Shining threads

Shining threads

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.

Saturday, 1 January 2011

She comes

She comes,
stepping out of the darkness,
like some divine revelation,
gently burning.

She comes,
with open arms,
to a world,
starved of grace.

She comes,
stepping into the light,
like a flower in full blossom,
showering her petals of delight
on all who desire.

Who is she?

She is supple,
she is tender.
She's your double,
she surrenders.

She's whispers your name.
She's knows your game.
She's the stars and the sky,
the earth opened wide.

She dances in your dreams,
the cat who got the cream.
The feline majesty,
the eternal 'Be'.

The Goddess of the night,
the Queen of the light.
Mother embracing you,
the One who is true.

A voice in your ear saying
'have courage, don't fear.'

The kiss

We lean over
and touch one another

Our duality
begins to collapse
and the universe rejoices.

Between the sea and the shore

Between the sea and the shore
the lines of life flicker.

Birds sail on currents
that carry clouds
across the open space.

Traveling companions
emerge, drop away or are renewed.

Between the sea and the shore
youth and old age dance,
sometimes awkwardly,
sometimes with grace.

Memories rearrange
and distil.

Night contains promise
of the unknown.

Familiarity becomes poignant.

Between the sea and the shore
vast swathes of sand
marked by the day's activities
are swallowed by the rising tide.

The light fades
from our view anyway
and dreams enfold us.


There’s a lightness in the air,
the sap is rising.

Something beautiful is brewing.
Surprise whispers from around the corner.

Flowers are the new currency.
The secret is out
shining from our eyes.

Is this the best thing that has ever happened?
Walk softly,
And remember to purr!

Painted horizon

Looking out
into the ever-receding depths
of the painted horizon,
art and reality merge.

Bird song,
that immense symphony of nature
threatens to overwhelm
with its primal chorus.

Colours extend and combine to reveal
a wondrous infinity.

This painted horizon
beckons me on
to create anew.

Shining threads

There's a beautiful primordial self,
both delicate and fierce,
gentle and indestructible.

Called by many names.

More a way or process than a 'thing'.

It cannot be pinned down
yet it is immediately recognisable,
cutting through confusion and darkness.

The sparkle in her eyes.

The silver lining to those clouds.

The icing on your cake.

That extra dimension that's revealed when the sun's rays lift perception.


The luminosity of the moon up there.

That liberating ring of truth.

The touch of his hand.

A wink from your friend.

A smile from that stranger.

The leap to the punchline of your favourite joke.

The space between two sides of a paradox, you fall in and out of, again and again.

A glimpse of beauty.

A revelation of formerly unknown depths in a familiar.

That mysterious coincidence.

The subtle voice you sometimes hear.

Shining threads.


Lightning flashes on the metal of a lone leviathan
lurching across the landscape.

A robin rests having devoured an earthworm
(which was on its way to nowhere in particular).

Drumbeats draw us closer into the pack -
signifiers of the heart's rhythms between.

Clouds dissipate to reveal the stark radiance
of a sun-drenched sky.

Time marches on, occasionally obliterated
by peaks of transcendence.

Standing on top of a rusty vehicle,
the rollicking world pans out before me.

The verdant earth splits wide open
and a shining symbol, towering, sprouts forth.

Mystery wood

My vision is clear,
now I've awakened in mystery wood.

Could and should meet and merge and disappear.
What is left is only a residual fear.
Perhaps I have always known,
a state of clarity where I am not dethroned.

There were moments indeed.
And maybe this moment will not last forever.
(time - such a paradox)
Life being what it is, peaks and troughs.
Confidence ebbing and flowing.

This is the kairos to ride the wave,
skillfully, not trying too hard,
but keeping the momentum, moving forwards.

Watching both the clouds and the sea
(surely the difference is only of degree, I sing aloud).

Is this what I always wanted to be?

I know there are more currents to explore;
having sailed down them before.

Need to weave it all together
and fling open the door
to the unfolding of possibility in mystery wood.

Now I have taken down my hood
the wind blows wildly through my hair.

Freedom is meeting life's loving stare....
and not flinching.

The world in three words

This is the result of a project from a couple of years ago. I asked a variety of people to describe the world in three words - here are the results.

Vast breathing mother

Here but insignificant

Colourful big different

Groovy busy sweet

Colourful relentless engaging

Soft hard emotional

Big round crazy

Make life beautiful

Homeostatic shifting emerging

A great experience

A bit shit

Could be better

Wrong but solved

Beautiful ugly chaotic

My big home

Oh my God!

Colourful inspiring rollercoaster

Great amazing wonderful

Corrupt greedy unsafe

Bereft tortured challenging

Round blue green

Really fucked up

Really fucking great

Confusing interesting fun

A big mess

Not quite spherical

Terrifying beautiful immense

Tremendous diverse amazing

Full of stuff

Hilarious stupendous crap

Round colourful varied

Doomed beautiful precious

Big chaotic dangerous

Supernature humanity environment

Big round beautiful

Huge wonderful terrifying

It's out there

Bourgeoisie versus the proletariat

Dark small everything

Ham up shit

Hate love selfishness

Illusionary temporary transitory

Colourful beautiful mysterious

Big round wet

It is round

Creative music art

Important intimidating magnificent

Wrong but solved

Fucked beyond belief

Big round flat

A bit shit

Wonderfully awesomely beautiful

Big round blue

Accidental random luck

Ball of life

Hard soft feelings

All too much

Must be more

There's no escape

Wild strange exciting

Relentless magical drunken

Being here now

Sticky and slippery

Selfishness innocence creation

Round big dying

Tough but brilliant

Where we stand

Yes Yes Yes

Crypto-fascist Bourgeoisie Run

A good world

A kind world

A nasty world

Unpredictable fascinating frightening

Not enough beer

Help the homeless

Harsh unjust stereotyping

Full of shit

Limited beautiful unpredictable

World turn dayglo

Total fucking mess

Corruption beauty unpredictable

Not heaven hell

World is fucked

Wonderful natural creativity

Tony Blair sucks

Big blue marble

Past present future

Ups and downs

Beautiful love hate

Lump of rock

Huge diverse unfathomable

Chaotic beautiful blue

Built to last

Expensive round supercallifragilisticexpealidocious

Not all bad

Fun lively amazing

Amazing beautiful magic

Great round chocolate

Up down sideways

Interestingly functioning ball

It's not bad

Cyclical alive beautiful

Anne's my world

A great place

Wet grey windy

Totally fucked up

Big and round

Big and flat

Mostly inconsequential confusion

How can we?

Verdant tiny impressive

Never any time

A fucking nightmare

Round blue green

People suffering pain

People living happiness

Love luck oneness

Challenging essentially beautiful

Vast modernist unequal

Blue green world

One massive coincidence

It's all encompassing

Nbiru is coming

Really fucked up

Fucking screwed crap

No turning back

Chaotic weird fantastical

Blissful beautiful bountiful

Expansive energising ecstatic

Big black hairy

Ring my bowl

2 pi r

Big round beautiful

Majestic connection moving

Infinite paradoxical expectation

Fruitful harmonious convivial

Little bit messy

Sexy lovely gorgeous

Frantic complicated wonderful

Scarred yet patient

Messy hard beautiful

Tricky surprising precious

Wonderful and awful

Big blue beautiful

Full of variety

We are together

Bright tasty sweet

Planet in space

Crappy from pollution

Spherical wonderful immense

Anarchic chaos busy

Astounding horrifying confusing

Troubled awesome sigh

Out of balance

Troubled changing evolving

Unfair developing Amazing

Good and positive

Overwhelming but inspiring

Eco recyled chaos

Round chaotic ordered

Blue green white

Corrupt beautiful dying

Fascinating multi-faceted full

Could be better

Chaotic exciting beautiful

Wonderful exciting fun

Vast miniscule expansive

Confused friendly unfriendly

Birth sex death

Big round blu

Chaotic beautiful fascinating

Overwhelming not definable

Blue green white

Alive living live

Happy bright dark

Vast blimey beautiful

Hard isn't it

Round troubled miraculous

Colourful relentless engaging

Pungent surreal ancient

Messy afraid challenged

Big beautiful boisterous

Serendipitous little pained

No waste easily

Infinite magical difficult

Spherical rotating finite

Scary big fine

Big round spacious

Eclectic sensuous human

Destructible troubled small

Wet unsettled spinning

I love it

It's all irrelevant

Disparate changing progressing

Doesn't time fly

Passionate vibrant good

Big fat old

Incredibly exquisitely awful

Rotating wet muddy

Blue round white

Green grey blue

A beautiful place

Fair to middling

Changeable improving sociable

Horrible bad helpful

A wonderful place

Bloody awful place

Circular busy erratic

Multicultural multilingual changing

Is beyond all

Many lost souls

Awesome involuted evolving

Rich mysterious transparent

Complex perplexing breathtaking

Beautiful troubled divided

Complicated dangerous fun

Seeking desperate yearning

Conception consciousness cadaver

The jagged stare of nature

This has been said before,
by sages attuned to the jagged stare of nature
but perhaps the revelation of what is
must be renewed again,
in tune with the demands of this age.

The angular symmetry of concrete constructions
must not be allowed to prevail,
at the expense of the peculiar isness of creatures various:
the hawk, the lion, the snail and the shark
are more than symbols.

The rock, the tree, the ocean
can bring us back to our senses,
melting the steel of mental edifices.

Our being is uniquely wedded to
and reflects each particular beautiful expression of the world.

Every aspect of nature stands alone in its assymetry
yet is immaculately networked into an infinite whole.

We move from mirror to mirror, sometimes entranced
but never deeply satisfied
until we meet our own limitless power,
face to face,
seeing the many-eyed creation
unmasked as creator:
one eye
wide open,
smiling and shining through every atom

This is called perceptualisation
and as our seeing is seen,
so we can affirm the ancient traditions
whereby everything is recognised as conscious.

Like the voice of Jehovah in the Book of Job
and Blake's awe at created things:
the Leviathan and the Behemoth,
the Tyger and the Peacock and the Lion.

We must not lose sight of the fact that,
as humans, we are part of this vast tapestry.

Lest we bury ourselves in obesity and cosmetic surgery,
let us not forget our kindred spirits with which we share this earth.

Do not deny the powers of the bear and wolf,
long banished from our native woods.
Their fierce powers live on in our psyches,
ready to devour our souls
if we assent to our own self-destruction.

Do not ignore the poison of the scorpion,
scuttling, scared deep within our selves,
but lift up its timidity with divine power to transform it into a soaring eagle,
giving vast vision to prophecy a consecrated future.

Deeply observe the metamorphosis of the caterpillar into the butterfly
and feel the possibilities of giving birth to yourself,
over and over again.

Look at the sun and let yourself be bathed in the original splendour of divinity.

Dissolve the narrow confines of your thinking into the vast spaciousness of the sky.

Do not, in arrogant defence of your narrow vision, forget to honour other beings,
in dimensions as yet unexplored by all but the most courageous.

This existence is nothing, if not fecund.

Listen deeply to the well of silence and see what sounds emerge.

Do not be surprised if its contents shatter your everyday perceptions.

Joys and sorrows

More than all the knowledge in all the libraries of ancient and modern worlds.

More than all the words of holy people and the grand creations of artists.

A flood of tears, liberate the soul,
rising to the surface brings emotional truth
to a face distorted by others men's thoughts.

Not just sorrow, but joy,
whether induced by a remembering
or a forgetting.

Not haughty pleasure
but true, unaffected joy,
brings unity to a disposition
racked by dreams of separation.

Smash the windows

Smash the windows that separate us from truthful communion.

Open the hatches that hide away divine things.

Drop the masks of hard feeling.

Fling open the shutters of the self infinitely wide.

Leap across boundaries to come together in love.

Let my being fuse with your being.

Collapse the dam that divides our rivers.

What is love?

Love is not a number or word,
but it is a call to be heard.

A whisper from the silence,
a kiss on the cheek,
a gentle touch,
a cosmic fluid,
energy in motion.

Love is the magic which we buried.

It's the fire,

The spark, waiting to be breathed upon,
fanned into a furnace.

Love is beyond image and sound,
yet it uses these things,
to remind us, to coax us,
to mould us, to transform us
into lovers, creators,
agents of the divine.

The sky evaporates

The mists of the sky evaporate,
colours melt into a blanket bliss of white heat.
The sun bursts and all the stars vanish
to reveal their mother's love.

On this cosmic screen a film appears:
somehow, simultaneously,
the lives of us all,
paupers and saints,
mice and eagles,
mountains and lakes,
the entire span of our journey is traced
in an awesome moment of becoming.

This story seems transparent,
a limpid illusion
bubbling, frothing over,
nothingness's great epic.
Voices cries out - first a few, then a host...
a cosmic choir proclaiming isness's joy.

All meaning and possibility enfolded in these sounds.
Remember this...
and let it stream forth from your eyes
as a message of wild tranquility.


Coloured cumulous clouds create contrasting continuities
Creation's customers communicate cut chrysanthemums
Christian cookies collapse creepy circling cities
Creaking communities calling caustic castanets
Crunchy castaway citizens criticise crescent cakes
Cardinal computers conserve conquistadors cosmos
Contextual caballistic couscous concedes courteous coyotes
Congruent calendars cry candescent complicit concierges
Complementary collagen complete clandestine clairvoyants
Canny cocoa caduceus cohere coitus crash coterie
Concipiscent concubines contraindicate copulating contours
Candescent cacophony callibrate condominium cachet

Do you believe in life and death?

Do you believe in life after death?

Do you believe in life before death?

Do you believe in death after death?

Do you believe in death before death?

Do you believe in life after life?

Do you believe in life before life?

Do you believe in death after life?

Do you believe in death before life?

Do you believe in life?

Do you believe in death?

Do you believe?

Do you?

Do you see what I am doing?

Do you see what I am doing?
I am opening out in all directions.

The eagle flies through rays of solar love,
but his shadow engulfs me,
only chinks of light reveal what lies beyond
and yet...

If I fall to my knees and listen,
I can hear, ear pressed to the ground,
earth's voices sing.

I wrestle the sword from hard rock
and enchant the air with steely gestures.

The night is mine,
or perhaps,
more truly,
I am the night's,
and I wear the stars as a luminous crown....

Do you see what I am doing?
I am opening out in all directions.


Things flow endlessly

Ink lines fill the empty page

Sitting perfectly

Rain water sinks down

Into the darkness of the earth

Feeding tangled roots

Her eyes house deep light

poised slim

sitting pretty

behind the counter

Horses take their time

to assemble at the gate

awaiting the call

Books feel so smooth to

the touch that I no longer

want to just read them

This azure blue sea

seems to me far far too vast

yet I need to swim

Her skin is a field

of sensual energy which

I can’t help but touch

Heaven always floats

amidst the chaos of life

calling us to be

Spinning wheels

Look beyond your vision...

spinning wheels of fire

light the sky.

Alien chariots bring us wisdom from the stars,

a future we can truly desire.

Continents shift,

waters rise,

new lands are formed,

and we,

we, the people of the earth,

regroup, rearrange, reimagine

our evolving species,

radiating with molten potential.

At last, the seeds of beauty,

passed down through the generations,

come to fruition -

an explosion of kaleidoscopic architecture,

housing pregnant poets,

who speak in tongues of flame,

etching out the contours

of the ecstatic art of living.

The opiate of the West

The opiate of the West is atheism;
proud minds stick to what they see.

The opiate of the West is junk-food;
over-fed bellies tie themselves to the earth.

The opiate of the West is alcohol;
people drink to forget and forget to think.

The opiate of the West is marriage;
within which couples can conspire to stay static.

The opiate of the West is more;
consumers build castles which block them from their dreams.

The opiate of the West is pornography;
crass objectification conspires to distract people from erotic relationship.

The opiate of the West is scepticism;
the wonder of living is taken to court to be cross-examined.

The opiate of the West is knowledge;
books distract minds from reading the book of life.

The opiate of the West is ego-gratification;
selfishness is elevated to an Olympic sport.

The opiate of the West is the media;
which constrains society's imagination to a narrow field.

The opiate of the West is fame;
mass adulation makes up for lack of intimacy and belonging.

The opiate of the West is time;
majesty is consigned to memories and hopes rather than experienced now.

The opiate of the West is poetry;
words are fixed frozen on pages instead of flying fresh from wet lips.

The opiate of the West is the conceptual;
which battles for supremacy with reality but will lose eventually.

Curved light

Curved light surrounds me,
like a coiled snake.

Its sinuous power
cascades up and down
in an impossible display
of virtuoso.

My being bends
arcs and pirouettes
in tune with the wild dance of energy.

The stars revealing now
what had long been just distant hints,
embedded in the sky.

The arrow and the bird

As the arrow
flies across the sky,

a bird receives
it gracefully
into its feathered flesh.

The scene drops
and our eyes,
fixed on the ground,

behold the pair,
arrow and bird,

Curved eyes

Her eyes curved,
like a irridiscent shell.

Blue, blue,
shone through,

and steady,
like the depths of the sea.


Knives flash moonlight in myriad directions.

A figure steps forward out of the darkness,

tools glistening,

refugee from some medieval scene,

transported to a harsh urban landscape.

Bringer of tales

from less cosseted, yet less complicated times.

Distressed, deranged street wanderers,

minds shot through by the information wars,

hook into the show,

confused thoughts stopped in trance,

by the dance of the knives,

playing out on the pavement show.

The quicksilver motion of true thoughts,

made manifest in this dare-devil display,

blows open the senses.

Eight knives interweave,

sketching out an infinity sign,

alternating between

salvation and destruction,

freedom and severance.

The eyes of the juggler

speak deep tales of oneness,

beyond the divergent choices of people's lives.

When the ties that hold travelers back are broken,

what remains are the connections

of free association

and the light of the soul,

finally allowed to shine forth,

illuminates their way.