wild days: a red hat / the pale blue horse & fragment XII

a red hat / the pale blue horse

I am

no different

to the object

of my perception

I am

an unknown

that I

determine

with an idea

a thought

an action

a dream

a memory

a desire

I come to your heart

always / the visitor

respectful of dust

the beauty of matter /

the eternity of forms

becoming /

there is only light

and structure

in motion /

brought to earth

in scent and touch

the laughter of eyes /

the dignity of being

for jude

this

is without precedent

words flying

ethereal birds

bright to a sun

before instinct

and flesh

the world is open

there is no outside

(mind)

the pristine lake

reflects

the untouched

mountain

spinoza

was right

is all I could say

on that day

consciousness

as the relation

between

deep physics

and the surface

displayed

and in the midst

of this

eternity found

you and I

in all the colours

of the heart

without hope

or pity

the reborn

of necessity blind

standing

together

hand in hand

the world as

given to

human consciousness

one possible

presentation of

reality

mind is

the world in

appearance

the reflection

of reflection

into itself

(the observer

that cannot be

observed)

beyond this

is what

is never seen

therefore

the object of

knowledge

and to this

we bring only

imagination

poetry

in all it's forms

pyrrho

galileo

picasso

walking

in a sun drenched

garden

through

the soft shadows

the melody of

voices

the beautiful

morning

and for the journey

of each day or

any moment of thought

everything

is in abeyance

and we must choose

the totality is placed

in brackets

only a focus

becomes the point

of argument

you go yea or nay

and move onward

or time does this

for you

and so the question

'where was I?'

to the next question

and so on

luckily

the body gives us

the possibilities

of pleasure

and the reason is

to enable

forgetfulness

the simple beauty of

illusion

that is

the world as given

as such

before thought

and there you have it

sweetheart

the only gift

of the gods

unknowing

at any time

or place

what is said

what is not said

the politic

of the day

at the UN

or across

the kitchen table

the logic of it

is stable

p or -p

the picture is never complete

if you paint leave an empty space

when you see this painting

you will see a truth and know

the rest are false / god was made

a finished work and has no bearing

on / as for people it's a street

party until death / and even then

just the momentary illusion of

an end / beware of the elegant

the success story and other

mathematical fictions / deliver us

from reality amen

live respectfully

p.s.

forget your history

(other people have it)

also

no one has found a fact

yet

despite centuries of

couture

and

the endless crafting

of sound

(for what?)

the original marks

were made

on nothing

or should I say

everything

is here

we just can't grasp it

from the inside

that should be

clear enough

(there were

a number of girls

I should have

mentioned)

it is all just a question

of colour

you can't live without it

no matter

what you strip down to

or discard

the invisibility of consciousness

we have only poetry for

or crude implements

like the mind-brain identity theory

we are aware but not

of what

you might say

to the walking man

the world has no end

once you see through the sky

and so we are left

without a beginning

even better

said the bar room girl

(everywhere you find

lost angels)

there were days

of pure pleasure

that would not stop

girls mud wrestling

in the street

dwarf bowling

at night

and everyone was in love

(I tell the truth)

the strange thing is

you just walked

through a door

that is all

I knew all the mythical heroes

and the drama of being

is the wonder of detail

the infinite complexity

of flesh and spirit

will leave you spent

pure joy / cannot be

deconstructed

as they were wont to say

in the last century

it is all gone now

I live in brown wood

in a blue world

where there are beautiful

waitresses

and in the fields

ancient beings

wander in peace

as if there is no reason

we look for

clear lines

in experience

there is only

the passion

of sense

the action

of mind

blind determination

with no

reference

the city

is an eternal memory

every block of stone

reflects

the place of facts

they fly invisible

made still only in eyes

relations between

is all it is

despite colour texture sound /

substance is

mind stuff

the world has made

an african girl

with beautiful legs

margie

old friends

standing

in the eves

sad eyed

and alone

in the sunshine

we meet

for a memory

of one

who will not

come again

with her eyes

full of joy

mad from the start

with moments of extreme

lucidity

eyes will close slowly

and eyes will open wide

there is a transfixing

and still who is to know

anything?

I recommend a quite life

forget the question of self

(as if it is to be resolved)

you can live joyously

outside the ground is solid

the sky is blue forever

there comes a time

when you will have nothing

to say

when language is just

a memory

of one beautiful face

extremes of spirit

take too much

and if you come back

the dislocation

is a permanent shadow

across your heart

(witness

the present)

learn from what you see

be careful

in what you give

there is no reason

or god

there is only desire

(or it's infinity of

masks / and names)

the ghosts will come and go

everyone is welcome

I have no grasp on

the facts

whatever the were

there's only

torn fragments

coloured carnival strips

flapping in the wind

broken coloured lights

(no one is left

in the darkness)

it becomes a question

of what

my darling is

a beautiful woman

with a sharp brain

and a gentle touch

snow is godlessness

colours make all

the difference

the world is a tautology

mind a necessary

fix

and a body is

all you can

touch

5.2

only the loss of colour

shape definition true

this is the history of eyes

(blood is the measure)

the real horror is

the illusion is fixed

it replicates / eternally

and each scene in time

a perfection unique

how can this be?

fellini / the indefinable

is desire

and it is nothing but

entropy

the world an object

made for consumption

(I hate to say)

and gone / traces

washed blue

we are the end points of bright shadows

the stars / choreography

the ancient set that cannot be

dismantled

a pauper's cover

the hobo god or god the hobo

what a trick

the purity of black / is everlasting

the drink is breath

inhale / exhale

holi

(for vikram seth)

there is no place

sacred

every point an illusion

possibility

of mind

and time / the memory

of hearts

the world is the place

of scattered things

dancing

we touch /

figments in eternity

the moment

of light

gone

before the knowing

there was a garden

and a singer

of delight

addiction or freedom

women dance through

the translucent frames

the pleasure is being alive

mathematics

co-ordinates in grey space

the mark of death

or a simple madness

necessary

1010101010......

and down the tree lined

boulevard

the idea that has no mind

and is restless

the poets call it spirit

and you were looking for

the answer

strange and beautiful

the red staircase

(the pictures are all false)

and we cannot but love

a red hat / the pale blue horse

it's only definition

there is no necessity here

just a question of

possibility

how to draw the figure?

each / event

the world is remade

and so

substance / or design

before the act of making

it is only history

and it's immediate

persistence /

(the fragility of memory)

that hides the blinding light

of nothingness /

enamelled bright

the world is made in our eyes

and we think it

through

and so

the world comes in

sensations persist

in forms recognizable

and exquisite /

(it's the argument of electricity)

sounds of beauty

the impossibility of colour

the eternity of years

and sunshine

I used to wake

to the disappearance

of light

as soft as the sea

without fury

I (stand in the world)

as if it has just begun

the heart without

knowing

as to myself

I have no opinion

if pressed

I will come up with

a point of view

but would rather not

have to say

you see

I have no ground

on which to stand

and I don't know how

to bring definition

to an end

so what is left?

you can judge

if you wish

be my guest

(I suspect everything

is true)

I do what I do

in the sunshine fields

the facts of it

to the wind

albertine by the sea

we accept the illusion

of perception

how else to grasp

the colours?

and with each other

simple assumptions

we make to fact

how else to engage

with light?

time is only

a possibility seen

in another's eyes

the world unknown

and passing blue

I am a point /

of mathematics /

substance /

comes and goes

the clothes of nature /

the leaves of thought

space / time position

is the best you can say

(every place

imaginary)

the bones hold up

the physics

of what you see

there is light in my eyes

origin

unknown

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

there is retreat from time

immersion

a blind passion of delight

to the centre

(either in pain or pleasure)

to darkness

or the end of light

otherwise

it is the action of numbers

mindless repetition

the world

is only this

when stripped of colour

scent form

(a young woman's legs

down the asphalt street)

you can learn to observe

and know

there is no reason

perhaps this is ageless

children and old men

the young at heart?

or what comes

before and / or after

the drums of horror

you are what you see

the world

fleeing in stillness

forgive

honky tonk nights

the text is true /

there is no reference

syntax /

markings on markings

the world begins

the wonder is

you are without bearing

despite the fact of reach

under the broken light

of the eucalyptus tree

(eternity's black green)

we have the choice of costume /

and mask

and the ontological argument

stands

on it's own two feet

still I wonder

where existence goes

(just a side issue)

fermat's last trick -

nothing to calculate

what a kicker!

so back to the apartment

in the city

and you sit there for years

looking out to the river

and no reason

therefore what?

even so

action is the idea here

and the fix is never in

just check the legs

the legs have it

so much for godliness

let me tell you this

despite the fact of stone

desert wanderers

understand the absence

light creates the illusion

of matter /

mind the shadow

the picture translucent

(for geordie boy)

a lady of wild grey hair

walking in the fields /

being aware is all there is /

it is enough / she says

to the silence of dead grass

dancing /

the gods that have become

mountains of love /

and the sky

that is the blue breath

of forever

we are the dreams of dust /

or /

the eyes of trees

see beyond time /

god was the last to know /

the clarity and order of concrete /

argues against the heart /

still we sculpt

as if to make a reason

for space /

illusion works harder

than reality /

out on the rock plains

of new mexico /

as far as the eye can see

endurance / is spirit

1.1

the body reaches /

every soul

(in delight)

the pure truth

anonymity /

(knowing destroys)

the world

out of nothing

spirit / seeking

language

dark history of veins

mindless blood /

deaf roar

lust /

history /

kills

renders to

blank

the spirit /

wild

your eyes

bright

your being /

true

no account

required

report of a world

my reality

the effects

of effects

and the illusion

of choice

no ground

to it

the world /

my experience

a constant

question

space / time

co-ordinates

relative to

nothing

reflection

the pretty young girls

take photos of themselves

in the library forecourt sun

what have I become?

what have I done with my life?

what will I do next?

the big game

is set

authority

(as such)

the empty assertion

is never to be

questioned

only

who is to be

the bearer / the face

democracy or

dictatorship?

it matters not

the constant

must be

the illusion

of power

and who is not a player?

you either

pretend to rule

or pretend to be

ruled

data /

cannot

be secured

secrecy

a myth

authority

an empty

assertion

knowledge

the great

illusion

power

the art of

deception

gaudi

ah yes

perfection is

made

(unless you begin with

everything)

it is the mind's eye

I say

intention

and it's result

precision

there

for all to see

it is the making

too

of a form

that might well

be missed

helter-skelter

but cannot be

re-made

once

seen

the red rose unfolding

(for thelma)

we move

only in sign

syntax

is all there is

to physics

hence

the exquisite

pleasure

of singularity

and the need

to escape

into / the making of

the invisible webs

infinity

the name we have

for breath /

we are fooled by

the awareness

of awareness

it is the space

of the world /

and timeless

I might say

the beauty

thrust before us /

is everything

we can touch

and this is enough

or so overwhelming

we torture

to ash

and call it

living

day to day

the positioning

of souls

cannot be

explained

and I say

blindness

is the traffic

of existence

despite

the luminescence

of yearning

bright

or dying

every heart

on every highway

is suddenly

unforgivably

true

the girl in the library circa 2011

mind

is beyond

the touch of voice

or flesh

and so / knowledge

the barrage of assertion

as if a ground to

human space

there is only desire

left

and the contortions

of identity

designed to cover

light and flame

and the girl

who thinks she is lost

will move

with perfection

of limb

across the polished

floor boards

flying

out / into

the brightness

of space and spirits

to the endless

action of definition

as if beauty is not

still

the cloud inside

(for bryan)

youcarryatalltimes

ever the echo

the sound of grey

falling away

you don't see

rather know

the place of everything

gone

and in the moments

between

you lose the need

to desire

there is nothing to say /

even so

words fly out

and fill the sky

figures of brightness

dancing

(the old soft shoe)

and so

the reaching

to possess

is everything we do

and is in fact

the knowing

that

nothing can be held

here (I would have

to say)

is a truth

perhaps

distraction is

the key

girl voices

making

beautifulincomprehensiblemusic

as lost souls

pass by

shadows

down alleyways

to nothing but

light

the heart explodes

bright

translucent

figments

disappearing

into

the black of nothing

I say

this is the true action

finally

against the power

of every

deception

the complete and utter

unity

of being

yes

awareness

is the illusion

but so what?

as if there is a choice

we are without

account

moments

in eternity

and even here

a logic of our own

making

p and –p

as if we know

or can say

anything

at all

proceed /

create

symbols

pretend

explanation

reason

no more than what

must be

(everything)

and each mark

made

where there is no

mark

to be

found

in each centre chaos

the logic of light

is shrunk and contorted

into

an invisible point

and out of this

the showing

the savage need for order

reassurance / identity

to the mistake of touch /

(or the idea of it)

you come to know

over the centuries

between

as the necessary

illusion

for operating in

the structures

designed

to hide the absence

i.e. concepts made in concrete

and iron

(what you walk through etc.)

to cover the indefinable

that is without

description

and is quite simply

a line / out of which

was born reality as

a three dimensional

malleable

translucent and bright

everything

into nothing

(is all you in fact

need to know)

and it replicates within itself

eternally

you see there is no end

to the depth of motion

and thought

but the reflection

reflecting

on this

mirroring

we are perceptions

perceiving

precepts

this is the joyous fact

and inescapable

I would suggest

and we come to the end of

comprehension

right before

a step is taken

or a word

is scratched out

in silence

the old physics

it is the weight

of matter

that holds

the anarchy of spirit

down

and enfolds it

and imposes

structures

on it's running

out of this

the torture

of making artifice

planes of civilization

chains of thought

indeed

every action

of love and hate

to defy

and rail against

the constraint

never broken

the necessity

complete

this knowing

changes nothing

the point is

only

expression

breath

action to no

end

however

at least here

joy

on that summer's day

where there is no

reflection

terror

in that dream

where there is

no way out

therefore

suspect

every underwriting

that calls to question

taste

sound

colour

scent

touch

and every thought

that breeds

another reality

and another

really

all I want to say

is this:

walk into a field

and stand before

a tree

the summertime blues (a remix)

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

today

I feel

the exhaustion

of action

of all that I have done

all that I have been

the crowding

of histories

and the seemingly

eternal

working

and reworking of

description

explanation

account

it is as if

there is just

the present

and every act

and word

every place

and face

is waiting to

reappear

to be selected

to be seen

in the blinding light

of now

the moment

gone

never held

therefore

I am

this emptiness

of space and time

figured

only in a thought

or the infinite

motion of

eyes

no action

founded

no thought

precise

the syntax

of physics

behind

the dance

we seek origin

reason

the question

profound

and false

but for

the making of

illusion

the ground

of all

necessity

it is artlessness

before the frame

of thought imposed

to still and give

reason / and yet

this imposture never

complete or final

despite every effort

to fix with syntax

and desire

outside

I see with words

(as indeed ...)

they are / what is

and how (it) is

expressed

therefore

unity

guaranteed

no matter

who.

and of this?

here

nothing to say

(but of course

we do)

essence

absolute

nature

unknown

etc.

(the true poverty

of utterance)

back to before

there was

in the beginning

everything

everyone

undefined

the sky has a rush of rose

across the pale blue /

that turns to white

and disappears

(here is the history of everything)

the flow of colours

in colours

this will do

it is

enough.

albuquerque

in all these heads

right now

the action of word

that's my best shot

I think

it is only

the making of marks

of any kind

that reveal

what can be revealed

what

know thyself

amounts

the rest is being

inside

the space

of the invisible cloud

you can torture

on this

if you must

or rest in the timeless

ness

that is

roots

in what?

history

is only

a memory

beyond that

what is not

written

and thought?

an image

or an idea

to go on with

a reason

perhaps?

founded on

another

etc. etc.

the endless

repetition

that finds only

itself

the physical world?

is pure surface

no foundation

to dirt

and so

some imagine

a spirit place

as if

the unseen

is not

the unknown

reason as

the flat line

of earth

it is the vision

before dust

rising

behind the hills

beneath thought

the unknown

logic

expressed

in the life

of eyes

and hands

emotion

everything

that grows

in nature

and dying

sounds

of laughter

and weeping

colours

green

and the infinity

of brown

sky blue

the shapes

that bodies

make

in agony

and love

a turning

back

to absence

the place

of all

beginnings

of form

of sense

of knowing

the meeting

of hearts

in this

nothingness

the only sign

of god

the history of sensuality

the meaning we give

to eyes

every metaphysical

system

a whore to this

the dark moment

of need

the brilliant

dream

and reason pays for

reason

again and again

and again

in the shape

of a thigh

despite

the warfare of

emotions

in blood and bone

and sinew

everything

alive

you finish in

a desolate place

where light

has lost it's way

and memories

go to die

this is what I do

said the philosopher

(possibly mad

but according to him

always an open

question)

in this activity

of mind

time disappears

it dissolves

the world is gone

there is only

thought thinking

thought

eternity

is the beauty

of no place

yes

poetry days

and fragments

of lives

transparencies

images

are eternal

it is just that

eyes

are never still

there are different

kinds

of death

(and they are all

irrelevant)

if the truth be known

existence

is still

and motion just

distraction

from the eternal

the most beautiful

lives

are without pride

or shame

the field of grass

in the sun

beneath

the blue sky

the silent

symphony

and creatures

with imagination

create

out of everything

or nothing

worlds

within worlds

our days

the history of sunshine and stars

of dreams

the illusions of the senses

the constructions

of mind

the pure magic

of being

we fall to dust

eyes open

bright

or down cast

the modest heart

of everyman

when all is said

and done

existence

the ground walked

we roam about

unknowing

clothes hang

as if the body

not enough

the spirit

an emptiness

within

the trees watch

detached

the wind roars

blind

I have no idea

why

I am

who I am

or what

I am

I have only

the gift

of weaving

colours

the girl in the sunshine

laughing

the music of limbs

dancing

the heart is empty

when true

this I have to tell you

it's either

p or -p

that's the deal

you can assent

or dissent

argument is

the power play

rhetoric

(this is rhetoric)

the possibilities

of description

are endless

beyond description

the unknown

imagine

points of light

exploding

each one a world

reflecting

in each other

the constant creation

out of nothing

each dying

in the moment

of its creation

and the darkness

is never

diminished

for j

my secret is disappearance

among the tress

I am known as a god

and in the concrete block

world

inferiour /

flesh and blood

still /

becoming /

there is one who sees me

and I have no idea

what she sees

and what she tells me is

it is love

there is nothing else

you can be

the most intense

unity

is of the senses

the deeper joy

beneath

the eyes

all to

the embrace

and

immersion

the mystery

being

emotion is

the clash of colours

(the point of view

of the gods)

a necessary instability

the nature of light

consciousness

the inside of

physics

the effervescence

of spirit /

(unseen)

auto / bio

a point (unknown) moving through

taking to itself the world in motion / i

I say

there is no truth

to tell

there is assent

make your mark

any mark

position

determined

(if you can call it that)

in a myriad of

description

which is to say

I stand

in no place

at no time

perspective

you would imagine

full of content

colour taste

scent

and sound

not to mention

knowledge

nothing more than

accident

within accident

it is the heart

yes

the pressure

the rush

the force

blood

your identity

is held

in other eyes

other

memories

your descriptions

of you

one take

one view

(no privileged

position

in space / time)

you are free

everything

is true

starbucks

we distract

not from death

or dying

or indeed

from living /

from life

rather from

the source

the unknown

the not-knowing

and so

every artifice

every caprice

a prayer

hard travelling

(the meta journals)

the heart

nail gunned

beats on

oh the lovers

and a life

the endless weeping

of colours

spirit places

landscapes of mind

never dreamed

is where you go

I am / this

conflagration

in the history

of trees

for dianne

and

we can only

bow

in prayer /

for the one

who

left today

her laughter

and

her joy

the great

gift

of her

being

footnote 3

and the imagined life of art

form and style

the grand indulgence?

or simply a way through?

and to live outside illusion

as impossible I would say

crimson robes /

and the chant of ancients

down the city streets /

all colour and sound

I can find no answer

and I have settled for that

it is the history of my endeavour

the mad geometries of pain

the winds in the desert / dancing

before there was a god

who is to say

what /

consciousness

a continual creation of

action

a chaos given structure

in blood and bone

therefore

the mind / body problem

dead in the water

it's inside and out /

just like your house

every person

every thing

an impossible

masterpiece /

out of nothing

or just the fact

of being

and no explanation

required

the fecundity /

bliss / death / ecstasy

the rites of spring

igor

(we are) / in /

perpetual creation

without end

or reason

and the illusions

of stillness / time / things

necessary magics /

to delight

the dance of colours

the elegance of eyes

on eyes

the rivers of sound

to deep blue

9.05 to babel central

electric piano /

steel points of delight /

dancing in pure

nothing

the poet asks /

could you ever be true?

god listening /

the green meadows /

sway

in clean heat /

deadly

the black girl's eyes /

behind black shades /

I keep thinking

the world imagined thus

concrete and steel

idols

(I am trapped)

everywhere

I look /

beauty

in the garden

(for gordon lightfoot)

arcs of light

in perpetual motion

(if a stone thrown

could think

it would imagine

itself free)

we meet / barely touching

the shimmer / to infinity

we intersect /

as if to become matter

composed / a structure

a focus / fixed

in a moment

we disconnect /

and the world

smashes

to particles / bright

in chaos / dancing

to new realms

of knowledge

making strange geometries

or old forms / reconfigured

(this is the best you can say

for recurrence /

fritz)

and the noise of the world /

a camouflage

for the great silence

for the truth

can only be addressed

in stillness

it is the essence

of every form

and is formlessness

a reverence of being

that is being

the origin

without a beginning

or end

and without description

a trace

at the end of memory /

before language

or eyes to see

what

the days

run through us

and infinity

left behind

the silent echo

of a thought

and the spirit

(if you like)

that blankness

of light

watches

and takes /

becomes

the effects of time

and we picture /

describe / imagine

the self

now altered

ever changing

the colours of the sky

the earth / the sea

the sounds of language

(the chaos of form)

the mystery of beauty

in flesh / blood /

her legs walking .....

to the stars

and at the centre

a stillness

incomprehensible

the image beyond

its reflection

lolita on a train

whatever happens

the world is found

complete

in each moment

of delight

and transforms

its actors

made in every image /

sensed

(the self making self)

the history of it

is beyond chaos

(hence: mathematics

deviant / and otherwise

and every fruitless

endeavour

of the bright and beautiful)

the order is the illusion

and this:

the utter necessity

of consciousness / nature

the physics of action

shows us

only what we must see

and love

is the name we give

to every possible display

every truth

of beauty

and despair

the spider's thread

the knowing unsayable

logic

(and we flow in the spirit sea

of forgetfulness)

this life / in light and darkness

the pretence of word and object

time / space

how joyous

the great deception

only in the return

oblivion

the moment in her eyes

the river of her limbs

or nothingness

eternity

is this

reality

no beginning

no end

time

the space

of being

measured

in thought

marked

on stone

meta report: the state of play

the pretence

of reason and order

a necessary

reality

ever under threat

the chaos

of the heart

hey hey mercy woman

and the glory of our deceptions

(every vision of the self & world)

against this

the brutality of logic

yea / nay

stop / go

live / die

hey / ho

judith

explanation

of what?

and why?

her golden hair

sky blue eyes

the sun in her step

the moon

in her heart

words

used to be nails

to pin this world

or pretend

to fix

the fluidity /

as if

a translucence

is ever

mapped

(we live

such hopeless

dreaming)

and I have lost

the desire

for precision

(when I speak

I just wonder

if anything I say

has effect)

I have stopped

trying

and have found

renunciation

in my cell

amongst the trees

(a trappist

after all)

and in this

great wilderness

I listen to

and watch

the sound

the music of syntax

without meaning

and scratch

my soundless

tune

random note

I can be /

sharp to the bone

why?

the world is this

threshing floor

people

are music /

where do we run?

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

every atom / every cell

unique

action

what?

direction

where?

can anyone say

why?

and each thought /

without precedence /

the last straw

why doesn't it all

explode?

tell me that

family resemblance?

ok /

you have to say

something

in the face of

the great mystery / illusion:

coherence / cohesion

wittgenstein

was right

whatever you might think

keep it loose

meta bio / for you

and as to

what

no definitive picture

possible

rather visions

and we cannot say

true

only the painter's

marks / strokes

can make a claim

and still the question

any definition /

a forced point

that will not hold

in a moving picture /

the space / time show

substance

may as well dissolve

and thought

won't be pinned

at the beginning

and at the end

whatever you say

or do

is all it comes

the history

is dead leaves

in a summer wind

what did I know

but what I saw

what I touched?

my youth

the wild biology

of my limbs

I made a pattern

stamped an imprint

created a world

(I knew even then

all I had was desire

desire and fear

and no hope

at all)

and now

not even a remnant

of meaning

it's action / and reaction

to no end

only the question

left

how to make it through

this hopeless charade

of colour /

of voices /

images in motion?

love is all

I have to say

and I have

no account

to give

here’s the news kiddo

no true

proposition

no objective

view

no absolute

place

we exist in

and operate

within

inter-subjectivity

the self / a malleability

a function of /

other perspectives

(the perspectives

of others)

who would have thought?

stretched and pulled

the spirit being made

perpetual creation

re: augustine of hippo

time & velocity /

contingent / necessary

operational postulates

there you have it

mass = mind

mind = mass

how else can it be?

the history

of auburn hair

bright eyes

a girl standing in a green field

microphone

in hand

bodies

intersecting

macro laws

yes

no law for

desire

the australian heresy (deconstructed)

(for jjc)

hey

it's a dreaming

fixed by what?

call it physics

the great & secret show

we all share

is beyond account

nevertheless

we run as if we know

to what?

the fact / the end

the mind / becomes

just what we never

imagined

(it was)

dust

I exist

as a variable

of logic / nature

what you will

my awareness

(self)

internality

a function

thereof /

folk song

(for kate & anna)

the illusion of self

self sustaining

what isn't in nature?

even the dreaming

everybody walking

can't stop

canto

inside me

is a tree of tears

and all the leaves

are dead

the world

beyond the opera

of image

is pristine

I stand in eternity

the ever desert

and watch

I have no heart

to say

homer & langley

no such thing as a point

mathematical / physical

or one /

that does not dissolve

into nothing

so what is it /

what are we to say?

it is indescribable

and so we make

description

there's the absurdity /

the magic of life

of people

I was really just thinking about

eccentrics

and how they show

in their scattered beauty

the truth to be

artless / ness

homer & langley

kent & cynthia

and of myself / my own history

from the start of memory

through the years

the lives I've lived

to now

every scene

madness

my old friend

(for mick v)

the shrink / of frame

bright eyes: to street wise

weathered skin

the history of houses

and loves lost

forgotten

and still / a gentle / humble

affection

how we were /

the days of sunshine

I love the mystery

of endurance

(the ways of men

and women

come to one)

the innocence

despite

it's hard to live

to make sense of it

to be one way

throughout

who would say it is possible?

to stay true to what?

we move from grand plans

to minutiae

in search of peace

an image here

a pair of eyes there

something said

a memory

all to find

a place to rest

to be still

our knowing defies our hope

our hope defies our knowing

and with each endeavour

each flight of fancy

we return always

just to where we are

the saturation of colour

the cacophony of voice

the interminable action /

the market place

the unknown

of pure being

we are filled with the world

(there is no absence)

and through us the world

is made in our senses

(the physiology of accident)

the trick is

(for clive james)

the trick is

delight /

the making of illusion

the body /

the chemistry of it

is made for it

the mind / the image

maker

the body's picture

creates

against the fact

of death

and any account

we give

of where we stand /

how or why

dissolves

to nothing

image / to image

to infinity

the length / the breadth /

the depth

the history of

our days

the history of everything

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

persons

put themselves together

the practise of physics /

the actions / reactions

of chemistry

the clothes of contingency

and step out /

to the earth / the sky

the structures of the imagination

in concrete and steel

the cityscape

fragile & beautiful

every body

every complexion

on the street

walking

you don't know

do you?

how anyone is

and when facing this

you bring

your own experience

your conceptions

to bear

you bring your uncertainty

to the unknown /

and then proceed

as if

wayne oliver

(for andrea)

and of the one who is gone

the magic of his life

we could only touch

and be touched by

love

a poor answer

to the universe

the only answer

we have

I love you more

poetry

either

it's logical notation /

101010 ....

the infinity of construct

and the poverty

of interpretation

(human beings talking

over the fence)

the psychopath's

propositions

spinoza's

metaphysics

jerry lee / at the piano

nothing to be said

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

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

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

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

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

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

the oneness

the unity

the essence

every cell

remembers

and

desires

the return

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

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

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

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?

we try

to recreate

in art

picture

sculpture

a tangle of words

and music

the soundless

mathematics

of a world

lost in motion

the self-justifying machine

strange philosophical notion

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

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

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

or what is

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

anything different to

a breeze

a stillness

any thing you touch

or a colour true

my blood / my mind /

my heart beating

for jude

killer press.

wild days

Friday, January 17, 2025

a red hat / the pale blue horse & fragment XII

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