Shining threads

Shining threads

Thursday, 27 September 2012


Anomalies create curves in straight lines,
pepper-spraying the police of inflexibility.

Anomalies are eyes from which the soul of theories burst forth.
The pores through which we breathe.

Anomalies sneeze.
They seize power when no-one is looking,
when the security guards of rigidity are asleep.

Anomalies are animals.
The spots of existence, difference and dazzling exception.

Anomalies wheeze,
as they climb the stairs of systems,
then, when they realise they are going nowhere,
slide down the banister with a great big 'wheeeee!'.

Anomalies do not say please,
they do not respect the rules,
they are not on time,
they are not conventional,
they do not vote,
they do not see things in terms of boxes,
they do not work,
they are not predictable,
except when to do so would be to upturn the norm.

Anomalies creep up on you in dark alley-ways,
at the edge of your comfort zone,
in liminal states,
and tear fissures in the fabric of now.

Anomalies live in their own way,
with their elbows on the table,
singing with their mouth open full of glory
and starting a revolution of randomness.
Punctuating normality with glitter-ball wonder,
so the disco of difference
(and please, no deference)
really comes alive.

Thursday, 13 September 2012


Our beings are poems of everything we ever were and are and may be.

Scars speak stories on the body's page. Postures are reflections of our spirit's shape. The face is our transmission to the world.

So personal, brutalists build up body armour to protect themselves from the tough tussle of their lives but these are false-ego bodies. Anorexics exercise ultimate power of denial to create skeletal frames. The obese make a fleshy cushion to insulate themselves against the world. The body knows its own contours of comfort and proportion.

Our auric field, our skin and flesh and bones, our blood and emotions and deeper feelings that bubble up from transpersonal realms.

A true smile is not a chosen action but an effect of the whole body's pleasure.

Every scratch, spot, wound, mole, freckle, line and hair is sacred.

There are an infinite images that are not us and yet we rush to these altars and miss the reality of our own holiness.

To be holy is to be whole in an embrace of our entirety, our simplexity, in all its particularities and needs and quirks.

I have learnt to love the sneeze, the pulse, the involuntary reaction. These are me. I am human first - all other identities span out from that.

My body is not science - though science has its theories. My body is a poem and I do not claim to understand its meaning yet it fascinates.

There is no love without appreciation. There is no meeting without presence. We are never other than we are and no place other than here and now.

There is movement yet the stillness is ever-present.