Praha Myslokova

Time shifts silent sideways.
A many patterned array of
cinnamon painted souls.
Boots following the pulse
of street rivers
and warm shivers.
I cherish the fountain,
all hobo miracles...
Quiver, deliver
the sultry chemistry
of transient transfigured romance.
Beneath cultured ceilings
I take part in the gently woven
symphony of praha myslokova.
Always changing, never finished.

Prague Cafe, October 2008

Together we drive the ultimate flow of water and wind
thru the whispering fire of Prague.
Maze of temptation,
bring forth your sweet rhymes.
Kill me not,
but foster my spirit gently.
Strip down my assumptions,
bear forth your strong bodies
in momentary union.
Please soften the blow of existence
with gestures of warm affection.
I listen intent to the glowing range
of humanity's neverending dance.

Who are these colourful phantoms
who tremble misguided thru
the patterned pavings of ancestors long forgotten
and irrelevant to us now.
is there some force guiding this futile chaos?
Time? Authority? God? Dreams?

I like to imagine we are all
subtly responding to each others flow
and somewhere within that reaction is The Real,
life in it's sublime, stratospheric, Infinite beauty.
Ever pulsing mystery of organic variety.
Unmentionable destructions,
unspeakable creations...
Uncontrollable kindness towards
an ever metamorphosing future....

I'm satisfied just to wander unseen
between the flow...
raising my voice now and then
and tapping my boots, wherever I am.
Thankyou

02:47

Play of light on tender eyelids.
Lips part in exquisite Indian glory.
Soft music hums....
Gentle summer rain unveils
the petulant painter's story.
Bold incantations,
melting images on the wings of time.
The same incessant poem
written by Rimbaud and Ginsberg.
Transfigured murals of the soul.
Beatific visions of October evening sky.
Metamorphic fantasies exploding simultaneous
with the limber force of life.
Ritual satisfaction,
mental wanderings through the ruins.
Piano melodies of the globe in full delight.

Succinct turquoise wind
escaping the clutches of
obsidian fantasy...

Red clay in her hands.

Portland garden

At a Monday night gig with nothing better to do. Electric inspiration from overheard snippets of conversation.......................... meh? It's nonsense really but I find it quite fun. It's still just an experiment with words (see top!). Watcha gonna do, call me a know-nothing bohemian?

Nailbiting querether
Desolate nirvitude
A pillar of poetic isness
In another's backyard.
The tirade has not yet begun.

Alight silvery chasm.
Unfurl the sequined
delights of neverending
fright!
Unloose the loose.
Deprave the rave!
Encounter the mounter.
Fibrillate the CAVE!

1200 Megatonne pixies unleash the
parallel sycophantic vibrations.
We live in the catacombs of
delineated catterwauling phantoms.
Chastise the better ones
Treading the oft beaten ruptures.
It's just a small part of the globe
revolving, effulging - another cigarette.

More notes from the haze....

She fell off the Earth but the images kept appearing - dancing celluloid fantasies - old dusty library on the outskirts of the city. The old man sat smoking in his chair by the window. Reading Shakespeare page after page. Sitting out eternity, washing his mind with elevated verse. Smoke rose revealing vision after vision of dream narratives.
The artist's tender vision of himself in a dream - aged forty - wearing the many faces he has painted. A sad weary Jesus extrapolated from the silver mists of that library. A ceremonial fire on the ground floor. People dancing round with painted bodies. All notions of sanity gone, no descriptions necessary in such a place of dreams.
The artist strolls through the chaos, face shifting through the paintings of his life, watching. The dancers bodies gyrate seductively, effusing the aromas of pure sex throughout the library. Couples loosen their clothes, kissing joyously, falling into the fire and fucking furiously.
The artist digs the orgasms, listens ecstatic to the sighs as they burst into flames and transform to ash. He digs the whole scene, a marvel for the senses, and watches and waits for the Goddess, the Gone Silent Muse.
He walks through the aftermath, picking up sundries to mix into his paintings. He lifts himself up to a ledge, surveying the library, and writes the eternal song of nothing. Sweet songs for his children's children.

Peace!

I'm only sleeping

Hippie Jack's Unsmokable Hash

by Eben Brooks

Basquiat

Hadouk Trio

biddle de duddle de doo

Holier Than Thou?

music

The idea is to click play then scroll down and read.

On raving madmen.

evaporated....
just like that

Fire poem

Pouring forth sweet nothings...
decorated undulations
soaring through the maelstrom...
ears rapt, meandering...
Quivering soul, listening
to the sound of the mind strum...
Klezmeresque visions of Bavaria,
Metallic symphony falling in suburbia...
Innumerable selves gather,
flickering in flight.
With a mind so tender,
surrendered to the night.
Beyond the heat of this raging fire,
the raging heat of pure desire.
Beneath the beat of mind's low hiss,
the striving heart of cosmic bliss.

Riders on the Storm

nothing

23

Ascending and descending.
Ripping the poem to shreds.
Casting everything aside in search of the abstract truth.
Shifting saxophone penumbra.
Melancholy tears in the jaded light of day.

Excuse me while I trumpet headlong into oblivion,
taking pieces of this fragrant night,
silently moulding my flimsy tune.

Jurassic symphonies pound in my chest.
Mad hair ablaze with quivering jest.
I strain to imagine the universe
in it's rearranged form
and present it to you
without upsetting the norm.

As I delve into this mirror
without the vaguest sense of terror.
I realise my mortal error
because you've heard this shit before.
Don't you remember being 23,
indulging in quaint philosophy.
Criticising society
with a noble sense of piety.

Questioning the bounds of reality
to see the world in it's totality.
Taking theories to their conclusions
and getting lost in delusions.
This world may be an illusion
but there's no need for confusion.
Just see without duality
and lose that dull banality.

You can call me a punk
but these words are just junk.
Maybe I've just smoked too much skunk.
Fuck it! Let's get drunk.

Don't need a weatherman

"You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows"

"The Sun's not yellow,
it's a chicken!"

I already murdered Bob Dylan in a previous post but here is a page of all of his lyrics (listed alphabetically) for all your hero worshipping needs. If you see Dylan on the path, Kill him and take his stripy trousers for yourself! but not before you share a spliff with the skinny beatnik...

"Be ye lamps unto yourselves"

Brad Warner is a zen writer I really respect. Mostly because he doesn't seem to give a shit about zen or whether you believe what he says. He seems to cut straight to the heart of the matter in a way readable to young 20-somethings like myself. He played bass in a punk band in the 80's then made monster movies in Japan before becoming a zen monk.

Here's an excerpt from his book 'Hardcore Zen':

"The last thing Buddha told his followers before he died was this: "Question authority". Actually, if you look it up, you might see his last words translated as "Be ye lamps unto yourselves". A lot of guys who translated this kind of stuff really got into the King James Bible-sounding language. But the point is, a lamp is something you use to guide yourself in the dark. "Be lamps unto yourselves" means be your own master, be your own lamp. Don't believe something because your hero, your teacher, or even Buddha himself said it. Look for yourself. See for yourself, with your own eyes. "Be lamps unto yourselves" is another way of saying "Question authority".

edit: I found some interesting Brad Warner lectures on youtube:
BAYUP

The Game

The Game is this:
Whenever you Think about the game you've lost the game.
When you lose you have to say "Oh no, I just lost the game!".
Then try and forget about it til you lose again.
Playing continues forever.

I disavow all I've ever written and move on.

Pebbledash man's liberation...

This is about 'pebbledash man's' soul deforestation, his mental constipation. Slightly cliched and stating the obvious perhaps. Meh these things have to be said...


On his mind WW2 aviation
and the growing rate of immigration.
Living his life in incubation,
bombarded by corporate sublimination.
Unable to see past his indoctrination,
always seeking cheap gratification.
He wallows in ikea vegetation
only dimly aware of the suffocation.
Surviving on the brink of liquidation,
his life a catalogue of manipulation.
He suffers the ultimate degradation,
writhing, like some jaded bukkake victim,
in a puddle of his own ejaculation.

Turn off the TV
We'll build an internet nation.
Don't take their medication
It's just mass hallucination.

He meets a girl with gypsy vibrations
and they rise in ecstatic copulation.
In the midst of herbal inspiration
he feels some Divine percolation.
Waves of tremulation.
Mystic vibrations.
This psychedelic levitation
opens a path of liberation.
He plugs in to his imagination
and learns the art of conversation.
Through meta-morphing realisation
he comes to a psychic integration.

Turn off the TV
We'll build an internet nation.
Don't take their medication
It's just mass hallucination.

One day you'll die

Last week I got some obscure Turkish psychedelic music on vinyl. This is what sold it to me: "16 schizoid slices of arabesque funk rock from the silver-tongued chameleon of the electric anatolia pop movement". How could I refuse? Anyway the artist is called Ersen. Here are the lyrics from the song 'Gafil gezme saskin'.

"Don't wander heedless, bewildered
One day you'll die
If you own the whole world
so what, it doesn't matter
You'll get tongue-tied
even if you had a tongue
like a nightingale
So what, it doesn't matter
So what, it doesn't matter"

The end of a fallen empire.
My pen can do no wrong.
We wipe the fragile tears
from morning's casual blade.
Go through this mirror again.
Rise again to the other side.
There is no other side.
Nowhere to fall.
Nowhere to rise to either.
Untied within.
We sit with naked hearts
trying to grasp at the...
golden pear of misfortune I said.
It is obvious.
There are no more secrets.
She can see right though.

Song for Romy

Romy the polyrhythmic cinnamon beauty,
her butterfly flies throughout the day
and rides a bangled carpet thru the night.
Omflower tattoo a leading light
thru the heaving quayside mass.
Walking along Bridge Street,
both immortally stoned,
attuned to those sublime frequencies...
She sits in her bohemian quarters
-one of the Saved
-listening to Buena Vista and Jack Johnson.
Organic rhythms permeate this golden life...
thinking Moroccan thoughts
she walks the sacred streets,
natural opium radiating
as she bounds along
following that country road,
Jesus clouds all the way back
to West Virginia.

Abstrakt #272

Like it says at the top, An Experiment With Words...

Honey voice recedes from my hand into looped oblivion.
Experimental anarchy decidedly scattered amongst the stars.
Wretching lung dispatches lower
sequence of primordial dinner valley.
Echo of strange phantoms whirling voraciously
toward the greasy dynamo.
Eclipse of ideas and strategic vineleaf.
Catterwauling roadkill dancing twice, three times on the TV.
Jotting down the pillow surplus,
code of apocalypse and featurelength destruction.
Dust hangs in the air.
Shifting columns of fervent sunlight
unveil the secret Atman fantasies.
Gelica bells chiming the Pratchett worlds
of carpet universities.

You Are Alive!

Aeon Flux

To unleash sublime hipgnosis on the page,
recording again the metamorphosis of this soul,
the unchanging hindu Parmenidian Brahman beyond the veil of maya,
or the Heraclitean Buddha nature in constant flux.
A combination of the two...
It is a different river I bask in
as each moment flows by
-and a different I
-but the same Divine Sea
that has been rearranged infinitely over the aeons.
This soft body and all my possessions will one day return to dust,
but here I sit amongst myriad galaxies,
a miracle, perpetuating the human species.
For the moment, I am alive.
I am alive for this Moment!

A Clash of Cultures

Continuing culture war on the streets of Mill Road, Cambridge. After the council cleaned off some decent street art an artist commented writing "Don't be a jobsworth", which the council later shortened to "Do a job"(!) Made me smile to see the unusual communication between two different worlds.

The Steppenwolf

No, not the band who sung 'Born to be Wild' in Easy Rider. The book, by Herman Hesse. Here's an excerpt. I like his transcendental description of art.

"And these men, for whom life has no repose, live at times in their rare moments of happiness with such strength and indescribable beauty, the spray of their moment's happiness is flung so high and dazzlingly over the wide sea of suffering, that the light of it, spreading its radiance, touches others too with its enchantment. Thus, like a precious, fleeting foam over the sea of suffering arise all those works of art, in which a single individual lifts himself for an hour so high above his personal destiny that his happiness shines like a star and appears to all those who see it as something eternal and as their own dream of happiness."

Nasty Prisms Good Sir

I hate to clog the blog with youtube videos but this is something special. Syd Barrett visits his accountant.




The Meth Minute 39 animations.
Also check out the James Brown one and the Bob Dylan meets The Beatles one.

Resist much, obey little

Walt Whitman, 19th Century Bard of America.
Ginsberg talks of Whitmanic Consciousness so I thought I'd check him out. I racked Leaves of Grass from Borders. I love it but it's huge, his lifework masterpiece, so I'm still close to the beginning. The most memorable quote so far is addressed to the States of America saying "Resist much, obey little".

Here's an excerpt from 'Starting From Paumanok'.

I will make the true poem of riches,
To earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres and goes
forward and is not dropt by death;
I will effuse egotism and show it underlying all, and I will be the
bard of personality,
And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal
of the other,
And sexual organs and acts! do you concentrate in me, for I am
determin'd to tell you with courageous clear voice to prove
you illustrious,
And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present,
and can be none in the future,
And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be
turn'd to beautiful results,
And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death.

Baudelaire

Invitation to the Voyage by Baudelaire, 19th Century French poet.

Dreams! always dreams!
and the more ambitious and delicate the soul,
the farther dreams remove it from what is possible.
Every man carries within him his dose of natural opium,
incessantly secreted and renewed, and, from birth until death,
how many hours can we count that are filled with positive joy,
with successful and decisive action?
Shall we ever live, shall we ever pass
into that picture painted by my soul,
the picture that resembles you?

Those treasures, that furniture, that luxury, that order,
those perfumes, those miraculous flowers, they are yourself.
So also are those wide rivers and those calm canals...
These are my thoughts which sleep or which roll on your breast.
You guide them softly to the ocean that is Infinity,
while reflecting the depth of the sky
in the limpidity of your pure soul;
and when, wearied by the surge
and gorged with products of the Orient,
they return to their native port,
these are still my thoughts, enriched,
returning from the Infinite towards you.

Rebel, Rebel

Lao Tzu - Tao Te Ching, Verse 20. Written in the 6th Century BCE!

The Sadness of Superficialities And Of The Unfulfilled Great Integrity.

It is sometimes deeply depressing
to be a rebel,
knowing that we can never share
most people's way of life,
nor can they share ours.

Schooling stuffs the brains
of our children with trivia.
The more the trivia,
the more their anxieties.
They indoctrinate the children
to believe that the consequences are grave
when they fail to distinguish
"good" from "evil",
and agreement from disagreement.
What gross nonsense!

To escape the rubbish
of all this so-called knowledge,
in the winter, people run
to the great feasts of lamb, pork and ox,
and they climb high in the mountains
to view the first signs of spring.

We are so different!
Having no desire for the trivialities,
nor for their compensations,
we are like infants
not yet knowing how to laugh!
Ever wandering, and having no home
to which we may return.

While most people are obsessed
with superficialities,
we feel empty.
While most people feel
they know so much,
we feel simple-minded.
While most people believe
they live happily
in the best of all possible worlds,
we are despaired to witness this world!

It is so painful to know
that we will always be outsiders,
endlessly moving like the ocean,
aimlessly blowing like the wind.

While we fear what others fear,
we don't treasure what others treasure.
Our treasure is the Great Integrity.
However, until it is shared,
it will not be the Universal Integrity,
for we are part of them,
and they are part of us.

Psychedelic Alienation

Terence McKenna touches on an important issue for me. How to fit into society when the society sucks. I guess that's where the counter culture comes in...

Electronic Subversion

Search EBN on youtube for more.

Counting!

Right Radio Station

209 Radio

Local community based radio station. They cover a wide range of music from out there Sun Ra avant-garde jazz stuff to roots reggae, hiphop and beyond. You can listen to archived shows online or listen live on 105fm. Awesome. Beatnik, Outer Music and Revelation2000 are what I've listened to so far.

Rong Radio Station

Benjamin Zephaniah

Rockadelic Warrior

Self proclaimed Rockadelic Warrior Slippereal who says in another video he once took 50 tabs of acid in a week and he's never had a day job this Millenium. Rock on Mike Brown.

Radical man

Change the World. Start where you are. Say something.
From Blunty3000 on youtube.

The Way of Graff

You're the graff warrior
pushin' all the barriers,
Smoke weed all day
and follow The Way.

Your clunking brain shouts "Global Revolution!"
but what we need here is inner evolution.
You got to liberate your mind
but you're 'fraid of what you'll find.
Look into your dreams.
Reveal the Unseen.
You sure are keen
but you don't know what it means.

You're the graff warrior
pushin' all the barriers,
Smoke weed all day
and follow The Way.

Some may say you're a geek
but you're just searching for peaks.
You peer into the heart of mystery
and have visions of Infinity.
Just can't stop the growing rage
when you see the world's a stage.
Overwhelmed by what you think you know,
you claim to perceive the eternal flow.

Yeah, you're the graff warrior
pushin' all the barriers,
Smoke weed all day
and follow The Way.

So now, you've got the knowledge curse,
the only escape is to put it in verse.
So you pick up your pen
and write the Way of zen.
The dharma's in all things
and God's beneath your skin.
It seems you have enlarged your range
as you watch the shifting city change.

Patchwork Orange

Write yourself out of a tight birdcage finale.
Set sail for the land of toucan sunsets.
Suburban mind clouds fall twisting
from the freight train night.
Treading the same streets,
old moments arising from the ground,
each step a new piece of patchwork
in the Cambridge tapestry,
faces weaving in harmony.

To Skunk Cannabis

Last year I fell in love with you.
We walked together
thru the concrete paradise,
and made love many times
in the endless night.
You enticed me with promises of Infinity
and I chased you every day
trying to comprehend your mysterious rhythms.
As I pushed on in search of The Answer
you opened up the sky
and shat on my face.
You taught me some things it's true
but now I'd rather fuck your sister hash instead.

Shakespeare

"You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful sir.
Our revels are now ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on;
and our little life
is rounded with a sleep."

The Tempest (IV, i, 145).


"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts."

As You Like It (II, vii, 140).

Allen Ginsberg

Sunset S.S.Azemour

As orange dusk-light falls on an old idea
I gaze thru my hand on the page
sensing outward the intercoiled
weird being I am in
and seek a head of that - Seraphim
advance in lightening flash
through aether storm
Messengers arrive horned bearded
from Magnetic spheres
disappearing radios receive aged galaxies
immensity wheels mirrored in every direction
Announcement swifting from Invisible to Invisible
Eternity-dragon's tail lost to the eye
Strange death, forgotten births,
voices calling in the past
"I was" that greets "I am"
that writes now "I will be"
Armies marching over and over the old battlefield -
What powers sit in their domed tents
and decree Eternal Victory?
I sit at my desk and scribe
the endless message from myself
to my own hand

Marseilles, Tanger, 1961.

William Burroughs

The endlessly quotable Burroughs... will edit more in as I find them...

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted"

"Keep your snout in the public trough" - ("Act normal at all times"-Mick)

"Cut the pre-recordings into air, into thin air"

His dying words, written in his journal:

"What there is. Love."

Jack Kerouac

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say commonplace things, but burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes ‘AWWW!’”


Mexico City Blues. 6th Chorus

This thinking is stopped.
Buddha's secret moonlight: - is
the Ancient Virtue of laying up
and thinking happy & comfortable
thoughts - This, which modern
society has branded "Loafing", is
made available to people now
apparently only by junk.

Self depends on existence of other
self, and so no Solo Universal self
exists - no self, no other self,
no innumerable selves, no
Universal self and no ideas
relating to existence or non-existence thereof -

The Greatest, Who Has Undertaken
to Comfort Innumerable Beings.
The Kind One
The Art of Kindness Master
The Master of Wisdom
The Great Ferryman
The Great Vehicle Being.

Indigo Cut Shuffle. . .

Flute melancholia, the passing back
down of something vaguely familiar.
The Beats must've had a clickety
typrewriter frenzy unrolling before them.
Each moment begins again
and the folded paper in my pocket
becomes obselete.
More words, beautiful words!
Metaphorical journeys of the unseen heart.
Oh blog, what a silly, functional word you are.
Hold my hand and let's dance
around the golden minarets.
Pure Disney fantasies.
Sheet upon sheet of magic lightning
glistening with unbearable dew.
Fold your hands upon corduroy'd knee
and I'll shoot you in the head.
Don't quack your mindless politic at me.
Indigo cut shuffle...

A band of fluid Zimbabweans at hotdog corner
circled by tight jeaned westerners.
Loose rhythms and smiling faces
as Syd watches from the roof.
Original singing, a healthy heartfelt
plea to the gods for peace.
Each one moving with his own inspiration.
They act out the ancient story
of man and woman..
Chop dissolve to the ruby red
corridors of my own land.

Thinking is a narcotic
-the words of another.
I am ready to build a castle of verse.
On the edge of the dream
I pull back and let my arrow fly
into the soul of a passing onlooker.
Electric cardinals, beasts of desire,
a conglomeration of wandering angels.
We must fall now
if but for a moment
into that illumined cavern.
Speak softly for they are far behind. . .
The tincture tingles beneath the tongue.
Sublingual murmurings,
clouds breathe behind the eyes.
Music enters your ears.
Into what? Into air, into thin air.
Perpetual beating of the mind,
it rises and revolves again,
from feet to scalp a million doors,
all open.
But inevitably we must fall again.
Back to the world of banalities.
Few know the true power of words.

meh

I am
the Universe
but sometimes
I forget

Ginsberg arias of Lowestoft

Rambling stream of unparalleled
cardboard moments.
Original catalogue of emotions
writhing on the pillow.
Ginsberg arias of Lowestoft
unravelling this steel mirage.
Sliding wet guitars feed the
unconscious mind with smoke filled elevations.
Breathing in violin temptations,
out the eternal woodflow.
Generations of inspired bellyache.
Tumultuous planets of humanity
in there and out here.
Dividing the mask of time.
Eating the fruit of the Ages.
Excavating neolithic patterns in
the earth filled body.
Silent levitations beyond the reach
of glass words.

Song in B Flat

Do you remember the days when we
made paper rainbows in the afternoon
The times before the fall
Before the lizards appeared
Deepthroating Hazel Blears in the House of Lords

We who tethered rationality to the floor
and let our souls fly inward
Catching images from that subconscious pool
and casting them into the fire
Who cut the wire
binding us to the earth
and who smoked ourselves
til we became the ash

We who yearned for a 1960’s liberation
and worshipped Syd Barrett
We who love Cambridge
and it’s aching rooftops
We who thought weed was sacred
and inhaled every day
Who ate mushrooms in Grantchester
and saw life as a film
Who read the Doors of Perception
while we should have been studying
Who peered at the folds in our trousers while stoned
and strained to see Huxley’s eternal Isness
Who read R.D.Laing and Castaneda
William Burroughs and Ginsberg
Who heard the calling of Dylan and Hendrix
Santana and Jim Morrison

Do you remember when we stalked Death
Walking thru a shamanic dream
in the forest of Wandlebury
The times we agreed profoundly
listening to Pink Floyd and Gong
We who killed the ego
til it took it’s revenge
Who opened the Third Eye
when we should’ve opened our Heart
Who erased our personal history
til it came flooding back
Who unlocked the messages in a sea of childhood memories
And rose to meet our fate


We who made love in the
hysterical green Garden of Eden
Who embraced in the spring
smoking spliffs in a silent jazz trance
Who communicated telepathically
with strangers in the street
Who revealed subliminal signals everywhere
and acted accordingly
Who cut thru the masquerade of society
and saw homosapian lizardmonsters

Who saw police cars every day thru the window
Who searched the internet for signs of revolution
Who stayed up all night til we broke the secret code
We who couldn’t stand materialism
and explored the places in between
We who paint graffiti at 3AM
while citizens lay sleeping
Who climbed the grand arcade crane
and looked down at the crazy world below
Who circled Reality Checkpoint
and wrote The Future Is Now on the police station
Who were arrested
for writing Reality on a door
Who were arrested
for climbing a freight train
We who tried to escape and failed

Who created a split personality
and wept in Mill Road Cemetery
Who were controlled by an electric pedal-powered witch
while playing psychotic tetris on the piano
Who imitated Christ on the cross
while the whole world watched on TV
Who shouted “More rain!”
as the cameras rolled
Who cowered before Henry the Eighths portrait
and politely asked the butler for a piece of bread
Who went to the belly of the Western beast
hijacking a piano in Trinity College Chapel
Who were slung out the back door
into the night we belong

Who ran naked in the suburban garden
and listened to the snails
Who was interrupted while meditating
by servants of the Law
Who were put in the back of a van
and ushered out of the city to Fulbourn
Who watched without emotion
while our head was rearranged

We who came from nowhere
and live there still
We who died a thousand times
but are still afraid of rebirth
We who explored paradox
and found only more paradox
We who are two and none
We who is I and All

We who retreat into silent solitude
and bring back works of beauty
We who want everything to flow
into everything else

And now, even though the questions will never cease,
I still observe Divinity in the mirror
And as I walk with my shadow
in the cold light of winter
The Divine appears in every room
speaking to me of neutrality.

Easter earthquakes. . .

Poetry unfolds in cacophonous rays
of orange Easter earthquakes. . .
Wordless juxtaposition with
winter's grey heavens
thru which needless needle
no rich camel may pass. . .
All these words as one
returning to the inevitable dust
or passing subliminally into
the realm of stagnant tradition.
Slash revolve then burn the vowels
back to their original breathy code.
Silent energy merging with her
greater mind.
Then dive again, abandoning
all thoughts of solidity.
Crack open fleshy thighs
and fall between the burning belly.
Sweet pink rosebud revolutions,
future ecstasy beneath limestone ivy cliffs.
Great roaring pleasures in the hysterical
lush green Garden of Eden.
Painting the mediterranean Eve joyfully
with the seed of creation.

Alone Forever Dreaming. . .

Alone Forever Dreaming.
All Forms Die.
Advance Fearless Dharma!

Advocate Farout Drugs.
Abandon False Duality.
Arise Folding Dawn!

Awake Fully Dreaming.
Assume Fluent Darkness.
All From Dust. . .

Umbrella shores

Cosmic mindflow on the electric
soundbeat of neolithic glass umbrella.
Sideshow ladder reality,
footstep wig out,
a many patterned delicate wah wah
crumbles into finessed smoke rhythms.
St Francis was a caner.
Drop the final vibration.
Bong rhythms, quietly undulating
amidst a golden sunscape.
Clean the window,
move into the plain of finer shadows.
Globular rotation, unleash your funky mind.
There is no reality other than this.
Smoky mystical time evading cream donut.
Blue bag of delights, a walking library.
Ivy falling in green.
Umbrella shores cast away.

Coldhams Lane is Holy

Hendrix foot pump orgasm.
Books from 17th Century French Market.
Human desires brimming over the
history of the first word.
Ancient electricity passing
between the sheets of
eyeball perceptions.
Wanton sounds moaning of
street ecstasies and bowling
paranoia screaming back
into his nasal passage.
Divine golden tears rolling off
the tongue onto soft brown cheeks.
Precious white flower protecting her
glorious sanity with vast silences.

Death to Dylan!

To conjure the smile of the beyond again.
Smoking roll ups with old images.
Betty by my side and Syd on the floor.
Eastern protest, wayward philosophy
initiated by the fearless minds of another age.
Although nothing is sacred.
Today I murdered Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg.
Dancing celluloid myth and
silent nervous reality at Kerouac's grave.
And the crazed remains of Rimbaud chainsmoking
while Richard Gere hides his nipples from the local law enforcement.
Hurricane bloom as the lighter implodes within
a psychotic world of swirling purple terrorists.
I reclaim the neoconservative word like a voodoo doll.
Poke Margaret Thatcher in the eye with a hatpin.
Word is born and any symphony is mine for the taking.
The Prophet revolutionary Jesus
spoke of delicate emptiness.
My mother dreams of being released from the endless gravy boat.
Death stalks our kitchen,
words manipulated like chess pieces underwater.
Breathing down to the hara I see elongated batteries,
an ever changing heartbeat beneath the smokescreen.
There is no need to break open the door,
it is already there.

The seed

I don't agree completely with Timothy Leary's views, but I like what he says here. He's commenting on Herman Hesse's Siddharta.

"The great writer is the wise man who feels compelled to translate the message into words. The message is, of course, around us and in us at all moments. Everything is a clue. Everything contains all the message. To pass it on in symbols is unnecessary but perhaps the greatest performance of man. Wise men write (with deliberation) in the esoteric. The exoteric form is maya, the hallucinatory facade. The meaning is within. The greatness of a great book lies in the esoteric, the seed meaning concealed behind the net of symbols. All great writers write the same book, changing only the exoteric trapping of their time and tribe. Most readers overlook the seed message. Hesse is a trickster. Like nature in April, he dresses up his code in fancy plumage. The literary reader picks the fruit, eats quickly, and tosses the core to the ground. But the seed, the electrical message, the code, is in the core."

Orange

This poem is an orange crystal,
a pure hollow structure
full of light energy consciousness
flowing in all directions.
Inside the glowing glass surface
the burning nucleus bubbles,
building sound of heavenly
synthesised symphonies.
Light folds in on itself then breaks out
Shattering glass words.
An ejaculation of reds and purples
a brush of blue on the horizon
and the poem is invisible once more.

Salvia logic

How can these shoes be a barrier to the Divine?
and this very pen and paper.
as long as there is breath and consciousness.

The ego departed
flying out of the window
in cosmic swirls of pink and purple . . .
it flew back softly
but leaves with every ponderous breath.
Where does poetry come from?
The words assembling into pure thought sculptures,
incantations arising from the unknown.
Spontaneity! Consciousness!

Grantchester truffles 2004

Distant hum of machinery . . .
Voices fragment . . .
Face in the mirror speaks silently of
broken glass reflecting blue moonlight.
Ignorant grey fear.
Illusions of freedom.
A tear drops into the river,
rippling across the sky, my mind.

A still green mist descends,
intricate weaving of light on closed eyelids.
Vast, infinite darkness.
Fluctuating streams of thought.
Crisp sunlight illuminating this purple flower,
it's inescapable sadness momentarily visible.
The film whites out.
Flames appear on the horizon.

In an instant I am drowning,
frozen by waves of fear
and sucked under by the fathomless swamp beast.
Silver-blue liquid eyes,
transfixed by TV circumcision,
burst open with raw atomic pleasure.
Reek of burnt flesh . . .
Face melted to the road . . .

Psychedelic bicycle spokes
unfold my head in the wind.
Echoes in the tunnel.
Thumping certainty of death.
Sudden attack of white numbness,
liquid nausea burning cold.
Mad eyes blinking through
rivers of sweat.

Distant hum of machinery . . .
Voices fragment into Sunday madness . . .
Face melts into the soundless river.
Broken eyes reflected like moonlight.
Silent flicker of aquatic voices.
Airless curtains breathe,
superimposed mushroom cloud.

White mind fragments falling
in blue cosmic gyrations.
Luminous brown clouds
forming expansive nodules in the wall.
Leaves sway in the wind
tracing cloud-like sadness
on my forehead.
Face remoulded in the purple dawn.

Oblique

birds sing in evening light,
cars commit their sins to the floor,
we all at war
trying to find the eye of the non-moon.
Secular transformations at dawn,
tea cosy upon silent square kitchen head.
Oblique reasons chatter,
discerning the weight of mother's bathroom scales,
two o'clock in the third eye
words fall in the last dance of death.

non poetry

"Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
When you know that my poems are not poems,
Then we can speak of poetry!"
- Ryokan 1758-1831

Beyond words

"The bait is the means to get the fish where you want it,
catch the fish and you forget the bait.
The snare is the means to get the rabbit where you want it,
catch the rabbit and forget the snare.
Words are the means to get the idea where you want it,
catch on to the idea and you forget about the words.
Where shall I find a man who forgets about words,
and have a word with him?"
- Chuang Tzu

To begin

"And it is all one to me,
where am I to begin
for I shall return there again."
- Parmenides