Meta Words

to begin

always
the new

in the crowd
of the past

(as if
you could ever
step out?)

and so

to the future
lost

at the moment
of its thought

or simply
an expectation
of consciousness

light
into the darkness

(trees
have no such
illusion)

a child
stands alone
in a playground

(green to black)

the night is coming

where has everyone gone?

gone forever

a tattered
old picture -

the magic
of chemistry

once moved
quick

to fix)

or just
a fleeting image?

like the world
itself

as if

out of
nothing

or a purity
of mind



the voice
(for Kris Kristofferson)

it
speaks
to
the best
of

me

something
ancient
at my core

never
seen

or
touched

only felt
in the echo
of song

the twilight
of beauty

the passion
of youth

(the image
I have
is not of
her and I

but only of
the best

that nature
had to give)

and now
standing

in the silence
of years

it is
as if

there is
no more
to say

and so

to forgotten
mantras

that for reasons
beyond knowing

reveal

the shape
of truth

in the sound

of
the sacred



consciousness

is dependent
on

objective conditions

(the world
without mind)

for its existence

its flowing

is a suspension

between the facts
of birth and death

it is the space
of duration

as subjectivity

the internality
of things

(though
not of all things)

and only recently
emergent

perhaps

a fatal flaw
in the surface

(a catastrophe
even)

and reason
in itself

to wonder if

there is in fact
any order

beyond the fixed
field of mind

itself an irrelevant
illusion

in the great sweep
of being

(so it would seem)



and
what to do
with the space
of time

you know
there is
a definite
limit

(it is
what distinguishes
you

from
the world
itself

and
the knowing

that though
real

you are
no greater

than any image

that has fleeted
across

your mind)

and so
what is necessary?

let us
just say

everything

as if
through
the eyes
of God



in this
field
of words
alive
I kneel
to the music
of scent
to taste
the light
of each
embrace



for Jude

it is
the joy
of her

being

that
is

the
centre
of me

I am
just a man
of frail
dreams

a flesh
and bone
of no
certainty

and lost
without her
heart

all these days

I owe
to her
beauty

and the years

are but
the history
of her

touch



it is not
the revelation
of prisoner abuse
that is shocking
to me

what is war

but collective
madness

unleashed

it is the hypocrisy
of the mongers
that sickens

the deceit
and the delusion

the shifting eyes
of an American president

the psychopath
in England

and the brave
little liar

down under

do not pretend
morality
in this case

(it is
the same issue
for us all)

have some guts
face your evil

and do not
give it

another name



it is
the spirit
of people

that is
the sum of
their
physicality
history

and

movement
in space/time

the illusion
of substance

gives us
the sense of
determination

of
order

(the way
of the world)

beyond this
reality

this
appearance

is the spirit field
of absolute freedom

the place
of joy

of uncertainty

and the beautiful
helplessness
of love

it is where
the dreaming is

and
the true life
of every mind

and so

we meet
on the street

in a bar
on a tram

and see
through
each other's
eyes

to the place
we have always
been

the home

never
forsaken



I live

on the island
of illusion

'she's alright
mate'

'a fair go
for everyone'

and

'democracy'

the old trick

of the ruling elite

give

the people

the vote

but have
an escape clause

in the hands

of an un-elected

appointed

drunk

spurned
politician

corrupt
archbishop

or failed
general

anyone
in fact

immoral
enough

to assume
power

over

elected
government

when it is
deemed
necessary

to sack

the people's
choice

what we have
here

is a closet
dictatorship

and no great
drama

to the citizens

as the wealth
(another illusion)

is by and large

spread around

enough

in the form
of debt

so that

the burning issue
is not

the environment

human rights

poverty
oppression

or war

but rather

interest rates

the capitalistic

fine tuning

of morality

to a percentage
point

(or if we're
lucky

.25)



we are
all of us bound
to the imperative
of existence

of being

and with
self-consciousness
came

the issue
of choice

which way
to go

what
or
who

to be?

and so
the pursuit
of knowledge

the need
to know

the desire
to understand

it is as natural
and as beautiful

as any sunset
or dawn

the trap is
to think

to believe

that the knowing
can be resolved

that there is
an end

to the question

this is
the great mistake

of kings
and paupers

of saviours
and penitents

and
you will find it
too

in the eyes
of a wise man

and the laugh
of a fool

fact
to
fact
theory
to
theory

the great net
of science

or the deep well
of philosophy

all this
is only

the great diversion
of life

(albeit necessary
for something to do)

but at the end
of the day

we must always
return to

and face

the unknown

naked
or
clothed

it is
only this

that is
the source
of us

of all
our endeavour

of heart

and mind

we travel far
but do not move

it is
our foundation

with all
its joy
and agony

our being

is the being
of uncertainty

the endless action
and great noise


of a world

the stars
may watch over

but never
comprehend



it is just
a passage of time

living
long enough

to see
to watch

the letting go

the dissolution

of the framework
of pain

its reasons
and its

resolutions

a clarity

on a sharp
clear winter's day

of no regret
and of no fear

there is
a lifetime
of struggle

terrors
and delights

to such
an opaque
moment



love
is

when true

the most radical

and

extraordinary
engine

of

change

it will
and can

shift

the axis
of the world

to another
frame

(and still
it will
appear

as if
nothing
has changed)

but to
the heart

of one
transformed

of one
transfixed

a clearer vision

a deeper sense

and the power
to act

from the centre
of being



the magic
of it
is this

you begin
always

with
nothing

to put
such words
as these

to paper

a spiritual
nakedness

is either
the requirement

or the end

of such
an endeavour

(I have not
decided
which

and would

probably
go

for two)

is it
a child
who speaks
its first

or
an ancient
whose mind

like
a broken
radio

can flick on
for a moment

and then
go back

to dead?

either
picture

will do

I have
no real idea

the why
or wherefore

of this

strange
and rare

thing

an angel
comes

perhaps

beautiful
ruthless
true

leaving
what

an atrocity
or a triumph?

I am

yet

to know

or
is it

no less
than data

across
a screen

a necessary
spitting out

with
as much

reason
or point

as any other

expression

of this world
alive?



we must always
flee

from the final truth

of no necessity

in our days

even death

cannot escape

the sickle
of

contingency

(though
to date

you have to
give it
marks)

and
so

a question

where?

in the face
of such
a truth

or terror

(depending
on your
equilibrium)

does it matter

what place?

what refuge?

what asylum?

no

there is no
preference

from the point
of view

of eternity

no direction

no reason

no hint

one way

or

you can

begin

from the inside
of you

and go

for a path

to a place

to a question

that will not
give

the birds
flight

or the trees

strength

(the hills
have their own
approach)

or
even

make a difference
to the wind

but even
so

a thought

that has

the power

to picture

what has
never been seen

before

this is
no less

than beauty
born

and
in so

the best
of an actual

world



my old
friend

we cannot
deny

the haunting
of what was

never said
or done

to the one
who is gone
in death

or other ways
of living

but so

there is no
regret

to be assuaged
in things

present

you will not

resolve

what was
never settled
then

by any act
today

or be close
to one

who has gone
in life

or other ways

of dying

if you recall

be it only
a joy

for here
you will find

strength
to endure

anything else
is not worth

your time

we have
so little

in this space

and beyond
this

only mind

slim

possibilities

war
and
peace



yeah
so

depending
on
the mood

'everything lies open
to view'

is

a joy

as direct
and 'obvious'

as

opening
your eyes
to the day

or

a chilling
proposition

beyond
the worst

of human
cruelty

or

the treachery
of innocence

(is there
a greater horror?)

I would say

I never met
a fool

with such
an idea

and certainly

no-one
on the street

10
yrs. ago

would come
at that

but let's
take a view

from
the other side
of the bar

if you could
believe this

would it not
be

the answer

no reflection

a mind
without
mirror

the 'life'

of
nature

(imagine
a tree
with bright
eyes

and you'll see

where this
is going)

just what
appears

is just
what is

who
has not had
the need?

when everything
is moving
too fast

but it's
the lie

that staggers me

the audacity
of it

beyond
genocide

or

clever
advertising

the denial

of mind

just the paradox

the contradiction

of twentieth
century thought

but then
who didn't live

with that?

and so

you say
a 'sickness'

and there is
a cure

(not unlike
death

I suppose?)

an end
to the game

but still
for all
the genius

of the moves

you wake

you think

now that's
the give up

as anyone
from the old days
will tell you

better

give your life

to a garden

or dance
with the dark
and brilliant



a man and woman
come into a bakery
buy some bread
and leave

(this is not
to discount
the force
the power
of nature
of biology
or indeed
as Spinoza
would have it
'the conatus'

the 'will'
necessity even
to maintain
existence)

and perhaps
I'm off the boil
today

missing the point
as they say

but I am
astounded

at the courage
of people

to stay here

to keep going

to endure

in the absence
of any design

and yes
you may well
say

we delude
and pretend

and run always

from the abysmal

truth

O.K.

but even so

I say

all the greater

for we must
live

not just
within nature

but with
the added burden

of no reason
given

and so

what we make

and
what we create

and what we do

is no lesser
and no greater
than

every reason

to be



the great
and only
battle

of metaphor

how to describe
the world

is always
the question

what to
describe it

as

e.g.

science

its great
dynamic imagery

is

a beautiful
language

for
a question

of

cause

and

effect

but beyond
this dreaming

(when it
strikes you
at a tram stop)

that something

fundamental

unchanging

has to
be

accounted for

or mapped

perhaps then

the poetry
of mysticism

gets up

(for a quick
reading)

and
I'm only

short-cuttin'
here

the point is

there is

an endless

possibility

of
description

and this is

a necessity
given

the final
unknown

we face

at every moment

(if you fall
out of image
for a sec

you will be
reminded)

a picture

must always
be made

in short

mixed metaphors

the way to go

á la

Picasso

the weeping woman

Jerry Lee
at the keyboard

or

a montage

of all the lives
you have been

on a Sunday
afternoon

but then
you could feel

trapped

that there is
no way

to get out of
the maze

understand

there is
nothing beyond
this

you can only
twist and turn

against
the impossibility

or embrace
with delight

the intrigue




The Transit of Venus 2004


a man knocks on a door/
a woman opens the door/
everything is changed

the world is made
continually /everywhere
and at each moment

necessary yes
the illusion of history
the expectation of

tomorrow

regularities are required
for relief and positioning

there is comfort
in the stars



so what is it
with the Americans?

why can't they live
with themselves?

you get tired

of the American story

the soap opera

its noise

the mess it makes

the self-absorption

an adolescent
searching
searching

but no joy
of self-discovery
here

rather

the self-loathing

of a decaying
old man

the anger
of an autistic
child

and you think

O.K.
well they own the block

and on a hot summer's night

we all get out on the street

and we drink and we dance

and we laugh

and you hear people say

wouldn't it be good

if they weren't here?



you see

it is
the imagination

that is the ground
of possibility

bright brilliant
(without foundation)

mathematics

before
the focus
of number

or
the fixed
points

of
operation

here
your thinking
is

as unfettered

as you choose

you can
disrobe

and disrobe
again

until
you come to

an essence

an emptiness

a purity

of

thought

worlds
are made

and destroyed

in a bright
instant

you can
jump to

another place

and all
the facts

of wood
and steel

the geography

of hills
and faces

are only details

to be
re-made

adjusted

and
placed

time and space

the only
constraint

on the motion

of thought

and limbs

and the fertility

of the field
of dreaming



so

from the inside
you can see

the outside

but
there is no

'seeing back
from the outside'

to

an inside
"are you with me?"

said the props
guy

to the lead actor

(the world
does not see
into the mind)

thus

the relationship
of mind
and world
is

asymmetrical

"Gottcha"

said the leading
man

the world
is one

endless surface

and mind

(relative
to the whole)

is

millions of
'spirit'
points

(that keep
harping:

'I think
therefore
I am'

'I think
therefore
I am')

no
one to one
correspondence
here

and
the chorus girl
screamed

"how is it
that

an inside
is

so radically

different

in size
shape

substance

to its
outside?"

good question

thought
the stage hand

watching
all this

from the wings

meanwhile

outside
the theatre
rolling
down

the middle

of

the street

a bent

bicycle
wheel



it's the knowing

the further out you go

the finer the strain

like brilliance
increasing exponentially

to blindness or bliss

(no difference)

when you walk there

you will be marked
indelible

you never leave

it's only the appearance
that comes back

the puppet show
in the theatre of shadows



we had this election
and no-one voted

no government
elected

no opposition
elected

and there was
no precedent

for this

no provision
under

the constitution

and on the day
after

people
on the street
all over
the country

were heard
to say

"well I decided
not to vote

but I thought
everyone else
would"

and at first
some said

it was
a terrorist
plot

but that was
hard to maintain

as everyone
was in it

and the shrinks
were arguing
along the lines
of mass hysteria

but the problem
with this
was

everyone was calm

very calm

after it was announced
there was
no government

in the days to follow

there was
a slight increase
in crime

thefts murders
rapes

but it didn't last

and
after a week
or two

the crime rate
returned

to normal

as did everything
else

what used to be

the government

just kept going

the generals
ran the army

government
departments

functioned
quite well

without ministers

police health
education

every kind
of service

before

the end
of government

kept going

as it did

during
government

the main difference
was

the houses
of parliament

were empty

and no great rush
to fill 'em up
again

the general feeling
was

there's enough laws
as it is

and yes
well who's
to say

but here we are
in week 5

and there's been
no great dramas

strangely enough

everyone seems
more relaxed

if not
a little touched

people are not
as suspicious
or as wary

of each other

there are
helping hands
it seems

all over the place

and everyone's
talking about

how it'll
all end up

just like
in the old days

except
you get a sense

that everyone
actually feels

they have
a stake
in it

now



Sanity War and Cows
(for Robert Mclaren)


who has
the metaphysics

to deal with
the complexity

of living

why isn't everyone
insane

or on the way?

nature has built in
some barriers

fenced off the paddock

and still

you hear of
escapes

beasts on a rampage

demolishing
the neighbour's
garden -

'freedom loving'
beasts

I guess

it's the history
of it

so many lives
and one life

how do you
reconcile

all the people
you have been?

forget

is a possibility
but short-lived

I think some people
just fracture

break like glass

into
the multiplicity

and become stuck
in the cracks

and live completely
unstated

and unstatable
lives

in undiscovered
worlds

and it's
a question really

of how far
you will allow

the depth

to encroach

on the surface

of day
to day

and what kind
of escape
mechanisms

you have

from the enormity

of time

and its photographs

(black and white)



this obsession
of word

it's like
drinking -

before you start

the pit
of the stomach

(it's in your brain
the doctor said)

the waking need

you might
be able to

dance around

for a few hours

before you go
directly to it

a clear sharp
moment

out of
space and time

and the excitement
of the doing

to the finishing

the release

the strange beauty

of emptiness

and then
for no reason

the wanting

to go
again

(you think
you will stop

that you can

and decades
disappear)



you need to view it
with delight

to hold yourself
in abeyance

as an argument
to be considered

and the possibilities
of your instinct

to possess
or
not possess

you can have it all
and throw it all away over and over
again

and always
a different place
and booty

the point is
to know

and the knowing
is alive

there is no end
of it

what you can
envisage

and the new worlds
of desire

the space
in yourself

is a question

you can rush
to fill it

with noise

and isn't it

the anxiety
of emptiness

that has led
to all of this?

and you can go
so far out

from the centre

you resort to

grand and complex
structures

of ideas

God and science

and who knows what

all the strings
and pulleys

to find a spot

a refuge

in the tangle
of wire and rope

to breathe
a few breaths?

and yet

it is only
the flight

that has led to
the estrangement

your body
has it all

every capacity

for joy
and suffering

you don't need
to leave

to go to
another building

it's rather

a quiet search

for the empty room



language

comes
like a rush
from

nowhere

and is met

with the world's
full embrace

the map is
there

laid open

and you know
it

from the beginning

like a secret
garden

that holds
no mystery

greater

than itself

and it's
the joy

of a tradesman
at work

and the knowledge
is the practice

is the working

(and a kind of
Archimedean

delight

when a rule

needs

to be followed
or invented)

the word

is

consciousness

alive

at work

everything
you could want

in every colour
kind shape size

and every rate
of exchange

the great and joyous

market place

of the world



action
and
reaction

how do you
stand

with any stillness?

is it just

the body

and the fixed
co-ordinates
of space/time

that gives

a sense
of place?

to be
swept away

with the first
reflection

still
a necessary
illusion

to contain
and defy

the ever potent

anarchy
of mind



I love

the rolling
grey

mind stuff

of clouds
over

the silver lit
vault

the black dots
of cattle

painted on
the winter green

flatness

driving across
the diameter

a white
lined strip

of asphalt
going to

everywhere

at the day's
defeat

into
the spirit

night



my love
for her

goes beyond

the facts
of her

to the centre
of her

being

a place
of untouched
beauty

and it is
to this essence

I go

with each
act

each word

and each
embrace

it is the focus
of my heart

the resting place
of my soul



in the focus
of the senses
everything is
as it
is

but on reflection
a sweep of the days

unhinges

the hard data

to

surreal

the wider
the panorama

the less
there is
to hold
to

this business
of word

is the endeavour
to bridge

to map

the gulf

it is an argument
against

horror

or

at least

an attempt

to mask
it

camouflage
it

in syntax

and bury it

where it
can never

be found



our ideas
of how to see
and what
to do

are no more
than

our needs
and wants

spoken in
another
language

and so

the question
is always

translation

(from me
to you
you to me)

and no

objective

criterion

to appeal to

no universal
syntax

only
the accident
of agreement

or not



absorption
in activity

mental or physical

defies
the abstraction

(the stepping back)

that is the knowing
of Time

here is the escape

to simply
be

focused

and to know

the lack
of determination

is the source

of anguish

(it is the argument
for meditation
or drug addiction
or love
etc.)

beyond this

is the possibility
of God

in every heart

to create

(anything at all)

is the true

and brave

disregard

for mortality



can I suggest

as a shot
in the dark

(as a quick exit
from the gathering)

pay close
attention

to what
happens

avoid
the radical
overthrow

of anything

(and certainly
everything)

do not
expect
love

pursue

your heart's
desire

blindly

know you will
be required

for strength

you cannot
imagine

be sympathetic
enjoy
the dance



here I am

after so much

I can barely
believe

my beautiful
girl

in other rooms

a place
called

the country

fields and trees

the strangeness
that is me

and words



the images
of who you've been

what you've done

who's touched
you

who
you've touched

after

enough time

it runs on

forever

and even
at this point
you know

it's the same

to a blank
end

so

where is the sense

the meaning

in it all?

I think

it would all crash
inward

but for vanity

with science

you get some

sense

of a possible

explanation

a way
of seeing

and it can get
urgent

with a depth
of being

and a persistence

a desire

to see clearly

(I don't know
if anyone can
really stop

needing to know

isn't it just
ways of forgetting?)

or is it
the truth
of

mathematics?

the pure

absence of

content

and simply

'relations
between'

and in the starkest

of terms

(with no clothes
on

and no 'body'
to clothe)

it all goes
to

silver light

and no consolation
in this

joy
or
sadness

but a thought

that perhaps
reason

as an end
point

in the realm
of possibility

is a place
of refuge

where the senses

can restore

to face again

the panorama
of experience



for Rebecca


you

can fall
through
yourself

to the darkness

and then
it's

to find

a clarity
in desperation

eyes

to see

and if you
come back

you can return

to

a moment

before

falling

and the knowing

that was enough

to give strength

before the crushing
loss

you could not

hold up to

and so

yeah

sit outside
have a smoke

watch
the baby playing

the territory

is larger

there is more
desolation

than you could
have ever dreamed

and really

what is there
to explore?



so
what to do

with

this time

can it be filled
with value?

and what could
that be?

does not time
leave everything

valueless?

fictions

fictions
are all we

have

to give

the bleak truth
colour

and sure
it's

a fake

and the artist
a con

but what else

to the gallery

or do you
prefer

an empty space?



it is easy
to overlook

(and for many
to not even know)

the absence
of dissent
where are the mad voices
raving against the order

the raggedy crew
loud and fearless?

(are they
fractured minds

in small
dark kitchens

worried

and afraid
now

of fear?)

and a clear voice
of a singer/poet

cutting through iron
and concrete

a songbird
that will fly
forever

there is no
new tune

nothing to fix
the heart

with a chill

a delight

and

a way to see

something to believe

does this matter

in the worlds
of wealth

and the great
preoccupation of

surplus
and waste?

there is too much
to weigh down

a simple thought

a pure dream

and thinkers

the thinkers have
given up

truth has become
too easy

a footnote

the comfort
of like minds

the security
the surety

of the great machine

and the pride
of the technician

shadows
behind

even these eyes

know what
is happening

and we have all become smaller

in the shrinking
of the world

the loss
of isolation

has belittled
dignity

and there is no
great

conspiracy or
conspirators

just the same
gang of thugs

with too much
power

they cannot control

and no reason
but its

exercise

(dumb animals)

and a system
too complex
too layered

to recognize

itself

and people
unable

to stop.

so where's the reason

or its promise

and who or what

to lead a way

out to where?



(it's the question
of mysticism

the conundrum
at the core of it

to stay and watch
or to leave
and find

other worlds

be still

either path anguish/
joy)



Iraq

it is always
a question of knowledge

violence pain disorder

ignorant / power
is not necessary

but all complexities
require

brilliant penetration

and knowing

needs always to proceed

with positive self-doubt

if there is to be
any

hope of understanding

for it is such

a way of thinking

that leads to

expansion and inclusion

and the possibility
of

embrace



quiet days
small tasks

and no need
for significance

beyond any meaning

that the hills
might have

or the rain's
lack of desire

my beautiful
girl

asleep
the dead of night

her mystery
unravelling

in dreams

the radio

a comforting
rhythm of voice

defying
the world's
anguish

and the wind

like a passion
lost

howling for
a heart



Guantanamo Bay


so

being unknown
can be a spiritual
luxury

but only
on a ground of
justice

to be known
in a place

of no morality

is to be

stripped

of all

humanity



The American Withdrawal(?)


in the cold heart
leaving
there is only

the glee

of deception

and the arrogance

of the security
of flight

guaranteed

it's not as if

this is an escape
more in the style
of a thief

in the night



it's an anxiety
writing

to death

as if

the generation
of word

will speak

to the great
silence



and activity
dispels time

but I notice
more so than ever

my choice
of
nothing

to do

it is to have

time

like a soldier
returning

to a battlefield

to watch

the silence

and to let

the ground

speak


1
to embrace
the world

is to be able
to step back

from everything
you believe

and to acknowledge

other ways
of understanding
and living

and to see

there are many
truths

and no one way
of being

God is possibility



and madness

a full expression
of being

in a dark way

a decision
to relinquish control

the consequences

unthought

and lived
moment to moment

with black passion

an obsession
for obsession

a piercing vision
of no focus

but to feed

as if survival
depends

and the wearing
away

of daylight
to a hardness

a potential
in us all

and luck

a wrong turn

in mind or body

likely the reason



how do people
maintain

dignity

in the face of

harshness

climactic

emotional?

a strength

archived

in flesh

and bone

a gift

of

the darkness

before

evolution

to

the ability

to live

caged

and to think

beyond

the bars



pleasure
is not a value

it is a reason
of the body

to take the bounty
given in nature

to conquer

to consummate
to lose

in a moment
of delight

the agony

of particularity

we are all
little gods
in the brain
of need

and for goodness
you must look elsewhere

forget
the delusions
of oblivion

and return
to the work

of arms and hands



it's

the intense
understanding

and
delicacy

of

touch

that is

the art

of loving

be it

in the painter's
eyes

or

the first
word

to another

at the start
of day



the end
as incomprehensible
as a beginning

and the space
between

an insubstantial
flowing of image

across landscapes
of greater endurance

and a permanence
defined by passing

motion

(whatever this is)

perhaps

just a difference
in velocity

is all
there is

to stability

configuration

set

in the order
of eternity

(and this cannot
be explained)

there is no outside
to it all

only an infinity
of worlds

within worlds

and
no reduction
to

or emergence
from

an ideal
point

rather only

the possibility
of endless

reflection

all very well
you might say

a pretty
bag of tricks

only

thought

never
penetrates

death

and so

everything is
as it is

before
or after

a word
an act

a life



for Jude

and
the love I have
for her

does she know
do I show?

there is a depth
to it

even I

must fail
to comprehend

and do I
know her love
always

as I

should?

the quiet greatness
of her heart


1
it's mercurial

like a child

at play

with other children

here wanting
to be included

there
to stand apart

consciousness

the dynamic
the range
the motion

there is no
locking in

one way
or the other

invariable
the dissatisfaction

with each

polarity

the need to move
to the other

and back

again
and

again

(in the meantime
a life is lived
the world is
.
destroyed
and rebuilt)

and finally

the light
is turned out

as if
the point
of it all

was nothing

(logic
is without
compassion)

but the fact is
on the canvas
was everything

every
joy and pain
and beauty

true art
disappears

and life
itself

there is no metaphor



a watchfulness
beyond the motion
of the world

to the pure focus
of stillness

an emptying
of desire

to the ecstasy
of nothing

being qua being



why bother with this scratching?

it is indecipherable

and only an illusion
of meaning

alien to the stars
and their gift

of stone



it is the landscape

the geography of vision
(of the senses)
what it touches

that is every perception
feeling and reason for
concept

the attempt to give
explanation coherence
structure to the picture

is a strange pursuit

as if there is anything
missing (or should be)
in the world as given

and so the question
why the question
at all?

it is as if
the consciousness
of possibility

is just the illusion
we must see through

or turn our backs
upon

in order to be
at peace

with what is

(it is the returning
of the mind to the hills
and passion to the stars)

and you can see it
in ancient eyes

a clear true vision

with no regard for
space or time



weapons of mass destruction

a laughing beauty
in a fast car
waves good-bye

the conductor
his smiling eyes
know each and every
variation

yet to come



down on the street
there is much discussion

of the metaphysics of
order and chaos

the absolute
and the ideal / reality

all in the joyous
language
of

fruit and veg
husbands and wives
children and dogs
footy

(yes
such wonderful
curious

beings)



another trip
on the bus

down to the junction

shopping bags
school bags

a man in a suit
white shirt
no tie

losing it
at 6 p.m.

dead of winter
very cold nights

where does everyone
go?

and the cold
buildings

that just stay

like hills

no difference
in the end

geography
is geometry

new money
or old

and if it all
flatlined

why not?

(as if
a purpose)

at the bar

that brings
a guffaw

from a fat
skinful

and a cigarette
choke

you could strive
for the finer

and live
above

the chicken shop

hey

either that

or

go beresk

she had
a good body

and a red dress

and was
too upset
to work

what do you say

to paralysis

that keeps

walking

and heads
with headphones

that can only live
in the foyer?

I don't know

it's not intelligent

and there are
millions

who were never
given

the benefit

of the illusion



long shapely
female legs
crossed

uncrossed

(that's all)

a bombed grey
city smoking
dust

tanks rolling in



let it go

suspend
for delight

there is a way
of seeing

that holds against
anguish

a plainness
of being

that is

the endless
succession

of hot summer days

in a border town

and the flatness

of space

and temperament

and the wind's
lullaby

through wheat
fields

searing

to the horizon

blue



and we talk

the great distance
of flight from

to find the place
of knowing

deep

in the wilderness
of heart



God

is the coming
and going

the expression
of expression

the face
without body

is all we ever see

a perception
ordered

of necessity

there is no
freedom

it is all in place

and is
as it is

the mind

a fluidity
within bounds

species
specific

and of no
consequence

beyond the living
and dying

of its bearers

its agony
and its joy

only that
it is never

still



epistemology

in the space
of

consciousness

the making
of shape

a blind man's

hand



epistemology II


in the quest
for power

a brutal abuse

as if

the butcher's blade

to cut from this
carcass

the limbs

from that the brain

and a body

to be assembled

from remains

donated

by the grey man
at the knackery

the skilful
stitching

of a black
seamstress

a press release

from

the fantasy
writer's guild

and

an introduction

to the world

everyone's
favourite

the wooden
puppet



it is often in the night
a bright waiting

and beyond the necessities
of action

in the space of rest

a quiet anticipation
of imperative

or the delight
of no demand

the innocent joy
of wandering

the spirit's roaming

or commitment

and always at the centre

my girl's beauty
and her wonder



I am one

who has had to

go blind to

impossible worlds

to escape

the shutdown
of everything

many times

regions
of space/time

lost in
reality's

folding
and
unfolding

only
memory traces

fragments
debris

I look upon
curious

like the pale
knowing

after a dream

or

as if
in a cafe

overhearing

pieces

of a story

as

someone
I used to know

passes by



it's a joy

to question
anything for that
matter

(as Aristotle
in a garden)

and the delight
of

the idea of
seeing beyond

and trying
to find

and fix

a reason

a point

of origin

to it all
absolutely

and
the pleasure of

a doubt

in the face of
a reality

without
holes

is quite
perverse

to conceive

possible worlds

within worlds

and so it is

always

out of

a madness
of mind

and chaos
of heart

the art
of

the act
of

creation

and yes

a Lucifer
in us all

in a world
blind

to artifice



people
who work the land

fired hands
in clay

the metaphysics
of rain

the ontology
of the sun

have the bearing

the look
the mark

of ancient

figures

of earth
and art

despite

the history
of costume

the rumour
of cities

the myths

of technology

always the gaze

to the line

a tractor
or a dray

the slow wheels
of endurance

coming up the road

and forever
the hill

and the flat

beyond

and the knowing
of the world

as if

a dead god



you go to
the centre

of consciousness

(emptied
of the world

of image)

there is
nothing there

space
without definition

spirit breathing

(what you are

in the freeing
of the dust)



Americana


and the excess
of bounty

can lead

to a voracious
appetite

the consumption
that is war

the feeding / gluttony
of a bloated race

to eat everything

a blind rapacity

as if the only

satisfaction

famine

and the raven
of desolation



the death of
the spirit

(in the name
of politics
science
or simply
pain)

is

the only quest

of the grey

beware

the stylists
of order

look for
the madness

behind
the mask

of days




intelligence

and the problem
of other minds

is the machine
room

of propaganda

you need
to understand

the politics
of metaphysics

to get a grip
on

what goes on

a range of possible
starting points

first principles

if you like

or simply

prejudices

irreconcilable

at the beginning
and end

of it all

and the choice

of how to go

determines


the negation
of alternative

views

and so begins

the making

of a world

in thought

image

and word

that does not
in fact

exist

(the systematic
attempt

at the creation
of

mass delusion)

and
in so far as

it's always a question
of

material gain
and organization

the taking
of place
and resource

the issue
is

force

and best
understood

in terms of

the categories
of emotion

and hence

of dominance

or submission

and the machine men of
opinion

the manipulators

write a history
of disbelief

and it will hold

for all intents
and purposes

after the abuse

and the victory

of the powerful

over the powerless

Hans Blitz

in an empty field

still looking

for reason



it is essentially
the inability to see

and with this
recognition

of vulnerability

the idolatry
of

the imagination

a belief

based on nothing

of another realm
of being

and the manufacture
of principles

to sketch

a world beyond

nature

and this is no aberration

(the anomaly is

clear perception
of

the reality

and the painstaking
observation

of rest
and motion)

the failure to think

within the fact

of the world

is the great
impulse

of the weak
and frightened

we all know
this reality

however

the real danger
is in the believers

the purveyors
of sacrament

those
who would impose

imagined realities

on the world
as given

their capacity
for destruction

the great hymn
of their

delusion



it's

image
within
image
within
image

the deeper
the vision

the brighter
the texture

of detail

the greater
the vista

approaching
the unity

of one

no escape
or reason to

once immersed

the order
of perception

is the pure

intoxication

of mind

in its
creation

the world
of beauty

and you strip
away

knowledge

what do you have

of yourself?

(movement in
space/time)

your history
is one of many
constructions

you have used
or could

the self

is the making

the actor
without script

and every role

to be played

the possibilities
of thought

tracks

found upon

and taken

entrenched

and

ephemeral

are the qualities


of the world

determined

for the totality

of any moment

of being

and the eyes
of any seer

you are one

and always

a creation
of delight

move

in the great symphony

of dance

and be still

in the joy

of the earth

(always at peace)

find

an unknown

place

and do not

touch it

with mind

to become
what you are
not

in the senses alive

the black trees

a lake of glass

the darkness cold



the endless

the great and busy
dialogue

of life

on the streets

the labyrinths

of God

and

the hidden entropies
of the earth

it is all in the eyes

the world is blind

(there is nothing
for it to see)

light is the reason



and
democracy

a method
of

changing faces

dictatorship

the method
of not

and power is

undiminished

(to what is power
accountable?)

and the powerless
are deceived

and deceive
themselves

and go on
about the business

of survival

under the shadow
of eternal debt

(in the Sudan
there are no subtleties
of light

only the brilliance
of blood

the slaughter
of life and voice)

it is the order
of

dominance
and
submission

the particular
arrangement

is only a quirk
of history

time and place

the essentials

are untouched

by difference

it is at base
fear

that maintains
servitude

and the illusion
of a good life

trinkets

to divert

for those who can
work and pay

to stay in chains

people

will always be
defeated

by government

(and
the greatest
fools

those who
hold to

the sceptre)

the only way is

to search for

a space of mind

uncontested

by the question

of having or not

and to find
in love and art

what cannot be

in things to hand



we imagine
a latitude

of thought
and act

as if

nothing fixed

in the order
of men

only the choice

to survive
or not

and yet

what is possible

is not

in fact

and the indeterminacy
of mind

the illusion
necessary

in an organism

complex
enough

to have

space

for

freedom



religious ethics of any kind

are by definition
unaccountable

their moral ground

is

supernatural

not of this world

and what I say
is

even the granting
of such realities

is not

to the point

for they are
ontologically

distinct
from the natural

and so

cannot have impact

unless you
go for

some kind
of Cartesian

interaction

and the most
bizarre use

of this notion

the Christ

the god-man

an idea

that makes
no sense

on metaphysical
grounds

(where is
the point
of interaction

does God meet man
in the pineal
gland?)

and so

throw out

metaphysics

and replace
with faith?

and of its
basis

not reason
or sense

you guessed it

faith

the belief
based on

the belief
(elegant
in its

stupidity)

and this is
just where

the game begins

the beautiful
alliance

of brutality
and obscurantism

i.e.

he who has
the power

and the talent
for

obfuscation

(the priests
and their backers)

line up

to subjugate

the masses
(the workers)

whose function
it is

to serve
the elite

and not question
their edicts

their 'morality'
of domination

which

is a most potent
weapon

for it is not
accountable

in terms
of human suffering

or survival

in this world



go into the hills

lose the perspective
of distance

and view intensely

the intricacies
of earth

true the colour

textures rich
and undoubtable

living things
orders of existence

tough beyond
and before

the emergence
of man

and know
the irrelevancy
of self

of consciousness

to time
and space

and the unaccountable
action of the world



science

it is only
magic undressed

and the new robes
of another history

whatever the fashion

naked

the source



For Isabelle


and passion

the true act
of defiance

of the given
reality

of consciousness

the world
made room for

a new reality

and reason
never in the fore

always

a defence
of the assault

and in the act
of creation

the pure
absence

of knowledge

is the true joy

of conception

in the birth of

thought
or

life



prayer


oh

to the deep

of yearning

to speak

in

no language

the intricate

beyond

sight
or
touch

to

a joy

of

essence

in black

always

the magic

of

childhood

the monologue

changing

shape

irresistibly

reaching

to embrace

the world



contingency

it is
the horror

of
possibility

out of
which

comes

the anguish

for

necessity

and the great
movements

of chaos

to annihilate

the nothingness

of

flux

they come

in

the end

to be

as if

for all

the thrashing

of life

only

the appearance

of

movement

and so

the dilemma

true stillness

within

the given

forms

of nature

God

or what you will

the trap is set



these deaths

diminish

me

my confidence

in living

has gone

as if

nothing but

a sham

and yes

there is
a wisdom

that can

see

beyond

the despair

what will it
be

another day

a change
in the weather

a smiling face

who knows?

to give reason

once again

to think

beyond

the one

truth

that falsifies

everything



in the eye
of the storm

the focus
is true

we are all one

in the hands
of nature

space/time
position

contingency

the absence
of design

is all

our vanity
of difference

amounts to

death

is where we meet



perhaps

just an imperative
of emotion

nevertheless

the question
is real

what is there
to revere

to hold sacred?

beyond

the love
of our own

is

only

the possibility

of true
understanding

of the nature
of it all

and here

we can only grasp

the concept

of the totality

its content

its actual reality

is beyond

our reach

nevertheless

how it is imagined

sculptured

painted

or danced

is the first

and final gift

of freedom

to every man



unity is defied
in individuality

(each centre
a unique
perspective
on the whole)

the necessity
of survival

(a precarious
imperative)

demands
the compromise
of vision

and so

the distortion
and anger

inherent in

any attempt

to define
and order

the universal



this land

is the place
of fire

where
the spirit

turned
to flame

and learnt
to conjure

brilliance
speed

and
devastation

and
always

it returns

to this
altar

of dust
and sacrifice

to
commemorate

and
practice

the art

of
holocaust



it is the wish

a spirit reach
for another world

for the bodies
of our love

unaware
walking down
the street

green grass
and rain

it is the wish

a deep insinuation

with the face
of a breeze

that can possess
with nothing

every hope
and dream

it is a wish

that can destroy

the inside
of the world



the still shudder
a glimpse of terror

time's unreality

worlds within worlds
spinning in nothing

was there a beginning
before the extinction

to memory?

the mass grave
of possible worlds



(it's a dream)

not to say
against the facts

the plane of space

the arrow of time

but there is no
other account

of the sequences
of being

the worlds
of each and every
body

emerge and fade

into nothing

and existence

only in mind
a trace

an image

(and what is this?)

the echo
of an echo

in shape and colour
and motion

and still
ever present

the veridical
of moment

as if the greatest
illusion of all

gone as we speak

and re-made
complete and whole

a new world
at each instant

(and God
is not a substance

but an inexhaustible
energy)

and
mind

only ever
begins

at the present

its power
and vision

dissipating into

the dark

and

the bright



ah the eyes see
beauty!

it is a gift
to vision

without reflection

a totality

the focus
always

true

a fact
of flesh and bone
no less?

or could you
imagine
a god

behind it all?

or indeed
to stop

in the flash
of light and days

and recognize

only the earth
itself

in the mind
of its own creation

the unifying principle
is in the eyes

beyond this
a myriad of infinite

worlds

in anything you touch

a microcosm
of the totality

we are bearers
reflectors

in our vision

of the singularity

of creation



desire
is impossible

the purity

of first view

the fractures
of a life broken
and fixed

to become
something else

barely recognizable

a poor hanging
thread

to the wholeness

once possessed
luxuriously

spent
to destitution

the need
essential

that cannot
be articulated

but in the brutal
ignorance

of its display

and a yearning
eternal

for loss
of self

in the infinite
of beauty



ontology:


is it a lover
you need

or love?

in society

(what is this?)

as an individual

where do you draw
the line?

a good act
a bad act

or goodness and evil?

in a world

or

space/time
CO-ordinates

whence justice?

or a just
society?

and under attack

terrorism

or

a terrorist?



it's the sweep of a line

(as if there is nothing
above or below

or there never was)

the beautiful
darkness

the shaping
of the world
down
a
page

a Coney Island
construction

desolation
and magic

to the rounding
of)

you can step sharp
here

or hide
(like God)

between the words

a stream
of neons

above the bitumen

a grandmother's
tears

to a map

of strange order


a land

that has just
begun

tracking

a thought lost

a mark
is made

a painting
in pure syntax

and the ruin
of grass -

leave the sky
to be blue



horses galloping in the night
unseen

the sound of thought

escapes

a brief assertion of God
behind the dark

intelligence
of another realm

demanding awe

(a robed king
bows in submission)

and then

as if the world has been

time to a halt/

the slow furious
breathing

the steam of creation
echoes

life into a still world

and behind the absence
of light

staring bewildered
into nothingness

bright black eyes
wild

tenderness and terror

the span of a lifetime
in one glance



I suspect

we come to the world
with order

and then seek

to find reason

for the conception
(whatever this may be)

a meta theory

a frame

for the picture

and even beyond

to a greater breadth
of reach

as if

to discover
an end

to explanation

and to rest
finally

in the belief

the world

is what

we dream



consciousness
never at rest

the fluidity

cannot be
forgotten

in the movement
of limbs

the street
is fixed

(within given
parameters)

you think always

of other worlds
within the world

walking to and fro

a ghost
of space/time

as if
the actual

just another play

to be watched

in the travelling
theatre

of possibility



we move
through time
always

to the understanding
of

the inevitable

it's the casting away
of

the possibilities
of consciousness

to know

and be
at peace

with the fact
of

stillness

the illusion of flight

and the closing
of eyes

as a bird
at night

it is the point
of focus

in every act
of love

or hate

the ground
behind

the play of image

and always
in the twilight

whatever the courage
of the day

the sad knowing

there is no preparation
to be made

no way of seeing

to defeat

or to hold

the empty truth

and so life

the glorious denial

and only the refuge
of sense

a moment
of pleasure

for the loss of death



the beauty
of a flower

the intensity
of its sense

to the logic
of emptiness

the first and eternal
state

and ground

we wander
to and fro

across this space
of no time

seeking

reference

place to be still

and held

to know
only

there is no
rest

no house
of the spirit

and always

the beggar

homeless

in a land of plenty



it is to the baseline
of power

(unadorned with reason
or sense

a purity of action
and reaction)

we begin

or descend
to

in every look
embrace

and encounter

and the form
of the attack/defence

the characterization

only dressing
to the skeleton

plumage and paint
to the spirit dance

the balance
is never clear

only victory
or defeat

the sign of blood

and the illusion
of order

necessary

for society

(rules to define
engagement

ground set
for conflict)

essential
to the fight

there is no praise
or blame

to be had

all are equal

in need
and right

on the field
of battle

beware only

the pitfall
certainty

it is only
doubt

that saves

and conquers
the believers

(the absence
of knowing

can be defied
with lust
and idolatry

but never
conquered)

and institutions

of deceit
and perdition

are only
the architecture
of fear

they fall in time
of their own weight

(it is the history
of stone)

and the fools
who strive

for dominance
and control

are the shells
of their own
brutal sea

before
their knowing

washed up
and wasted

on time's
ancient shore

of wrecks
and messages



be aware

there is only
a moment's
truth

in the understanding

no plan
to be found

for a future
of dealing

with the world
and death

forget cautiously
the fears

of being

live in your own gaze

as much
as possible

the focus

true

(it is all swept away)

laugh

at the great carnival
of consciousness

(you are watching
from the stalls

and you are performing
centre stage)



it is metaphysical space

from the depth
of essence

a bottomless sea

to the frontier of sense

the bright ephemera
of the world

a depthless
presentation

and consciousness
a traveller

seeking rest

the artificer

building camps
of refuge and hope

and the seer

who looks upon

the scattered
and unfinished

shrines

to fallen gods

across a battlefield

of forgotten wars



so, indeed
it is a question
of how

you ought to live?

and the pursuit
of pleasure

no less

always
a matter of
dessert

and in any such
indulgence

the emptiness
of release

the loss
of
power

and with this
the ironic

and
the inevitable
contradiction

of the choice

to lose

freedom

to find refuge
in nature

(a primal knowing)

comfort
in the order

and the looking back
the visiting

(in thought or act)

always

a failure
of nerve

in the sharp
relief

of knowing

what we are
not

and of this circus
of the soul

a blind gypsy
with her cards

there is no release
from the spell

until you throw
your coins

to the sky

and say

now

I wish to see
above myself

to know

the way of things
and men

is only

to step back
in thought

and to hold

to the wisdom

you have

(it is no discovery)

it is rather

the stillness
of contemplation

against this

the movement
of colour

can almost blind

forget
the anguish
of the world

in your bones
and thoughts

be at peace

with the best
you know

(the trick is rest)




my needs only
the teeth

of every dream
vanished

(as much as this
and less)

a king's wardrobe
ideas had

endless possibilities

the actual
passed over

in the war of angels

the world

a move/
on a checker board

in the darkness
geometry's eyes



Meta Graffiti


I.


it is not
beauty

in all its
manifestations

that is
the answer

to being

rather

the absence
of the need

to escape

in word

image

dance
or

symphony


II.


to walk

with clarity

and to know

the reason

of rain

and the truth

of the earth

is all

that can be

after

emotion

and imagination

are released

and

spent

into the nothingness

from which

they

came


III.


it's the fluidity

the pace

of consciousness

ill at ease

with

the objective
world

it faces

that leads
to

the out of
focus

play

of image

that is

the nitty-gritty
of existence

day to day

year to year

life to

death

.

and so

a stillness

a clarity

of mind

a notion

not of

reality

rather

a logical

reaction

to the meta pain

of motion

and mind

.

hence

the creation

of other worlds

á la Plato

Buddha

and the Jesus
makers

denials

all

denials

of the great

uncertainty

true

to each
and every
moment

and the essential

dissoluteness

of being

(qua

being)


IV.


God
has no will

only
action and reaction

(no mind)

in the blind

totality



and
consciousness
invents

significance

do we say

for survival?

the thing is

not to step
out

stay within

appreciate

enjoy

to the point
of

sacred

and if you
wonder

at the reason
of it all

(death
at least
does this
to us)

understand
the question

is not there

for answer

rather

to focus
our attention

on the value
of

just what is

the mystery
is comprehensive

the art is
to not be

defied



the shadow of passion

can kill the light
of a life

a heart

or perhaps
even a century

and always hope
is left

the road kill
of time

and so

it goes on

without knowing

there is no work
to the days

rather a capture
of being

and the question
what to colour

the opaque

of existence
plain as living
down a street
of resignation

footfall
to

the absence
of feeling

a mark in every stone



the language
of all nations

on the corner

and the reaching
into bodies

for the strength
of kin

beyond this

no trusting
of the clouds

or schemes
for reconstruction

only
to find a place

and hold against
each assault

from without
and within

and to the end
of time

it is all broken
down

to attack

and defence

of the light



it's the thing
of wisdom

a net

and the catch
of everything

truth
deceit
desire
dream

inspected

with an eye

to the shape
the weight

and the fall
to order

and design

and

what is not
seen

the real focus
of any vision

it is the art
of breathing

a journey
to stillness

and its action

the slow
dark dancing

of a joyful
symphony

the world
as sense

there is no gulf

you touch
see

smell
and hear

and consciousness
awakes

in the ephemeral

a need for substance
stillness

the end of time
and change

and so we enter
beyond perception

to a world of

thought

and still
no end

to the uncertainty

only a different
realm

and quality

the eternal dance

and of this need

its point and

reason

perhaps

the drive

to be

or indeed

its death

in foreknowledge



if you put
another

in power
over you

do not be
surprised

if you are
lied to

and abused

for you have
given

what cannot
be a gift

to one
who cannot
receive

what is not
given

and for
the pretence

of it all

mutual

undying

contempt



we operate
entirely in metaphor

outside language

is what cannot be
described

only from the centre

can we speak

and build
realms of image

to greater generality

and apparent organization

(the spirit imitates
its conception
of nature

and generates
itself in this
idea)
.
to the universal

the limit
that is never

reached

and beyond this

the unknown

a conception

pure in its

absence

of content

the emptiness

that is
the beginning

the word unspoken



you are one
with this world

it is only
a change of temperature

and the spirit
ageing

in the motion
of bones

that is the passage
of time

space

is the given
for contemplation
whether in
the heat

of the endless summers

of youth

or the cold
of

abandon

streets of rain

you look back

a younger man
today

at the strange
apprenticeship

that took
so much of blood
and bone

and reason

the source of
great comedy

some go mad
with laughter

but no-one can
live on

not a little
untouched

by the hysteria
of being

it becomes
a mark

of health

and the great
breakthrough

to lose
bearing

and find
dimensions

not advertised

in
respectable journals

where the
reader finds

him/her
self

in a world

of every step

known and familiar

a grand illusion
worth fostering

and promulgating

for the pure

hide of it



the great man
facing rejection

orchestrated
his own demise

at the hand
of another

a clever move
in the theatre

but not
good enough

on the street

(but in the end
who does not

construct an image

in his own
likeness?

there is finally
no other refuge)

and in the years
to come

the followers

paid homage
at the shrine

but went
their separate
ways

and the old god

was alone
in his glory

and so

it was

desperation

that led him
to give

audience

to the scavenger

(who
like all
of his caste
scammers
to the last)

and the scavenger
became

the scribe
the slave

to the old king

for in this
feigned reverence

he saw
a step

to the throne

and the old man
by this time

a beggar

would take anyone
and anything

who would feed

a scrap

to the myth



Australia Day 2005


and
a particular
does not
exist

outside
a universal

and
a universal
exists

for its

particulars

and it's
a question of
definition

a person

a universal
relative to

say an atom

a particular

relative to

a nation

(a collection
of particulars)

so

what is
the defining
property?

it is always

a question
of thought

how much
you can
shrink

your world

or how
expansive

you wish

to be



the dog's eyes
of my soul

eat through
the glass

of days and blackness

to touch

the sound of horsemen

thunderous
to the earth

a brilliance
of light and pitch

beyond bearing
of gods and men



you must always
be at a distance

to have

the space

to hold it all

as a lightness

bearable

and then to
turn away

as if
from nothing

to another aspect

it's a movement
of eyes

that re-makes
the world



and of

the touching
of minds

in the ceremony
of bodies

hands grasp

eyes meet

and it's
the physicality

that contains

gives reality

context
to

the mind

always behind

and reaching beyond

the body

to a space

that has no

markers

dimensions

or

geography

it is where
we meet

roam

and know

it is only in
the retreat

to the physical

do we have
any hope

of definition

a mad scramble

to fix

in place time
touch

memory

and belief

the pure emptiness

the force
and beauty

of spirit



it is only as true
as dirt

the constant vision
of the eyes

a hand across
the balustrade

the cave
of dark knowing

the eternal plague
of words

on every street

and to

the significance
of each moment

spent

not a trace

but in the mourning

a ceremony
continuous

behind

the veil

behind

the eyes



an old woman
with white hair

tending

the burning
of autumn leaves

looking up
and saying

to the question
of death

"there is no 'why'"

and

"some things
best not to know"

and wisdom is

a piano playing

in the darkness
beautiful

a sound
unknown

(and possible
only

for what
was learned
lost

forgotten

and destroyed
in ancient fire)



it is to
steal past

a brightness
unseen

(the world)

to wake

in no mind

the summit

undreamt



we see
(this is the beginning)
the knowing

what is touched

the outside (of the world)
and what is thought
beneath the surface
the inside of the physical

we reach
in two directions

(and have the knowing
of this)

to the spirit field
of mind

and its showing

its means of
manifestation
the body

or

if you begin
with the material
world

its dynamic
beyond the eyes

we describe
in the language
of spirit

mathematics

a stillness behind
space/time

and beyond
these presentations

is the one
the unity

that so expresses

nothing to be said

(and God just
and only what is
revealed)



style:

it's the way of it

be it dying

or the nothing

of living between
acts

when even God
is struck

with the incurable

ordinariness

of being

you can thrash
with all the force
of nature

and call it
true

(every killer does)

or

let go

and be swept back
in a sea

of despairing

a pleasure
of self-indulgence

no-one
will suspect

or

see it as

the great trick

to fill
with design

the shell
of living

and enjoy
with your eyes

the greatness
of taking

time in hand

and tailoring
eternity

to suit
its bones

if only for
the moment



people

it's only the gift
of the moment

(if that)

the truth of joy

(an eternal
necessity)

when you are
caught

off guard

the preoccupation

and defence
of the stockade

or indeed
the need

to step out

and touch
a new world

beyond

the individual

(and its anguish
of meaning

called
'the days')

there are structures
for survival

imperatives

of nature

and custom

that demand

the return
of the senses

(recalcitrant)

to the scene
of the accident

with only

the hope
of memory

and a mind
weary

of the toil

(of recurrence)



there is no
intelligence

rock solid
knowledge

(even Plato
who set up
the business moved it
offshore)

and
mathematics

is nothing but
the assumption
of truth

and its implication

with no reference
to the facts

of rest and motion

a pretty game
for retired minds

and of
empirical science

it moves
only with
respect

and an eye
always

to what is
yet to be
observed

and its laws

like a father's

precepts
to the child

well founded
but always open
to question

so

to take
a grand sweep

(a large punt)

knowledge
is the lost child
in the darkness

we do well
to look always

to what
is not seen

for this
in the end

we always
know

(and if
for nothing else
it puts our dreams
in perspective)

giving

wisdom

in the place
of

certainty

all very well
and good

but for the abuse

of the power
seekers

who apply

the complexities
of knowing

to the service
of deception

and lies

(could there be
a greater violation?)

the irony is

the truth
like murder

outs

despite
the efforts of

the deceivers

you could ask
then

what is
the point

of the subterfuge

who

are the liars

lying

to?




break down
to the village

the great circus
of power

will go on

stand for
those close
to you

and those
abandoned

in desert
camps



Darfur
(domain of the poor)


the eyes
grow wide
to death

as if
in awe
limbs
waste

before the throne
of bounty

the ghosts
disappear

one by one
in the millions

the locusts
swarm

on a desert
wind

increased
chatter

human rights



all in the maelstrom
of image

the wordist
a fringe dweller

the perverse practice

pinning metaphor
to page

pieces
of every man

in the collection
macabre



Father of Strange
(Abu Ghraib)


only be outraged
at the war of terror

do not be surprised
at the pleasures

and if you wonder

of the psychopath

think of the joy
of evil

with all the force
of law



beware
the man who trumpets
honesty

as his touchstone

(it is at base
the cloak
of amorality

at best
the refuge
of savage egoism)

truth
is a correspondence
between proposition
and fact

it may or
may not

have anything
to do with virtue

(a psychopath
can be as truthful
as a saint)

value is not fact

a good man
may be truthful

and a truthful man

may not be good



when you come
to the other

you are in
a space

of image

disjointed
Picasso
sections

in motion
flying

on a canvas
of nothing

(physical space
and time

the only hook)

and to this
you bring

the same

it is
an interplay
of no solidity

at base

the only connection

a recognition

of

common
disorder

always beauty

at its heart

and to the chaos
of heart

reason
the actor's actor

plays

the part
of nature

the grand
still and composed

audience
watching

in silence



we live in abeyance

for all intents and purposes

the totality is fixed

how else to conceive

behind the veridical?

the inside of the world

is relatively stable

one thought to the next

one cause to an effect

within a space of time

we conceive and imagine

reasons to keep going

and move inexorably

to the end of knowing



in the dark
beauty

of fallen elegance

down
Dante's staircase
of mirrors

to the lobby
of desolation

in the private hotel

at the death
of the world

he learned

the art
of dislocation

the eternal dance
of no foundation

a secret order
of freedom

hidden to the eyes

and endurance
beyond

the marriage
of society and nature

its lost
children

thrown back

transmuted
in pain

to spirits
anarchic

before the birth
of order

and out
to the street

of plain life

dogs and rain
and people

as if there were
nothing unreal

or distorted

in the catacombs
above



no image
to survive

the speed of time

and the place
of emptiness

no consolation
to the senses

and so

the question
where to?

the end points
of passion
and reason

it is best
to mix it up

each journey

a new world
to old gods



it's about

how do you let
things be

go to their
place

as if
this

or

a taking hold
of everything

in some madness

of desire?

a throw
of the dice

or a moment's
dictate



it's a form
of madness

that requires
Hegelian categories
to

approach

something like

a 'national mind'

or

collective psychosis

to understand

a nation's
failure

to see

its obsession with

'overwhelming force'

and its
prosecution

on the apparent
defenceless

who with
sticks and stones

batteries and wires

and community
groups

defeat

the U.S.

decade
after
decade

(you would think
they would

wake up

to the impossibility
of

technology

to conquer

the human
spirit)

perhaps

it is all
just

the fact
of surplus

too much

to

too few

that has led
to the

paranoia
of the possessors

and the strength
of

the dispossessed?

it is

as if

collective wealth

anaesthetizes
and blinds

and monotonously
propels

production
and
destruction

and the transforming
of minds

from

theatres
of possibility

to

passive
coefficients

of

a mindless

national
machine



so

I went to
this box
of keepsakes

and trashed
the lot

nothing
in fact
was lost

I have no use
for the memories

attached
to these things

they were painful

enough

at the time

and what was

the worth
of the keep?

necromancy
I think



Putin's dead eyes

a thug's theory

rubbish

to a great capacity

return
to the past

there is nothing
in this

(children lost
corruption

a shell
of unforgiving)



do not give evil

a grand status

we are not
dealing here

with cosmic forces

rather

appalling ignorance

and failure

to know

to understand

and often
in the name

of

knowledge

sacred

violent action

be it of

an individual
a group

a nation

is confusion

a failure to think

beyond
the obvious

of pain

it is the action

of

a wounded
brute

stupidity
with force

there is no
redress

no amends
or

consolation

for the suffering

only

the possibility
of rising above

of consciousness
that can see

from a place
of no discrimination

and embrace

the great emptiness
of being

with neither
sadness nor joy

(or
it is just simply

to face
another day)



surplus = waste

and the middle class
renovate

the house
as a virtual
reality

and the lives
of those within

figments

empty spaces

never still




we are all blind

beyond our vision

its history

space and time

and so humanity

a field of possibility

the meeting place

of uniqueness

and the common ground

behind all eyes



so

the great
inescapable

drama

of your

morality

how to be

strong

and act

from

the centre

and to be

wise

in the ways

and open
to

the gifts

of the world

the life
of another

is a joyous

release

from

the eternal
preoccupation

of the self

embrace

with an emptiness

the other's heart

and be
always

a sign

and reason

of their

freedom

(the weight
of your dreams

is not

another's

burden)



annual report:

the war
of image

the meta constant

across
space/time

the value zero



desire

of the senses

nature's

wise illusion

and when
young

racked

in its
abundance

and despite
a hope

an expectation

there is no

release

only distance

and the hollow
of memory

(a vortex
of nothing)

so

faced with
years

the fruits

of endurance

you can

as many

regret

or walk on

through
the world

knowing

it was never
anything

more

than the circle
of seasons

and the span
of lives

and you

with eyes
to see



people

and the appearance
of stability

(doubtful at best)

beneath

the tailored order
of smiles and manners

it's the stagger
laugh

and bar room
fall

(and everyone
is there)




it is
to have to hand
a tool

a construction
of need

its reason

the making
of the world

(as true
as a plough)

knowledge

is this

and of
the grand conceptions

of science
philosophy

and religious
thought

the point
is no less

to make
way

in the darkness

to fashion

the means

necessary

to negotiate

space



and is the rule
of law

only to protect
the powerful?

their rationalization
of their holdings

and in the event
of attack

an assault
a massacre

a reason
then

to abandon
the luxury

the intellectual
trappings

and to
act

with naked force

not
in the name
of order

but against

disorder

(it is
the difference
between

responding

to evil

and acting for
a greater good)

the argument
is easy

revenge

has no limit

(as with pain)

and its object

defined
in its action
blind

there is
an illusion

of justice

until

its transformation

to what

it seeks
to destroy

and so

it begins
again

with new victims
and a new rage

against

the atrocities
of the once

righteous



the argument
from experience

has the appeal
of sincerity

(the only defence
of the stupid
or the cunning)

it is
the failure

or the fear

to think

beyond

the self

or

the outrageous
attempt

to

impose

on the many

the ignorance

of

one



let us begin

with preemptive

strikes

in response to
terrorist acts

and extra-judicial
assassinations

to preempt
murder

the point is

it is not
the act

that is
good or evil

rather
who performs it

and

their reasons

ultimately
a function of

which
set of beliefs

and

which group
and its power

and so

right and wrong

defined

independently
of

the act
itself

tell this
to your child

begin here

and retrace

to your

god



the
archaeology

of the self

is

before your
eyes
forms

you begin to
recognize
knowing

in past times

you walked

invisible

through

their touch



and there is
no refuge

against

the brute fact

of

human beings
always at war

only

the secret
worlds

of thought

the last
consolation
of being

we must
retreat to

but never be
secure in

a wariness

stripped
of sentiment

the default
of

wisdom


in this country

if you are arrested
by the United States
on suspicion of terrorism
you will be abandoned
by your government

if you are released
by the United States
on suspicion of terrorism
you will be harassed
by your government



action

is emotional release

its expression
beyond

the breast

an effect
and affect

a changing of
the world
there is much space

and so place

for all kind
and form

of impact

order

is not a given

disorder
the state of nature

(or at least
a cautious
starting point
for thought)

and so

society

is the question of
limit

how much
and of what kind

can be absorbed

before

the centre
cracks

and breaks up

for realignment?

it happens
on any level

no-one
is born

outside
boundaries

and no control
is ever

fixed

the question is
heavy

and all embracing

(its weight and scope
has crushed
history)

how to accommodate

the disorder
of difference

and

maintain
a stability

that defies

violence?

it is
the overreaching

that has the mark
of failure

catastrophe

for when
you go

outside
your domain

it is ruptured

by the movement

and so

the field

beyond

violated

by
the intrusion

be aware

of your space

and beware
of its breaching

from

the inside

or

out

so

quite
simply

what
people
do

is the fact
of it

the range
of possibility

is
your domain

writ
large

your
choice

within

either
ground

trodden

or

the making
of a new

path

(everything
is valid)



and
you meet
someone

for the first
time

who's heart
is open

(bright eyes)

it is

the exquisiteness

of form

and soul

that is the world
again

it's beautiful old
style

of the gift

of novelty

from

an eternity

fixed



the limit
of knowledge

is

what exists

consciousness
has no grip

it reaches

and looks to
reason

for its grasp

here

no finishing point

thought

falls away
to an emptiness

and

we are left

with the anxiety

of being

knowing
every conception

a construct
without foundation

and still to cross
the road

and believe
in everything

and only

the hope

of beginning
again

as if

a miracle

within sight



step theory


I.


thought
is

the inside
of

an act
is

the outside
of

a thought


II.


reason
is

construction

the world
moves

with
or

without


III.


man
is

a division
necessary

for

revelation


IV.


the appearance

of the world

is an accident


V.


eternity

is blind



Emily


when I first saw her

she was
an extraordinary
butterfly

of dark places

who brought
hard men

to their knees

and that summer
at the corner table

in the heat

day after day
night after night

when we waited
for lovers

who never came

and we would drink
and play pool

in the early morning
in the empty bar

a ray of sunshine
somehow

and the jukebox

today

I rang her
from another land

another place
another time

she said
"I'm in labor
and about to go"

"and Joe?"

she laughed
"I can see him
from here

he's out
in the garden

cutting the heads
off flowers

one by one"



Amsterdam 1660


the anarchy
of religious belief

is a wild garden
of exquisite
beauty

every testament
and rite

to grow
in its own design

to enrich the sky

and give strength

to the earth



Liv Ullmann Waits In O'Henry's Room
(flowers clutched)



life

beyond

design
or

freedom

.

ideas

archaeology

as if

an artefact

has the power

of light

.

forget

go about

in the eyes
of others

rest

the burden

of

spirit



beyond modern sculpture


the world
is made of pieces

segments / continents

the canvas
(white)

a blank idea

flowing
rivers of colour

torrents
of embracing

the action chaotic
and beautiful

or

disgusting
beyond morality

to the purity
of

dirt_____

life

(of all orders / species

hierarchies)

moves

its preoccupation
true

to

the unknown

and

from the vantage
point

of limited consciousness

(on
the green grass
across

the road)

death

is watched

(in passing)



in the world
of fact

there is no
void

(nature abhors
a vacuum)

and mind

though a natural
phenomenon

quite strange

for it is

full of emptiness

and in its vision

the natural order

(beyond
the most basic
to touch)

is indeterminate

where should I go?
which path to take?

it is not
as if

the answer
can be

black
hard
loud
sweet

or

the square

of the hypotenuse
is equal
to the sum
of the squares
of the other
two sides

the thing is

consciousness

brings
uncertainty

to the world

(Heisenberg
understood this
as a fact
of the world)

and we deal with it
in the language
of choice

right
wrong
good

evil

supra-natural terms

the vocabulary

of the unknown

its function

to distinguish
order and disorder

(notions
that cannot

be settled

a priori)

and so
how to proceed?

there is not
the objectivity
of nature

here
morality
is possibility

the need to determine
the only imperative

whether

on the basis
of desire

or its absence

we move always
with a delicacy

of touch

light

colour

and scent

the making
and unmaking

the painter
forever at work

the masterpiece
never stable

its preoccupation
inescapable

the madness
and genius

of everyday life

another's eyes

a hand to touch

the only comfort

in this storm
of nothing



Cornelia


enduring pain
distorts

madness
a refuge of

horror
a vision lived

(the world)

circumvented
thus



the occupied territory

of the land
of the heart
of the mind

and always

the question
the need
the ache

for freedom

to
or
from

we do not live
in absolutes

there is no end
to possession

it is only
a question
of who
or what

there is always
constraint

on possibility

necessary
sufficient

we live our days
in the midst

of contradiction

and not
a question
of logic

(of overthrow)

for solution

rather
be prepared

to move
within

aware
and open

with the heart
and the focus

of children
at play

the horizon
can dissolve



anxiety

is white

nothing
changes

the world
thins

an imperceptible
loss

of substance

a bright
translucence

the end
of

shadow



the senses
fix us

to fundamentals
deeper

than thought

and its
concepts

and so

the nature
of

delight



we are
creatures

of the forest
floor

the sky

the limit

of our vision



Sth. Wst. Gippsland


these hills

as if

a primal sketch

a line of delight

flowing

quick and sharp

the detailing

the filling in

of substance

and colour

the pleasure

of centuries

above and beyond

an eternal sky

the purest

of blue



consciousness
is the sense

(of everything)

the rocks
have been

spared



Afternoon Tea At The Windsor


the secret is

to suspend
the categories

to know
the true pleasure

of being

without birth
or death

in no place
or time

and beyond
causation

it is to see

the eternal

in yourself

and to hold
it sacred

it is
the only
Art

and like
a dancer's

dance

gone

in the apparition



play

in children
is God's

artlessness

before

the word



we are born of

the magic
of contingency

beautiful accidents
of space/time

all the noise
and colour
and touch

of worlds alive

points of light

momentary

in the darkness

eternal



the contortionist
after years

on the boards

one

still winter
night

in the Athenaeum

only

the usherette
was watching

in the back seat

(unbeknownst to
'Maurie The Great')

turned
himself

inside
out

and in
that moment

became

a dove

and flew
into the darkness

Myrtle

(the skinny
usherette)

gasped
and exclaimed

"well I never"

dropped
her sandwich

and left

and from
that night on

took up a spot

under
the town hall
clock

from 6.00 to 6.45pm

brandishing a sign
on which

was written:

GOD
IS TRAPPED
IN THINGS

THERE IS NO
DEFINITION

BE STILL



syntax

the bare and brazen
display

of consciousness
unrevealed

its invite
a sexless allure

the cold beauty

untouchable



the General

studied
the map

his idea
was to take
the bridge

to cut off

the enemy's
retreat

from the First
Division

advancing
from the hills

on the other
hand

given

the enemy's
victory

the bridge
would be
necessary

for the counter
attack

and rescue
of the dead

and dying

"so"

he said

(as if
addressing


the Almighty)

"to stay
and wait

or to

move and act?"

everything

he knew

depended
on

everything

no action
in isolation

no knowledge
complete

as if
existence

only
to fulfill

the requirements
of logic

yea or nay

life or death

as such

irrelevant

end points

of possibility

their value

zero

in the great
unfolding

of being

the General

with
a mad laugh

called to his aide

and gave

the order

"stand down"



The Mystery Of The Forgotten Man


"so

he must be
dying"

said
the Bookbinder

looking out
toward

the bridge

"yeah"

said the Poet

"I mean
how else
do you
explain
it

the clamp down

no news

from either side

no 'This Day Tonight'

or the like

not a fuckin'
thing

it's as if
the bastard

never
existed"

"perhaps
it's the kids"

said
the Lady

"how to
tell 'em

when
to tell 'em"

"yeah
but even so"

said
the Potter

"it's a quick study
on how it all works"

"how so?"

asked
the Jeweller

"well
it means

that even
in this day
and age

in this country

information
about

a national
figure

can be
killed

dead

it means
all sides

and all
media

can combine

for silence

if not

misinformation"

"yeah

it's
a worry"

said
the Apprentice

as he
put away

the ladder



(watch

against

the world's

seduction

of self

to

belief)



out of

myth

a distillation

to the sharp
focus

of

fact

(the reigning hegemony
of the day)

as if

a line
necessary

to be drawn

in the chaos

of mind
and

belief

something
at least

to map out
a grid

and so

to define
a crossing

(nothing
is lost

one way or
the other

rather

a loose
agreement

we all doubt
with a smile)

it is only

the necessity
of action

that determines

what is
to be held

sacred
or

profane

(and always
a question
of which
group
or tribe

holds sway

in the balance)

and

despite
the vanity
of

civilization

grand
structures
to

humiliate
chain

and silence

the gods

the great joy of it all

is

the heart is never stable



gods

were made
to

justify

dissent

and
provide

reason

for

the overthrow

of

the status
quo

it is
always

an argument

from

the outside

beware

the intruder



Saturday Night
or The Horror
of Parmenides


it makes
little difference

(in theory)

how you
decide

the real issue
is

to not be
stuck

it's

the problem
of permanence

stillness

in political
and social

terms

is

a grand
wish

for death

(venerated
in myths

of salvation)

though

never

realizable

in re

the desire

is well
armed

in history

and the
Capitals

of now

do not
be cowed

by the hardware
of insanity

it falls
to pieces

without

the hands
of dreams

be undaunted

by
robes

and testaments

walk free

and spit
in the eye

of any god
or

his lackey

(fear)

the hills' immutable
eyes

walk
down
the hall

as if
to find

(a truth)

in the kitchen

or
wait

in a sanctuary
of words

(the bone
room)

for flight

(inside)

the evanescence
of history

an eternal
horror



to think
from the centre

and to move

on this basis

is to act

is to enhance
your power

alternatively

to engage
on the basis
of affectation

(the effects
of external forces)

is to be
a captive

of the passions

the point
of reason

is to distinguish

the active
and the passive

it is not

a question
of either/or

(though this question
always remains)

rather

the art
of determining

the moment's

dictate

to be lost

in the glorious

dance of the senses

or

to step back

into the cell
of contemplation

it is to know
and to accept

the conscious world
a divided kingdom

and the spirit's

motion
eternal
recurrence

from clarity

to its loss

forever



this obsession

word

a madness
discreet

a reaching

in lucid
dreaming

the flow
of thought

turning in
on itself

lost

in the dimension

before
space/time

separated out

the world

awake


Owl Farm Reflection


and every act
an image born
some hone it
to a craft
as if to leave
a picture to hold
the moment or
even a life
all in the hope
of distinction
a vanity to
the bones
you may say
well why not
is there anything
else to do?
and the answer of
course is no
unless you have
seen through the
glass and its
reflection
true

there are those
who achieve
the absence
of time

old hearts
on old streets




let us
be clear

it is only
a question
of focus

and

its dominance

(in a world
of possibles)

the question
then

control
of view

the beauty
and treachery

of consciousness

is its

instability

history

is the making
now

of perception

forget

military
hardware

the real tool

is technology

its use

and influence

the bombs

a final act

armies

for the curtain
call



Prayers For The Pope


if God's will

will
be done

why pray?

and for
the matter
of that

if God's will

will
be done

what does it matter
what

you do

(or think you do?)

the thing
is

it's a win-win

situation

(you

are not
responsible
for anything

your
every act

an expression
of God's
will)

you exist

as an expression
of God's will

your 'will'
so called

is

God's

writ small

as it
were

your only
problem

in all this

is the question
of personal

identity

i.e.

what distinguishes
you

from

anything else?

God's will

it seems

distinguishes
nothing

hence

you do
not actually

exist

except
as an expression

of God's
will

and so

'you'

might ask

I can't
distinguish
myself

surely
God can

distinguish

himself?

apparently not

for such
would entail

the existence
of something

other than
God

and if so

God

I'm sorry
to say


would not
be

God

hence

it appears

God

is

of necessity

anything

and

everything

and yes

it does
follow

'his' will

will be

done



modern times


we are
given

a stance
with mind

to separate out

from

the totality

otherwise
no

possibility
of

differentiation
discrimination

and no way

to state
anything

i.e.

everything

could well be

nothing

there is
no way

to see

beyond

perception

and its
basis

conception

in fact

reason
to doubt

the idea
itself

if it's all
and only

what we think

nothing is
lost

everything gained

perhaps

the great liberation

or the reason
for

insane

I think

of a summer's day

on the library lawn

the world

young and beautiful



a quick word
to Europe

do not be
threatened by

or sympathetic
to

the fool

and watch
for

the dark lady

moving

with grace
and steel

behind
the charade



power

is finally
(and only)

the imposture
of image

and this
is never clear
cut

a tangle of bloodied
limbs

the Idea

essentially
corrupt

is always
the deconstruction

hidden
in the viewing

beliefs

manipulated
to

a simplicity
of rhetoric

the package
as if

returned
to

sender



forgotten worlds
(are all we leave)

the moment
impossible

never
the future

TRANSPOSE
(3 dimensional)

a body / life
(female walking)

the micro -
home + things

a span of days

from nowhere
to dying

all the colour scent
movement (noise)
of

a society
(floating)
in nature

as if

through
a spyglass

closing



yes

you need to
understand
yourself

not as
the body
suggests

flesh and bone

some stable
objectivity

of fact

(and this
a first glance
impression

before
the wiles
of science)

rather

as the 'I'

that is central
to

experience

though
nothing of it

a point

of spirit

if you like
an ideality

that is
a focus

of the world

it moves
through

and so becomes
of everything

it is

touched
by

it is the motion

that is the key

we take

nothing of this world
whole

it is all of
a part

impressions
images

a complete
cosmos

in any fragment

worlds
of who

you have been

in any moment

necessarily
forgotten

as it must
be

the self

cannot be still

it constantly
throws off

identity

and is like
the world itself

continuously
created

remade
in its own

likeness

so

be careful
not to judge

yesterday

(from what you
can grasp)

with today

(again
from what you
can grasp)

look

for a stillness

that is

beyond

all impression

it is

of definition

without
attribute

the unknown
the untouched

to see it
with your

mind's I

is to know
the essence

of the self

above and beyond
and before

the journey

of space and time



we define
in terms of others

origin

and history of
encounter

those close
now

our inner
worlds

reflections
images

of the world
encountered

and

what else
is there?

your thoughts
emotions
behaviour

only what is
given

genius/
insanity

right / wrong
place

time

(in the great mix)

the great accident

happens

and then it can all

fall

into place

as if

design

Plato's wall
of shadows

or even

the mind's
appearance

to itself

as the face

of the world



you come
to another's heart

the accident
of eyes

(nature's

fleeting
determination)

and reason

works hard
to hold

time

the moment

of mind

in the flash
of sense

and this

the intimacy
of the unknown

the great
exploration

in all the days
to come



for Jude

and love only

always
a fragility

never fixed
in the harshness

of its domain

as if
the world

no place
for its eyes

and touch
extraordinary

across the divide

of everything

it is without
fear or sense

and
cannot be held

to account

in the order
of space and time

its reason
without reason

and freedom

its only mark
and sign

of being



Balustrade Visions


we all can

and do

choose

our deep views

of the order

despite

society's
attempt

to imitate

nature's
determinism

and it's
the fact

of this

anarchy

at the core

that is

reflected

and displayed

in every act

of grace

.

so


for the circle
of reason

no mark
to

the hills

the
invisibility

of

understanding's

chase

of

nothing

as if

the pure

of

a spirit

without

bounds

forever

.

time's
mark

the body

you look
to find

a sign
of

beauty's
memory

or

the hope

of wisdom's
promise

for

something

to

hold
against

the great
rushing

of loss

behind

the studied
look

caving to

a changeless

sea

of blue

.

it's the piano

the sound
of consciousness

an infinity
of possibility

every thought and combination
of time

and place

and absence

and your
pain

(its history)

and all the joy
to come

keys

for your heart
to play out

strings

the tension
of life

no death

in silence

only

the great
anticipation

of

the darkness

.

it is
simply

the enormity
of

being

(the celebration)

that is

overwhelming

or

disposable

(picture
a country
roadside

a car

its driver's door
open

a young man

exasperated

walking away

out
of
vision

towards
you)

and

consciousness

decides

what will

be real

the domain

of one

is enough

even

here

too much

horror

to bear

in any
single

span

and you wonder

why

they imagine
other worlds

gods

and demons

(you see

the cruelty
of

science
is

the very
start

of madness)

still

you have to
begin

somewhere

and
who's to know

the right way

out of town?

.

and

your essence

only

displayed
in

the physics
of body

but never reachable

from

the outside

is not this

the great hope
truth
or
deception
of

love

bodies pressing
reaching

to a beyond

touch

and what does it
weigh

you cannot measure

still

for some
more real

than

brick and mortar
reality

I think

it makes

no difference

(writ large)

only

to the ones
from

nowhere

who come
to you

with yearning

and embrace

as if

your heart

was true

centre

and there
you rest

and move

among the trees
and
down
the streets

but

of another world

(way too much
for science

needless
to say

its humility

defined)

and all the glory
of love

and living

splashed across
the canvas

tracked
with
syntax

rising like a flood

in the great symphony

out of the darkness

and to the heavens

implore

a music
of the spheres

to the heart

of silence



 (c) killer press. 2006. 2025.