The Strange Death of Diamonds
Being is
the embrace
the unbound
variable
(here)
is everything
suspend
judgement
as if
to deny
a point
underlying
the appearance
(imagined lights)
the language
of no tongue
every thought
a breath held
the great falsity
only possible
if the stone
is
true
the hard ground
of no illusion / no mind
dirt / time
the sharp focus
(a permanent possibility)
against
the heart
of madness
(every man / every day
perpetual motion)
sanity
the presentation
certainly
the horror of the bare facts
leads
your mum and dad investors
to suspect
briefly occasionally
design
or
its absence
down a supermarket aisle
or perhaps
the next one
and then
there's the anxious fellow
who creates
something in something
for the purpose of
focus
respite
from the broken mirror
also
the wrecked girl
early morning vodka
the empty bar
the world begins
everything is
stepping
onto a tram
or
stepping off
and no Wagnerian wind
of massive import
or
little men
who become
their own gods
with titles like
mr.
or president
will change
the fact
of not knowing
a damn thing
and its consequence
the earth
the sky
the motion of waves
things
recording time
creatures
drawn to the sun
bodies
trapped
in dreaming
it is only the physics of light
a reflection in metaphor: mind
and its bag of words
(what a lovely little trick)
a question of
brilliance
speed
changing
and
death
despite the bleeding
of hopes
and dreams
the game is set
(it set itself)
and we are capricious
against the fact
(or 'knowledge'
for the initiated)
it matters not
what clothes you wear
we come back again and again
to the bright lights
the slot machine
the table you can't eat off
the spirit world
of pure mathematics
to prove
a truth
as given as the day
such is the way
of joy and suffering
(human beings)
in short
a biological refusal
to be fixed
within the fixture
the dissoluteness
of dust
in brightness
(of course
there is no
place)
how else could it be?
the point of it
is never known
people
come together
and reach beyond
(the other's eyes)
the heart is chaotic
but for bodies
there would be
nothing
to hold
only the spirit
before
or after
generation or decay
so
you have
an incomplete
picture
of everything
the agonies
of trust
the terrible crimes
of love
the death of
unrealized
futures
and the utter
strangeness
of every life
what is to touch?
who holds another?
where
the still place?
people
are the explosion
I was once
the centre
of
and in the light of day
we face square
the fact of evil
(when every illusion
fell
from the sky)
no more
no less
than force applied
upon
the weaker
(power had
power lost
power
just a clear run)
it's a question
of balance
history is fluid
nature
for all its strictness
a careless
god
no thought
of consequence
(the relativity
within
the square
within
the grid)
writ large
movements
of earth sky
(beyond this
diminishing
torque
back to
C)
small
sharp
a blade
to the heart
an unkind word
(every act is true
does it bring together
does it tear apart?)
there is uncertainty
argument
for random
landscape
barren and complete
outback
the persistence
of a presence
you
the mystery of
time
wound tight
upon another's
space
the other
to you
born before
a template imposed
attaches
to become
ingrained
the imprint
on imprint
changes everything
from the beginning
the language
is colour
eyes shine
vagabond hair
the action
of bodies
hands singing
the vanity
of step
drawn lines
of being
a slow motion
weaving
in / down
dry river beds
worn ancient
existence
is in the dirt
no vision
beyond
disconnectness
a pure state of mind?
what joins things
together
(a thought)
strange relations
who's to say?
perhaps
we all fear
the difference
and so
cleave
to what appears
true
found in another's
eyes
or reputable texts
of physiognomy
needless to say
an illusion
well supported
in the village
so
there are brackets
it's logic
what can be in
what must be (or will be)
out
(hey
number
rock
mule)
personhood
(star)
a fluidity within
anything that has
an inside
(consciousness)
nevertheless
time aggregates
slow steps
a fusion
content / form
to
a oneness
(and a pattern
emerges
somewhere
in the little mystery)
what then is open?
movement
is a key
to indeterminacy
still within
boundaries
infinities
and everything
not fixed
or dying
the best men I know
are magicians
of the dust
it is the secret
to disappear back
to the world
to shed
in raindrops
the last of thought's
pretence
the glass of mind
dissolving in the sun
turning
to rock
in the death of moonlight
cold
crushed
to desert
and standing
still and clear
in the emptiness
as the winds
of colour
beauty and turmoil
swirl around
reach for
and pass on
by
I think
Alyssa moves
in shadows
mirrors of logic
in lost time
the day
a blue sky
as simple
as opening
the front door
forgotten worlds
power
was the beauty
of young limbs
girl dreaming
the truth of lightness
(summer fields)
a child born
named desolation
to leave
her barren
hard ground
insanity
struggles to grow
and now
she
hiding in her body
inspecting entrails
signs of presence
and death
divining
the savage
of blood and lust
says the dead
beg
forgiveness
it is the weight of everything
there is a point in the endeavour
when you can only
stop
or turn away
and dig
down
deep
into the darkness
to the strange forms
of decayed gods
(the order before light)
art
is the consuming
of anguish
we have no reason
the flight of thought
the break out
the great escape
from replication
the hope of every
comic tragic act
the beauty of folly
we
are given everything
in the hard glass
of awareness
even the stars
are really out there
the reach and hold
of consciousness
a true subtlety
a wisp of air
from no place
fragile as change
tough
as a line of fence wire
so
I am
a moment
of mind
in your head
and mine
the identity
of memory
only
to the artist
pieces
fragments
shattered
on a blank canvas
(everything falls to place)
nothing is related
(you must imagine
the absence of mind)
consciousness emerges
to draw in
everything connected
(intelligent design)
in your eyes
the hills
will always
be there
you cannot see outside
the accidental framework
you can only toil within
covering the ground
to discover
possibility is
the ignorance
of necessity
(the art of weather forecasting)
a line -
when the line split
from its wound
a cosmos
fell out
when the line split
when the cosmos
died
it fell upon its reach
it fell upon its reach
when the cosmos died
a note
of perfect
pitch
consider this:
time / space (we'll call
it 'x') a continuum
flatline (as many
dimensions as you
want
infinite
for all intents and
purposes
= 1)
and so
reality
before mind
as the knowing
that you (or whatever)
know
is
the great transformation
when
the line turns
the accident
of curve
to come upon
itself
consciousness
Plotinus
laughs with glee
his bright eyes
drunk with joy
the Agora
the summer of
'72
imagination
breathing
deep and joyous
drinking in
the lake
of unknowing
there is only presence
translucent
silver bright
consciousness is
a girl running
down a highway
centre line
the only quest
refuge
from what you have
is the eternal place
every soul is lost
O this gentleness
the art of living
a day
requires a lucidity
to be
within and without
(the self)
at each
presentation
of the world's
intrigue
an ever present
flowing
to the clarity of
witness
death
the absurdity of
only one
go round
you have the sense
of moment
(the illusion
eternity)
facts
make you think
twice
and like
decaying things
eventually
bring you down
to sadness
so
you go across
the road
aware
on various
levels
seeking
the pleasure
of surface
to remember
sanity
or its report
virtue
a decision
to focus
upon
a conception
of the self
(how to be?
self-directed
against
the world as
affectation
e.g.)
and the tailoring
of the miniature
of act
and thought
to point thus
Paris 2005
order is not a given
an instinct to yes
systems inherited
intelligence demands
adaptation power
blinds the forgotten
riot
the straight line
sharp
and
true
reason is
the perspective of God
the calculation of a
Turing machine
the observation
of a child
the look
and bearing of Gillian
Welch
(back cover)
Time / The Revelator
hard country
without guarantees
there is no hope
here
only clarity
suffering can lead to
politics
avoid
the panic
attention
a focus
a choice
of recognition
a sustain
of mind
on
what?
the point
never fixed
too much
impresses
outside
and in
never
a clean slate
to begin
finally
you say
amongst competing
thoughts
and battle to
stay
with
one
I read a poem
in a book
'Learning Human'
the words run
as super then sub
text
to
what I would say to MW
regarding x
Aristotle's idea of
happiness
the bakery
in Korumburra
Brett C
and his bull approach
my mother's eyes
and then
the print
like a country train
through the hills
rattles back
into view
time
is relentless
we reach for
a hold
and pretend
the catch
(as real as can
be)
bodies
the appearance of
the myth
of
now
technology creates
the lie
of its deception
for consumption
at the dinner
table
we dispute
the presentation
against
the subtext of
truth
what is not
given
and so
the debate
does the leader
deceive?
or so thoroughly
believe
there is no
deception?
when is the lie?
who is to say?
what is being said?
without
the grab
no focus
language
dots
crystallized
to
picture
you can
copy
replay
better than
thought
(too fast)
uncertain
in and out
of existence
hard
to
pin
dangerous
to
the game
all agree
necessary
to play
it's
a suspension
the hanging
of
everything
I say
biology
hardwire
of
time
(is it one
or the only
possibility?
good question
Liebnitz
went for
both)
dirt
stone and dead wood
as real as
your next imagination
where
the world ends
your touch
begins
(it's not
just the grand conception
if you like
of a god
imagination
is
the intrigue
of
the gold chain
of
movement
causal
on a slow day)
you see
mind has only one
place
back in baby's arms
matter is
a stretch
that never leaves
the farm
stardust
behind
the picture
and running
fast
in black
as if
a place
to go
or
time
is of
the essence
the very point
is
that you cannot
know
either that
or regard
the question
false
do away
with deception
face
the hard glass
of no reflection
shown
the way of right choice
in the dark waters
each wave
breaking
is true to the sea
the wind is without
knowledge
the illusion of mind
is of no consequence
action is the shape
of thinking
in the hands of time
the heart
has no reason
stillness is absence
the tension
(existence or
not?)
is all there is
to describe
but for that
language must
turn
on itself
as if outside
the game
hence
poetry
or insanity
(desperate
failures)
or
the sharp
move
stay indoors
(recognize
the truth of silence)
and work
from the inside
out
a young
disaffected man
saw
a resolution
in thought
to the oppression
of occupation
the idea
of non-exclusion
the logic of one
he was tortured
and executed
by his own
people
a threat to all
tribes
poverty
separates
distorts to
a madness for
God
the point
of
hanging
by
the neck
or
crucifixion
is the
suspension
with humans
enjoy the pleasure of surface
avoid
the entrapment
of
depth
the meta desire for
oneness
oblivion
(or its road)
beneath touch
the chaos of becoming
identity
a fluid state
theft and murder
its history
fever
the mark of all
on Anzac Day
shame
protected
by stupidity
to the glorification
of disaster
as if
humiliation
is the mark
of
nationhood
does anybody
believe this
the mythology
of submission
serves who?
lest we forget
there are no masters
but for
the cowering
of servants
we are
history's whores
we have learnt to
sacrifice
integrity
for security
and wealth
the great
anaesthetic
she'll be right
mate
bear in mind
everything
that you are
beliefs dispositions
behaviour
how you define
yourself
at any point
of time / place
is
not necessary
(without foundation)
contingency
is only
possibility
expressed
(everyone else
is the same)
we only know
nature
from the inside
the boundary
is a thought
never fixed
there's no
steppin' out
therefore
'whatever'
is true
(an outrageous thought
no less)
I say
dig your heels
in
p.s.
reason is
explanation
account
language
the publication
always after the fact
the giving
of definition
to
the indescribable
and any
well formed
version
has legs
with people
it's best to eat dirt
it's the instability of skin
eyes turn close
and expression
beggaring
knowledge
you are left
speechless
and innocent
pain
can be such a
childlike thing
still
the fact of
moving
in relation
to
on a street corner you can be
chained
or flee to forever
courage
is small
you face
the impossible
of
another
and the great
dilemma
of touch
never certain
or sure
of joy
or poison
a word to
the shadow men
there is no absolute
control
of people / society
only intelligent selection
of grip
of resource
method
(i.e. democracy)
and no design
only
consequence
history
the mistake
(evil if you wish)
we are always
correcting
or not
with schemes for
liberation
and enslavement
(the idea
as an expression
of
material condition
in the language
of spirit)
from one state
to the next
no resolution
just a luxury
(or fate)
of motion
a repetition
never stilled
gravity is
the illusion
necessary
for walking
forces come and go
a question
of place
strictly speaking
there is
no space
time
a symphony
for
thought
(silence)
what content?
soft dark eyes
blink
behind the phenomenal
possibility
explores itself
from everything
to the point of nothing
and back
and again
and again
if you like
or
just
recurrence
eternal
a fixed dynamic
only the moment
is free
re:
quantum mechanics
velocity
or
position?
it's all in the eyes
George
it's as though
you are
a succession
of forms
complete to
an invisible
extinction
and then you
turn up
later
years
gone by
on a railway
station
a figure
passes by
and for an
instant
a memory
a shell
of an eternity
once spent
with someone
somewhere
for reasons
that became
the stars
it's the secret of
blindness
to move through
untouched
the conspiracy of
things
in the ordinary mind
seeking
entrapment
the answer
to the great dilemma
is no more than
a failure
to grasp
a frame to the world
hotel window
the Gatwick private
room 60
(the space of summer)
trees below on Locke St.
easy
(no-one cares today)
even hard
street / stick
figures
ease up
the hustle
for the breeze
is a silent melody
of eucalypt
and dream
as free as a young heart
my
typewriter
stands
old black relic
on
display
in the park
birds meet and
coo
children to play upon
old men
playing dominos
remember such madness
and its
hands
Jo
Straight
came out of the hill
country
where
the truth
is just behind
the landscape
a chaos
of heart
never seen
for girls
it's back roads
and ancient knowing
of the subtleties
of light
cars
boys
deep
distractions
she thought
herself
away
to the world
a city
never believed
and books
and lovers
could never
make
true
so
she escaped
to be
a refugee
the world falls away
in its realization
a sparse
hotel room
and
imaginations
dancing
staccato
up and down
.the hall
emptiness
the fill
of pleasure
skeletons
after this
I don't know
I would like
to think
children
a husband
like
her father
before the betrayal
I think
I saw her
once
her eyes
pleading fire
Elizabeth St.
at night
a bottle in hand
and then
gone
as an apparition
or
perhaps
just my
anguish
unexplained
we
are not
solid things
nor
transparent
it's anarchy
and the eyes
have it
a desperate rush
to meaning
tangled limbs
to
nothing
(the sound of
banjo
slow walking
miner's song
skinny girl
singin')
possession
knowledge
of another
the trap of history
blood
lock it in
with love
and defend
to the death
the reason of pain
the eyes
of the loved victim
war
(only the cartographer
is inspired)
regard
the devastation
of belief
dancing
in the mine field
is your best bet
strip down
the synapses
always
doubt
what is a person?
the distance between
physics and ideal
the space haunted
Steve Earle at the Corner
fatigue
137
a new wife
says
"how did that happen?"
(married to
the foreboding
sky
down under)
a three piece
hard edge
meta R+R
boys
the prophet
eyes black
the practice
of the kill
the knowledge
of a boy
who found his way out of
the woods
the revolution
endless back roads
new town
old story
the rising wave of devil voice
halts
to fall
a pestilence of sound
upon
the godless
village
quaint
repro /
and killing
is what we do
hand to hand
thought to thought
love and commerce
the escape of art
death
by hanging
village
theatre
pre-masquerade
for Ned
the quiet white
mask
eyes closed
to prayer
a stillness
behind
free hills
galloping
back
to nothing
peace
the last
atrocity
we
reproduce
to this
the crime
of humanity
have mercy
respect
non-existence
or go on
and be
death's reason
without
the illusion
of gift giving
you bring
everything
to each encounter
only
bushwhacked
by
lack of
attention
and speed
of the other world
invasion
the question
take a stand
for
reason
(a decision
to focus
and maintain)
or let the desert
wind
sing to
the void
people
must impose
on space
(it is the terror
of nothing
and a deep
meta
dynamic
at work)
and debris
is the truth
of galaxies
and
living rooms
though
to leave a mark
a talisman
a history
is the need
of vanity
the illusion
of purpose
necessary
against
the madness
of image
or the horror
of its
absence
so
we imagine
a language
and delight in
its colours
surface defied
by thought
and each thought
a surface
worlds
contained
and veiled
art
is everything
we
do
and in fact
there may be nothing
to go to
if you reject
the noise
of the world
monks
have always known
this
the language
of hands
the rituals of
folding
silence
we are
reflections
in / of
motion
the problem of
consciousness is
language
description
of
description
no point
of reference
fixed
without naming
the world
cannot be
said
the argument
is one step
removed
from whatever
state of affairs
it is
to sculpture
a form
of knowing
discourse
and its playing out
to consequence
conclusion
the archeology
of the inherent
the discovery of
essence
definition
therein
for all its
precision and clarity
remember
the great loss
of distance
the violence
of conversion
the sacrifice
to order
stripped bare
of leaf
(the wind's
eyeless
reckoning)
an old knotted gum
tree
(ancient the reasons)
stilled
in a dialectic
dance
to a brutal
stand
against nothing
severed limbs
obscene
implore
the sky
to be
just
what you are made
in terms of
circumstance
who cannot say
is to live
as true
as rain?
and is it false
to believe
in other worlds
and other ways
to think beyond
the way it is
to how
it ought to be?
we stand between
the passing figure
and the shadow
on the wall
we can be
either / or
upon
another's
call
delight
physics alive
mathematic
chaos
points
of light
in / out
existence
holds
biology
the joy of fixture
a fluidity
eyes
scent
the need
to be
lost
in
touch
there are three
steps
to see
with fingertips
the sound
of stone
to step back
to knowing
the ways of light
(before
the haunting
begins)
to wander
in the crystal palace
trapped
for
an eternity
and in the cataclysm
to find
a door
to the sky
(there is no
ground
anymore)
you cannot
say
what
or
how
and so
to the loss
of thought
you watch
from the pier
an empty vessel
with
no reason
and turn back
to
the memory
of dust
and
eyes
yes
the truth
of it
uncertainty
(at the least)
you cannot
let
take hold
or be
denied
hence
the contortion
each body
displays
traces
of the agony
in skin
and movement
of limb
and minds
strange
echoes
flying
in the shape
of
birds
trapped
in
eyes
never
still
in case
the horror
it's the waiting
we watch
in this space
the illusion is
motion / velocity
behind the eyes
eternity
we step out
from
the focus is given
action assumes
thought underwrites
necessity
consciousness
the fluidity
is fixed
draw the line
perfection
every approach
a replication
we copy only
the copy
the question
of difference
the illusion
of time
where you begin
random selection
the illusion is present
(time dissolves substance)
there is only perspective
everything is here
image out of
nothing
a ballerina
crouching
knows
only
her nakedness
there's a point
when
we try for
to cut
the sculpt
of
steel
vision
to give
a clarity
a style
to see through
the dust
and pale light
unseasonable
days / years
you need
a belt of something
hard
to stave off
and it's
just an idea
nothing in
the sweep
the laughter of
vanity
gone
unless
you get
convinced
(stuck)
and just waste
to an end
or
to avoid
think
outside
and be ever
reaching
slight
the difference
the genius
of this dealing
and
madness
seen
so
whatever
watch for
the others' eyes
and professions
of the heart
and hands
be careful
(nothing holds)
the possibility
of novelty
is either / or
you can go
relative
with quantum theory
(quirky)
or
the whole hog
anything
is only
a random
event
and so
the world
(not to mention
the next thought
or a spark
of desire
in a young girl's
heart)
against
all this
the history
of everything
a clockwork
the order
that just is
design
with or without
a designer
(surely only
a selling
point)
imagination
the music of grass
before
cutting
clarity
(either/or)
back burn
to desolation /
innocence
or leave
untouched
West Virginia
it is the pure
and simple
poverty
of
thought
a straight line
of beauty
into the hills
and
down
to mine
the necessity
of poetry
mythology
in the darkness
God
the earth
is the horror
you never
return from
dead or
alive
on the surface
we move
as if
watched
respectful
to each other
at the table
hands
joined
in prayer
silent
the ground
of terror
like the sun
I know about dying
(it's only a trick)
on the other side
of the mirror
is everything
in absentia
(the eyes have it)
there are grades
of spirit
from light to stone
matter is resolution
the resolution is slow
eons
time is
a choice
biology made for you
nevertheless
flexible as wire
the strings
of a cello
played with
passionate eyes
the mind
is velvet
at this point
the dead
come back to life
with each appearance
and disappear
again
and again
and again
the spirit lost
seeking knowledge
of itself
therefore
the world
inside and deep
down
the problem
of repetition
(how to escape?)
Form
within forms
within forms
endless
expression
of what?
an eternal music
beautiful only
given the absence
of reason
(sui causa)
we seek in each
embrace
of mind
and heart
and limb
the consummation
to make for
the existence
of
God
(how to escape?)
reproduction
the energy of
ignorance
as if a copy
good or bad
a shield against
the nothingness
a reflection
of the soul?
and hope for
a saviour
the constant
in every plea
of every heart
we fall back
destroyed
to myth
the only consolation
and its idol
the book of psalms
knowing
there is
no exit
to
and no memory
of
a beginning
so
the drive for
an end to
as a reason to be
(holocaust
in drunken
moments)
knowing
it was always
as it is
everything
you do
(and what you don't
has already
passed away)
sight
a variable
clear vision
a story
with no bones
the crushing
weight
of existence
transforming
to stone
every thought
and dream
every act of love
poetry
the story anyone
gives
/ lives
metaphors
straightened
to
real life
people
pictures
of language
syntax
the illusion
of reality
fixed
(always
the temptation)
resist
no stillness
the spirit wind
no definition
word
you do not belong
the nation
a myth
of place
(a decision of
cartographers)
geography
a lack of perspective
history
lies
where there is no
truth
power
a question of
dirt
coveting
and savagery
you do not belong
to people
you come from
love
cannot be held
(no-one belongs
to you)
genetics
images
of the deep
blood
has no
definition
there is no
race
you do not
belong
to
there is a day
we all surrender
to the sun
at the point
the perfection
between its
dying and death
around 2.00 p.m.
at the seaside
eternity's breeze
through the azure
a streetscape
surreal
in waves of light
bodies walk
transparent
beauty
whatever there was
to think about
to curse to grieve
to plan to
overthrow
is suspended
between the sky
and sea
being
freed
of existence
for this time
there is only
breath
and children
of salt and sand
running
to and from
the great blue
dreaming
time is without
imperative
no direction
given
the wonder of eyes
consciousness
seeks foundation
anxiety is the name
(the ground of joy
or fear)
light
the revelation
the world
is translucent
how to be
what to do
existence = motion
(I move
_
I am)
the focus
of stone
there is nothing
behind the wall
the act is
pure
grammar
is impossible
explanation
is only
a decision
to speak about
there is no
exit
or place to
look back
from
the total
cannot be seen
the beginning
untouched
so
you start
with the question
where?
and infer
to an answer
there -
everything
moves away
faster than horses
or this is
an illusion
beyond
the senses
a word to the cubists
a thought for the
electron
(fragments of a world)
just
a question
of how the piano
is played
either the world
exhausts itself
to nothing
or
there is nothing
to go to
direction
presupposes
origin
requires
knowledge
needs
to see
with eyes
to begin
the display
of possibility
we decide
the world
to the extent
that it is not
formed
consciousness
the space of
indeterminacy
the domain
is fixed
existence defines
itself
the spirit
straightened
/ true
bar
mornings
emptiness
delight
figments
appear /
disappear
stories
hard
details
bright
worlds
live / die
in
strange
light
logic is
(exclusion)
defines
inclusion
the absence
of
parameters
is
no number
no
sacred
or
elite
thought
each
act
isolate
gathering
to
bale
no
season
for
hope
bide
in the lyric
on the river
sound
the beauty
black
is testament
everything
returns to
no-one
leaves
the waltz
of shadows
caressing
out of time
ex nihilo
it's like anything
you need to adopt
a stance
to begin
and then
to understand
the illusion
of this
choose your
substance
spirit
matter
or
none of the above
stay in character
play
to the end
this is the point
only
possible worlds
in every act
reality
the empty name
you stand
dead centre
origin
the attempt
to embrace
understand
the limit
of the world
is
particularity
respect
the fact of
definition
watch for
the lust for
knowledge
this above all
people
are not to be
assaulted
violated
with the gaze
of
certainty
we appear
out of
nothing / everything
can you tell
the difference?
we live -
the language of motion
the business of clouds
the nails of passion
in space
we disappear
(the world is magic)
behind the screen
of mind
the streetscape
of days
is the pure absence
you cannot step into
only drink
the spirit free
(naked girls dancing)
and focus
not
a question
of truth
but
determination
and
for this
a madness
for how
it ought
to be
a matter
of
perspective
no
ground zero
to appeal
to
we fly
at nothing
with belief
words
form
a space
of no fixed
character
indeterminate
here
we move
without
knowledge
seeking
rest
everything lives
a question only
of kind and function
perspective
a form of
rest and motion
substance is
description
open
no reason
behind
or end
to embrace
space time
identity
forms
of existence
we cannot
touch
rest
in the absence
of
knowledge
being
is enough
to the Americans in particular
understand
the necessity of
brackets
the point of definition
is vision
the blind
have no
restriction
or point
of
focus
(the inside)
cannot be known
does not
exist
if you cannot
distinguish
what you are not
outside
of
people
move through
awareness
(a ghost of space)
the ground
is featureless
the order of imagery
from bio-fixed
to shooting star
consciousness
seeks to understand
we are all beggars
blind
so
a stop here
a move there
to find what?
passion
only
to defy
the emptiness
pure
understand
you have no rights
here
no God
and law
as fickle
as a whore
on Saturday night
they'll transport
you out
and in
on a smart-arse
pleasure
it's the evil of
self-righteousness
and the liberal
failure
needs
a victim
to pretend
a reason
to be
know
citizenship
requires that
you are not
mentally ill
speak German
of Asian appearance
or
the apparent victim
of road trauma
that you are not
a heroin addict
or have Serbian
parents
this at least
at last report
though yes
it could change
tomorrow
on the whim of
some vicious cunt
in a designer
suit
in the meantime
you can still call
Australia
home
but you need
to know
it's not a nation
it's a club
you are either in
or out
and ask yourself
why do you have to
or
believe you have to
belong to
anything
you don't need
membership
to think
(and the world is wide)
I learnt
God
quick and deep
the original
sin
to bolt
at least
now
I understand
Aquinas
and
two blokes
and a kid
at the door
Sunday morning
and yes
the possibility
of
substance
(who can
live with just
appearance
how do you
reinvent
the world
with each gaze?)
kitchen table
interrogations
killing without
a second thought
I walked away
from politics
shocked
at how good
I was at
psychopathy
still
some wisdoms
gained
I can recognize
the art
of scaling buildings
and the micro-
biology
of deceit
in the death
of hope
the understanding
of stone
learning its
intimacy
and gentleness
stripped
down
to desire
I know
the way of
abandonment
(a coldness
never lost)
bar room life
pre-
conscious
I left
with Aristotle
the proposition is empty
weight is given /
weight is taken away
truth / an infinitesimal
calculation
demands
absolute space / time
irrational numbers
unravelling
faster than light
the world is pristine
it is always a day in the hills /
the grass is dancing / the light is true /
this is how I hope to see you
clear lines
of thought
a construct for
simplicity
(the intellectual
remove
the loss
of mooring
always
denied
in brilliant
smiles)
nature has no
division
truth is alien
a surface
ephemeral
man is not
a kingdom
within a kingdom
re: Spinoza
despite
the action of
the mind
no transcendence
the work
is art
as close
as you can get
to dirt
is
the absence
of reflection
there is no way /
any route is true /
the world is revelation /
we tangle /
in this unknown /
autonomy /
a necessary falsehood /
nothing is lost /
nothing is gained /
being is /
having space
in Alabama
the dirt sings
the grass writes
the wind
in the dust
a symphony
never complete
the poetry of heart
from
the inside
you can
look out
and wonder
even
describe
the ever
changing
picture
you make
with each
and every
act of
thought
the universe
is geisha
it's a question
how far
to step back
for the absence
of focus
to the perspective
unbound
and then
the realization
there is no
background
to retreat to
so
the illusion
of motion
and place
and no horizon
beyond
only this
the ineffable
and
time's eyes
tracking
in desolation
consciousness
an anxiety running
bright
on the bluestone
street
when
the world gives up
its position
and moves on
setting up
the card table
on
another corner
with stoic eyes
watching
the brief
immolation
of a
light
come back from
Venus
Saturn
Jupiter
Mars
and the stupidity
of looking for life
out there
subject
all cosmologists
to
psychiatric
examination
register
the delusions
of physics
and look for
treatment
delete
the program
close down
the base
lock up
the hanger
walk out into
the African desert
if you want
evidence of
death
in the back blocks
of wealth
down the alley ways
of destitution
the place of
homelessness
and disease
you will find
a truth
worthy of
discovery
fix it
to a vision
of the past
everyone
must be quiet
think
be still
what can be done
must be done
stupidity
is the hallmark
of wealth
noise
the sign
of confusion
the rocks
and the stone
blocks
standing
have always known
the human heart
a lacking
they closed down
sentience
in disgust
to watch
blind
with no warmth
to touch
truth
is the message
of these gods
the utter certainty
of nature
the reason for consciousness?
the reason for grass
the deception
of mind
just a matter of
perspective
your vision
is always
flawed
reach for the clarity
of stone
back to ground
the spirit
rests
look to
the back hills/
think of a life
as a briefness of beauty /
age
is the illusion
of time in bones
and skin
the spirit
changeless
no question of
duration
check the eyes
the world
creates
its falseness
as a perception
of
itself
(for the image
cannot
be)
there is
a necessity
in this
the possibility
of
movement
is nothing
to the heart
only a reason
for the days
to disperse
the vegetation
of time
and so
space
is manufactured
in the dancing
of hands
eyes watching
the strange death
of diamonds
listen to
the music
of voice
the beautiful
secret
is the revelation
Jude
in every thought
and act
of love
your beauty
so precise
my heart
breaking
falls apart
in your heart's
embrace
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