there is no loss
only the walking back
to the mountain
(behind the fields)
or to dig
into the depths
translucent
the levels of crystal
from light to light
.
all our affairs
the fracture
of emotion
(the clash
of colours
true)
the image
in the lake
(the possibility
of stillness)
a knowing
beyond movement
.
the ground
of sense
pristine
always
the endeavour
the place
untouched
.
in every heart
refuge
the gift of eyes
seeing and seen
from the days
of bright stone
ruby true
no loss
in the unfolding
of time and space
to the beautiful illusion
now
an eternal
presence
at the heart
Edvard Munch Pt. 2
a picture
of existence?
in colours
bright or dark
forms
bound or free
to hold
the flow of being
a vanity
of gods
or the truth
of stone?
art is denial
beauty
is the scream
she steps into me
she steps
into me
she bows
her head
on my chest
my eyes
to the tangle
of beauty
my lips
to the truth
of touch
the colour the noise the space
laughter echoes in the lobby
of the abandoned hotel
time
joy
with no bearings
apart
lost in a darkness
there is nothing behind the image
the street the desert space
energy
the demiurge
without knowing
the moment from nowhere
entails nothing
no cause
desire
the anguish of need
to the desperate of reason
existence
no name
deep in the west
I choose the pure blue sky
as my point of reference
for now
and wish it
forever
that strangeness in every
man
to want
the end of time
as if
there is a stillness
(we have never seen)
perhaps
the reason
of every act
to fix space
and thought to hold
the world
there is no illusion
the earth
a source
forces define
without
beginning
or end
neither chaos
nor design
animals
live and die
man sees man
in everything
a place in the dirt
as if
possession
of space
is possible
(and against
the thwarting
of time)
we kill
for the illusion
in the name of
desire
necessity?
God
the myth of history
the president walks into the reception
and even he cannot believe
the applause
there is no doubt in this room
decisions made
to continue mass murder
theft of nations
and the champagne flows freer
and all the eyes are diamonds
at first he did not understand
went with the flow
and quietly grieved
not the deaths or destruction
rather the loss of feeling
only now has he mastered this absence
how can you be responsible
for history?
and who is to say
the will of God
any god
will tell you
anything goes
and then
you are gone
the state of affairs
the state of affairs
is worse than you think
it always is
behind the imagery
is nothing
and the images?
you cannot make foundation
and any structure
the devil's delight
and if not for illusion
man could not bear
the horror of man
the ground is live
it's the way of men
to kill off
each other /
in a look
a harsh word
a flattery
(and restraint
only a question
of power
tanks rolling in
on scorched earth)
we are not
slaves
of morality
Friedrich
morality is
the stillborn child
of nature
lightning wind and passion
the gift always given
to your eyes
I bring
a definition
undefined
always
a yearning
for what
I do not know
tower of glass
in the tower
of glass
manipulators
preachers
skeletons
in Prada
the only question
on the table
before
the assembly
how to avoid
the truth
and maintain
the illusion
of power
politic for a new day
power
is
assent
(only
this)
say
nay
stock report
a warning to
the designers
manufacturers
suppliers
and retailers
of fear
the market can only hold
so much
stock / expectation
before
a crash
today's tip:
invest in
resolution
close down
unprofitable
outlets
Afghanistan
Iraq
hold back on
expansion
i.e. Lebanon
re-negotiate
franchises
Israel
UK
Colonel Sanders
Uzbekistan
Fox
avoid speculation:
Iran
space travel
Syria
democracy
forget futures
in short: divest
withdraw
the liquidators
are coming
the abandoned
I was told
to come here
I said to the little
bald-headed man
in the threadbare
blue serge
three piece suit
behind the old jeweller's
table
in the secret room
of tired wood
and files
his eyes looked up
in owl spectacles
cold black sharp
he said
in a clear precise
voice
the music
of a blackbird
there is insanity
in these walls
the stone is infected
here
you can feel it
the further
you go out
into the city
you lose touch
it's the noise
that covers it
(that is the reason
for noise)
beyond
in the vault
there is only
the movement
of silence
in the absence
of light
you see the stars?
anxiety
the god
who comes through
the small door
without form or content
only a crackle
the sound of light
(nothing is changed)
everything is white
reflection
forgive me
for only ever seeing
my desire
my blindness
has ravaged created
destroyed
you were there
at each moment of
madness
recognized
decried
celebrated
denied
(it is the colour of ordinary
the language
of walking past
unseen)
what losses
cannot be calibrated
gains?
the resurrection of the day
and so
to nothing
of course
we live only in delight
the display
and testament
the infinite complexity
of a beauty
once touched
the news
it is not
an embarrassment
to the government
when the court
says
it has acted
illegally
if
no one knows
or
few know
but don't
care
it becomes
an issue
for
the ministry
of distraction
information
referred
to
the department
of imagery
truth
an issue
for
the task force
of
comedians
Alcina
mind is
the frame
without a picture
on the wall
paper
text
she is
on the corner
every night
inviting
discourse
negotiating
business
translation
possession
use
the takers come
and go
time does not exist
in delight
and need
no one cares
in the end
where
she came from
or where
she goes to
history
is just her walk
on the pavement
of desire
knowledge
pleasure
relief
the reach
the quest
the hunger
and to
the final truth
of no illusion
no fulfillment
despite
every embrace
every act
of love
or violence
there is nothing
but anguish
and its laugh
on the empty street
in the darkness
you have seen her
desperate
hands waving
at cars
calling out
to death
to take her
and in the morning
wasted
by the milk bar
unknown
to herself
you come upon her
dying
before your eyes
(and always
the question
where is her heart?)
when you see her
again
she is
the most beautiful
girl
in town
dancing naked
in the bar
you hear
stories of her
and know
they are stories
of stories
of stories
from everywhere
and nowhere
echoes
of a truth
yes
but not possible
to find
in her eyes
ageless
political economy
the trick is
to create the need for
surplus consumption
entice to debt
(the trap is set)
political economy II
wealth
is
increased production
increased consumption
necessitates
market expansion
requires
aggression
war
tractatus
I.
true action
is
negation of
possibility
I will do this
fixes
the world
sharp
II.
knowledge
is
the shadow
that asserts
itself
as light
III.
(there is no justification)
only what is held
the embrace of thought
the same river twice
at the end
birds flying
out of
the heart
return to
the absence
of knowing
Veda
and thought
just another
animal function
the moon is mind
it reflects
ancient wisdom
straight up
in the beginning
was death
and death becomes
this is the only mantra
we have refused
the earth
its smell and texture
its appearance
to assert
dominance
when did illusion
appear?
and why
this fault line
in reality
how can a tree
not be a tree?
or dirt
seek
foundation?
the stars do not know
no above
no below
the ground is true
and this
to say nothing
the horse
standing in the field
by the road
eternity
jack rabbit
the rabbit
in the suit coat
(too large)
has been forbidden
to visit the evil one
in the cave
(between 12.00 and
5.00 am)
he must get
written permission
to ring
the sick man
watches the rabbit
and thinks
he is a threat
to fantasy land
the sick man
would like to
lock the rabbit up
the rabbit
just wants to
hop about
sketch
within
the framework
we never get
a fix on
delight / anguish
beneath
the surface
we are bound to
as
Prometheus
there is no substance
form
or
content
only the action
of light
point / wave
and so
plain as
(what happens happens)
in the stars
in your
thoughts
there is no
hierarchy
in events
the illusion of knowledge
is the unsure god
the idol
grasped at
becomes
the fact
of separation
distinction
ontology
a theory of difference
we are led astray
in awareness
and its
assertion of
self
we flow
beneath (the surface)
like fishes
above (the earth)
like birds
through (each other)
like spirits
we flow
the world is a hard
bodies /
(legs / arms)
objects
fashioned
everywhere
the furniture
of nature
watching
mountains
fields
streams
animals
passing by
we flow
in another place
that is here
before thought
behind
feeling
is the flowing
that cannot be
held
the blind dog
man
operates
within
justice
is the idea
of
facility
how to be
and do
in relation
to
its basis
is practice
its foundation
(loose)
agreement
there are
no
guarantees
beware
the blind dog
metaphysics
(no state of affairs)
ruthless
the disregard of time
has no meaning
everything in the mix
everything is the mix
prediction
the child of anguish
a vanity of thought
(baseless)
the truth is horror
the only defense
illusion
a question of detachment
Orpheus reflects
the problem
of time
defeats any clear
statement
of who I am
so
words
cannot stand
apart
and this logic
to the heart
I can only think
in terms
of paint
broad strokes
parentheses
sweeping down
pure black
for beauty
style
truth
rainbows
for the world
brackets
are all I have
and inside
disappearing worlds
I created
as a young god
where we begin
(to the memory of Najib Malfouz)
the first point is
the world is
without definition
(there is nothing
to fight for
or against)
this is the hardest lesson
and it is simply
to see
without speaking
(there was a beginning
before the word)
and so /
to your lover
do not hold
your children
are free to go
and each village
of the heart
or mind
and each continent
of knowledge
or faith
(and its absence)
pictures
of the unknowable
(we begin with everything
and nothing to be said)
addicted to indulgence
she's
addicted
to
indulgence
he said
of his
alcoholic
girl
indulgence
I think is
coloured
gold
and
magnificent
bountiful
and
abundant
it is a gift
always
sometimes
from
God
it must be
to love
everything
too much
can there be
a lacking
or
reason
to
deny?
ways of being
begin with
how it appears
everything from here
is loss
it's the oneness
you don't
understand
until it leaves
silently
in pain
and then
the anguish
for
explanation
of the absence
of everything
reaching for
the gods
trying to believe
in a hidden
world
revealed in
dust
and bones
as if
an elegant hypothesis
will repair
the damage
of disappearance
so
we go mad
and wear bowties
(at lavish
parties
under chandelier
light)
and learn
the high art
of pretence
the illusion show
of knowing
and knowledge
everyone
is welcome
in the tent
say the elite
panderers
of truths
and trickery
beyond this
a space / time
where someone
quiet
sculptures in
line
or word
or
bark
on the earth
the sky
in the heart
and lives
in terms
of the depiction
(from the inside
out)
here
at least
the world
is given
form and motion
and the strange
colours
of beauty
and you can
lose yourself
here
in this place
of recollection
(before there was
reason to forget)
economics
slavery
is the basis
of economic
prosperity
measured
in terms of
g.n.p.
(is not
commonwealth)
democracy
the idea of
rights
without
property
the illusion
of
equity
for the exploited
a cover
for
the wealthy
few
government
(for Roxie and Rendall)
the
language
of
power
is assertion
always
question
always
doubt
the assertion
Song of the Decameron
the issue is
self
and its range
its domain
a matter of
definition
you could
regard yourself
as responsible
for the world
or only as far
as your eyes
can see
ethics
is this decision
the question
where am I?
.
possibility
begins
where reality
ends
we think beyond
the moment
what to bring about?
what to leave
unmade?
therefore
what I should do
a future act
always
an hypothesis
that can never be
put to test
.
a good outcome
that desired
brought to be
and this only
within
the framework
in which
I see
be silent
the syntax
of beauty
is without
sound
the form
in motion
fixed
on a page
a secret
eternity
not to be
said
the leader
the death of the first soldier
was what he dreaded most
after the fact
a new knowledge
like the criminal's
(I am of this elite)
with the difference
of power
and the philosophy
of Pythagoras
(a metaphysical relief)
the old town
pure drink
pure thought
there were days
before light
on the street
of creatures
before
the coming
of the world
the successful politician
is not
what he says
he is
truth is death
who would leave
themselves
that exposed?
the art is
acceptable
illusion
and for this to be
the electorate
need to be
brought into the tent
to conspire with
to be conspired with
so that
the lie
expressed is
the lie shared
everybody knows
the man
on the podium
just
represents
deep blue
the world is not wide
and it is not bright
its colours are pale
torn strips of cloth
flapping in the wind
people
do not look out
rather in
to see
what they are
(not what they could be)
and in this
great ordinariness
laughter and tears
and the going about
of business
leaves
in the autumn
wind
there is nothing
of substance
only joy and sorrow
birds of flight
to the end of days
the world is
it's
an empty
hotel
room
in
a broken
down
boarding house
where
the residents
are all
drunks
and
crazy women
(the night is endless)
the sound of
smashing
bottles
doors being
kicked
in
the agonies
of
sex
or
violence
against
white
washed
stone walls
you never
see
anyone
in the hallway
I walk in old mysteries
what to say of this
histories / regions of
space / time
selves
(barely known)
right now
I would like to hold
this moment
it would be enough
the one that didn't
fade or
disappear
has already gone
(this impossibility)
and a sadness
of things lost
loves
dead and buried
echoes
from the tomb
of echoes
(I don't understand)
and have been
near
the door of madness
a ray of light
as it opened
just slightly from
shut
(the mornings can be
dangerous)
it's just hard dreaming
all the way
the brutality of
daylight
the soft of darkness
my small aspirations
in this infinity
it comes down to
a few rocks rolling
beginning
or end
what I wanted to say is
the senses
are not reliable
what do they touch?
the days
will show you
you must question
and then
whatever it is
is forever lost
your journey starts
at nothing
who can stand
this freedom?
you begin
to make this world
with each step
it collapses
into place
(just like it used
to be)
and bodies
are as real
as they can be
you think you
can reach
from the inside
out
perhaps
it's not that clear
the question of
touch
or more seriously
grasp
what
last man standing
so
countries are invaded
people killed
governments
come and go
crimes fade
from the screen
to be lost
in the argument
of history
only in the blood
of a madman
will there be
the knowledge
held
syllogism
p.1
the dictator takes power
rules with the illusion
of control
(his measure is the misery
of his subjects)
p.2
the democrat buys elected
office
(only effective if
image and knowledge
are controlled)
he is a beggar
at the kingmaker's table
citizens are buffeted
by the instability
____
outside of government
man is free
bitterness the way of power
USA today
Bush
I suspect
has come
to believe
out of fear
what
he is told
to say
.
the ideologues
behind the scene
peddlers
buy and sell
image
contracts
countries
lives
(all in a day's work)
.
Condi
knows
she can succeed
and it is
the reason
why
anything
she wears
fits
(white shoes)
.
the people
are traumatized
by the failure
of the myth
God
and
country
the way of it
it's
a space
this place
called
mind
or
nature
(human)
and within it
possibility
fixed
a fluidity
within bounds
depth
unfathomable
the reason
for journeys
into
an infinity
of roads
out from
(the centre)
for all this
magnificence
(the story
the reason
the being
of art)
the ever constants
of the animal
never
permanent
always
a roll of the dice
hollow
and finally
predictable
as death
the ancients
saw with world-weary
eyes
recurrence
today
I return
to the listlessness
of everything
it's the day
this Summer day
in Spring
when a child
in the school yard
sitting invisible
in long grass
only the grass
and the heat
and the play
I was apart
and languid
the summer breeze
through the grass
Australian heat
and dirt
as a young man
on campus
the endless days
the space
of youth
you can step
out
of the world
and still be
centre
dreaming flows
out
and is life
you are
the dreaming
I have only
the memory
of this truth
it is not
in these bones
now
I am someone
who would not
be
recognized
by those
eyes
that person
was killed
repeatedly
until
the sky fell
away
today
I am old
and somewhat
more
attached
to the rails
just this summer
breeze
swept through
and found
lost worlds
before I knew
a meditation on the occasion of Dick Power's death
the spirit gone
the door shut
(the world loses
a dimension)
only the outside
the body
remains
at the mercy
of the world
to become
indefinable
or as Dick would have said
'fuckin' beautiful!'
and so
for death
an end
to thought
within
a frame
of reference
architecture or madness as the key to delight
it's always a question of style
conflict is the failure
to discover a unifying idea
that sits well in the dirt
it's not a question of truth
rather invention
the satisfying illusion
that holds up the sky
or
just simply the decision
to work on the one piece
forever
no true south
this house is in a place the place is real how it is
described depends on where you are
perspective what can be said is what is seen beyond its
showing the world is based on
nothing so you are what you appear to be the possibilities
are endless there is no
definite description
(the illusion is real)
the free heart
reason is
the flow of blood
reason for reason
the making of crystal
spheres
a game of need
and fancy
at the centre
of each thought
each act
the space eternal
(you can dispense
with explanation)
art
forget what is created it is dead in its realization (the
fix of form) it is the breath before the death the escape of spirit
in the cage of necessity
for Jude
it's really
the panorama of colour
the wavelengths
of light
moving in and out
the sensual dance
in every act
(a sea of beauty)
the exotic sound
of each movement
the true singing
of no form
(creation's endless
cacophony)
in each and every
spoken word
thought
its shape speed direction
the sculpture
of nothing
with terrifying
precision
angels weep
the beauty of crystal
dreaming
never to be again
(the world disappears)
time is still
space falls apart
only the heart
and always
the dialectic
of appearance
and what is
beneath -
we have
no clear
fix
on the inside
of the shape
of consciousness
and so
the reach
for definition
to a presentation
that fits
expectation
in the eyes
of others
(who have
no idea
where
to place
themselves
if the truth
be known)
any action
or
way of being
is equal to
any other
on any day
it's just
a question
of numbers
and who can
or does
create
the illusion
of
authority
space
the endless breath
before knowledge
time
the rich quality
of melody
.
the closing in
is the death
of beauty free
as a season goes
(never to return)
in its place
dry intelligence
and sharp vision
knowing how
it works
the liberation
from dreaming
and the loss
contraction
to the details
of being
Ian Rilen
he faced and felt the terror
of this existence
he embraced and loved anyone
who came to his eyes
his spirit was free
and when he rattled his chains
the world was rocked
who could forget that smile?
epistemology and war
each act
demands explanation
where we run
the risk
is explaining the explanation
and the further out
explanation of explanation
of
the point is
Ockham's
originally
you see
each net
does not just
enclose
it creates
realities
and the question
becomes
what
is being accounted for
and all this
before
action
though never
is it
this neat:
thought then action
my point is
explanation
can lead to
blindness
I favour
limiting
the domain
of account
and simply
operating
as close to
the bare facts
as possible
what's in your face
you might say
(avoid the trap
of ideology)
calling a spade
a spade
no guarantee
of success
or truth
just less
of a mess
to gather in
win or lose
the other
you see
each one is a god
intelligence is
bright
primitive
electricity
never
underestimate
the power
of another
to create or
destroy
(everything)
consciousness
has no
natural
predator
the spirit
needs
the sound
the unheard
music
of
word
the rhythm
of
syntax
beneath
all language
the erotic
dance
of
poetry
in
the flowing
robes
of river
and
sky
here's the thing
I could
give you
an account
a statement
of myself
and it
would be
something
to run with
even so
doubtful
at best
(as if
the speaker
has sole
possession
of the words
spoken)
you would need
the propositions
the stories
of others
to approach
something like
a complete
picture
and these
perspectives
(let us say)
true
enough
at time
and place
but what
is this
to say?
even heartfelt
there is no
necessity
every thing
everyone
only
a possibility
of time
so
for practical
purposes
we create
and enforce
paradigms
of thought
knowledge
vision
OK
but the mind is
fluid
and it cannot
be still
you see
we always
escape
and definition
just the need
for reference
it is knowledge
that is at
question
motion is motion
regardless
of frame
rest is rest
even
without
an absolute
I was going
to say
keep an open mind
on yourself
the argument from grace
consciousness
invents
the substratum
is knowledge
the only
foundation
to the absence
of
pure
experience
is nothing
it is
the centre
out of which
mind
makes
the world
is thus
once created
the source
of creation
(the hypothesis
that was never
put
once embraced)
so
on Tuesday
I will make
pancakes
and invite
Sarah and Nola
to tea with Jude
in the dark room
of joy and sorrow
at the old house
in the trees
where it is
always
autumn and dusk
(beauty
is any
equation)
people
are quite
entrenched
engaged
en route
to the imaginary
of goal
reason is
just everything
drawn
into
the centre
of being
alive
(however
this is
dark or
without
the knowledge
of parameters)
every history
a serious
narrative
of the heart
you can
choose to pray
or go
few
attempt
escape
so
strange
to be
an animal
that thinks
about
thought
(we fashioned
God
from this
and separated
him
out
of the picture
as if
the burden
too much
to bear)
so
we return
to the minutiae
of seeing
what is seen
within
and speaking out
as if
another knows
the great illusion
of language
(we cannot
decipher)
and yet
just this
endeavour
our briefness
is
the measure
of
(it runs on
like
a gold
chain
down
into
nothing)
and then
you discover
yourself
on the street
of delight
(as if you never
left)
between
the fit up
of history
and the openness
beyond
still the miracle
ever present
yet always
gone
Hicks and me
it's become
a question
of my art
and so
of me
that I cannot
approach
in words
the detention
of David Hicks
how to
begin?
what to say?
every image
unworthy
any statement
hollow
too real
for tricks
of the trade
perhaps
there are
subjects
too close
for the vanity
of verse
and is this one?
it should not be
rather
I think
reason for
the great poem
that makes
a difference
everything
Plato feared
should come now
in blood
and sweat
and I have
(but for this
apology)
gone dumb
perhaps
I am
closer to
the gaoler
than the man
detained?
you see
I cannot
imagine
for
David Hicks
and of
the sickness
that led
to this
the great silence
across the nation
why?
how?
I think
they slipped it in
on the assumption
'he must have done
something'
and
as a reason
for
the great atrocity
that was
to come
and
somewhere
between
the cricket
and
the footy
just when
everyone
needed
a focus
for their
miserable
self-centered
pain
nobody
knows
why it is
or what
the space
of mind
tries
to explain
itself
and then the world
(it begins
every moment)
God
is thinking
top
down
and hey
why not?
start there
or go
south
inside
vision
beyond
flesh and blood
or ground
and stone
to
physics town
bright lights
big city
a different
way to hide
or
you can find
in this
here
or that attempt
to make
create
(be your own)
until
the taste
of too much
alcohol
or saltpetre
or the sun
in your eyes
and heart
slide
into another
life
time has passed
in your bones
what can you recall?
and how
would you test
if anything
happened at all?
well a memory
is what?
I don't know
I just believe
like grasping
the sea
getting your story
straight
is never
right
where is the place
of rest?
as if
I don't think
therefore
I am
still
the light is hard
out here
the ground
a thousand kisses
the horses
are gods
in the fields
the fields
wait for dancers
the sky
is belief
in colour
to be ruthless
for
the present
is
to love
what you
are
and to be
true
to the world
as is
what you were
what I was
yesterday
or
in another
life
and time
is only
the reason
for now
it is not
a place
we can meet
nor should it
be
the indulgence
of the failure
to face
the unknown
in each other's
eyes
best
to grow flowers
in the old
garden
and to let it
go wild
you must
keep moving
or the weight
of possible
worlds
is too much
to bear
beneath
the apparent
the force
of sinew
and muscle
in skeleton
vital
the spirit
a disparateness
endless
seeking
definition
is the colour
the taste
the scent
of anguish
The Gatwick
corridors
dark paths
of passion
burnt out
the white haired
ghosts
in the lobby
laughing
worlds off
to each side
spaces for minds
to roam
unattached
the keeper is
an old lady
who drinks
in the crucifix
room
Hitler drunk
crawling up
the steps
bottle in hand
and God
a sprightly septuagenarian
black Homburg
bright eyes
portmanteau
rings the bell
we do
what we do
it is all just
action and reaction
right
and wrong
a conception
only
of the moment
to disappear
with all vanities
in the flow
of time
and you think
you have
reason
to create
or take
another life?
mindtraps
just straight up
you and the world
it's not like you
are loved
the lake is crystal
and cold
to the heart
a beauty of wilderness
or
you are fighting
your way out
of
a nightmare
there is no end
to the corridors and the dog
knows
each turn
there are indeed
questions of safety
and nourishment
no greater than
the way of insects
and birds of flight
no threat
at all from the inside
(never forget this)
and others come
with their stories
of what is behind the hill and behind the sky
what is behind
your eyes
worlds come into
existence
when the stranger
appears
the imposture of notions
is the real business of the money
changers
the facade of armies
is the secret work of all
cartoonists
and you are educated
to know
the real horror is
that you do not
know
(couldn't be neater
the real hard slog
pays off
the magicians
of the world bank
mandarins
in that lobby in Geneva
smiles
tea and devastation
all around)
so the great rush to belief
like it's always Saturday night
'you must believe in something
of course'
the art of enslavement
is a simple argument
based on ignorance
you really don't need
the whole box
and dice
everything follows
QED
and so
marked with the pox
we cleanse
in battle
and degradation
as if to
prove
manifest
so
the space
of consciousness
is the world
in awareness
( )
the idea
of the outside
is hard
to the touch
a spectrum
of colour
the anarchy
(a beautiful)
of sound
and scent
another mathematics
of desire
mind
touches only
mind
and this a secret
hidden
in eyes
a plane of being
(delight)
above the games
of knowledge
the action of daylight
the diversion
of science
necessary
to safeguard
the sacred
clarity
defying language
before
all vanity
the world is open
) (
I am mad
demolition
and
reconstruction
is the logic
of God
trapped in
mindless
repetition
he said
to the young bloke
it's a dangerous way
to be
to throw off
the material world
possessions
and things
the physical world
holds you together
your spirit
cannot be compromised
by your body
your mind
is just
its idea
do not deny
or separate out
embrace
your essence
is the unity
of all
things
the point of history is
the recollection of
possible worlds
(how you configured
the sun
and the moon
in phases)
the constructions
of thinking
that made for strength
and joy
(days of delight)
know
you are beyond
the facts
a panorama
of colours fading
nothing into nothing
(and for no reason)
the centre
eternal
time and space
endless descriptions
of
matter and mind
textures
covers for
the great absence
(is beauty)
delight
is/
the street of
angels
hearts flying
to eyes
eyes to stone
eyes to sky
night falls
black
and we are
skeletons
bright
the secret art
when mortality
descends
like
a clear-eyed day
say yea
and be as still
as a peerless lake
or if the fact
a chill
to the spirit
a crippling
of the heart
seek
the timeless
in thought
and sense
immersion
in the moment
is
the secret art
Molly the cat chases birds
I write philosophy
x = x
road song
worlds
shut down
but you keep going
on the meta highway
there is no stopping
this space here
is always true
and time
a translucent shadow
disappearing back
to nothing
you have no idea of
the reason for
towns passing by
the landscape
pictures
painted on
pictures
a perfect cover for
the eternal heart
meta survey
the surface is hard
ground / light
inside / (beneath)
the world is mind
the knowing
cannot be seen / touched
there is no geography
only
rest or motion
the body
reflected
the word is
you can't occupy
a country
a heart
a space
there is no fixture
only simultaneity
and this really
a question of
perspective
an ideal positing
of place
a pretty idea
necessary
and false
the days should
be tempered
with whiskey
the nights
with prayer
words
are the game
we are trapped in
laughter
the only escape
suffering
pins us
to the ground
protect
the senses
discipline
the heart
there is only one
direction
9/11
during the attack
he sat
in a school room
an aide
came and told him
mr. president
the country is under attack
he sat
why no response
no movement
no act?
perhaps
he knew
before the fact?
the one-legged Brahman
is without abode
or foundation
the true position
is no position
or any position
what you sense
what you think
what you feel
any point
becomes the point
becomes
the way of seeing
therefore
the world
is without
foundation
and space
the ground
of possibility
atman
a thought:
the outside world
of physics
the surface
is given in consciousness
as determined
the inner life
is without fixed points
of reference
so
we are never sure
how close to get
to the other
or indeed
what this means
for some the insecurity
of intimacy
with all its doubt
and impossibility
is resolved
by denial
and the simple
focus
on what appears
(at times we must all
retreat to the world)
for the passionate
the only strategy is art
what you create
with another
out of the madness
of love
even so
if you step back
in your thought
(and this move
is always made)
you see
the first truth:
there is no way of it
we never know
how to proceed
and so
I would say
in the end
(for me)
beauty
is the only ever
reason
to go on
the elegant stance
is no position
the point
of no perspective
it is the grace
and dignity
of nature
without man
or the street
sculpture
without meaning
between
the given of now
in all its colour
and shape
and the totality
the blank reference
the end of thought
the spirit
contorts
for equanimity
and so
the anguish
of eyes
and limbs
the accident of joy
the quiet terror
of continuance
(the impossibility
of knowing)
the back room boys
know
there is no
foundation
to idea
of how
to be
and so
they direct
focus to
for and against
a constant
dialectic
they think
avoids
the truth
of defeat
you move
from the centre
and see the world
thus
others
see you as
a presence
of and in
the surface
of dust
lives lived
in utterness
brightness
at the heart
of stone
spirits
schooled
in the mythology
of sky
behind the hard
physic
of face and body
the absence
a desperate sketching
of line
on line / in line
no figure still
no picture true
energy
as
energy
seeking itself
consciousness
the madness of God
inside
the mask
of the world
shop girl
from a leather chair
(motion)
on diamond tiles
reflects
just like the mind
the shadow world
(underground)
in China
it is the same
but upside down
(from where you are)
a dead girl sits
in a shop window
still as alabaster
(in evening wear)
hands on her knees
eternity
will corrupt
and decompose
eventually
we will have nowhere
to go
(at the end of time)
children running
in delight
from a cottage by the sea Pablo Neruda looks out
it is
the final
act
that determines
the value
of all
that comes
before
the last act
is always
a cutting off
avoid the end
of things
and if you are
to suffer
a killing
of the heart
know
thereafter
you will only
ever see
white
the mind runs time
like a strict pimp
the realities are all
there
after appearing
the fact is eternal
just beneath
the surface
in the spin-off
worlds
(and without perturbation)
the movement
is inexorable
as complete
and vital
as a symphony
and just as embracing
as if there is
no outside
the idea is full
of reality
(there is only one)
potent / as the external
dimension
you move through
so artlessly
you might think
a sketch to be filled in
(if schooled too long
in Kant)
there is no masterpiece
to be made
it is all just ordinary
pale colourings
worn patterns
safe tracks
and here
the trick of the gods:
no mystery
(pimp and whore
how's that for the big
surprise)
the black beetle
devours everything
and the morning rain
brings to life
the old street
(before you know it)
and to the anguish
of the dead
still walking
in body suits
by Armani
and the wealth
of nations
at their fingertips
(this is the eternity)
denied to the young
and hidden from
the beautiful
(the only resolution
is to eat dirt
and go insane)
the inexorable
becomes the only
comfort
left for the mind
and the heart beats
like a lost
timepiece
it is what it is
beyond
word or
sign
the ground
of being
(the ineffable)
every form
of flesh
and blood
dirt and stone
and points
of consciousness
inside
the colours
motions
and depths
of the heart
before
cause and effect
the logic
of demiurge
the simplicity
of eyes
laughing
the utterness
of earth
to the clear vision
of sky
true
we are
without pity
and without grace
all interaction
the mathematics of emotion
x and -x
spiritual strength
against the vicissitudes
of life
is not a question
of reserve
there is no defence
to ordinary horror
at best we can seek
a perspective
that takes
the evil act
or an unwelcome act
of nature
from the centre
of focus
and places it
within an eternity
of unaccountable events
there is no consolation
to be found
in the totality
only an end
to the question
why
the embrace
is permanent
though
the shadows
walk away
to brightness
only the change
of frame
is left
in the glare
of daylight
the hard fracture
the iron punch stamp
of space / time
repeats
repeats
(mindless)
brutality
is deafening
and so the colours
of the world
and its motion
in planets
wind
eyes
and limb
flying
there is no fixture
to the heart
(so the joy and tragedy
of the young)
and thought
time cuts to pieces
as if there is a place
and date
even so
you can step back
with a breath
beyond
the illusion of
particularity
(the world divided
thus)
and watch
at the interface of
reflection
and reflected
there is no definition
no self
only light
the point
at the centre
of the flow
Islanders
Islanders
have no memory
the myth is present
and on the edge
of deserts
you find disbelief
and the making of
realities
out of the placing
of stone
here the girls are flying
boys make art
with pieces of blue sky
groups of men
and women
have no identity
outside of
the game of
making games
beyond the cities
there are only
fields of grass alive
this is the fringe
holding against
the dust storms
of unknown
gods
Afghanistan
is a space
that cannot be
conquered
it's people
strong and gentle
defy
intrusion
it is a place
of
ancient culture
ancient stone
it is the graveyard
of history's fools
in these days
the light is thinner
hearts
are not hidden
(the appearance is true)
there is a loss
of depth
as if it never was
behind things
(and in any case
what is darkness?)
so
we face
just what we face
and this
the real terror
of being
the gods
have left us
to the surface
without account
or a place
for dreaming
old books
hold the history
of the lost art
of searching
the fashion of the day
is all that remains
the sacred
has become
the poetry
of presentation
we move in description
it is always an argument
you make
to yourself
and all others / make
of you
the question of truth
to stone
can never be settled
never known
(it is only the reason
for focus)
in the moving frames / figures
made of soul
line and light
conscious things
burn
bright
a way of seeing when the world takes or when it is just so
there is a peace
in the order
behind consciousness
or in fact
nothing
that consciousness
can recognize
in itself
the solution
is outside our vision
we can know
that
not what
election day 2007
when emotion
seeks its death
in the appearance
of decision
in a life
or the lives
of all who reach
in unfathomable
desperation
on a Saturday
morning
to make a mark
the flow defies
ground
is a given of
biology
(and never still)
reflected in
the prism
of thought
(the colours
of the world)
awareness
a fact of
the animal
a fact of
the dirt
complexity
is only in
reflection
as simple as
the stars in a lake
or
a lake in the stars
the end of any act
is no more than
a decision
(silver bright)
to change focus
(for in the absence
of mind
there is but
one event
without distinction)
the world is true
perception specific
and conception
without ground
or on any ground
we can say
what is excluded
is the full
picture
to the members of the next parliament
if you know the truth
tell the truth
if you don't know
the truth
say you don't know
to assume that you can
with rhetoric
or deceit
or straight-out falsification
serve
some higher goal
some greater
good
is simply
to fail
to connect
with reality
all very well
for artists
stage players
and myth makers
fatal
to lawmakers
and representatives
of the people
things
the material world
is
for consciousness
a metaphor
of form
and content
shape and substance
in the eyes
of indeterminacy
the acquisition
and possession
of things
is a constant
assertion of
and promise of
the denial of
an inner emptiness
and a lack of
definition
the heart is empty
the heart is empty
but for the play of
light or shadow
decisions
to hold darkness
(this the history of
substance)
necessary for
to know the light
and so
the making of forms
each distinguishable
by its blackness
the weight
the depth
the expanse
the degree
we make ourselves
in terms of the colours
given by other hearts
the white hair of love
and blue eyes of
affirmation
just passing on a street
or the invisible hand
of denial
is no colour
or
an unkindness
you can never
be rid
the taste of
here is definition
(and it is the work of a life
above and under
the sea
blind or clear
sighted)
rest / is chosen
a mathematical calculation
the invention of a
platform
(imaginations
cover for
the great absence)
metaphysics
for a briefness
that moment
you stop thinking
true joy
even so
you come to know
beneath the panorama of
the great and endless
light show
there is no source
just a plane of glass
that holds no
reflection
still
madness
is every man's choice
(the decision to be
and maintain
against)
it is the history of all detail
and the peculiarity
of each list
sanity a blank slate
a theoretical template
(it is the collapse
into space)
you can protect
yourself
with reason and passion
tools for
the defence
of beauty
and so
there is no explanation
of anything
what would it look like?
a sky behind
the sky?
and for what?
we must describe
true
and each picture
drawn
is made to represent
not because it does
but because it must
the activity of being
is its own reason
this the hardest truth
of all
the picture is always
complete
each moment
fecund
there is a peace
(in the absence
of mind)
emotion
is more than just
action or its
cause
the world painted
invisible
in constant
drama
of depth and reach
(the infinities
of each heart)
unknown to the trees
birds or sky
there is a madness
not seen by stars
or felt in the sea
played out to
nothing
as if the world
transfixed
in those days
when the years were fenced
quarter acre blocks
and there were no cars
on dirt roads
only the old tree
stood for everything
past
and the beauty of time
in the sandy-haired boy
the light was the light
of the sun
here is the beginning
of awareness
only in knowledge
the question of opposites
the horror / delight
begins
out of need
and reason
the chaos of art
awareness
we live always
in context
to think outside of all
practicalities
is to despair
or imagine God
the question of joy
or suffering
a matter of mood
and the subtlety of
chemistry
/ and here even the stars
might say
so
clarity is sharp focus
and being
determined in the moment
here is precision
and the absence
of doubt
the trick is
denial / what to
exclude
the melody / and dance
is logic
the utterness in display
the eternity (mind space)
of a plant (or anything)
that grows
and returns
as if the point
just to reach up
and out
the display / the showing
the vanity of being
in the discreet
movements
of the self-aware
forms
we make out of
dirt and rock
monuments to thought
nothingness
reflected
and the words
and the rivers
flow
in war
the focus is the mistake
the ground is always
undefined
it is an unknown history
(you may have
some reports)
the first task
is to determine
the target
and in so doing
the outcome
the question is always
can you get at the heart?
where there are
fortifications
avoid direct attack
best to infiltrate
as an admirer
of the battlements
do not offer gold
it is the first sign
of deceit
only truth can open
the door
it is the great seducer
the enemy's eyes
always seek beyond
the presentation
you gain advantage
by appearing
to not know
how to conceal
a weakness
the making of the false
objective
is the end game
the origin of attack
needs always to be
unknown
to the victim
the act itself
is irrelevant
victory is a decision
its mark is
silence
indeed
the earth the sky
give structure
the heart knows
no place or way
of being
we seek the centre
of everything
every act
we look for it
as if behind the eyes
of another
or seek it as
the principle underlying
any design
in nature
we make ideal pictures
of what appears
and try to account for
this knowing
here is the end point
we cannot
be otherwise
the answer
and the question
just is
what we
do.
the senses delight
(the surface of the world)
pure apprehension
is blindness
you can go to the edge
of particularity
to touch the essence
is to hold no thing
in the great emptiness
of awareness
the desert of pure
light
the agony of possibility
(we are all seafarers)
seeking the great loss
of burden
the physics of this world
the mind
too deep inside
motion
pure and soundless
and so
every act
at every moment
for what?
energy spent
in the sound
of tears
the colour
of laughter
there were
days of nothing
even
when the outside
appeared
just the same
only paler
the possibilities
of description
of art
are quite endless
once you walk
through
the phenomenal
the question
remains
and this world
and its figments
flesh and blood
my friend
I say
but something more
yes
(or less)
there were gods
in there too
behind
the eyes
and limbs
and thighs
ideas
that resist
the forces
the passions
always
we were seeking
beyond appearance
(at the end
of body)
the point
of contact
a purity
of thought
was this it?
I say the question
is open
as if
this is a place
to stand
(an observation
deck
to view
the mountain)
on those good days
we can all be
Descartes
and ask
what has happened
to
the ones who walked
away
out of this gaze
back through
to the given
to live
as unknowns
in peace and
humility?
there is a horror
in this
the absence
is eternal
and I
the structures I made
to just pass by
too late for essence
only
becoming
is left
and so
you get lost
in the wilderness
of your own
making
as if this is an answer
in desperation
I beseech
the sky
(c) greg. t. charlton. 2008. 2025.
all rights reserved. killer press.
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