Can confirm….

Can confirm that I was the bullet that clipped Trump’s ear.

I was the apple which sat upon the head of Burrough’s wife. 

I was the last birdcall which at least one person ever heard, and potentially more. 

I can confirm, I am every warning just before it is too late. 

I am the hidden text behind each ‘see more…’ ending. 

I am the idea you forgot and never succeeded in remembering.

I am every cat that gets between you and the paper/laptop/etc.

I can confirm, I am the confirmation you are waiting for.

I am the gap between your assumptions and reality.

I am the stretch which opens your heart.

I am each and every pulse which has ever dared to lay out a rhythm. 

I can confirm that I am all those genres and moves which have not yet been seen. 

I am the YET in the immanent silence of possibility, which reminds us of what might be.

I am the IF in the mindmap of sequential actions, which posits the pivotal step. 

I am everything and nothing, and every no-one who has ever realised that their place is simply an invitation to be. 

I can confirm that the bill is in the post, and eventually there is no charge.

What do you do?

What do you do?

I am infinite winds and raindrops falling in all directions.

I am each prophet caught between warning and uncertainty, DOING what summarises best, and seeing how others continue. 

I am the DOING that arises out of BEING, the action on the wave of becoming, that is still connected to the sea.

I have all the same functions as every one of you (with some exceptions, because ableism is easy to assume), in our universality, and live so these can best happen as they should.

I am the seamless thread running through notions of work, play, rest and recuperation, the Tao beyond and including yin and yang.

I am the pause between each of the words in your sentence, because words create a sentence, and the real magic is beyond abracadabra, and through the silence within, the great escape. Houdini, Whodunnit, How do you do?

I am the symphony of what is essential in an open-hearted WIDTH, and that which parses that which is not. 

I am the ashes dissolving into air and becoming the sky. 

I am where the finite and infinite meet in the horizon-line.

I am flight of birds, and the cud which cows chew, the invisible lines which mark boundaries through scent of piss, and the flickering of television, static on the radio waves, and the break in Wifi coverage. Seize the moment!

‘What do you do?’ is the question which must be asked repeatedly and repetitively, to every atom and cell and part and parcel of existence, since this is the hardest path, the most difficult of tasks, and if you expect any answer untouched by paradox, and stripped of any sense of irony, absurdity or wry smiles, then you SHALL be sorely disappointed, for here in eternity, we are free of binding concepts and insufficient answers, and are ALWAYS happy (if those are shed), but see little evidence of change, as the ships slide towards doom and destruction. 

And so it shall be, unless another path is chosen, and that is what we do - we CHOOSE and know not whether there was any choice, now we are here. 

From the scattered wreckage, seeds of potential, oases of survival and summits of perfection, we will rebuild a new world, and the air will be as fresh as the freshest morning you have tasted, and you always knew this world was possible, because it is the mark through which you judge that which must disappear. 

Golden repair

A cracked pot lets the light out,

dazzling those looking 

for the reassurance of conformity.

Cracks are infinite possibilities,

and whilst the pot was always one,

shattering allows for endless remakes,

the Kintsugi of creative restoration.

Adding in the golden lines of new bonds,

the glue of reconnection, 

the few of resurrection,

so the pot becomes a higher version,

of its former wholeness.

Shamanically torn apart,

like the body of Isis,

or the shroud of Jesus,

flung in all directions,

then brought together 

with added sharpness, roughness, 

new lines of chaotic incision,

jigsaw pieces of uniqueness.

Nature creates, the artist moulds, 

and the restorer performs a golden repair.

Where do you find your poetry?

Where do you find your poetry?

In the foot on floor slide across the space?

Face pressed up against the glass. Cold, hard, squished.

All I can see is the surface opaqueness through absolute proximity. Transparency requires distance.

If we step outside, will our vision clear?

Trace your eyes across the scene until illumina flashes, and make your way with due haste.

Mark my words. 

Zero waste in experience - this Zen taste - this electric sky - this tantric lake - we partake in sensory sublimation and sexual salvation and sinuous sultriness and 

      slip inside this house - which has many rooms.

Walking the corridors of cosmic power, of infinitesimal immensity, of the ecstasy of minutiae, and precision where it counts.

Sometimes it is the whole scene,

and sometimes it is a selection, 

and sometimes a sole focus. 

Where you find your poetry? 

In the everything-everything and the this-that.  

Poetry finds me willing and ears primed... 

...to ride the rhythms of an aesthetically-charged reality. 

Entwined

The Gods sit in the Garden.
Entwined - distinct and together.
A sexy symphony between deities.

Bodies strewn lasciviously amidst the meadows.
Naked flesh flashes sunlight corn shimmer. 

Wild flowers dance

kaleidoscopically in the wind.
Everyone who is here is here.

The expanse of verdant growth,
Too buoyant for economic measure.
Transcended categories of work and leisure.

We exist. Not Extinction. Beyond Rebellion.
Birds always flew. Insects always tottered.
Cats always enjoyed strokes and sometimes gave back.

This. Light distributed everywhere.
Shadows shift according to angelic direction.
The Universal sundial wheels around
the orgies on the ground.

As fierce intentions and tender hands are

Entwined - distinct and together. 

Truth is a ruin

Truth is a ruin.
An abandoned castle,
Left in a cloud of dust,
By time’s forward thrust.

Desolation column and row,
Change and layer mock those who ‘know’.
Phantasmagoric stories float around
the graveyard of learning.
And the endlessly creative Earth indifferent
to intellectual yearning.

As soon as light hits your eyes, it is out of date.
As soon as words leave your mouth,
things are in a changed state.
Can you suspend the will to capture or express?
And just stick with this transcendent mess.

Truth is a ruin,
A folly of aristocratic falsity.
A theory of philosophical sophistry.
The Kingdom is fresh, wondrous and awake.
The kaleidoscopic Kingdom for Heaven’s sake.

Afrofuturist dreams

Porn stars and sex on Mars
In Afrofuturist dreams.

George Clinton’s got his groove on
And Sun Ra’s Arkestra are playing Pluto.

Blaxploration of cosmic realms. 

This, the futureperfect, come to fruition,
Diachronic time is the gift of revelation.
Eternity frames all mythic presences,
Swallowing us up in the Black Gold of the Sun.