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.
20 February 2008
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.
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.
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. . .
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.
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.
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.
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."
"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.
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!
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.
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.
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
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
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
where am I to begin
for I shall return there again."
- Parmenides
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