The Second Second

Unawarely aware
The clock trickle stopped
Unnumbered number
Inanimate animation
Think not yet to think
Time divided provided
Consciousness hence
Self sense
Eternity gone in a moment

Silver Serpent

Thrilled bliss
Killed by a kiss
Willed sly desire
Filled to burst
The first man banish
In a snag dragging quagmire
Finish the phoenix
Twin dominatrix
From a smiling trial
Of sin denial
The guile of glib
Fibbing libido
Giving credo to ego
Living high
At my third eye
Stirred
Purred
Spat that fat saucy source
The coursing snake awakened
Remorseful indulgences taken
Divulging the bulging treasure
Costly pleasure
Much more lost
For the devil levelling touch
Dishevelling quaint restraint
The flowering power devoured
An hour of drama
Devouring charming
Plum karma
Come

The Bed Egg

Alone in my single bed I mysteriously become aware of myself as another observing this scene. My bed now contains, or rather supports, a large white egg as big as itself. Somehow beyond space and time this egg opens to show that it contains a couple in coitus embrace. This pair seem aesthetically perfect, with smooth elegant sensual forms and flawless proportions. Their limbs are wrapped in an intimate twine as they lay motionless in a statuesque pose, somehow reminding me of the two coiled snakes on the Caduceus of Mercury or perhaps the DNA double helix. Their skin, like the egg, is a gorgeously soft luminous porcelain white, with their hair a slightly off white straw yellow. They are sublime lovers in their first bloom, like Cupid and Psyche. Around them silently buzzes a strangely still ambience, in which fiery passion and eager ardour are oddly absent. They seem to exist in a limbo libido, unmoving yet ever implying motion.
Somehow this Love Egg and the Courting Couple are within me as I view them from without, they prevail in the same zone, the perpetual place where I subsist. The egg represents a possibility of my self which contains a hermaphroditic completeness within, a fully balanced Yin and Yang, masculine and feminine in consonant harmony.
This fleetingly quick image has a slight vagueness , a slippery quickness that not only robs it of a sharp hard scientifically brutal precision but also gives it an almost coldly pure romantic resonance that has far more subtle power than those clearly delineated lines that endure through reality. To me has been given a transient vision of the absolute individuation that lies pregnant within, the potentiality of integral completeness which is the kernel of all spirit and indeed the universe. Like me this New Future Fantasy now sleeps, resting for fulfilment in its True Present Actuality.

New Future Fantasia

The savoured flavour of even fresh flesh is too vulgar for the plumed, groomed, costumed masquerade of our delicate decorum. Here the worshipped agenda of each precious pretender is Platonic, sensed beyond, within and above the mere sensual. Signs and symbols suggest, invest and contest through hints and glimpses such possibilities that, although already well known by every prisoner of discretion, still continually reinvent and compliment themselves as seductive mysteries. Through exquisitely implicit projections we crave and rave to become what we are not, yearning to be what we desire. How else can Nature play her eternally vernal game with creatures to regally refined and nobly designed for the crude, rude carnal carnival, too celestially cerebral for the plain strain of vain physical fiasco.
Artificial attractions forever arrive and thrive through similar, familiar variations of broken awoken symmetries, cutely acute angles, flowingly knowing hesitations and awkwardly ordered poise. Archetypal arrangements bring strange allure to a love too pure for the devil’s distractions. We flick through tricky triangulations to square the circle, miracles almost mathematical entangling our passions in fabulous fashions of mundane appearance.
Civilisation walks through gravity’s favour, containing our running, cunning urges in voluntarily voluptuous bondage of delicious restraint. Indulgences of imagination spur through the poetry of pose our demure refusals, contagious complications and clever confusions. The children of God play as flowers of form, shifting and sifting apocryphal allusions through conventional combinations and delightful excuses.
And so we go on to never quite know what is obviously obscure, while the work of creation slips through seemingly frivolous frustrations to execute its most serious purpose. Self consciousness somehow spreads through that most universal of exclusions, that Hermetic division that maintains the vitally crucial dialect of life. The immense essence of all this staggering farce comes to pass in a moving metaphor of petty pretence, a fatal fold disturbing the rigid regularity of as it should be, a curving, swerving crease in the fascinating fabric of space and time that inexorably holds emboldened man to its far spanning plan.

Grammar Sham

Remain does meaning when words the order of changed is, or contingent is it sentence structure on? Or elusive, evasive, this matter does in between somewhere lie, yet difficult obvious vaguely? Neither wholly either partly or is descriptive, prescriptive grammar? Is logic syntax by dictated or independent the rules of thought of it is? Grammar custom merely is, ages the wisdom of, language crystallised the common consciousness into, or it express does the character people of the, logic the race of the, the mind herd of the?
Meaning does out of words structure leak into, or is part some understanding of placement intrinsic to? Continuum is a meaning concepts compartmentalised arbitrarily by our, or our words do have an intrinsic reality ourselves beyond? Does flow or step consciousness, or stutter flutter, or wonder ponderingly in tackle each shackle? Do know really you I what mean if the even ostensible of meaning my utterance different plainly is clearly my from meaning intended? Meaning how is this beyond made grammar clear, induction, deduction by, or other some, faculty psychical even magical or? Say we what do mean we say or mean we do what? Meaning meaning of what is the, mean does it what mean to something? Talk we as think do we, think or talk as we? Know we do we what know? Know you if mean I what proved I have my point?
Scheme another dream just is? Know we mean what we do speak when we, meaning somehow or is us through flowing, of universe the mould an essential utterances our by which power inexorable of this conduits are merely? Truth language dictate does merely or sing in key the grammar that provides? Grammar just is distinction social, distraction polite, an affectation artificial?
Genesis, analysis, psychosis or genius is? Just go does yonder flow show or the world of the wonder? Devil the detail in is the, or ambiguity is evil of the source? Earnest full in am I, or I do my own antithesis practise my thesis prove I to?
Mean you do know what I?

Atoms

Atoms bit split sprawling all
Pinch clinch tiny, prick pick small
Atoms that as matter bare
Solid liquid, rigid air
Atoms get the world spelled right
In Karmic harmony
Atoms yet beheld meld tight
You who strew through me

 

Queer Query

“Why is there something instead of nothing?” asked Sacred-Naked Self, that plumed, bloomed, doomed convolution of blessed, stressed consciousness. But Existence, with Zen Profundity, unanswered No-Answer, Non-Existence weaving and binding the Unheard Absurdity of Is-ness with a Pythagorean note of staggeringly static resonantly violent silently acid placidity.
“Aaaah” peeped Square Awareness, ever vain to explain! “‘Tis so the Puny Universe can understand its Free Being, and thus made cognizant of its Mode of Abode can achieve the Great Consummation, that Union Communion of Two-As-One, knowing itself as both known and knower.”
“Yet” rejoined I-By-My Eye, “That does not demonstrate why here, there and everywhere there Is, rather that Is Not. For surely, by the Quick-Pick-Sticky Logic of Simple Sense, it would be easier, straighter, more obviously obvious and less improbably improbable for Nothingness to be, or Not-To-Be, if you get my drift, rather than this almost impossible, virtually imponderable Chance-Dance parade of What-There-Is?”
Still All answered with Nothing, while flabby fab Buddha chuckled and she-bound he-crowned Shiva dealt Death-Desire to his vast band of ever covetous followers, always hungry for That-Which-Is-Not.
“No, no, no!” spoke awoke Ego, our ever clever Zero Hero. “By my Eye-All-Seeing, Being is made in my Imaginary Image for me to be As-I-Am, the glory of I-ness reflecting and connecting through each leeching, preaching atom of choreographed laughter at my own joke.” So saying, his guillotined giggle died of its own bored accord, its rippling riddles petering out into ready eddies of dross cross chaos.
Meanwhile things carried on just as always, certain circles of familiar, similar yet strangely changing circumstances pleasing and teasing those who care to dare The Way. The Ultimate Question, the Mystery of Mysteries, the Stark Dark Mark of Actuality remains for all to see but none to grasp, mocking, shocking and blocking the very progress it begets. Time sits, fits, then flitters away, while Space oppresses all it expresses, exposing the futility of man’s plans and spans with its massive stasis of infinite eternity.
So let us again ask that Issue Of Thatness, “Why is there something instead of nothing?” As usual the answer we are looking for is in the question we provide. Indeed, the devil is in the detail, the letter is in the word, and the teeth are in the smile. As our previous inquiry shows, there is not something instead as nothing, for there is veritably something and nothing, all together, co-existing or not as the case may be. Something exists within Nothingness, and Nothing surrounds and supports Something. Without one we could not have the other. Incompleteness cannot subsist within that which, by definition and principle, is complete. That is only in contrast and opposition to Not-That. There is No-Other-Way that things can be, simply because there is no other way. We can chew on this final Thud-Dud realisation for perpetuity without ever gaining a meaningful bite, so we had best swallow it whole or spit it out.
Let those Self-Aware bear their share of fair spare prayer, happy in the snap flapping rap of tail-biting trail-sighting enlightenment, sentimentally pondering the yonder with a tense hence sense of wonder. Let the Ego flow fast and shallow, cast no further that its own shackled shadow, accounting and surmounting all paramount illusions and confusions of its own engendering pretending agenda.
And let us, Those-Who-Are-Here-And-Now-Somehow, give Gracious Gratitude that This-Is-So.

Thoughts Walking Down A Busy Street

 

Through fleeting familiars we see ourselves, knowing others by empathy. Embarrassed by such intimate recognitions we practise obsequious politeness from within our privately arrogant bubbles, fearful of the full contact we so desperately crave. Fascinated by the variations of form we observe on each face, we experience the one eternal self so closely that we fail to distinguish it from its myriad transformations.
We linger to feel restless, then rush to crave relaxation, always losing the temporary peace we make with ourselves the moment we are aware of it. Such is the state of consciousness, to crave the pure unconsciousness of total concentration wherein time is defeated, but living on that knife-edge where the manifestations of this powerful focus continually offer an infinity of unique and original distractions that thereby destroy their very genesis.
Awareness always leads to contradiction because, by being aware of itself it fills the perceiver with a new idea that instantly changes the nature of the perceived, which in this case is the perceiver, setting up a continual turbulence of futile grasping at that-which-is-not-that.
Surely this consciousness malarkey is the anomaly? A mistake, a one in a zillion alignment of circumstance that has created me myself and I. Am I the most extraordinary improbability?
These abstruse speculations are simply too much to ponder. They absorb my whole psyche while leading absolutely nowhere. They famish my spirit that craves meaning just as much as my lungs crave oxygen and my stomach food.
Maybe I understand too much. Maybe we all do. It can be seen carved on the faces of everyone who has reached the age of discretion that they are somehow acutely aware of these most perplexing issues, although most of course try their best to ignore them with the multitude of distractions available, especially in these most modern of times. Yet distraction, as we have already seen, kills the very absorption that would solve this existential angst, leading us through cruel circles of self-manifesting temptations that never give what they promise while denying us the pure presence of lonely satisfaction.
Us hive creatures are not designed for this self-sufficient philosophising, which puts us at variance with our fellow humans, and ultimately with nature as a whole. By being aware of awareness, conscious of consciousness, we stand apart from the universe that we are a part of, reaching enlightenment at the expense of love.
And so I carry on walking, purposeful in my purpose, trying to escape myself as my thoughts seed and breed in ever increasing complexities to the rhythm of my footsteps, fuelled by the ample blood supply pumped up by my marching thighs. I must have somewhere to go, so go I do, to come back again, hopefully tired enough for the little death of sleep, the blissful release into nothingness. It has been said that nothing comes from nothing, but here, on this tiny planet floating in a vast emptiness, it seems that everything I and we have ever known has somehow come from nothingness. So now we move from incredible improbability to absolute impossibility. Yet here it all is, on this crowded, busy street.
Never the same moment, the same situation again. All is eternally new, a variation of history utterly particular and peculiar. Such is the fascination that prevents us from going completely insane and eating ourselves up by our own tails. We fall from experience through experience by experience, mercifully juggled quickly enough not to rest on our own improbable impossibility. Perhaps this is why music is so universally appealling, because it sweeps the receptive soul along through the beat of time, continually leaving each moment behind with one foot in the future. Rather like my steady walk, weaving through the obstacles of my mind as I rush through the crush of sundered souls, blundering my way through the race of space.

As You Ride It

 

Flashes of past glory
Dash before me
Fast, contrast
Quick reaction on slick traction
Speed and metal
Proceed, settle
Sweat and tough puff get enough yet late arrival drive survival mode must wait
Trust to fate
Straight road go
Weave the grieving jam
Car struck drama scram aligned behind
Stuck dysfunction junction wind
Find the route to beauty bound
Ground skim land swim slim fit round
Wit acute scoot through who knows
Flows of fantasy free prose
Wheeling, feeling, stealing space
Race the place
Destiny by numbered time
Unencumbered paradigm
Sealing my bicycle rhyme.

Three Little Poems

 

 

ON POETS

Poets are mad
To say
Things are not
What
They are
Is this why
They’re so sad?

 

THE DEVIL HAS WINGS

Remember, dear folks, if charmed bullets you fire
By Heaven, count seven, or kill your desire
For the Devil has wings,
And how sweetly he sings
Of damnation that springs
When our conscience turns liar
For fine fame
We should aim
A little higher

 

A PASSION FOR FASHION

My job is to inspire
The Angels of Desire
For this, indeed
I surely need
Appropriate attire