Strobe Anna

Early cuts of a creative novel.

Every time I try to paint the pieta, something happens - the Vatican! That must be where it's from. Alabaster walrus trots thru the Poe. Edvar Greco reenacts the globular mysteries of his shining fondness. Gandhi's spinning wheel rhymes in strands wiv the deaf metallic krypton. Iconoclast shifts twice in the wind. A grasshopper appears whirring a chorus of Sidney Bechet....

Obama Whitmanite

Swords clashing with the to and fro centaur warblings. Anna arrives from her retreat in the upper stratosphere. Ffestiniog railways festooned with oodles of imagination. Pay no attention to the lashing rivulets for they are possessed with the dementia of silent dead feet.

Captain Strobe: Ahar! Well I'll be, I have found the pearl at the bottom of the oceans.

Anna: A chorus came upon them. Has anyone found my fleetwood mac cd?

Strobe: The very essence of the mandala you see is made up of a tiny amount of green hairs that fibrillate ever so rapidly, creating the cosmic illusion that you are on an organic pirate ship.

Anna: I've got a funny feeling in my bones. There's a hermit out in those woods, and he's taken a fancy to my doorknocker.

A Ginger Emma Hanid sprinkling paprika on my mother's grave.

Ghosts aboard ship.

A turgent demon appears writhing furiously. Red beard mayavision...
Razor sharp beard, cutting the edges off concords. How does it seem? Am I merely living a religious dream? Motionless scorpion revolving on the night's hibiscus andolution.
selectivity appears conquering the inner savage.

Ruthfull Rackham appears, forstering secrets in a jar. "Woof" he cries as he leaps into the silent yellow cavern, the Chinese chef's daughter's lair. "A lantern for thee". All plastic it was with a charming melancholy around it. "We were told three days was the correct amount of time to wait for the black ooze. It still hasn't appeared." Cold atrophy all around. The night gleamed with the violet-coloured stroganoff. As the apathy weaned it's blue cusp around the foolish neighbours, the water on the sill rippled gently. "An omen from afar" whispered Ruth Shakti.

Mayavision the golden masked avatar appears. Razor beard hand cut by his own poetic hand. "I shall appear in seven days. And I shall paint a wonderful cymballistic Shakti. A near spontaneous ritual.
A green greek god appears dressed in orange. He is lolloping up and down, drinking Aspall Cider. His eyelashes are slightly drooped. His red wicker mexican hat falls down over his head. He pukes in a skip on the way back from watching football at the pub. A banjo playing stiff lays abandoned naked tattered in the hall.

Put the poem in the pan

Receiving from his mother Earth new strength
the air expired from whence the fresh mother,
liberearted from the veil of parliament, ventured a
reverie to Jerusalem whose flesh still pounds
with the virtue of a thousand years.
In what Parish of Father's mother, courageous
fountain of salted riddle. Proudly Dutch
amphibian museum of scattered leaves in the sunshine.
Super Aquarian morpheous rock symphony.
Divine jazz proudly devoured along the fiery globe.
Angels on full sail - no plums for the watchtower.
William Bright the mowgli of vida-quarters.
Unseen pile of catalogues misplaced in a society
of wolves. Delegated terrapins sent to orgasm
in the juice of the infinite fairy dust.
Stomach settled to the blow of mysterious saxophone waffles.
Mescaline wails, a conversation of madman to madmen,
always assailing after the gone woman.
Great muse of Nelson's shoulder. Silvery blue-green
Macaws shouting the true nature of the abyss into
the heart of the statue.
- Fulbourne art room

V's party

the silent waves of Venus in the sky
cats eyes of purring subtlety
Orion also glittering in his forgotten strag
In the midst of near acid extravagance
catapulting strings of that sweet gange
change track listen to the crete absorbs
Orbs pulsing without
stratospheric burning of the stars
above and within
mystic turnin' trip
effervescent we gather
another pulsing wave
of stereoscopic sound
spreading throughout the whole party

All things have wings

Meditating on the kingfisher
Great globules of silver-blue
hallucinations descend from the sky
shards of melting molten glass
fibrillate thru the liquid saffron wind...

Bedtime Story

There was once a woodcutter who lived in a hut in the forest and he carved a beautiful figurine of an owl. He carved the eyes and carefully shaped the feathered wings. One day a little boy came and played with the owl, he kissed her and she gained the power of flight. The owl flew away and lived with the little boy. The old woodcutter started painting and as he painted he turned into a many coloured kestrel.

Retreat Poem

We all in waves
detect the hindrance
there is no hindrance
In life and beauty we walk
floating channels rise to the ceiling
there is no ceiling
Wings of hope
arise from a lotus flower
I hear Earth's cry - or it's beat
the Divine whisper
of consciousness
As leaves begin to fall
this spectral august
outside the window
of the meditation hall
I think of my daughter
and wonder where a bear
might find a pot of honey
around here.

Train to Libourne

A painted pen
seeks out the wren
when foremost jelly jangles reach libourne
an open traipse
thru eloquent grapes
master of design
caught in cycles of deliverance
together we chime
again we seek that silent moan
of nonchalent ecstasy
float my pretty tulip
through the realms
where every woman
is a goddess Athrone
and man basks in nature's
tender ooze...

Jardin Atlantique

a wandering ocean in the sky
several species of
hydroponic, metabolic
almost nirvanic tree ravens
London hours past,
an erection already fellated by the bees.
There are no bees.
Oh, a willow
a pillow surreal
in anticipation of the Divine
- Paris

Whitman, Passage to India

O we can wait no longer,
we too take ship O soul,
Joyous we too launch out
on trackless seas,
Fearless for unknown shores
on waves of ecstasy to sail,
Amid the wafting winds,
(thou pressing me to thee, I thee to me, o soul,)
Caroling free, singing our song of God,
Chanting our chant of pleasant exploration
With laugh and many a kiss,
(Let others deprecate,
let others weep for sin, remorse, humiliation,)
O soul thou pleasest me, I thee
Ah more than any priest O soul
we too believe in God,
But with the mystery of God
we dare not dally.

Candlelight boogie

Robert Jones tipped the cup to his lips, imbibed gracefully the dark green liquid. Held in the mouth and wavering softly inside, this medicine of the gods tasted almost horrid. Outside swine fever gripped the nation. Although no-one semmed to get it - only on the TV. Perhaps the government created an imaginary virus to see how far it would spread. Anyway back to the story. You see Robert Jones was a sensible man, unafraid of the wrath of The Man. Silently he watched the world, seeking higher energies, he would submerge himself in childhood dreams, climbing the mountain forest of Comares to the communal football grounds. There the boys would play all day imitating their idols. Pele, Maradonna et al. Now Stefan was a surfer. On a day like this he would cycle down to the sandy beaches picking up an ice cream on the way. Raspberry ripple flavour with drops of raisins in. He'd hand in his pennies and cross the lady's palms with silver. As he reached the beach he realised it was high tide so he cycled further on along the coast until he found a keep. A wooden building with a solid door. He knocked thrice and out of the woodwork came a pink jewelled cricket bug. It chirped sweetly.
"What's your name?" said Stefan.
"I'm asterisk" said the bug. "Do come inside, your welcome to sit by the masters stove." The cricket bug pressed a button inside and the door opened. The corridor was dark but there was a light from a candle flickering inside. Just visible was a man at a worktop very carefully carving a figurine. Stefan approached nervously watching the innocent flame burning. Shadows leapt and licked the ceiling.

First poem in new sketchbook

Purple rose
lights glowing in the distants
waves rising synchronous
In nights fine tide
Burning listless, great wisps of delight
thru veiled channels of tempered awe
We climb together
Raising our symbols of thought
toward eternity
turning our proud envelope
in the face of it
How can I tell with mortal tongue
the immense beauty of her eyes
As the gentle summer rain
falls in the garden
we snuggle, tender, spiritual.
Above, the great cat
in the sky
bleeds mystic
with melting lies
No voice can speak
as moon fades to sun
I hear the ripples
of ancient ages past
Glory of the tribe with no name
All that and so
it never ends.

To her

I claim your hair
soft agony on a sunday morning.
I sing a choir to your belated walrus.
Tempestuous sunlight woven
thru the fragile features
of your angels fire
singing from myself
towards you
untying the knots of tragedy.
As I nestle in your baudy temple
I have fallen again.
I claim your camembert
and your gruyere.
The vast enormity of
your passion draws me in.
Your armpits intoxicate me also
I am one with your pubic hair
A smiling wetness as I
navigate your emulations
I've seen you unleash your
Roman fury.
Burning gold like a mare in heat.
Laugh that laugh when you
breathe in your clothes
but slip off those panties
and we'll see a different expression!

Elm Tree

Before leaving mention the
catapulting shennanigans
that grow within the quiet shade.
beard mulligans
Pray to the sweet.
Unlight the blurred lights on the
shakey ship to nirvana.
Caravaggio fornicating wild with the
wild maenads of the Aegean hills
Chalk solitudes
Trappist beer mown silken again...
The golden giants press
fierce against the glass of their
meaningless chimneys.

Social Centre Invocation

Weave that fragment
Feel the wheel
Revolve from the uber-left.
Chanting the names of
poets long forgotten
Bringing them back into existence
Allow the eloquent fry up
to perceive their own flow
And the river keeps on flowing.
A University punt aflame on the Cam!
Sisters of infinity...
Gypsy rainbows from heaven!
Should ye find gold in the tunnels
or mountains of ice on the balcony
Just aim for Arjuna,
shoot your arrows wide,
and choose your fork wisely

East Sabbath

Where did your meaning go?
resting as it does in
the neverending sanctuary
of the sweet insatiatable
clicking fire of the moment.
Rotate your bliss thru
the chimney of your soul.
Set apart the devastating thunder.
Let it aim meticulous
washing every folicle,
a walking, ever changing call.
Swaying golden wind
The turning of chi...

Candlelight Boogie

Robert Jones tipped the cup to his lips, imbibed gracefully the dark green liquid. Held in the mouth and wavering softly inside, this medicine of the gods tasted almost horrid. Outside swine fever gripped the nation. Although no-one semmed to get it - only on the TV. Perhaps the government created an imaginary virus to see how far it would spread. Anyway back to the story. You see Robert Jones was a sensible man, unafraid of the wrath of The Man. Silently he watched the world, seeking higher energies, he would submerge himself in childhood dreams, climbing the mountain forest of Comares to the communal football grounds. There the boys would play all day imitating their idols. Pele, Maradonna et al. Now Stefan was a surfer. On a day like this he would cycle down to the sandy beaches picking up an ice cream on the way. Raspberry ripple flavour with drops of raisins in. He'd hand in his pennies and cross the lady's palms with silver. As he reached the beach he realised it was high tide so he cycled further on along the coast until he found a keep. A wooden building with a solid door. He knocked thrice and out of the woodwork came a pink jewelled cricket bug. It chirped sweetly.
"What's your name?" said Stefan.
"I'm asterisk" said the bug. "Do come inside, your welcome to sit by the masters stove." The cricket bug pressed a button inside and the door opened. The corridor was dark but there was a light from a candle flickering inside. Just visible was a man at a worktop very carefully carving a figurine. Stefan approached nervously watching the innocent flame burning. Shadows leapt and licked the ceiling.

Welcome to Spontania

Football fans chanting Hare Krsna. Garlic smells wafting through the open window.
A Roman scaffolder strolls through the square. "Keep your eyes wide shut yeah."
The priest Zadok guarding the Covenant Box in Jerusalem, smokes a fat spliff while Absalom's rebellion musters outside.
Soldiers rattle through the streets on horses burning the old lawhouse and looting the banks. Saracen slash, blood bursts in a violent arch of red ooze. "Then Absalom turned to Ahithophel and said "Now that we are here, what do you advise us to do?" Ahithophel answered, "Go and have intercouse with your father's concubines whom he left behind to take care of the palace." So they set up a tent for Absalom on the palace roof, and in the sight of everyone Absalom went in and had intercourse with his fathers concubines."
Far off in the distance by the stream of a river a motley crew of fishermen gather. Iridescent rivulets of crystal water swirls nonchalant with the setting of the orange sun. It is the midst of summer and one of the men has eaten 7 grams of psilocybin mushrooms. Half an hour in waves of veils lifting, rounded surface of dreams... Jesus appears saying "Keep it mild man." An inexplicable attracting force emerges in soft eddies from just above the river. A small buzzing bug lands on a purple flower. Clouds tracing the slow ecstasy of the earth upon his forehead. Sifting arabesques revolve and merge into the ageless simmer-pot of his mind. Paltry wings of light just visible sliding unseen beneath the trees.
The men collect themselves and decide to ride into Spontania. "We must reclaim the Covenant Box from Zadok" announces Tobiah the Ammonite. He is the leader of the band of sage warriors. In his mid-thirties with a tufty brown beard, he has rallied his forces first against the Romans, then the group of spinesucking Christians led by Paul, who were at this time rewriting the scripts of Time, setting up a ghastly process that would lead the world to an Age of spiritual dullness and brutal conformity.
Subtle dynamite muffled on the horizon. The band approach the town from a Western ridge. Catapulting headlong into the wind. Yehudi takes out his violin and weaves a silken thread of dancing dread in the sky creating a distortion in the central temple's energy field. Slicing thru the outskirts of the city they mow down irate Christians with their katanas. As they fly into the temple stilletoed nuns rush to the wings screaming. Zadok draws a bongful of aromatic skunk and jumps from the top of the tower into another reality. The band look on, their mouths stained crimson from the massacre of a hundred Christians.

*I don't know what I was thinking here. I actually quite like Christians and sometimes consider myself one.

"Primal Sauce, man"

Blank unfolding metaphysical pasttime.
Does it matter which coast the words rhyme
their jellyfish with as long as the soaked jeans
skim with ambivalent mould.
Researching the foundations of magical knowledge
I find the quantam link between all cosmic notions
of deathlessness.
I am Consciousness and the undying silence
is mightier than the trill of the quill.
Beyond the vanity of Jerusalem monkeys
St Paul's trip falls sideways
into Gnostic reminiscences.
I was Philip in the desert as he
dreamed of the Magdalen's kiss.
"For the good are not wholly good
nor the wicked wholly wicked,
nor is life merely life,
nor death merely death;
each will return to its primal source."

The High Ole of Gart

Beyond the instant need for gratification.
the veil of desire.
brief contemplation and vision of the Divine...
Silence black on the video screen.
unmoved image,
solid magic...
Sounds of ancient Morocco beamed from modern France
as a coffin dodger wheels past past on his
fifteen-to-one induction device.
Crocodilius crevice,
untoward advances of the knobbly old writer
Mr Burroughs, teacher of pirate revolutions
and the subtleties of addiction.
Uncover the clear stream as it tumbles
from Che's hilltop camp to Havana coffee shops,
brown sugar tipped from the holy eucalyptus tree.
So much bravura and slight temptation.
Wrestling with the armband of sarcophagus fury.
Solemn giants walk thru the dreamlike rotunda of
hanging rainforests, ivy draped on the wise old
tree of knowledge.
Boosh! Left-hand curler sidekick undeniable
wisdom of the pure breast-filled landscape.
Ancient waterfall in the Irish country,
jelly-shoes skirting over sleeping pebbles.
Ah, what morning mist was I born of?
What bohemian duskfall emerging from
the late seventies.
Who stole away an sublime bite of the fruit
before it went mouldy.
Who still sits silently reaching
in every direction, and none,
as the succulent peach of eternity
falls with ease into the universal mudra.

Haiku

no-joint requiem
Savour the eternal wheel
entheogen dreams

are you on fire legs?
have you levitation inside?
"Yes come back later..."

The Fugs Part 1

Quality stuff from original beatnik tumble-down doobie freaks The Fugs. With Ed Sanders who wrote Tales of Beatnik Glory.

The Fugs Part 2

Orgiastic microphony!
Worth holding on for 'Super Girl' at the end.

Sappho's Violet Curls

A feminine spirit of Love
stands between us, smiling.
Mushroom mirror above,
time floats in music, whiling.
A startled doormouse Hicks to sounds
Effervescent table-cloth huddled around
Ever overflowing trays of ash
Complimenting the invisible stash
Glass piping fields of mauve
Unto Sappho, we climb betroth'd.
Generous atmosphere of friendship
surrounds our underground starship.
As daylight wanes
Outside, a violet sunset
Hints at Sappho's famed mane
Dancing inside, inside all is warm
We end with candles beating flames
A cosmic man, from whence he came?

- with Nicola

Something

The artist
in the silence
reaches up
to touch the soul of Heaven
While inside
a fluttering heartbeat
slows down
way down
til the sounds of the empty road stir
and the ebbing gas heating blinks off
In the hushes silence
an angelic Muse
beams from the wall

amazon ayahuasca

Getting high with Obama

Happy new year! and well done to the first black president.

Folk song (unfinished)

I hear a song of paradise
while the ship doth sleep in the maze.
While our hero drops the power dice
and the Genie slips his gaze.

Oh, one fair day our heroine
she stooped neath the shade of the trees.
She grasped a gem from the clear blue stream
And her hair it blew in the breeze.

Musing

Oh, flower of the revolution
sing your poetry with your eyes.
Sad eyes, nonchalant in poverty,
wide mad eyes, giddy from haven's flight.
Remove your dark tears from night.
Paste a new channel from the
great threadbare history...
Solemn Love illuminations,
Revolatory meanderings beyond borders.

whisper your dreams

As the sun to a shadow
so the bike wheels
to the yellow lines
Silver balloon hanging surreal
from the gangly tree.
Pink traily reflections,
dithering indigo light over the pharmacy.
Fulbourn bound in winter,
making energetic loops in orbit
around this disparate microcosm.

Artroom reggae

effervescent museum,
Forget the tattered labyrinths
of deep bleated Universities...
Corroborate the languid moment.
Fill your soul with the beauteous
Earth mystery.
Within and without;-
Arm the spirit with solid fusions
Bathe your soul and merge
at last to the lazy night.