fragment XII

 

the shadows of belief

and the world is the mind

play

no time

no space

nothing to touch

the geometry of physics

life

is the wind

in your bones

the embrace of

trees

(colour

the soul

paints

on the bones

of logic)

the stillness of

a rock

the presence of dust

is love

in the stars

it is so bright

so dark

my heart

the convoy

across the desert

I remember

the artist

has nothing to say

the bones thrown

the marks made

what else

but this

interminable

failure

beauty

we make this illusion

the great horror

no begin

the begine

the killer

awoke before dawn

I say

nothing to forgive

nothing to forget

I have gone

back to

before

the word

you will never

find me
anymore

I cannot see

myself

now

and these scattered facts

I manufacture

cling to

perhaps

does it matter

what?

no one

has gone

and to the hearts that gave

always

I will be true

I have no choice

your eyes

there is no argument

the bird flies or it is still

reason

is a failure of nerve

or the sketch drawn

on nothing

again

and

again

(no meaning found)

the dark clouds and the winds

blind and speechless

the knowing

I give you

touch

that is not felt

sound

not heard

scent

without taste

the only language we have

mathematics

stop / go

and the delusion

that is reality

nevertheless

everything is

just as it

appears

who could have thought

different?

the point is

infinity

the eternal breath

yes 
but do we have time?

for this

action

anguish

anguish

action

the trick is to

stop.

thinking

turn to nature

study

the leaf

forget

yourself

(true joy)

all is vanity

yes

existence is vain

it is the showing

there is nothing but

this

so

wise up

this is where your theory of virtue

begins

(or ends)

the creatures

in dull coloured

attire

(grey hearts)

and the only

reason

they have

we all have

is the need

to be

wandering

aimless

through

the casino lobby

for nothing

(there are

people

who love them

and that

is enough)

this sadness

to be avoided

at all costs

and still

despite the structuring

in steel concrete 
and glass

you find

gentle souls

who succumb

and shed

a tear

and worry

in the absence

of God

91111

you are best to turn to art

to see

not what should

but what is

despite reality

there is never

a grip

and so

we can only watch

witness

and make our own

vision

nothing is clear

as soon as

you change position

there is no

stillness

only a need for

we are without

salvation

and live

in the anarchy

of hope

the way of colours

is all

we have

colours

and the wind

there are just forms

that come

out of the desert

with eyes

they make this

for relief

from eternity

and then

they

forget

and become lost

in forgetfulness

and so

we

are

here

obsessed

with

finality

(the great delusion)

few can remember

and if so

find your way

with

pleasure

anguish

has no result

you must

fly

in parentheses

and delight

in the only truth

being

is everything

we don’t

know

the unknown man

stood and looked

to the city lights

from the 44th floor

of the hotel Madrigal

and as if being

watched

caught his reflection

light

in black glass

a thought

flash

in the dressing table

mirror

why?

as weary

as the suit

that covered the suit

of the flesh

that was

nothing more than

a proposition

a proposal

and finally

and for no reason

simply

there

like everything else

either in his eyes

or beyond
above or below?

unless of course

reality is flat

no depth

the surface

as what there is

and explanation

just another

description

generated to

give

the absence

a name

reachingforthecrystalglass

blackjack

on ice

you see

all I do

is make marks

and marks on marks

and on marks

this is the world

described

what you do

is what you see

you make description

and indeed

you are description

so

nothing

to fear

and more to the point

no reason to be

or not

as if

there is a question

I say

it is light

that light is

energy

and things are

(the material world)

blockages

in perception

inadequacies

might just be

what spinoza

would

say

from the point of view of eternity

did I mention

there is in fact

                                                                                                                                  

no such vision

but the fraud

has enabled us to

divide

subtract

multiply

add

and let’s face it

we couldn’t do

without that

this is how we have to describe

ourselves

and our goings on

so

reflections

of necessity

our necessity that is

do you think

there could be another?

what a thought

leibnitz

in his gold embroided

flowing robes

of magnificence

the world

may as well be

this perfection

yes

finally the great

unravelling of mind

and not without

style

art teaches us

everything

can be seen

the line

of beauty

passing through

a concave

sweep

of a hand

yes

delight

is the constant possibility

of being

this

and if your

eyes

fall on these

markings

please

be my guest 
add

subtract

divide

multiply

fixity

the illusion

of pretence

dead eyes

the dead hand

don’t be fooled

by text

forget everything

you have read

and regard your writings

as gone

as if never

the word

is just

a grip

we make

in nothing

the climb

is hard

the sound

excruciating

silence

you cannot but surrender

to the light

there is

nothing else

but what you

imagine

in order

to keep on

keeping on

everything

we make

a diversion

from

the beauty

the space

the breath

of absence

and this is not

a lament

I say

here lies

the truth

like a man

and a woman

consuming each other

to touch 
to find

to be released

in

the oneness

the unity

the essence

every cell

remembers

and

desires

the return

to

///////////////////////////////////

a picture

of

a picture

of

a picture

I am amazed

at this form I

its decision

to be

its pretence of

definition

definitions

down through

the years

through

the minutes

seconds

in the pale light

of any afternoon

on reflection

a total lack

of coherence

a cacophony

I would have to say

touch

is everything lost

and what you see

is all there is to

consciousness

this folly

you cannot reject

you cannot

it rejects you

and what is this?

but the fact of

disappearance

as if

never seen

so

we struggle

in skin

for no reason

but every reason

and the burden

always 

too  great                                                                                                                               

child
old woman

old man

I hope to greet

the new year

with nothing

and never

to be made

again

the wish for

no identity

the silver world

and if to be

only to be

a loving man

hopeless or

not

the truth

is speechless

to know

is to find

the silence

in your heart

in another

being

a tree

a woman

a word

I would like to have met

kris kristofferson

& paul feyerabend

and for the three of us

to have gone on a journey

on a train

into the american

mid-west

willa cather country

wheat fields /

the sky pale blue

the motion / embrace

of the summer wind

the rhythm

the anarchy

the joy

of language

I shut down from

pretence and idolatry

I have no sympathy

silence is my argument

if you can call it that

we have these creatures

roaming around

not-knowing

ready to devour

or be devoured

(I am one)

the world is just

the idea

behind all ideas

the ground of thought

that can only be

assumed

as a necessity

and so there you are

everything is real

no explanation

necessary

unless you have been taken

from childhood

and left in the darkness

then you come to need

bodies

and thought

is but the action of

mind

you have to imagine

other minds

and pretend

there is substance

this is what spinoza

actually came to

in the absence you make a reality

a way

is it not

a question of

honour

in the end

how you live

in this nothingness?

I say

that we must forget

and live with

what is before us

without reflection

as much as this is

possible

australians

know this

it is the secret of the red

dust

time

is only ever

a measure

of motion

in space

girl legs walking down the street

there is no time

and in this infinite place

mind is determined

in the action of nature

bodies

in relation to

bodies                                                                                                                                  

the pale light

of consciousness

                                                                                                                                   

makes

every revelation

every colour

and shape

we see what we see

and describe

all language

every mark and sign

poetry

and of the poets

what can you say?

at best they state

the obvious

or is it just

a vanity obscene?

reflection

on reflection

it is all we ever do

and the pointlessness

eternal

we have for reality

the mark of birth

to the mark of death

and for life

all that you do or say

and for this

no rule

despite every pretence

left wandering

not-knowing

here is freedom

here is joy

but to see

you must forget all you were taught

and all you imagined

impossible you say?

yes

but there are glimpses

of the truth

enough

for a reason

to be

silence is the knowledge of death

endlessness

the days the nights

the searing heat

that makes mystics and mad men

the dark

dark heat

my eyes

always on the run

in those days

I am

I live

the fugitive kind

                                                                                                                                   

never still

                                                                                                                                  

and pure

concentration

logic

the only relief

a moment eternal

(and whisky

does the same)

you must be

a desperado

in whatever

you do

and love

in a flow of tears

a sea of tears

against the world

of hard structures

buildings streets

abandoned

in the early morning

down a lost alleyway

in a forbidden city

you wait

and those hidden behind

the façade of appearance

and the ideas

that became gods

wait

the great flood

the knowing

only the children

have forgotten

we begin

with the gift

of un-knowing

to you

and to the criminal

and every faithless lover

every small deceit

and every

evil passion

there is no forgiveness

there is no salvation

step outside

your skin and bones

leave the dust

and see

from no place

there is no time

the great wonder

the great emptiness

of spirit                                                                                                                                  

the desert people                                                                                                                                 

have always known

the desert

in the dreaming

of the cities

the minds

caught up

in a beautiful

confusion

of passion

wired now

and made to steel

we live

as gods

in the daily

struggle

against each other

on the footpath

words

mind to mind

combat

every heart

the centre

no argument

in his gold

embroidered

robes

leibniz

will tell you

‘I never wrote

enough

you cannot embrace

fecundity

girls come & go

ride the dragon

wild boy’

23.1.12

old friends

wandering out there

in space

they’re not quite sure

are they the same

or different?

both perhaps

the mind-fuck

yes

I am the one who left

everything

almost

everyone

to escape

myself                                                                                                                               

to find a new day

                                                                                                                                 

that was the idea

clarity

a new start

either leave the pain

where it sits

on the stairs

in a black cotton dress

or don’t

go through

the swinging doors

yes

I escaped

as good as anyone can

and no regrets

it’s hard

country

I say

the only trap

is yourself

hanging on

to broken dreams

you can’t forget

you wear

you carry

in your physiognomy

everything

said

and done

all the faces

the places

the small diamonds

of eternity

the sunshine

days

and years of just

watching

the world go

by

and in every monad

the drive to maintain

against the darkness

is the Babel of mind

and to what end

and why?

we are you see

trapped

into being

one way or another

and out of this

the beauty of the street

lives lived                                                                                                                                   

we have nothing but
myth

however we twist and contort

only in the pleasure of

love making

the motion of bodies

bound in

madness

do we forget?

or

we try

to recreate

in art

picture

sculpture

a tangle of words

and music

the soundless

mathematics

of a world

lost in motion

ok

the self-justifying machine

strange philosophical notion

or

just what you see

at every point

in the zodiac

the sequence is

recurrence

and so

no beginning

no end

as if the infinite

show of possibility

we ask to what point

why?

but this is what we do

it’s how we are

and the stones and the trees

have no such delusion

but we do not have

their completeness

their fullness

and so we breathe

nothingness into

the world

even so

it has no character

that we can know

what we do

is operate in perception

and even here

see

there is no stability

so

we are lost

in this sea of

possibility

that comes to an end

in darkness

or you just act

without reflection

the point of pleasure

is amnesia

just by the way

these words

a shedding

of mind

as if

in preparation for

perfection

or perhaps it is

a cellular process

I call

consciousness

therefore

who knows

what I am?

you see

the real game is hidden

and so

you come to

understand

the mad men

who speak only

of

revelation

it is

all we have

to hand

all that we explore

all that we create

everything

we lose

every definition

requires definition

and you could say

this is all we do

it is the exhaustion

the expiration

desire

the perfection

in every eye
burning

beyond the sun

the very reason

for darkness

why

it must embrace

really

the point must be

to say nothing

still every action speaks

that unknown language

we must all learn

continually

aquinas

and his god

of perpetual creation

in every movement

of air

or eye

and every sound

uttered

in the great

void

life

in the arms

to the hands

and this body

all bodies

too much

to entertain

in the long run

so to speak

and so

in time

in pain

we relinquish

(the breathing space)

I am constantly

obsessed

with why

anything

exists

breathing or otherwise

and this

the kind of thing

I am

no consolation

as you know

the question only

to face up to

or distract from

this impossibility
I think

the better course

a healthy soul

becomes

what it

appears to be

yes

it goes against

everything you have been

taught

and all that you

hold dear

nevertheless

it is true

like the murderer

that was always

in your midst

and one sunday

after mass

you know

it’s him

standing

to the side

beaming

the great challenge is

to ditch

meaning

on the side of the road

with the bottles

and the cans

and the road kill

and in the rear view

watch time

disappear

your foot

on the peddle

continually

perpetually

drive on

into

everything

the point is

who's to say

what should

or should not

be

or what is

or

what ain't

at best

need

finds

need                                                                                                                                  

and makes a bargain                                                                                                                              

to defy

uncertainty

or at least

to make a form

that holds itself

together

not as a fixedness

but rather

a fluidity

and the idea of it

this defiance of time

and its corruption

of space

is not anything more

than

the worst vanity

but then why else would you be?

existence

nothing more

than

a showing

showing itself

I reckon

and this knowing

an irrelevancy

an irritation

the great distraction of

self

as if

thinking

is

anything different to

a breeze

or

a stillness

any thing you touch

or a colour true

my blood / my  mind /

my heart beating

for jude

© greg t. charlton. 2014. 2025.

originally published as 'meta poetry 2014'.

killer press.