - cesspit of energy - the soil of raw material

Each dimension is important and different people specialise at working at different levels. In the example of pottery, we need to dig the clay, to shape the design, then sculpt the detail. In the example of poetry, we need to take the words, write the story, then tweak the work to increase its beauty.

Too much emphasis in one realm may lead to an unhealthy disposition. Though some may be specialised in hair-splitting, they need to be restrained from spending too long tuning the car, otherwise it will never be ready to drive - and that is its purpose, after all.

Tuesday, 5 July 2011

No second, only now

There is not a
There is
There is not
There is not a
There is
There is not a
There is not
There is not a second
There is not a second
There is not
There is
There is not a second
not a second
not a second
There is not a second to
There is
There is not a second
There is not
There is not a second to waste

Tempting fate

I saw Fate sitting there in a darkened corner, so I sidled up to her and offered her a sweetie.

'No, thank you.' She said primly.

'How about a pair of earrings?

'I'm good for earrings.' She replied briskly.

'A bottle of perfume? It's really rather good.'

'I don't wear perfume.'

'Well, then, a £40 voucher for Selfridges.'

'You're going to have to do better than that.'

'How about a Gucci handbag?'

'Oh, frightfully garish.'

'An electric bicycle?'


'A BMW convertible?'


'A semi-detached house in Brighton?'

'Do me a favour.'

'A penthouse suite in Canary Wharf?'


'Alright then. A 50% profit share in my property development business?'


'Hmmm...' I said, feeling incredibly frustrated and running out of options. 'OK. How about power and dominion over all the lands of the world?'

Fate awoke abruptly from her nonchalant aloofness and stared directly at me.

'You really want me, don't you. All these offers, just so I will go your way. Think about it, really. I am the providential force of the universe - the unseen pattern which links all events. The magic of synchronicity and the teleological purpose bubbling at the depths of the soul of all humanity. No lures of the ego are going to snare me aside from my resolution. I may curve to weave in wayward threads and jive to a tune too complicated (and yet paradoxically simple in its symphony) for most to fathom, but I am not for sale. Not now, not ever.'

I felt crushed. All the power and wealth I had been accumulating for years was being made worthless by the formidable integrity of this supernatural agency. Crumbling in her presence I surrendered my will and life to the ways and whims of Fate herself.

And together we danced gloriously into the night and beyond.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Dancing with your eyes shut

Dancing with your eyes shut.

For a few moments there is only the dance.

The space might be without boundaries for all I know.

Only the music and me.

Sunday, 26 June 2011

All things in moderation

All things in moderation - the folk wisdom says.

Except Morris dancing, crack cocaine and incest.

A moderate amount of murder, slavery and exploitation of animals is clearly OK by the standards of the UK, 2011.

Parliament are currently drawing up legislation to ban Morris-dancing completely and send it underground, now it is socially taboo and frowned upon by polite society. But there is a counter-revolution being launched to keep the fertility rites on the streets.

There are campaigners arguing for selective cases of incest to be allowed - after all, if a brother and sister fancy each other and there is mutual consent, where's the harm? Particularly if they use protection.

And crack cocaine is starting to feature on Gordon Ramsay's new menu, sprinkled on a refreshing mid-meal sorbet, to liven up his diners.

A voice from the sideline cries: if moderation is the rule, then we must be moderate about moderation. Therefore the exception is allowed by the rule! Shining a light on all areas of life, in a universal and particularising way.

The Ruler, standing dead-straight and 30 cm high, cracks, shatters and dissipates. No - He/She/It bends, curves, accommodates. The Ruler dances and plays itself groovy tunes on the infinite scale of measurement. 

Saturday, 25 June 2011

Thoughts have wings

Thought have wings that carry words across oceans to deliver your messages in the minds of those you know.

Blazing trails of thought-vibration through the ether - imprints of sentiments born intentionally or unintentionally.

If all the thoughts of your life were gathered up into a single vision - what would it look like? All your hopes, dreams, intentions, praise, hurt, anger, confusion, suffering, love.

Is the vision fixed?

What is stronger? Which features endure?

Can you see the redemptive qualities in even the darkest of creations?

The light is rarely a dazzling sun but more often like a silver lining.

Flecks of enlightening energy in a conglomeration of everyday vicissitudes.

Even those thoughts you sent full of ugly malice and darkness were not unintimate with the light.

There is an alchemy of emotion - a process of salvation starting in depths of your despair.

Do not expect things to make sense in a black and white, linear way.

Thank the heavens for the subtlety of psychic rhythms and transformations.

Thoughts have wings. Some fly higher than others. And the others - have a poststamp of love, whatever the contents.

Thursday, 23 June 2011

Low, high and something in between

Red's depths swirl like a subterranean soup - the primal roses hidden behind the surface of things to sweep us off our feet and become horizontal. Sizzling, erupting, insinuating, blushing - this colour does not make a subtle entrance but can makes its presence visible in various ways.

A clear cool panoramic sky is a salve to still the energies of the mind - peace of still waters and falling away of colour - what we all need as a break from time to time - transcending the endless chiming and rhyming of kaleidoscopic play.

Something divine flowers in my heart - shifting and holding all wayward and aloof volitions with a kind, gentle blossoming which can be with all things.

Sunday, 12 June 2011

Low and high (a response to an exhibition by Emily Paige Short in Folkestone

A poet's task is to take the vocabulary of language, the words of literature and consecrate them.

Tease apart their everyday usage and exalt the words into a more subtle realm.

Do not think that poets are merely creative.

We destroy language.

Stretch words to the edge of their possibilities - like bubbles blown from a soapy mix - then give them an extra push in the listener's mind, so they explode into a sodden infinity.

In times long past, when the earth was imagined flat, the heavens were deemed high and the soil beneath our feet low. The stars were fixed in their aloof countenance and so was the order on earth, each to his own caste and role in life. The King was high - the peasant low.

Now, after a series of attempts to bury the breakthrough, we live in a post-Copernican world. The heavens are all around and in motion. Notion such as up, down, left and right make little sense in the paradigm we inhabit. We still have our partly dethroned Kings & Queens, in this strange brew we call democracy, but the next in line is an organic farmer.

Even further back, we constructed religions dedicated to the sky, projecting our hopes and fears into ethereal realms. Somewhere we forgot our bones and teeth, feet and bellies. This mortal coil is not a trap to be unleashed from but an anchor to be appreciated. A welcome limitation, grounding us in a multidimensional space to explore - caves, mountains, rivers, volcanoes, stars and sky.

We must honour all dimensions - seeing an integrated vision of life.

Whether you go low or high, however you define those terms, remember they are just possibilities and trajectories in an infinite contextual field.

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

Everything is everything

Eagles fly down to meet the upward thrust of dolphins, rising out of the ocean's froth.

Archers send flaming arrows right round the curve of the globe, ducking as they come from behind and let them spiral eternally - leaving the question, when where they shot? Who was the archer? Forever poised, tautening his bow.

The darkness is married to light. Everything speaks. Magic is a germ within the body of science, pushing it forward to its rebirth in a second alchemical renaissance.

Numbers ricochet around the skies of infinity - refusing to recognise one another as superiors or inferiors, alive with their own particularity and laughing at the cumulative succession of ones that is all they are.

Friday, 3 June 2011

Scattered light

Like a smashed glass strewn out across the laquered nightfloor, stars shine their scattered light through time and space.

She does not paint within the lines and crosses the room, spirit elevated by the arch of her shoes, both seeing and oblivious to the established order. Crushing the glass under her foot, she makes her way to the bar. Her dress is patterned by impressions from her travels and is pressed firmly by her confident flesh.

She takes a bottle without hesitation - immediately knowing the one amidst many for her and fills a new glass half-full with liquor.

Her mind like a hive of bees, or scattered light held in communion yet never coalescing. The beauty of the dance is between the distance and the intimacy. Hints of attraction and hints of self-containment. A chemical mystery chimes with fresh reactions, novel equations.

Time calls with its incessant distractions yet she can't be stirred from her own presence, eternity flowing through the sequence of life. A series of steps, beyond notions of grace and free-will, just perpetual becoming, in love with the process.

A voice calls from the shadows. Familiar yet not quite hitting a note of recognition for her. She turns with an open anticipation and meets his gaze.

Their souls have journeyed, like scattered light, through multiple forms, and this time, this meeting, may have been the most recent in a catalogue of many. How would they ever know? What is difference anyway? And what is repetition?

Moments in love. Conversations across boundaries. Exchanges of information for pure delight.

Now - they meet on a floor of broken glass, just whispers and murmurs. Gentle touches and stolen kisses.

Scattered light sometimes exceeds its distributed waywardness and rejoices in collaborations of movement. Meetings of uniqueness. Words of reconciliation.

Reveling in the beauty of random arrangements, scattered light flickers gleefully amidst the shadows.

Friday, 20 May 2011


Trees know both ways. Roots down in the bowels of the earth - hell's fiery energies which feed the soil - rhizomatic connections in the underworld AND branches reaching out into the sky's open blue - feeding on sunlight and waiting for the cloud's pregnancy to yield nourishing tears.

Trees know both ways. Stillness and movement. Stability and flexibility. Wholeness and multiplicity.

Trees know both ways. Older, much older than us - as inhabitants of the earth and in their life-spans.

Trees know both ways. Know all ways. A spherical planet with trees as spikes protruding from all angles of the lattice of nature. Each tree pointing out to a different stellar system, extending infinitely.

Trees see nothing. Say nothing. Hear nothing. Taste nothing. Smell nothing. Yet they are in constant communication with all other nodes in the network of life.

Tell me you haven't wondered and I'll speak of mysteries - similitudes between humanity and trees. Our relations stand in silent witness - their swaying making the wind blow. Our breath. Their life. Bound. Together.

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Many ways to say no

There is the slammed door.

The lowering of eyes.

The cruel laugh.

The sideways glance.

The silent treatment.

The disapproving look.

The raised hand.

The shaking head.

The snatch back.

The desperate scream.

The angry chant.

The roadblock.

The suicide note.

The gentle refusal.

The lack of interest.

The day in bed.

The hunger strike.

The sign of prohibition.

The blank shrug.

The refused gift.

The frigid crossing of arms.

The empty apology.

The absence.

The lack of reply.

The empty seat.

The discarded ring.

The ripping up of the contract.

The deserted house.

The life unlived.

NO ricochets through the universe - passed on through a million actions and non-actions.

A team of negative spirits play psychological tennis with a team of positive spirits.

Everyman's soul lies in the balance.

No is part of Heaven.

The cards of YES and NO are held close to our chest and the destiny of our heart depends on how we play them.

Fractions of faith

Faith is a cake, served in small slices, sometimes just crumbs, that give a sense of a meal to come, a future fulfillment.

Lovers walk through the apocalypse, eyes awakened to trees ablaze and visions flashing from utopia to dystopia, holding their sanity through fractions of faith.

Monday, 16 May 2011

Rainbow down my throat

I've got a rainbow stuck down my throat.

If I swallow it will dissolve into the cells of my body and I'll become luminous/numinous - rainbow alive forever.

If I cough it up, the rainbow will retreat to the parallel dimension from which I drew it.

I can hardly speak and everyone knows.

No matter what I think, all the colours come as one piece, and there is only the blend - only the sequence without any possibility of severence. I must take it as whole.

How to steal the world

Become a stalker of beauty. Tread stealthily amidst the flowers and drink from the well of the senses. Nothing is lost.

Be aware of security cameras. They're watching your every move - from the walls and from on high - but treat life as a movie set and play your part well. Lift the shop to a new level of perception.

There are guards everywhere but just act natural and imagine they do not exist.

Seize every opportunity that crosses your path. Never ask 'is this for me?' or 'is it too good to be true?'. There is no answer save the one you create for yourself.

Take small slivers so you can digest over time rather than massive chunks. The world is not going to go away. Enjoy each fleeting moment and draw the ephemeral beauty in impossible ways in your mind.

We have had the cloak of Maya thrown over us - so whilst we travel in illusion, it seems reasonable to help ourselves to a few bonuses on the way.

Magpies search for gleaming shards of experience to fly back to their nests.

What you take defines you so choose carefully - nothing is fixed but there is no return policy on stolen goods!

You will never steal the world but in trying you can have fun.

Ultimately you will have to surrender but in the meantime, become a shoplifter and make your fingers light.

Wednesday, 11 May 2011


Time whispers 'not yet, not yet'.

And then 'too late, too late'.

Many of the voices are those of Time who knows only sequence and manipulates our emotions through concepts of before and after.

Travellers exchange stories of times past and futures dreamt of.

All to some degree tales of the imagination, for who can be sure, apart from where we are now, and even that is a mystery. Our coordinates add up to only so much. These familiars, if I am really honest, are really strangers, as I am myself. That is the quality of the mysterious - that it is forever unknown. Forever elusive from grasp, yet we can dwell in its sometimes pleasing contours with some ease if we relax.

Time rotates, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always at the same rate.

Time listens to our ruminations on the eternal and chides us. 'There is only a limited time in this mortal frame. Act now, otherwise your frame will never transcend to the hopes of your theories but dissipate back into the soup of oblivion.'

Time is an innocent child and a grim reaper. A journeyman and a watch-maker. The author of surprise in the familiar turn of the seasons. Time cuts both ways. Majestic, aspirational, regretful, cheating. She builds up and strips. All ephemeral but what beauty in transience.

Time is perceived as a series of moments - some held to have more poignancy, relevance, meaning, opportunity, clarity, beauty and pregnancy than others. Bardos are gateways in time to greater consciousness - doors to new experience - openings to liberation.

Time can be conceived as an arrow flying forward (or so it seems) yet who can say what really is forward and what is back? Time is also a circle - the ring of eternity in which all happens.

The substance of Time is a cloth whose fabric wants to be desired - wants to be possessed. Yet really, it is only our attitude that counts.

The pieces of Time play on the board of matter - and beyond - beyond the movement of the game there is only that which exceeds words - so a poem like this must learn to be silent on such matters.

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Oversoul of music

Immense hovering vibrating oversoul holds its own and yet divides into an infinity of vibrational souls which make their imprints on the wax of matter. Music to play - music to dance. Every sound is informed by the One, yet holds its own particularity, distinct from the source, allowing a plurality of styles to strut their stuff in the world.

Matter rotates, planets spinning on the turntable of the cosmos - the needle of our attention focuses on the grooves of life and music plays. Every person who comes into my life is a different record. Every pattern I play out is a song I have chosen to sing. The song can change. The record is not stuck. I have a record box of possibilities and a world full of record stores.


Each to his eachness - existence multiplied to distinct particularity - drawn apart as much as together.

Such a suchness exhibited - a record to be played, a card to be held, a flower of be smelt, a book to be read.

Each in eachness - their combination combined. From the harvest of experience we arrange the threads of the lines we want to pursue in a mix of eachs. Each eachness contrasts the others to form a plurality.

My plate of life is filled with an ever-changing combination of fruit - sometimes blended, sometimes sitting distinct.

Every meeting a unique experience - touching me differently and drawing forth new resources from my soul's soulness.

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Strip-tease of the psyche

They enact a strip-tease of layers of personality,
owning up to the masks that are worn,
until their naked selves are communicated.

In the Garden of Eden, there were no accumulations of cultural debris -
learnt behavior to hide the vulnerability and beauty of being.

We have locked away our softness - where all our potency bubbles up from.

Only those who know the preciousness of life are willing to take up arms to protect it.

The peacefulness of reconciliation comes at the price of a bonfire of illusions.

Naked we come into the world and if we are lucky and brave, we can die in the midst or our life, to be reborn, back to our true nature.

Wednesday, 13 April 2011


Apocalyse's mystic dance throws off the veils to announce...a new order of things.

Information is revealed - inner/outer - the seals are opening and the beatific vision emerges.

At the low-point of the imagination's unfolding, metal tanks and planes fire hatred through the air and the earth's surface is charred. The involutive forces of industry play their metal symphony across the board of life.

Coverings are stripped back so hidden angels and hoarding demons come to view.

Plates of image are littered through the world, bearers of possibility line the galleries and the assorted faces of people each tell their story, worn into the lines of their skin.

Now the divine fire of consciousness descends and lights up the souls of humanity - interpretation is the dividing rod that separates us through the contents of our psyches.

Sunday, 3 April 2011


Being contains doing and doing contains trying and trying contains dreaming and dreaming contains yearning and yearning contains despairing and despairing contains non-being.

Helping projects need onto others but sustains itself in that projection.

Sometimes helping steps up into doing.

Sometimes dreaming steps up into manifesting.

Sometimes actuality disintegrates into potential.

Sometimes potential evolves. Sometimes potential is carried latently, with occasional flourishes of manifestation.

Dream shouts loud in some saying 'I am alive. I have broken through. I have claimed my space in this shared story. The script has been altered by the immensity of a new possibility, taking it to a more satisfying level.'

Dream spirals around between people, both collective and personal. Everyone grabs a few threads of its fabric and weave their own lives into its pattern.

Dream knows reality and wants more. Reality knows dream and wonders if it is possible.

Only the courageous make a marriage between the two. You can smell them a mile off.

Waves of circumstance

Einstein relaxes on the beach, chatting with Marilyn Monroe.

The icons of their faces lit by the radiance of the sun.

Einstein pulls a bunch of flowers out of his hat and offers them to Marilyn.

She accepts, smiling and faintly blushing.

He rides the waves of circumstance and they retire to his beach hut - where science and film history meet and make music to fill the limitless sky.

New equations are dreamt up that night but Einstein lets them flit in and out of his consciousness - without trying to capture them on paper. Solving the mysteries of the universe play second fiddle to what he is enjoying at hand.

Sunday, 27 March 2011

A testament to seeing with new eyes

The Kingdom of Heaven is a flock of birds spiraling over the market place.

Blessed be the peacemakers - those who synthesise warring opposites, for they shall be whole.

Peace is not the promise but a sword of discrimination to cut away falsehood and corruption.

Love your partner, your friend, your family, your neighbour, your compatriot, your alien and your enemy - each in a way appropriate to them.

What you do not bring forth, in creative acts and bold projects and fruitful relationships and manifested dreams and travelled journeys, will destroy you.

Turn the other cheek, not out of meekness, but out of a strength that is higher than brute force and will shame the aggressor.

Do not worry - it never added a dime to the quality of your consciousness but think clearly and with good reasoning.

Don't be concerned about what to eat or wear but travel a way and meet your requirements along the road. Sometimes they will be given, sometimes you will purchase or request. But don't worry, whatever you do.

Where your heart is, there you will find great treasures, in balancing your brain with your sexuality and opening into a relational space.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

The paradoxical point/pointlessness

There is an Axis Mundi which both transcends time and space and simultaneously links occasions in sacred communion.

Witness: the American Indians dancing round the totem pole, in honour of their Divinity and its many aspects.

Witness: the awakening of the Buddha, sat under the Bodhi tree, having passed through experimental extremes and now a seamless Enlightenment coalesces.

Witness: the death of Christ on the cross, hands nailed to the two horizontal poles, pointing to sinners (one destined for heaven; the others' fate hanging in the balance).

Witness: the pagan peasants, dancing round the Maypole in an English village, joyously celebrating the rising of the sap.

Witness: The collapse of duality as the Twin Towers fall in New York, after being impacted by planes and the puncturing of the Pentagon.

Witness: The birth of a child, the primal resolution of two beings met in sexual union.

Witness: The sunflower reaching boldly as a mirror for the sun's image.

The sequence of events fan out through the weaves of history - speaking through screens of words to our sense of the overwhelmingly ineffable.

Every moment is alive with possibility - this many-sided fleshy dream groans with yearning and ecstasy and agony.

The laughter of friends ricochets round the same space as the vibrations from bombs which fall across the water.

Nations rise to meet the fulfillment of their promise.

And shadows fall to test the light.

All illusion will pass, burnt by the fires of reality until only the source remains.

Then we shall know the glorious pointlessness of the Divine.

Tuesday, 22 March 2011


A series of doors spiral in a procession before and around me.

Each gives off faint promises but there is no certainty about where they lead.

The routes overlap and interconnect - yet each door has its own particular flavour.

Tantalising - these multiple futures call our names.

'Come here' 'Join us' 'Walk this way'

The carpenter sets to work and constructs his own door.

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

The queen of rhythm

She moved from bank to bank - switching her currency to disguise her movements.

Taut, so taut she quivered.

The cheques bounced back and forth.

Her innocence, radical innocence saw her through.

The police tried to trace her steps but they vanished behind her.

Disappearing into the kingdom of dance.....the queen of rhythm slips away.

Monday, 14 March 2011


10 billion years ago, she wished upon a star. She was that star. Wishing her way through cosmic evolution.

Her sisters. Her multitude. Her family of friends. All star-travellers.

We are their dream-fulfillment. We are the manifestation of starlight in the colours of the earth. Our dance is an on-going realisation of their intimations of immense possibility.

Now she is human. Standing on the curve of the planet looking up at her ancient origins and sending wishes back.

What happens when wishes meet wishes traveling in opposite directions? Back to origins and forwards to now.

The meeting happens in a realm transcending time and space, where dream images bustle and converse, eager to multiply into new arrangements and combinations.

She arches her body back to swallow up the damp darkness of the sky, liquid black broken by fissures of radiance.

Her mind jump starts into a new gear and accelerates out in multiple ways, encompassing vast comprehensions as it unfolds.

'I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish for everything to be exactly as it is.' The prayer has been consummated by the priest of the present and the prize needs no unwrapping, laid out, as it is, in all its wild splendour.

Saturday, 12 March 2011


Some meetings are brief. Some last a life-time.

Some that last a life-time should have been brief.

And others that were brief should have lasted a life-time.

That's what I hear them say but time is such a poor measure. As if longevity has anything of value to say.

The 'shoulds' we impose are only different possibilities of how the picture might have been painted. Only we know why we chose this particular configuration. Experience is everything and consequences merciless but never fixed.

It all depends and the love letters we send in thoughts to our host of associates, companions, the whole cast of walk-on parts, stacked up in memory, say more than outward appearances.

Every plan leads to new plans and every meeting is an event in itself, to be savoured; one of many tripping over one another in a procession of entanglements. Unrepeatable chemical reactions, an incomprehensible web alight with blazing possibility, stories unfolding and interweaving in all directions.

Thursday, 10 March 2011


Kingfishers are already on fire.

Forever flying incarnations of divinity.

Colour splashed and reflected in the river.

Rude oranges that speak the sun in manageable form.

Kingfishers light paths across the sky

that make painters and poets gasp and despair.

Kingfishers are already on fire.

Monday, 7 March 2011

Dangerous hints

She makes dangerous hints,
stepping just a little over the line,
flaunting her secret life,
with letters that can be burnt if necessary.

The coals of her passion only smoulder
in the depths of her eyes,
and she keeps her gaze low,
so I'm left guessing.

In the time between when I saw her last
and her promised return,
I linger in a state of anticipation.
Left with just dangerous hints.
A trail of sparks leading
to what may be an explosive consummation.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Snake of reality

One continuous stream of information, circling and spiraling, in a never-ending circuit of energy, dancing, weaving and cascading - lives, forms, expressions flashing on and off - mutating masks of the snake of reality....

It will take

It will

It will take

take take take

TAKE every ounce of your energy.

It will take

It will take


you have got.

Settle for nothing less.

Monday, 21 February 2011

A new world

Innovate to be inheritors of a new world. Don't get caught up in the shadows but encourage those pecking to break open their shells. The future is about networks of free association. We're already there in many ways, but the hangover of the past is still clinging to some of us. Step into the verdant light of the garden - we never truly left except in thought.

All the political factions represent different gods - blend all the values together and rise above them. Stay at the level of the gods and you'll never stop squabbling.

The summit of consciousness is an indivisible unity, beyond the many-coloured splendour of the imagination. At the depths of consciousness is conflict and despair. Our political system is based on splintered factions fighting over very relative systems of governance, in the shadow of a financial elite who spin the notion of money out of thin air, fool most people, and position themselves as the winners of their game. What to do? Live lightly, bake bread, make music, tell jokes, make love and spread it as far as it will go. Transcend notions of law and property and get as high as you can.

All dimensions

The stones sat, unattended in the jewelery box, hidden from the hungry eyes of glamour, glittering with lust for material form.

She walked away and laid on the verdant cover of the earth, hearing its beat, as a tribe of cows fed themselves from its gratuitous offerings.

The air was alive with thoughts and ideas and as she arose, one implanted itself in her right brain. A vision unfolded of a realm of light and peace, which she knew she could manifest amongst her community.

She offered thanks to the highest heaven - the source of wonder and all that is, was and ever will be.

Now she strode forth, to sell the stones in the jewelery box and spread the wealth across the land.

The Big Society

The big society - a nation where obesity is celebrated and there is no shyness about size.

The dig society - a nation where we turn to our allotments and gardens and create an Eden in these fair isles.

The wig society - a nation where the recession of hairlines and baldness is not tolerated and we address the serious nature of these changes with a wide selection of hairpieces to adorn our heads.

The fig society - a nation where the fruit, both in its normal and dried form, is made a centre-piece of our gastronomic lives and reclaimed from its rather marginal status.

The cig society - a nation where cigarettes, cigars and roll-ups are smoked with a sense of reverence and acknowledgment that in the process we are in a state of divine communion with the vegetable realm.

The pig society - a nation which celebrates the humble sow in all its glorious manifestations - bacon, ham, spam, parma, serrano, gammon.

The twig society - a nation which does not leave behind the twigs amongst us, but cherishes those smaller and weaker than the rest, who may still be bearers of vital gifts.

The jig society - a nation which knows that dance is the best metaphor for life and is not afraid to show its stuff on the disco floor.

The nig society - a nation where niggles and wavering is given a sacred space in our collective psyche - a recognition that we are not always 100% sure of things and sometimes a bit of time spent dilly-dallying is healthy and useful.

The gig society - a nation where the clubbers and ravers get down from their podiums, put away their turn-tables and return to the old-fashioned concept of the live concert.

So let's press on with the re-invention of this tired and battered society, under the direction of our glorious leader, to give birth to a New Jerusalem in these green and pleasant lands. Never give up your mental fight!

Friday, 18 February 2011

Apple mountain

She sat on a mountain of apple cores - a life-time's accumulated waste supported her existence.

'Don't look down.' Cried the voices from above.

'Look down.' Cried the voices from below.

She'd spent her life climbing so she decided it was time for a change.

She started to arrange the cores into a more leveled pile, which would accomodate more people on its flattened top.

Someone asked why the apple cores hadn't become rotten.

'It's because I believe in them and breathe into them.' She smiled.

She was happy now she had company, having resculpted the landscape.

Sunday, 13 February 2011

What is the word?

What is The Word?

The amalgamation of all the laws of the universe - ranging along the spectrum from physical to divine.

The Logos - the ultimate pattern which includes all patterns.

The second person of the Trinity.



Love and wisdom combined.

Wordlessness. Ineffable. Beyond definition - all definitions combined into a meta-definition.




Oneness. Spiritual oneness. God, the great hippy!

The punchline to end all punchlines.






The game

There are many games.

He plays 'The Game' but it is just one of many.

The player knows the lines to win, the timing to achieve his goal and how to spend his winnings.

Children are indoctrinated from birth into a particular cultural game. The game of life/Monopoly/being the best/the oppression of women/how to ignore 99% of humanity/my cultural trappings are better than yours/and so on.

The contours of the game you play become the contours of your soul and it is hard to step out. It is hard to see the wider context in which your game functions.

It is hard to see the rules are human constructions and there is a higher order.

Every stage demonises the one above. Until that time that they become disillusioned with where they are at and start to glimpse the possibility of moving on.

The man of sorrows played to lose.

This confuses those souls who know only the triumph of temporal victory.

The players raise the stakes.

Those who have mastered the game, should make space, rather than continue to cream off the winnings from souls in education.

There is always a higher game.

Until you get swallowed by the meta-gamemaster, who you were all along.

Then every player becomes you, in a cosmic swirl of winner and loser, until you are lost in the meaningless of your definitions, and the pieces are swept off the board of fixed positions, to dance on the ground of being.

Reality is up for grabs.

Those who awaken know it.

What you create, what you manifest with that knowledge, defines your destiny.

Choose your game carefully.

And play well.

Saturday, 12 February 2011

Generous error

She spent her days in generous error, enjoying the latitude of grace
and luxuriating in the elongated shade that the tree's form cast.

Every indulgence was lapped up with a forgiving sweetness
and the rest was forgotten with a sense of cleansing.

The scented soaps of her soul, the warm bath waters of life in which she lulled,
and the perfumed candles which glowed hungry flames in the flattering darkness of the bathroom - all this added up to contribute to the broad context in which she erred.

Thursday, 27 January 2011

The cloth has been cut

The cloth has been cut.

The silk has been spun.

The clay has been thrown.

The mould has been set.

The foundations have been established.

The boundaries have been drawn.

The table has been laid.

The picture has been framed.

The make-up has been applied.

The measure has been made.

The ingredients have been mixed.

The glass has been poured.

The book has been written.

The seeds have been planted.

Now is the time to wear, to eat, to inhabit, to admire, to drink, to read, to watch the growth.

We are all parents giving birth to realities, both shared and uniquely experienced.

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

On target

He's so on target, he's broken through, beyond the bull's eyes, through the fabric, into another dimension.

What is reality?

'What is reality?' She asked.

'Is it the diamond ring in the window?

Is it the story culture has told me?

Is it the Sun's version or the Guardian's version?

Tell me please.

Is reality the smile of the baby whose eyes shine with primal being?

Is it the litter that lines this neighbourhood?

Is it what I think it is or what others say?

Is it available to view or are we only allowed small portions, filtered through particular lens?'

The poet says, man cannot bear much reality - so what do we make do with instead?

'Is it an awful vision which would depress, or is it the glory we could not handle?

Is it something beyond the changes - some pattern or principle which can be abstracted and worshipped?

Is it my foetal clutch of self in deep despair - nadir of existence - or a reaching out to faintly heard chimes of utopia?

If those chimes rang too loud, would I want them banned?'

I've heard it said that heaven is only available for those who can take it.

Sometimes we retreat into lesser spaces - go in the opposite direction from our soul's desire. Inhabit dismal shadows. Concern ourselves with realities of torture and poverty. The choice to care, in realms fallen from heaven's divinely despotic bliss.

'What is reality?' She asks.

'What is your reality?' I reply. 'Don't look to others to define your senses. That is the privilege of human existence. Do what you will. Perception is an uncaged bird, at liberty in a sea of information. Live on the razor's edge of mundanity and magic.'

'What is reality?'

'You are. We are. Everything is.

Reality is a conversation and up for grabs. Where we take it is our choice.'

Sunday, 23 January 2011

Bridge to forever

Crossing the bridge to forever,
the way filters out what won't belong.

Seasons have a reason, to see the ever-changing scenery of eternity's spin.

Heaven's wonder is distributed in every direction,
every location, every face holds potential gifts (if only to define yourself against).

The music tells me stories, unlike the ones that rule the world.

You see, the ingredients are all good, all given,
it's in the mix that we can make a mess.

That gun's been spun from divine material,
just like the spoon and hammer and flute.

We try to guess the philosophy of the clouds
and work out what flowers would say if they could speak.

We attribute motive to the song of the bird,
trying to work out what cares, the carefree have.

The sun doesn't have a job, yet sustains ten thousand things.

The wind never planned out its life
and seems to go round in circles, touching all its passes.

The singers sing because they love to.

The river flows because that's all it knows.

The ocean doesn't mind how the streams arrived
or what waves get up to on the shoreline,
since eventually they will return.

Everything works in concert, with no purpose,
save a sweet, ever-changing harmony of life.

People stress themselves with what to do,
when doing is kind of besides the point.

What matters is the quality of being.

The actions that flow out from that lack any meaning,
save as an expression of inner feeling.

What is disharmonious, is disconnected.

What is awkward, has not found its roots.

What is anxious, is far from home.

What is troubled, is just ripples on the surface of a lake of goodness.

Stop throwing stones, into a soup that is alright, just as it is.

Let it be.

What you are seeing is your interpretation.

You are perceiving through the lens of belief.

See the changes, in the context of the sky.

Let the beauty of particularities speak to your heart.

Speak words like a happy puppy barks.

Look at life with soft eyes.

No catastrophe so far

She moves across the room,
each stride taken steadily with effortless yet poised grace.

Her eyes wide, dilated, wordless:
the main medium of communication.

A lithe, lean package.

Aware, alert, calm.

No overt smile, yet an appreciative warmness,
that could turn to vicious attack if approached incorrectly.

Without conversation she proceeds into intimacy or savagery in a matter of moments.

A creature of instinct - self-contained but sometimes interested.

No catastrophe so far on the roads.

Monday, 17 January 2011

Waving to the drowning

I saw that he was drowning, so I waved back.

Try swimming, my friend, I said.

It's no use flailing your arms about.

I'm now on solid ground and know the ocean is just an illusion.

So it would be silly for me to jump back in.

I know you can swim. I've seen you swim before.


Go on.

Towards me.

I know it seems a long way but that's all an illusion.

You could be here in a flash if you set your mind to it.

Drowning is a choice. Despair is an attitude. Depression is a lifestyle.

You can go that way if you want...but I bet you are curious to know what life is like on the shore.

Let that curiosity drive you and don't get too distracted by sea-creatures.

I know they're pretty and interesting but you'll just tire yourself out.

Go on, I dare you. Make the journey. Start now.

Thursday, 13 January 2011

Metal food

She eats metal


she wants to become strong.

Steel sandwiches,

though not great for the teeth

or stomach,

promise to give her that extra zeal

in her life.

Nuts and bolts,

a simple dish to start with,

before she moves onto hardier fare,

like girders and cables.

A friend suggests assertiveness training

but she shrugs this off as faddish.

Her ambition is to become a robot,

shedding all human weaknesses and vulnerabilities,

so she can operate with mechanical precision

without error.


She slid down the curvaceous mountain,

trailing her hand in the snow,

until the toboggan came to rest

at the foothills.

Looking up,

she traced the steady trail

where the sled has passed,

cutting a line down the slope.

There is darkness in the ultra-white

of the snow, hidden between sparkles of light.

High up in the sky, the sun arches

its trajectory like a slow yawn,

spreading out its expression over the whole face.

Together the sun and sparkles shine

and questions happy to remain questions

dance between them.

A fistful of razors

He flicked a fist full of razors up into the air,

and let them slice the sounds rebounded from the speakers between all four walls.

Not one of those razors fell to the ground,

but danced, like fire-flies,

flickering reflected light back in various directions.

The will of the dancers, who had become the dance,

kept the razors suspended.

Imagination knows many colours

and razors exist only to make difference explicit.

The future

The future is cars (flying) and waters (rising).

The future is revolution and evolution and war and peace and innovation and repetition.

The future is steps forward.

The future is a stranger.

I've reached the future many times before. The vision opens up beyond limitation.

The vision is sight. The sight is the future. The future of vision.

The future is now, sometimes, and in the past, occasionally, and to come, let's hope, in abundance.

The future is changing and what we call the future evolves.

The future is a game of the imagination.

Name your future. How much are you willing to bet on it?

The future belongs to no man.

The future is ascension. And connection.

The future is a moving target. To chase.

The future is destiny (to be pursued like it's playing hard to get).

The future is ours and no-one knows what will happen.....precisely.

The future is only possibilities.

There are many futures.

A good prophet does not come to see his warnings come true.

A good prophet is laughed at and people eventually make his visions their own, giving them their distinct flavour.

The future comes in many flavours.

The future is upheaval.

The future is an answer which will breed new questions.

The future is at the other end of the line. Don't hang up.

The future is tomorrow and then the next tomorrow and the next.

The future is never here.

The future is ahead.

The future is unfolding.

The future is a bowling ball being thrown into empty space, an arrow flying through the air.

The future is an abstraction - there is only movement and only here & now.

The future is a recasting of the past.

The future is flexible.

The future is forth.

The future is a film, flickering between images of heaven and hell.

The future is a vase of hope dashed on the rocks of reality.

The future never stops.

The future is different.

The future is a disappointment.

The future is unexpected.

The future is together.

The future is more and less.

The future is not obedient.

The future is unknown.

The future is a series of occasions; events tripping over themselves to see what's next.

The future is next.

The future sprouts out in myriad directions.

The future is multiple.

The future is multiplied.

Futures do not always materialise.

Futures imagined are not always realised.

The future always recedes.

The future spins in a figure of eight, laid out horizontally, seductively.

The future is a present, not yet opened.

The future is light unseen.

The future is not fashionable....yet.

The future is in my head.

The future is in books.

The future is a choice.

The future is to come.

The future is built on fear and anticipation, postponement, planning and surprise.

The future is a garden not yet sprouted.

The future depends.

The future is an open page, unwritten and waiting to be etched.

The future is a dance.

The future is calling your name. Again and again.

The future wants you.

The future is created.

The tragedy of the partisan

Very few have the desire and will to be a philosopher and so to love wisdom in all its various manifestations.

Instead they are stopped short by partisan travellers on the way and sell their souls to limited views.

The conservative holds back from life and strengthens his own position.

The liberal tries to please all parties.

The socialist wants to make things fair.

The anarchist tries to dissolve hierarchical structure.

The scientist wants everything to be empirically testable.

The fascist wants all things under his control.

The New-Ager wants everything to be alternative.

The tragedy of the partisan is they get caught at bends in the river's path and miss the wide open glory of the ocean.

Picture Newton and his many followers, still picking up shells on the shore's edge.

And the religious in their various temples and holy places, whilst a bird soars overhead through the brilliant blue sky.

The political argue endlessly about their various schemes.

And the backdrop is silent and endless.

Monday, 10 January 2011

A sliver of silver

She left a sliver of silver inside my soul.
A whisper of willow under my pillow.
And a slice of nice things on the table.

Scattered on the floor,
is each item
of clothing;
left in sequence
as she stripped down
to shower.

Now I leave a trail of petals
from some stolen flowers,
so when she comes out wet,
dripping her way to the bed,
the floral arrangement
will arouse anticipation in her head.

Have you ever had a surprise which was exactly as you hoped it would be?
Been told a secret you already knew?
Had your blindness cured to set your eyes on a world already seen?
Known when your feet touched the grass they'd be moistened by dew?

Prescience is a gift which can't be willed.
The trick is in the current which swirls and twirls everywhere.
Discipline is leaving the gap empty which wants to be filled.
Then the world blossoms into beauty for those who dare.

Now the silver she left is coming through to be seen.
The wisdom is ripe to be cashed in whilst we dwell in between
what was then and to come, half-remembered and feared.
And the momentum starts tumbling through a procession of years.

She turns and she answers questions that weren't yet on my lips.
I drink in the replies whilst taking small sips
of a cocktail of influences that I've chosen myself.
She says, open your mind and let me pour in my wealth.

The silver line

His crystalline eyes,

drunk on the finest wine,

and pupils wide as love.

He came down the stairs

from the floor above,

where he'd been counting his coins.

Money, status and satisfaction for his loins

were his main concerns.

He turned a corner one afternoon

and was amazed to find a hole.

It was black and deep

and its appearance

made him weep

for the state of his soul.

He teetered on the edge

and began to fall

and screaming, grasped a silver line.

Clinging on

it wasn't long

before the line began to ascend.

'What miracle is this?

Why, I'd give a kiss

to whoever saved me from my fate.'

A voice rang out

'Have no doubt,

I can hold your weight.

But I need you

to do a few

favours for me please.


your priorities

and see

that all are fed.

You see

my friend,

the way to the end

must be made with everyone you see.

So take a deep breath

and hold back your death

by sweetly serving me.'

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Eating thoughts

I eat thoughts.

Not my own.

That would be gross.

But I go out for walks and overhearing snatches of conversations,
I flick out an astral tongue and gather up the required informational package.

I am very picky about what I eat.

You are what you eat.
You are what you think.

If you eat the right thoughts you will have a happy and successful life.

There is a thought factory out West.
One of the best that I know
and I go shopping there for special occasions.

They employ a huge machine that generates thoughts
(bet you wondered where they came from)
and you can pick what you fancy
from a daily menu.

Lack inspiration?
I recommend you find some tasty thoughts to munch.

I eat thoughts.

Why don't you?


The drums are here....
beats sounded from jungle depths,
through the passage of history.

Staccato lines punctuating lives,
heart-beats mimicked.

The beats are many
and ordered in rhythms,
insistent and weaving,
changing and challenging.

The call to dance.

The drums are here....
in the depths of the city.
Transplants from a context of heat and wildlife
to concrete and electronic technology.

The past cannot be transcended,
but must be carried forth.

Informing us....
beats bursting from our cells.

The pulse of life will not be denied.

The sun



Existence continues.