a red hat / the pale blue horse

 

a red hat / the pale blue horse

I am

no different

to the object

of my perception

I am

an unknown

that I

determine

with an idea

a thought

an action

a dream

a memory

a desire

I come to your heart

always / the visitor

respectful of dust

the beauty of matter /

the eternity of forms

becoming /

there is only light

and structure

in motion /

brought to earth

in scent and touch

the laughter of eyes /

the dignity of being

for jude

this

is without precedent

words flying

ethereal birds

bright to a sun

before instinct

and flesh

the world is open

there is no outside

(mind)

the pristine lake

reflects

the untouched

mountain

spinoza

was right

is all I could say

on that day

consciousness

as the relation

between

deep physics

and the surface

displayed

and in the midst

of this

eternity found

you and I

in all the colours

of the heart

without hope

or pity

the reborn

of necessity blind

standing

together

hand in hand

the world as

given to

human consciousness

is

one possible

presentation of

reality

mind is

the world in

appearance

the reflection

of reflection

into itself

(the observer

that cannot be

observed)

beyond this

is what

is never seen

therefore

the object of

knowledge

and to this

we bring only

imagination

poetry

in all it's forms

pyrrho

galileo

picasso

walking

in a sun drenched

garden

through

the soft shadows

the melody of

voices

the beautiful

morning

and for the journey

of each day or

any moment of thought

everything

is in abeyance

and we must choose

the totality is placed

in brackets

only a focus

becomes the point

of argument

you go yea or nay

and move onward

or time does this

for you

and so the question

'where was I?'

to the next question

and so on

luckily

the body gives us

the possibilities

of pleasure

and the reason is

to enable

forgetfulness

or

the simple beauty of

illusion

that is

the world as given

as such

before thought

and there you have it

sweetheart

the only gift

of the gods

unknowing

at any time

or place

what is said

what is not said

the politic

of the day

at the UN

or across

the kitchen table

the logic of it

is stable

p or -p

the picture is never complete

if you paint leave an empty space

when you see this painting

you will see a truth and know

the rest are false / god was made

a finished work and has no bearing

on / as for people it's a street

party until death / and even then

just the momentary illusion of

an end / beware of the elegant

the success story and other

mathematical fictions / deliver us

from reality amen

or

live respectfully

p.s.

forget your history

(other people have it)

also

no one has found a fact

yet

despite centuries of

couture

and

the endless crafting

of sound

(for what?)

the original marks

were made

on nothing

or should I say

everything

is here

we just can't grasp it

from the inside

that should be

clear enough

(there were

a number of girls

I should have

mentioned)

it is all just a question

of colour

you can't live without it

no matter

what you strip down to

or discard

the invisibility of consciousness

we have only poetry for

or crude implements

like the mind-brain identity theory

we are aware but not

of what

you might say

to the walking man

the world has no end

once you see through the sky

and so we are left

without a beginning

even better

said the bar room girl

17

(everywhere you find

lost angels)

there were days

of pure pleasure

that would not stop

girls mud wrestling

in the street

dwarf bowling

at night

and everyone was in love

(I tell the truth)

the strange thing is

you just walked

through a door

that is all

I knew all the mythical heroes

and the drama of being

is the wonder of detail

the infinite complexity

of flesh and spirit

will leave you spent

pure joy / cannot be

deconstructed

as they were wont to say

in the last century

it is all gone now

I live in brown wood

in a blue world

where there are beautiful

waitresses

and in the fields

ancient beings

wander in peace

as if there is no reason

we look for

clear lines

in experience

there is only

the passion

of sense

the action

of mind

blind determination

with no

reference

the city

is an eternal memory

every block of stone

reflects

the place of facts

they fly invisible

made still only in eyes

so

relations between

is all it is

despite colour texture sound /

substance is

mind stuff

the world has made

an african girl

with beautiful legs

margie

old friends

standing

in the eves

sad eyed

and alone

in the sunshine

we meet

for a memory

of one

who will not

come again

with her eyes

full of joy

mad from the start

with moments of extreme

lucidity

eyes will close slowly

and eyes will open wide

there is a transfixing

and still who is to know

anything?

I recommend a quite life

forget the question of self

(as if it is to be resolved)

you can live joyously

outside the ground is solid

the sky is blue forever

there comes a time

when you will have nothing

to say

when language is just

a memory

of one beautiful face

extremes of spirit

take too much

and if you come back

the dislocation

is a permanent shadow

across your heart

(witness

the present)

learn from what you see

be careful

in what you give

                                                                                                                                     

there is no reason

or god

there is only desire

(or it's infinity of

masks / and names)

the ghosts will come and go

everyone is welcome

I have no grasp on

the facts

whatever the were

there's only

torn fragments

coloured carnival strips

flapping in the wind

broken coloured lights

(no one is left

in the darkness)

it becomes a question

of what

my darling is

a beautiful woman

with a sharp brain

and a gentle touch

snow is godlessness

colours make all

the difference

the world is a tautology

mind a necessary

fix

and a body is

all you can

touch

5.2

only the loss of colour

shape definition true

this is the history of eyes

(blood is the measure)

the real horror is

the illusion is fixed

it replicates / eternally

and each scene in time

a perfection unique

how can this be?

fellini / the indefinable

is desire

and it is nothing but

entropy

the world an object

made for consumption

(I hate to say)

and gone / traces

washed blue

we are the end points of bright shadows

the stars / choreography

the ancient set that cannot be

dismantled

a pauper's cover

the hobo god or god the hobo

what a trick

the purity of black / is everlasting

the drink is breath

inhale / exhale

holi

(for vikram seth)

there is no place

sacred

every point an illusion

possibility

of mind

and time / the memory

of hearts

the world is the place

of scattered things

dancing

we touch /

figments in eternity

the moment

of light

gone

before the knowing

there was a garden

and a singer

of delight

addiction or freedom

women dance through

the translucent frames

the pleasure is being alive

mathematics

co-ordinates in grey space

the mark of death

or a simple madness

necessary

1010101010......

and down the tree lined

boulevard

the idea that has no mind

and is restless

the poets call it spirit

and you were looking for

the answer

strange and beautiful

the red staircase

(the pictures are all false)

and we cannot but love

a red hat / the pale blue horse

it's only definition

there is no necessity here

just a question of

possibility

how to draw the figure?

each / event

the world is remade

and so

no

substance / or design

before the act of making

it is only history

and it's immediate

persistence /

(the fragility of memory)

that hides the blinding light

of nothingness /

enamelled bright

the world is made in our eyes

and we think it

through

and so

the world comes in

sensations persist

in forms recognizable

and exquisite /

(it's the argument of electricity)

sounds of beauty

the impossibility of colour

the eternity of years

and sunshine

I used to wake

to the disappearance

of light

as soft as the sea

without fury

I (stand in the world)

as if it has just begun

the heart without

knowing

as to myself

I have no opinion

if pressed

I will come up with

a point of view

but would rather not

have to say

you see

I have no ground

on which to stand

and I don't know how

to bring definition

to an end

so what is left?

you can judge

if you wish

be my guest

(I suspect everything

is true)

I do what I do

in the sunshine fields

the facts of it

to the wind

albertine by the sea

we accept the illusion

of perception

how else to grasp

the colours?

and with each other

simple assumptions

we make to fact

how else to engage

with light?

time is only

a possibility seen

in another's eyes

the world unknown

and passing blue

I am a point /

of mathematics /

substance /

comes and goes

the clothes of nature /

the leaves of thought

space / time position

is the best you can say

(every place

imaginary)

the bones hold up

the physics

of what you see

there is light in my eyes

origin

unknown

as to holiness and other forms of excess / the blue book

there is retreat from time

immersion

a blind passion of delight

to the centre

(either in pain or pleasure)

to darkness

or the end of light

otherwise

it is the action of numbers

mindless repetition

the world

is only this

when stripped of colour

scent form

(a young woman's legs

down the asphalt street)

or

you can learn to observe

and know

there is no reason

perhaps this is ageless

children and old men

the young at heart?

or what comes

before and / or after

the drums of horror

you are what you see

the world

fleeing in stillness

forgive

honky tonk nights

the text is true /

there is no reference

syntax /

markings on markings

the world begins

the wonder is

you are without bearing

despite the fact of reach

under the broken light

of the eucalyptus tree

(eternity's black green)

we have the choice of costume /

and mask

and the ontological argument

stands

on it's own two feet

still I wonder

where existence goes

(just a side issue)

fermat's last trick -

nothing to calculate

what a kicker!

so back to the apartment

in the city

and you sit there for years

looking out to the river

and no reason

therefore what?

even so

action is the idea here

and the fix is never in

just check the legs

the legs have it

so much for godliness

let me tell you this

despite the fact of stone

desert wanderers

understand the absence

light creates the illusion

of matter /

mind the shadow

the picture translucent

(for geordie boy)

a lady of wild grey hair

walking in the fields /

being aware is all there is /

it is enough / she says

to the silence of dead grass

dancing /

the gods that have become

mountains of love /

and the sky

that is the blue breath

of forever

we are the dreams of dust /

or /

the eyes of trees

see beyond time /

god was the last to know /

the clarity and order of concrete /

argues against the heart /

still we sculpt

as if to make a reason

for space /

illusion works harder

than reality /

out on the rock plains

of new mexico /

as far as the eye can see

endurance / is spirit

1.1

the body reaches /

every soul

(in delight)

the pure truth

anonymity /

(knowing destroys)

the world

out of nothing

spirit / seeking

language

dark history of veins

mindless blood /

deaf roar

lust /

history /

kills

renders to

blank

the spirit /

wild

your eyes

bright

your being /

true

no account

required

report of a world

my reality

the effects

of effects

and the illusion

of choice

no ground

to it

the world /

my experience

a constant

question

space / time

co-ordinates

relative to

nothing

reflection

the pretty young girls

take photos of themselves

in the library forecourt sun

.

what have I become?

what have I done with my life?

what will I do next?

the big game

is set

authority

(as such)

the empty assertion 

is never to be

questioned

only

who is to be

the bearer / the face

democracy or

dictatorship?

it matters not

the constant

must be

the illusion

of power

and who is not a player?

you either

pretend to rule

or pretend to be

ruled

data /

cannot

be secured

secrecy

a myth

authority

an empty

assertion

knowledge

the great

illusion

power

the art of

deception

gaudi

ah yes

perfection is

made

(unless you begin with

everything)

so

it is the mind's eye

I say

intention

and it's result

precision

there

for all to see

&

it is the making

too

of a form

that might well

be missed

helter-skelter

but cannot be

re-made

once

seen

the red rose unfolding

(for thelma)

we move

only in sign

syntax

is all there is

to physics

hence

the exquisite

pleasure

of singularity

and the need

to escape

into / the making of

the invisible webs

infinity

the name we have

for breath /

we are fooled by

the awareness

of awareness

it is the space

of the world /

and timeless

I might say

the beauty

thrust before us /

is everything

we can touch

and this is enough

or so overwhelming

we torture

to ash                                                                                                                              

and call it

living

day to day

the positioning

of souls

cannot be

explained

and I say

blindness

is the traffic

of existence

despite

the luminescence

of yearning

bright

or dying

every heart

on every highway

is suddenly

unforgivably

true

the girl in the library circa 2011

mind

is beyond

the touch of voice

or flesh

and so / knowledge

the barrage of assertion

as if a ground to

human space

there is only desire

left

and the contortions

of identity

designed to cover

light and flame

and the girl

who thinks she is lost

will move

with perfection

of limb

across the polished

floor boards

flying

out / into

the brightness

of space and spirits

to the endless

action of definition

as if beauty is not

still

the cloud inside

(for bryan)

youcarryatalltimes

ever the echo

the sound of grey

falling away

you don't see

rather know

the place of everything

gone

and in the moments

between

you lose the need

to desire

there is nothing to say /

even so

words fly out

and fill the sky

figures of brightness

dancing

(the old soft shoe)

and so

the reaching

to possess

is everything we do

and is in fact

the knowing

that

nothing can be held

here (I would have

to say)

is a truth

perhaps

distraction is

the key

girl voices

making

beautifulincomprehensiblemusic

as lost souls

pass by

shadows

down alleyways

to nothing but

light

the heart explodes

bright

translucent

figments

disappearing

into

the black of nothing

I say

this is the true action

finally

against the power

of every

deception

the complete and utter

unity

of being

yes

awareness

is the illusion

but so what?

as if there is a choice

we are without

account

moments

in eternity

and even here

a logic of our own

making

p and –p

as if we know

or can say

anything

at all

so

proceed /

create

symbols

pretend

explanation

reason

no more than what

must be

(everything)

and each mark

made

where there is no

mark

to be

found

in each centre chaos

the logic of light

is shrunk and contorted

into

an invisible point

and out of this

the showing

the savage need for order

reassurance / identity

to the mistake of touch /

(or the idea of it)

you come to know

over the centuries

between

as the necessary

illusion 

for operating in

the structures

designed 

to hide the absence

i.e. concepts made in concrete

and iron 

(what you walk through etc.)

to cover the indefinable

that is without

description

and is quite simply

a line / out of which

was born reality as

a three dimensional

malleable

translucent and bright

everything

into nothing

(is all you in fact

need to know)

and it replicates within itself

eternally

you see there is no end

to the depth of motion

and thought

but the reflection

reflecting

on this

mirroring

we are perceptions

perceiving

precepts

this is the joyous fact

and inescapable

I would suggest

and we come to the end of

comprehension

right before

a step is taken

or a word

is scratched out

in silence

the old physics

it is the weight

of matter

that holds

the anarchy of spirit

down

and enfolds it

and imposes

structures

on it's running

out of this

the torture

of making artifice

planes of civilization

chains of thought

indeed

every action

of love and hate

to defy

and rail against

the constraint

never broken

the necessity

complete

nb

this knowing

changes nothing

the point is

only

expression

breath

action to no

end

however

at least here

joy

on that summer's day

where there is no

reflection

terror

in that dream

where there is

no way out

therefore

suspect

every underwriting

that calls to question

taste

sound

colour

scent

touch

and every thought

that breeds

another reality

and another

and another

really

all I want to say

is this:

walk into a field

and stand before

a tree

the summertime blues (a remix)

I don't know what I look for when another appears out of nothing what people say is incomprehensible you make up an explanation and match it to a body shape hair and eyes the music of voice or whatever image presents to mind I think my bones are an illusion I am really a deviant logic battling the syllogism of packaged things objects in coloured wrappings and structures of matter stripped down to function grey buildings without a spark of consciousness you come to understand as beauty after years of toil the spirit exhausted I stand apart and watch or this is how I fancy myself on the street humans are distressed hair everywhere dishevelled dress sweating fading dying the air is hard to breathe nevertheless we move on remorselessly clutching shards of meaning on the other hand sensuality is the fluidity we swim in the sky is pure blue landscapes exist but not as we see them we think in order to escape or at least to distract from the unspeakable there ain't no cure for

today

I feel

the exhaustion

of action

of all that I have done

all that I have been

the crowding

of histories

and the seemingly

eternal

working

and reworking of

description

explanation

account

it is as if

there is just

the present

and every act

and word

every place

and face

is waiting to

reappear

to be selected

to be seen

in the blinding light

of now

.

the moment

gone

never held

therefore

I am

this emptiness

of space and time

figured

only in a thought

or the infinite

motion of

eyes

no action

founded

no thought

precise

the syntax

of physics

behind

the dance

we seek origin

reason

the question

profound

and false

but for

the making of

illusion

the ground

of all

necessity

it is artlessness

before the frame

of thought imposed

to still and give

reason / and yet

this imposture never

complete or final

despite every effort

to fix with syntax

and desire

outside

I see with words

(as indeed ...)

so

they are / what is

and how (it) is

expressed

therefore

unity

guaranteed

no matter

who.

and of this?

here

nothing to say

(but of course

we do)

essence

absolute

nature

unknown

etc.

(the true poverty

of utterance)

back to before

there was

in the beginning

everything

everyone

undefined

the sky has a rush of rose 

across the pale blue / 

that turns to white 

and disappears 

(here is the history of everything)

the flow of colours

in colours

this will do

it is

enough.

albuquerque

in all these heads

right now

the action of word

that's my best shot

I think

it is only

the making of marks

of any kind

that reveal

what can be revealed

what

know thyself

amounts

to

the rest is being

inside

the space

of the invisible cloud

you can torture

on this

if you must

or rest in the timeless

ness

that is

yo

roots

in what?

history

is only

a memory

beyond that

what is not

written

and thought?

an image

or an idea

to go on with

a reason

perhaps?

founded on

another 

etc. etc.

the endless

repetition

that finds only

itself

the physical world?

is pure surface

no foundation

to dirt

and so

some imagine

a spirit place

as if

the unseen

is not

the unknown

reason as

the flat line

of earth

it is the vision

before dust

rising

behind the hills

beneath thought

the unknown

logic

expressed

in the life

of eyes

and hands

emotion

everything

that grows

in nature

and dying

sounds

of laughter

and weeping

colours

green

and the infinity

of brown

sky blue

the shapes

that bodies

make

in agony

and love

a turning

back

to absence

the place

of all

beginnings

of form

of sense

of knowing

the meeting

of hearts

in this

nothingness

the only sign

of god

the history of sensuality

ah

the meaning we give

to eyes

every metaphysical

system

a whore to this

the dark moment

of need

the brilliant

dream

and reason pays for

reason

again and again

and again

in the shape

of a thigh

despite

the warfare of

emotions

in blood and bone

and sinew

everything

alive

you finish in

a desolate place

where light

has lost it's way

and memories

go to die

this is what I do

this is what I do

said the philosopher

(possibly mad

but according to him

always an open

question)

in this activity

of mind

time disappears

it dissolves

the world is gone

there is only

thought thinking

thought

eternity

is the beauty

of no place

yes

poetry days

and fragments

of lives

transparencies

images

are eternal

it is just that

eyes

are never still

there are different

kinds

of death

(and they are all

irrelevant)

if the truth be known

existence

is still

and motion just

distraction

from the eternal

the most beautiful

lives

are without pride

or shame

the field of grass

in the sun

beneath

the blue sky

the silent

symphony

and creatures

with imagination

create

out of everything

or nothing

worlds

within worlds

within worlds

our days

the history of sunshine and stars

of dreams

the illusions of the senses

the constructions

of mind

the pure magic

of being

we fall to dust

eyes open

bright

or down cast

the modest heart

of everyman

when all is said

and done

existence

the ground walked

we roam about

unknowing

clothes hang

as if the body

not enough

the spirit

an emptiness

within

the trees watch

detached

the wind roars

blind

I have no idea

why

I am

who I am

or what

I am

I have only

the gift

of weaving

colours

the girl in the sunshine

laughing

the music of limbs

dancing

the heart is empty

when true

this I have to tell you

it's either

p or -p

that's the deal

you can assent

or dissent

argument is

the power play

rhetoric

(this is rhetoric)

the possibilities

of description

are endless

beyond description

the unknown

imagine

points of light

exploding

each one a world

reflecting

in each other

the constant creation

out of nothing

each dying

in the moment

of its creation

and the darkness

is never

diminished

for j

my secret is disappearance

among the tress

I am known as a god

and in the concrete block

world

inferiour /

flesh and blood

still /

becoming /

there is one who sees me

and I have no idea

what she sees

and what she tells me is

it is love

there is nothing else

you can be

the most intense

unity

is of the senses

the deeper joy

beneath

the eyes

all to

the embrace

of

and

immersion

in

the mystery

of

being

emotion is 

the clash of colours

(the point of view

of the gods)

a necessary instability

the nature of light

consciousness

the inside of

physics

the effervescence

of spirit /

(unseen)

auto / bio

a point (unknown) moving through

taking to itself the world in motion / i

I say

there is no truth

to tell

there is assent

make your mark

any mark

x

position

determined

(if you can call it that)

in a myriad of

description

which is to say

I stand

in no place

at no time

perspective

you would imagine

full of content

colour taste

scent

and sound

not to mention

knowledge

nothing more than

accident

within accident

so

it is the heart

yes

the pressure

the rush

the force

of

blood

your identity

is held

in other eyes

other

memories

your descriptions

of you

one take

one view

(no privileged

position

in space / time)

you are free

everything

is true

starbucks

we distract

not from death

or dying

or indeed

from living /

from life

rather from

the source

the unknown

the not-knowing

and so

every artifice

every caprice

a prayer

hard travelling

(the meta journals)

the heart

nail gunned

beats on

oh the lovers

and a life

the endless weeping

of colours

spirit places

landscapes of mind

never dreamed

is where you go

I am / this

conflagration

in the history

of trees

for dianne

and 

we can only 

bow 

in prayer /

for the one 

who 

left today

her laughter

and 

her joy

the great 

gift 

of her 

being

footnote 3

and the imagined life of art

form and style

the grand indulgence?

or simply a way through?

and to live outside illusion

as impossible I would say

crimson robes /

and the chant of ancients

down the city streets /

all colour and sound

I can find no answer

and I have settled for that

it is the history of my endeavour

the mad geometries of pain

the winds in the desert / dancing

before there was a god

who is to say

what /

consciousness

a continual creation of

action

a chaos given structure

in blood and bone

therefore

the mind / body problem

dead in the water

ok

it's inside and out /

just like your house

every person

every thing

an impossible

masterpiece /

out of nothing

or just the fact

of being

and no explanation

required

the fecundity /

bliss / death / ecstasy

the rites of spring

igor

(we are) / in /

perpetual creation

without end

or reason

and the illusions

of stillness / time / things

necessary magics /

to delight

the dance of colours

the elegance of eyes

on eyes

the rivers of sound

to deep blue

9.05 to babel central

electric piano /

steel points of delight /

dancing in pure

nothing

the poet asks /

could you ever be true?

god listening /

the green meadows /

sway

in clean heat /

deadly

the black girl's eyes /

behind black shades /

I keep thinking

the world imagined thus

concrete and steel

idols

(I am trapped)

everywhere

I look /

beauty

in the garden

(for gordon lightfoot)

arcs of light

in perpetual motion

(if a stone thrown

could think

it would imagine

itself free)

we meet / barely touching

the shimmer / to infinity

we intersect /

as if to become matter

composed / a structure

a focus / fixed

in a moment

we disconnect /

and the world

smashes

to particles / bright

in chaos / dancing

to new realms

of knowledge

making strange geometries

or old forms / reconfigured

(this is the best you can say

for recurrence /

fritz)

and the noise of the world /

a camouflage

for the great silence

for the truth

can only be addressed

in stillness

it is the essence

of every form

and is formlessness

a reverence of being

that is being

the origin

without a beginning

or end

and without description

a trace

at the end of memory /

before language

or eyes to see

what

the days

run through us

and infinity

left behind

the silent echo

of a thought

and the spirit

(if you like)

that blankness

of light

watches

and takes /

becomes

the effects of time

and we picture /

describe / imagine

the self

now altered

ever changing

the colours of the sky

the earth / the sea

the sounds of language

(the chaos of form)

the mystery of beauty

in flesh / blood /

her legs walking .....

to the stars

and at the centre

a stillness

incomprehensible

the image beyond

its reflection

lolita on a train

whatever happens

the world is found

complete

in each moment

of delight

and transforms

its actors

made in every image /

sensed

(the self making self)

the history of it

is beyond chaos

(hence: mathematics

deviant / and otherwise

and every fruitless

endeavour

of the bright and beautiful)

the order is the illusion

and this:

the utter necessity

of consciousness / nature

the physics of action

shows us

only what we must see

and love

is the name we give

to every possible display

every truth

of beauty

and despair

the spider's thread

the knowing unsayable

logic

(and we flow in the spirit sea

of forgetfulness)

this life / in light and darkness

the pretence of word and object

time / space

how joyous

the great deception

only in the return

oblivion

the moment in her eyes

the river of her limbs

or nothingness

eternity

is this

reality

no beginning

no end

time

the space

of being

measured

in thought

marked

on stone

meta report: the state of play

the pretence

of reason and order

a necessary

reality

ever under threat

the chaos

of the heart

hey hey mercy woman

and the glory of our deceptions

(every vision of the self & world)

against this

the brutality of logic

yea / nay

stop / go

live / die

hey / ho

judith

explanation

of what?

and why?

her golden hair

sky blue eyes

the sun in her step

the moon

in her heart

words

used to be nails

to pin this world

or pretend

to fix

the fluidity /

as if

a translucence

is ever

mapped

(we live

such hopeless

dreaming)

and I have lost

the desire

for precision

(when I speak

I just wonder

if anything I say

has effect)

I have stopped

trying

and have found

renunciation

in my cell

amongst the trees

(a trappist

after all)

and in this

great wilderness

I listen to

and watch

the sound

the music of syntax

without meaning

and scratch

my soundless

tune

random note

I can be /

sharp to the bone

why?

the world is this

threshing floor

people

are music /

where do we run?

kent doesn’t have a telephone (the crazy little bastard)

every atom / every cell

unique

action

what?

direction

where?

can anyone say

why?

and each thought /

without precedence /

the last straw

why doesn't it all

explode?

tell me that

family resemblance?

ok /

you have to say

something

in the face of

the great mystery / illusion:

coherence / cohesion

wittgenstein

was right

whatever you might think

keep it loose

meta bio / for you

and as to

what

no definitive picture

possible

rather visions

and we cannot say

true

only the painter's

marks / strokes

can make a claim

and still the question

so

any definition /

a forced point

that will not hold

in a moving picture /

the space / time show

substance

may as well dissolve

and thought

won't be pinned

at the beginning

and at the end

whatever you say

or do

is all it comes

to

the history

is dead leaves

in a summer wind

what did I know

but what I saw

what I touched?

my youth

the wild biology

of my limbs

I made a pattern

stamped an imprint

created a world

(I knew even then

all I had was desire

desire and fear

and no hope

at all)

and now

not even a remnant

of meaning

it's action / and reaction

to no end

only the question

left

how to make it through

this hopeless charade

of colour /

of voices /

images in motion?

love is all

I have to say

and I have

no account

to give

here’s the news kiddo

no true

proposition

no objective

view

no absolute

place

we exist in

and operate

within

inter-subjectivity

the self / a malleability

a function of /

other perspectives

(the perspectives

of others)

who would have thought?

stretched and pulled

the spirit being made

perpetual creation

re: augustine of hippo

time  & velocity /

contingent / necessary

operational postulates

there you have it

mass = mind

mind = mass

how else can it be?

or

the history

of auburn hair

bright eyes

a girl standing in a green field

microphone

in hand

bodies

intersecting

macro laws

yes

no law for

desire

the australian heresy (deconstructed)

(for jjc)

hey

it's a dreaming

fixed by what?

call it physics

the great & secret show

we all share

is beyond account

nevertheless

we run as if we know

to what?

the fact / the end

the mind / becomes

just what we never

imagined

(it was)

dust

I exist

as a variable

of logic / nature

what you will

my awareness

(self)

internality

a function

thereof /

folk song

(for kate & anna)

the illusion of self

self sustaining

what isn't in nature?

even the dreaming

everybody walking

can't stop

canto

inside me

is a tree of tears

and all the leaves

are dead

the world

beyond the opera

of image

is pristine

I stand in eternity

the ever desert

and watch

I have no heart

to say

homer & langley

no such thing as a point

mathematical / physical

or one /

that does not dissolve

into nothing

so what is it /

what are we to say?

it is indescribable

and so we make

description

there's the absurdity /

the magic of life

of people

I was really just thinking about

eccentrics

and how they show

in their scattered beauty

the truth to be

artless / ness

homer & langley

kent & cynthia

and of myself / my own history

from the start of memory

through the years

the lives I've lived

to now

every scene

madness

                                                                                                                                   

my old friend

(for mick v)

the shrink / of frame

bright eyes: to street wise

weathered skin

the history of houses

and loves lost

forgotten

and still / a gentle / humble

affection

how we were /

the days of sunshine

I love the mystery

of endurance

(the ways of men

and women

come to one)

the innocence

despite

it's hard to live

to make sense of it

to be one way

throughout

who would say it is possible?

to stay true to what?

we move from grand plans

to minutiae

in search of peace

an image here

a pair of eyes there

something said

a memory

all to find

a place to rest

to be still

our knowing defies our hope

our hope defies our knowing

and with each endeavour

each flight of fancy

we return always

just to where we are

the saturation of colour

the cacophony of voice

the interminable action /

the market place

the unknown

of pure being

we are filled with the world

(there is no absence)

and through us the world

is made in our senses

(the physiology of accident)

the trick is

(for clive james)

the trick is

delight /

the making of illusion

the body /

the chemistry of it

is made for it

the mind / the image

maker

the body's picture

creates

against the fact

of death

and any account

we give

of where we stand /

how or why

dissolves

to nothing

image / to image

to infinity

the length / the breadth /

the depth

the history of

our days

the history of everything

is the impossible emergence and disappearance of forms and perceptions (and really there is no distinction) just what is held in a syntax for a moment of eternity or left as a mark a showing for some unsuspecting without conceit / as if there must be meaning / therefore a mark only for what is not known // what you see in your eyes (reflected) and look for in another's / the endless chain of image back to silence

persons

put themselves together

the practise of physics /

the actions / reactions

of chemistry

the clothes of contingency

and step out /

to the earth / the sky

the structures of the imagination

in concrete and steel

the cityscape

fragile & beautiful

every body

every complexion

on the street

walking

you don't know

do you?

how anyone is

and when facing this

you bring

your own experience

your conceptions

to bear

you bring your uncertainty

to the unknown /

and then proceed

as if

wayne oliver

(for andrea)

and of the one who is gone

the magic of his life

we could only touch

and be touched by

love

a poor answer

to the universe

the only answer

we have

I love you more

poetry

either

it's logical notation /

or

101010 ....

the infinity of construct

and the poverty

of interpretation

(human beings talking

over the fence)

the psychopath's

propositions

spinoza's

metaphysics

jerry lee / at the piano

nothing to be said

 

 

 

(c) greg t. charlton. 2014. 2025.