the chronicles of zero west

 

reason
is possibility

it is not to be confused with
contentment
satisfaction

(necessary heuristic
illusions)

the natural state
of the organism
is
conflict

between what is
and what is
not
we can at best
understand
the possibilities

implementation

of decision
of direction

the opening of wings

is to begin again
with the question

and never
the stillness
of
rest

like an insecure whore
dressing for a dalliance

the poet's neurotic
adjustment
of torn garments
and cheap
trinkets

the
assignation
with
terror

down
the
blind
alley
of
the

heart

"a 'tryst'
is what it is - "
said Albert
to his cat

and God said

"yo"

the prophets
were really
stand up comedians
working hostile rooms

but this was O.K.
for the real joke is
there is nothing
to laugh about

and if you
don't get that one
try

thou shalt not kill
or root your neighbour's
wife

guaranteed
to bring the house down
that one

and Mo
he had this great trick
of parting his hair
but it wore thin
after the first night
opening

and there was always Zeke
and his hotted up Monaro XL

great donuts outside
the theatre

(big hit
with the young Italian chicks)

but in the end all smoke and mirrors

'had its day'

was the general view

on the left bank
of the left bank

and in any case

the real issue
is what's going on
inside

it's curtain time
and no-one's
bought a ticket

the props man is
despondent

the chorus girls
are bitchin'

and the promoter
has turned heart attack
grey

just waiting
for that call

but as those in the know will tell you
long range weather forecasters
and captains of industry

(the ghosts behind the ghosts)

'there's always someone
who wants to laugh
even when the act is dead'

and the soldiers
pour over
the hills

as if there is
a reason

(beyond the mindless)

they are
the true innocents

the children

of bitter matrimony

and on command
from the eyeless
they will kill

everything they see

as if
an original sin
to be obliterated
in the beauty
of
blood

it has little to do
with life and death

it is rather a matter of
symbol and sign

semiotics

and the battle of
interpretation

the language
of power

is a field
of definition

for without definition
there is no control

and if
thought is running free
in a Babel of pure spirit

there is no way to govern

the city of God

consider the view

that the two fundamental categories
of the understanding
are

subject and object

I the subject know
the world as object

the hook is
that the knowing subject
can regard
itself as object

hence
I can refer to myself as 'I'

the question is

whence subjectivity?

could it just be an illusion
in the whole scheme of things?

that is to say

the subject is not fundamental
in an ontological -
even existential sense

but rather
a means of knowing the object

that is the objective
recognising itself

the point is really

I am
therefore
I think

(NB: the above
is the Copernican Revolution
we should have had)

the idea being

man and his knowledge
are not central
to existence

and the fact that
we need to identify ourselves
in the world

should not be mistaken
for anything other than

a fact
of the world
itself

it has to do with
a survival mechanism
of the species

indeed
all species -

for the capacity
to individuate

is essential
to survival

it goes beyond
the heart of physics

to the essence
of morality

for to live ethically
is simply to understand
the nature of things

to know

that everything exists
for its own purpose
and not for another

respect

for the world
and all that exists
in it

is simply to see
the world as it is

and in the face of the conflict
of competing claims

(that is the world as it is)

survival is always
at issue

it is always
a struggle

to maintain

one's integrity
and
the integrity
of the other

in the event of attack

(inside
or
outside)

be prepared

to fight
to the death

or

the most difficult thing of all

to walk away

to reach for

an understanding

that goes beyond

space and time

to the eternal

the source

the ever present

moment

that defies
any description
any state of affairs

it is the place
of emptiness

it is here
there is wholeness
and sanctity

it is here
there is refuge
for truth

however
be clear on this

the world and its affairs
are not modified
by such a response

it is the individual's
understanding

that is altered

philosophical withdrawal
from the affairs of men

should not be confused
with action

and so

either/or

and at the heart
of this

the unknown

the ever shadow
of thought and deed

on the war in Iraq
I have just this to say:

it is the chaos
of a drunk
not drinking

(and here's to
the shot
of 'Jack Daniels'
that could have
saved
the world)

it is no trite metaphor
to say

the domain of the alcoholic
is a war zone

alcohol

is the mask
of the madness

it is not
the madness

take the mask away
and what do you have?

and of the madness?

it is only magnified
by denial

it seeks another
mask

and its resolution
is not victory
or defeat

(there is no
victory or defeat
for anarchy
whatever
its countenance)

the answer is
in acceptance

to face the horror
of the insanity

with no disguise

to see -

it is not to be conquered
rather

understood

for it is only then

that the light of

reason

can dispel
the darkness

and bring into being

the dawning
of a new day

and in such a light
you may see

the beginnings

of a hard won

peace

the rich infinite diversity
of human expression
is the dynamic
of humanity

the force and power
of its creation

is a given

always in motion

(its essence is motion
it can never be measured
and so Time)

its flight

always beyond conception

its order
is the order of nature

its reason is its being

to love is to see with the mind's I
the eternal necessity and beauty of Being

Time
forbids fixation

(if not
the desire
for it)

an individual's
sense

of self

of the identity
and unity
of self)

has much
to do

with Space

the apparent
stability
and 'object'-ivity
of Space

gives

'place'

to

consciousness

(for my
consciousness
is

'here')

beyond this -

(and this
is little
comfort)

there are no more

illusions

it might as well be
a dream state

for reality
is not underpinned
with anything

in fact
it is less
than this

for at least
from a dream
you can

wake

"perhaps death
is the waking"

said Shorty

his lizard eye
closing down
to nod

his moon
cratered face
shadowing
into
eclipse

his head
drops
to his hands

on the gnarled
and knife-
notched
oak wood
bar

"but then again..."

he hisses

through
prison
busted
fingers

"tell Legs
I dreamed her....."

people
are deceptive
in their particularity

what goes on in them
is universal

their thoughts
concepts notions

invariably
reach beyond

their perceptions
affectations
sensations

one could be excused
for thinking

the illusion
is individuality

that the individual
(so called) exists

only as a pawn

in the battleground
of Ideas

and only
for the purpose
of the great war

of

Thought

and of this
what can we say?

is it anything more
or less

than nature
(or God)

thundering

blindly

against
and
in

itself

to a destiny

never determined

never known

(this is how it is
for everything

and as to reason -
a defect of evolution
and of no value
to a tree)

the real point is
to just let
everything

be itself

the fact that
human beings
don't know
what it is
to be
themselves

in any
fixed sense

is only
to say

they should have
the freedom

to not know

to explore

to fail

and

to begin
again

at
zero

if needs be

those
who seek power
and desire
to have power
over others

are afraid
of their own
humanity

their actions
are fundamentally
a denial
of the self
and its essential
freedom

the attempt to
objectify
the subject

is perverse
and sick

and there is never
any success

to the perpetrator

there is only
the emptiness
of unrequited
lust

to the victim

the suffering
of metaphysical
contortion

and the agony
of its living

there will be no end
to this

revenge
is a poor cousin
of justice

and is always
its betrayer

nevertheless

it is of the nature
of pain

to show itself

and to inflict
itself
beyond

it is essentially
blind

and hence
its consequence
never precise

its destruction
is necessarily
indiscriminate

its action
does not result in
catharsis

only
corruption

corruption

of body
and soul

'evil'
is the name
of pain
inflicted
with
pleasure

or
if one
is completely
de-sensitized

in the name
of
righteousness

or

if
emptied
of
humanity

in
the name
of

nothing

it is
thus

a total
inversion
of
the natural
order

necessary
for

the survival
of

the species

there are those
who have become
so accustomed
to their emptiness

and the means
of ensuring
its magnification

they no longer
see

anything
for what
it is

(only in terms
of what it is
not)

and they can exist
untroubled

sometimes
with the serenity
of a saint

or with the perfect
smile

(every time)

of the good

doctor

they can
exist

with impunity

and are always
granted

high honours

they are
often

very happy

people

(the mirror
on the wall
reflects only
what you see)

this is beautiful
an autumn day
moving silently
to dusk
the humble
magnificence
of natural colour
changeless
in its movement
from joy
to melancholia
and only
the occasional
brute sound
of a creature
aching for
fulfillment
in the green
rolling hills
of Zero West

the eyes
of love
see

beyond
the facts
of a life

to an essence
of possibility

the act
of love

is the attempt
to bring
this possibility

to reality

it is in this

that all
the greatness
of love
rests

and all its
folly

and

failure

is to be
found

it is
the day to day
praxis

of being

always
a rush against death
for the word
these many years
and today
against tomorrow
I write another

as if
to hold off
the inevitable

silence

of eternity

such
outrageous
vanity

and denial
of the ultimate

all in the name
of
Art -

a poor disguise

for a fugitive

from

divine justice

Jesus
in the end

said to himself

(he told
no-one)

'do what you will'

he was neither
defeated

nor

triumphant

he was just
finally

reconciled

to the world

and so
to the divine

he entered
with this thought

'do what you will'

he felt nothing

in this knowledge

they crucified him

people
speak beneath language

it is the sound
of

the activity of birds
in autumn
leaves

at the foot of
the sunlit
morning

it is
the symphony of thought

its imperceptible
timeless

silent
(and catastrophic)

action

people
speak
beneath

language

an old woman
prepares her wares

her trinkets
dusted polished
a dab of paint
here
a piece of
ribbon
tied
there

on her trestle
displayed

in the market
on the day

tokens

tokens
to be bargained
for

tokens/only

but oh
what brilliance

what scent to arouse

texture/
truth
to the touch

a pleasure
commonplace
or
exquisite

and all to the business
of the marketplace
of the exchange

of colours

I love the beauty
of its chaos (in red
ink in short

red/black note
books) legs everywhere

her beautiful young
body and desire

the warm summer
wind
soft

through a field of grass
dancing

the endless blue sky

Australia
'72

time leaves only
a dream

a memory

and reality?

only
a phantasm
in
its
wake

we move on

the world
a timeless
moment

consciousness
the beautiful courtesan

the seduction
of her
eyes

the alluring
falsity

you cannot resist

for truth

so

the strange facts
of the
case

and art
the only clue

the trail is cold

it is not even clear
at this time

if in fact a violation
has
occurred

the 'crime scene'
has never been
secure

and there are no reliable
witnesses

Inspector Alonso Veritas
of the District Police

is in his office
in the empty building
in the abandoned
city

working
relentlessly

day and night

through
the boxes and boxes
of dust and files

from the Information
Ministry

searching for

a page

one page

on which
is written

anything
anything

at all

I
have left people
behind

(they are in other places
and times)

people
who I loved
and loved
me

it was
all to find

this place

and to be with
my beautiful
wife

Jude

it was
necessary

to sacrifice
the world

to be clear
in my vision

for my heart
to stop

beating

for my love
to be

true

this is

the internal
journal

of my life

there are many
other stories

from many other
eyes

but this
I will argue

is

the great
truth

of

mine

to say
this

is to

diminish
no

mystery

it

is

to enter
into

its
heart

and to go
back

to a state
of purity

of joy

that is
Being

before

the moment
of

Becoming

(old metaphysics
the great days
there are times
when only this
will do

its simplicity
power

beauty

language

for our finest
moments)

refugees

they aren't
anymore

not
since

they got
here

they've
become

aliens

they do
mad things

they cut
themselves

try
to
die

some
small
ones

don't
even
move

try
to disappear

and
some
need

to be bashed

for
their
own
good

they will
die
here

or

be sent
back
to

anywhere

so

we keep them

in a cage
in the desert

where they are

the flickering
stick
figures

of our fear

the blinding rages
of our

ignorance

and
the re-incarnation
of our

ghosts

it really doesn't matter
what you do
from cradle to grave
what's the difference?

sensation I suppose
but hardly an argument
one way or the other
given its nature
of coming and going

and so
what is there
to fall back on

in the idea of purpose
the concept of design
or the notion of reason

perhaps only
what you make up
along the way

and here
you need to watch
carefully
children at play

for they possess
the great bounty
of artlessness

that Time
like an old lens grinder
polishes away

towards perfection

the weight
of consciousness

is heavier
than the world

but then
how to weigh the world?

it is a lightness
beyond measure

an endless
silver emptiness

the mind of God

the General
addresses the nation
via video recording
at 4 p.m.

I am innocent

of any crime

against the children

I have no guilt

therefore

I have no sin

God bless you all

in the bowels
of the State Library

Eusebius Plot

The State Regulator
of Language

is in his room
at his desk

proof-reading
the Chronicles

it fascinates

Eusebius

that though

he has
checked the manuscript
thousands of times

he
even on this reading
has found
errors

Eusebius
has come to know

he will never

get it right

and further
that it is not just
his frailty

that is
at issue

Eusebius knows
there is something wrong
with the order

that

at its heart
of hearts

it is

corrupted

it is
this knowledge

this secret
knowledge

that spurs
him on

to greater
endeavour

it's a question
not of truth
(in the sense of
some final
implacable state
like a circular
steel plate
you can acknowledge
with a nod
or touch
with disinterestedness)
but rather truths

as it were
a unique game
of fancy
that is such that
it broadens
to include
everything you do
and think
just once
you begin

you start
with a token
a shape

and the thing is
to place it correctly
within the board

others play
and do the same

(sometimes you play
against each other

sometimes not)

but with each go

the shape places
in the board
change

as does the shape
of your token

you must needs
take your token

and find another
place

and so
it is a game
of great skill

but always

you will place
your token

it is rather
a question of

what finally
is contained
in your shape

and how much
of the board

of the ground
does it cover?

with each move
the question
is alive

'what is
the right shape?'

(the thing is
you are never
without shape)

and bearing
in mind
of course

what you play with
is just a token

it is not the board

and
it can never
become
what it is not

and
what it is not
will never be
what it is

it is important
to know
at the outset

that once you begin
the game

you can never
actually
leave

however
you can always
begin again

it might well be
advanced

that this is all
one ever does

in such a game

this however
is just
one view

among many

finally

it should be
pointed out
in passing

this is a game
no-one
will ever win

(the idea of 'winning'
seems more absurd
the greater
your advance)

and further
that it is a game

that never ends

(as long as there
are players)

it is this
understanding

that is the essence
of the game

it is this
that the players
are reaching for

with each level
of skill

comes a greater
knowledge

of the dynamics

of the motion

of Space

and then
finally

the understanding

of Time's

surrender
of

endurance

to
eternity's

one
moment
of

stillness

(in the beginning)

the whole world
is at stake
in the next
act

everything

depends
on the last

thought

nothing will be changed
in the hills

it will appear
as though

nothing

has happened

to the stars

and so it is

the dreaming

is beyond
their reach

still

in each
speck
of

bright
dust

falling

to

nothingness

everything

is

to be

a myriad of worlds

forever

becoming

I am God's refugee

the land is my place

I have no fixture

I was the howling wind
with all its eyes

I will be the desert

the gift of the world
is in my hands

wonderment is all I know

my clothes
are the days
of history

'eternity'
is my lover's name

she is
forever young

the imagination
is the essence
and truth
of human beings

but it is no guide
to truth

and it is impossible
to leave
even at the level
of mathematics
an image
is required

for reason
the endeavour of it
is no more than
the cutting back
of the forest
of dreams

to a manageable
and sustainable level
of growth
and re-growth

(and the wilderness
of the spirit -
forever untouched

and unmarked
by any approach
of thought)

destinies
in a heart beat

the great chaos
of the spirit

underworld

to the order
of the street

central city
private hotel

'it aint
such a big step
don't stammer
don't stutter...'

step
off the street

that's all

into
a parallel universe
of gentle
(enduring)
decay

in lime green
pink and
off turquoise

your first impression

it should just all
fall away

like a face
in a window
in the rain

(or an iconic
Greek painting
of the Madonna

stilled
forever

in the midst
of restoration)

surreal

(before that word
became flat
and square)

as if
fixed
immutable

in the Platonic
form

of seedy
desultory
elegance

a secret museum
of the high art
of the Grotesque

only
for an elite
appreciation

hidden
from ordinary eyes
since history's
recent fashion
of beauty

and now
the palace guard:

the gentle giant
Eurasian (indeterminate)

front man (in a cage)
you couldn't believe
knows steel

with the (indeterminate)
smile that could
make you vomit
if it lingered
in a dream

on the first landing

the reassuring -
standard
abandoned couches

(as if
a blind old hag
offering
the comfort
of her
flesh

a pleading
pusillanimous
smile

the false eye
seducing)

turning
into the hall

the halls
the halls

sterile
direct pathways
to other worlds

Medusa's locks
in a mythical age

I hear
tap taptap taptaptaptap
tap

an old electric
typewriter

in one of the rooms
of this dilapidated
old mind

perhaps
I was always here

room
20

these are the days of all men

alone (quiet) when there cannot

be any gentleness of touch or

comfort of recognition in another

person only the drill of walking

winter streets with an eye to

the wind and the world's every

loss

Henry James
is not a writer
he plays piano
in your mind
a strange combination
of symphony
and boogie woogie
it is the music
without sound
that can only be read
with a blind man's
touch

we are all here
in Zero West

is the place
(of no place)

we all inhabit

spinning
back to
nothing

it's a dream

(it is only love
that makes any sense
it is our only
being

and there is
no reason
to this)

Jude
is my love

is my life

her being

is my

definition

(Aristotle
at last)

all my
'knowledge'
has come

to nothing

(I may as well
be new born
for all of these
50 yrs.)

except
of course
I have passed
through Time
and spaces

(this is
the bottom
line

of all notebooks
of language)

the great injustice
of being

is the very reason

you can only
bow

to the great
absurdity

with humility

(the great and only
necessity)

it is the formness
of a girl
that is the source
of all my crazy

humanity

our world
is not extension

it is translucent
malleable

a fluidity

('spirit
substance'

is the only
description
that works)

it is just
a matter of pressure
points

and their
shape/s

the motion of

perpetual
definition

and the endless
history

of touch

Inspector
Veritas

turns
from the dull
yellow light
of the solitary
desk lamp

to the grey sky
beyond
his 14th story
office

in the abandoned
city

and thinks
and wonders
and then says
to the emptiness
beyond

'what is the crime?'

his fax machine
by the desk

does not pause
to acknowledge
his question

its constant
chugging
of ream after ream
of white paper

with nothing
at all on it

is a rhythm
that has become
Alonso's

only comfort

the rhythm
of the silence

and then
as if killing
a white spider

he slams
his fist

on the machine

it stops dead

his soft
Mediterranean
eyes

shocked
to Tiger Snake
bright

make out
in the Escher-like
castle of white
paper

evolving
by his desk

print

one line of print

in the yards
and yards
of white emptiness

he reads:

'there is a bluebird in the heart'

in the geometry
of concrete

in the abandoned
city

lies a drunken
man

bleeding

he will rise
again

and walk
with
honour

never forget
the fall

one's capacity
to destroy

the true love
waiting

in another heart

Jerusalem

is the city
of failed gods

it is now
time

to stop
fighting for

a memory

that never
was

anything
other than

a homage to
a fool's hope

to be

no more

than

a

fool

and the prophet said:
walk away

leave the false city

go to other fields

do not look for
other eyes

(there is no
sacred place

save for where
you stand

be true
only to

the emptiness
of the world

there
you can breathe
the mantra
of the universe

there
you will be
free)

Nebuchadnezzar
before
he came to his
senses

was driven
from men

and went into
the fields

and did eat grass
as oxen

and his body
was wet
with the dew
of

heaven

till his hairs
were grown
like eagles'
feathers

and his nails
like birds'
claws

and in so
doing

he understood
himself

to be

just a thing
of the earth

an expression

a moment

in the great order

of the Almighty
Nature

no greater
or lesser

than a beast
of the field

and he bowed
his head

to the Cosmos

and knew himself
to be

and only
be

of its making

and it is thus
that he did say:

'And all

inhabitants
of the earth

are reputed
as nothing:

and he doeth
according
to his will

in the army
of heaven

and among
the inhabitants
of the earth:

and none can stay
his hand

or say unto him

What doest thou?'

and the old man
said:

'there is nothing
extraordinary
about poetry......

everything is poetry

the 'poets'
are just the chroniclers

the assembly line
workers

and what do they
assemble?

image

yes -

image

and there is no
mould

for it

but the moulds
of language

it is just
continuous
repetitive

assembling
and
re-assembling

shaping
re-shaping

moulding
re-moulding

and in the end
for all their
repetition

mindless
or otherwise

all they do

is give us
one image

or
another

a picture

when all
is said and done

just a picture
of what is there

what we already
know

and some pictures
become popular

and people
take them

and see the world
in their terms

in their colours

and in their
shapes

and some

are kept in books

picture books

there are old testaments
and new testaments

but they are all
just
the work
of
poets

scrapbooks
if you like

pages of cut-out
assembled

images

but I see
you want to know
what is behind
these images

just images

other images

is the only
tragic
or
comic
answer

it all depends
on how you do
your work

you cannot go
beyond

the imagination

it is the place
of language

where the image
is made flesh

you can
assemble

with joy

or you can
dissemble

in pain

it is all a matter
of how you work

it is your work

it is the world

and the world
is poetry'

and the young fellow
looked at him
with kind
laughing eyes
and said:

'that's a good line'

and the old man
bowed his head

and he too smiled

but he said
no more

what is west
of Zero West?

that is the perennial
question

there have been
explorers

who have wandered
and claimed

and put down
a name

to where
they stand

nothing more

they have never left

but it is
all to do

when all is said
and done

with language

its growth

and
exploration

and the pleasure
of its

invention

we have only this

this joy

the touch
of unspoken
words
in the embrace
of knowing

the sound of
a baby's
cry

the love
we live
to express

and find
in the story
of
others

and then

in the end
it is the silence

we come to

the silence

the beautiful
place

of no syntax

of rest

where
the dance
is still

and this
is just
the heart

of it all

it is where
we all
come from

it is the great
emptiness

from which

the word
is

forever

spoken

you will hear

its cry
for order

in the anguish
of the wind

and see
its vision

in the clear
light

of the morning
sun

its knowing
is moonlight

and its beauty

august

in the ancient
watchfulness

of the stars

consciousness
brings

meaning

to the world

meaning is
the embrace
of consciousness

and once
touched

everything
is transformed

by the imprint
of mind

the world
is meaningless

if you subtract
consciousness

but this
you cannot do

as a conscious
entity

therefore

there is
meaning

in the world

if only

because
of you

(consciousness
cannot exist

outside

of

the world

there is no
outside)

so

the meaning of life?

is simply

the mind
your mind

you

your life

has meaning

independently
of anything
you do

(so long as you live

and beyond your life

the meaning of others)

your life
is in your hands

your meaning

your particular
stamp

on the world

is your choice
of thought

and action

there are no
guarantees

you operate
within a
nexus

of choice

all the choices
of the world
of mind

there is much
luck

in the arms
of necessity

(and this is just
the impossibility
of being God)

the secret is
to find the lyric

to be one
with the movement
of it all

and though
this is too big
an ask

it is possible
to know

the truth

and to connect
with its movement

there are
moments

times
of contemplation

when
the spirit
is still

and the mind
is clear

the tabula rasa
is not where we
begin

it is where
we end

and there are always
insights

into this

resolution

in the noise

colour
and movement

of the days
and nights

(it is
the capriciousness
of the great
silence

that cannot
but help

reveal
entice
seduce)

be at peace

if only

for

the now

listen to

the invisible
music

of your heart

surrender

to the great
poetry

of your life

sing

the song

of

joy

Albert

said to his cat

"Time
is just the space
between
one event
and another"

and God
said

"so
what's an event?"

and the cat
said

"go"

we live
in The Burra

of Zero West

(why it's called
'The Burra'
I'll tell you
in a minute)

the Boss
of The Burra
is The Small Man

on the other side
is The True Man

The True Man
was made head
of the other side

after
the Fat Man

resigned

people liked
The Fat Man

but they decided
they didn't
want him
as Boss

because
he was fat

seeing him
on T.V
made them
feel small

on the other hand
The Small Man
made them
feel big

The Small Man
was nasty and mean
and told lies

and a lot of citizens
of the Burra
preferred that

because
they were like
that too

The Small Man
always beat
The Fat Man

(because he was fat)

but no-one
told the Fat Man
this is why
he got beaten

everyone
was too polite

they told him
it was bad luck

(bad luck
he was too fat)

he went
and sat on the bench
in the park

and was very lonely

and his only friends
were a swan
and a hawk

they told him he was
more popular
than the True Man

he tried to beat
The True Man
by throwing
his weight around

but the True Man
won

because
The Fat Man
was too fat

(and the True man
is not fat)

and

The True Man
may beat
The Small Man

for the same
reason


(however
all is not clear
for the True Man

waiting
in the wings

is the Hard Man
called The Tanner

he is silent
and deadly

and very
lean)

now
one of the jobs
of the Boss
of The Burra

(who is still
the Small Man)

is to choose
'The General'

The General
can sack
the Boss

and is in charge
of the army

so you could say
the General
is the real boss

this is why

this zone
of Zero West

is called
'The Burra'

because
the citizens
have no say
in who

The General
is

in other zones

the citizens
choose
their (real) boss

and so

where they live
is called 'nations'

but because
the citizens
of The Burra
are stupid

their place
is called
'burra'

today

the Small Man
chose a new
General

(the old General
resigned

because
he was found out

he didn't care for
children

and his wife
wore funny
hats)

the new General
is called

Jeffrey

the Small Man
said

Jeffrey
relates well
to people

Jeffrey
said

he feels
humble

and that he would be
'of the people
and for the people'

(the truth is
the people
of The Burra
couldn't care
less)

libido

is energy

primal
energy

its most
specific
expression
is

sexual desire

its force

is memory

primal
pre-conscious
memory

of the original
state

of the singularity

its manifestation
in nature

in diversity

in bodies
and souls

is
and can only
ever be

a yearning
for

the absence
of
separateness

(the death
of the self)

the desire

for what was

before anything

came
to
be

it is
to touch

in the body
of another

the origin

of

the world

Truth

is a work
of art

it is like
a picture

that is being
re-interpreted
every time

it is seen

imagine

that every time
a picture
is seen

it changes

(would it make
any sense
to ask

what is
the true picture?)

the picture

that is not
seen

may well exist

but without
an observer

it has
no description

hence
no truth value

such is the world
without description

or if you will
pre-description

without
an observer

and
given that

any state of affairs
can be described
given
an observer

it follows

anything
can be described
in an infinite number
of ways

and each
and any description

is true
to itself

how else
could it be?

there is no
objective
or
absolute
description

against which
all others

can be placed

(there is no
all seeing
observer

there is no
one point of view
in space/time)

hence

the great dilemma
of humanity
is

everyone

tells the truth

the idea
of objectivity
originates
in the nature
of consciousness

consciousness
is reflective

(this much
we know)

it knows
itself

we are
conscious
of the mind

the mind
regards itself
as subject

and object

thus the principle
of consciousness
is a relation

the relation
of subject and object

consciousness
cannot be further
reduced
or explained

its nature
beyond this
statement

is impenetrable

a mystery

the mystery

the body
is simply
the immediate
world
of consciousness

consciousness
is an observer
of this world

of the world

it knows
the world
as other
than itself

but it knows
itself

as embedded
in

and dependent
upon

the world

(the world
as its object)

the body
is for
consciousness

'my body'

hence

it is both

subjective
and
objective

the world
(beyond my body)
is for
consciousness

'my world'

(subject
and object)

'objectivity'

is real

but it is real
only as

'relata'

that is

as one term
in the relation

in the fundamental
relation of

subject/object

hence

objectivity

cannot be
understood

independently
of
subjectivity

(and likewise
subjectivity
has no meaning

except as
the other side
of objectivity)

for the mind

sees

everything

including
itself

in these terms

such is
the world
given
consciousness

beyond
this

beyond
consciousness

it is
impossible

to say

(it would be to
ask for
thought
in the absence
of mind)

what we have is mind

we know this

it is the given

on which the world rests

St. Jerome
chose

the emptiness
of a desert

to the madness
of words

his
was the anger
of

language

and

he went into
the wilderness

to still

its

fury

preferring

the silence
of skulls

to the discourse
of men

it was here

in the world's
empty heart

he found

there is no sacred

language

that all language
is profane

even
the word
of God

is corrupt

that it
cannot be
translated

to purity

that God
cannot be
translated

and so
the world

in all its
imperfect
beauty

power
and
fertility

and in this
knowledge

came
the understanding

of a life

and a final
hard won
peace

to a great
old soldier

of broken words

(beauty

is just nature

enjoying itself)

thought
is the inside
of sensation

or if you prefer

sensation

the outside
of thought

and what is it

that has
these attributes

of physicality
of ideality?

that is to say

what is the essence
of reality

beyond

its physical
appearance

its mental
experience?

this is to go
to the heart
of the scientific
quest

to the core of
the metaphysical
imperative

and to explore

the rich

complex

contradictory

and diverse

constructions
of reality

that are generated

all in answer

to the one question

what is behind
the reality we know?

the flat
simple

honest

answer

(walking down
the street)
is

'I don't know'

or
in the substantive

form

'the unknown'

and it is this fact

the first
and final fact

of the unknown

that man
has
defied

in everything
he has
created

in everything
he has
destroyed

it is the foundation

on which
all knowledge

rests

it is the source

of all

wonder

and the reason
for love

and love

is the essential
and primary

instinct

of human beings

to the world

it is
all the fragility
and strength

of a new born
babe

and it is
the child
always

in the eyes
and the
touch
of
another

from
the bright hope
of the young

to the twilight
dreaming

of the old

always
the child

facing

the terror

of being

of the world

and

apart

and the only
consolation

the nourishment

of another's

eyes

and
touch

(so
beautiful

the need

the dependence

of

one on another

let us
never forget)

God

plays steel guitar
on Dwight Yoakam's:

'Population: Me'

(He's listed
in the track details
as 'unknown')

it's been
His only
appearance
on record

since
Jerry Lee's:

'I've Forgotten More
Than You'll Ever Know'

1974

He gave up
on

The Last Day
Armageddon
The Final
Judgement

(originally
the portfolio
had a good
prospectus

and it had
strong investment
over the years

but
as it turned out

too much outlay
for no profit

in fact
huge losses

He had
no option
but to liquidate

and file for
bankruptcy)

and contrary
to a popular myth

He didn't die

He just retired
and took up
the pedal-steel

nowadays

He just makes
cameo appearances

in good
country bands

(it's not that
everybody's happy

but it has taken
a load off)

a disturbance
in consciousness
has a 'physical'
corollary

as a 'physical'
imbalance
will manifest
'mentally'

the physical
and the mental
are just
'pathways'

to the state
of the organism
as a whole

we see
and feel

the one
reality

the body
the mind

expressions
of

the total state

(definition
of which
cannot be given
beyond
these
manifestations)

'being'

is no absolute
it is contingent
upon

the state
of everything

and it is
without name

it is known
in terms of
its
activity

(is the sign
and essence
of being

to say this
is to say

that which
nothing greater

or lesser
can be thought

being
is)

my wild
curly-haired
girl

her life

is the greatest
gift

of this world

and I

have been
so blest

to be
at

the heart
of

all her beauty

is where
my life

begins
and
ends

the pure
joy

of her
loving

eyes

where to begin?
always this question
as if
there is
a beginning

and if not for
consciousness

we would
have no idea
of an end

it is
consciousness

that has
introduced
the idea
of
finity

or if you will
space/time

(and all that
follows
in its
wake)

and what of
consciousness
itself?

its place
in the scheme
of
things?

well you see
we are trapped
with this question

it is the snake
eating
its own tail

so there is
no way out
of consciousness

no way
it can be seen
'outside' itself

(any 'picture'
if you will
of the 'outside'
comes from
the inside

that is comes from
consciousness)

so it is here
that the breakdown
of reason
is complete

and if this was
the whole story
how stranded
we would be

but for
imagination

there is no escape
from the paradox
of reason

and so
I suggest -

it's just
a shot into the blue

consciousness
is

in the whole scheme
of things

an error

I suspect
it is a fraying
of the
fabric

a loosening
of the weave

too much
pressure

at a point
of weakness

and hence
within reality
itself

a dimension
by default

born
of stress
(at the core
of things)

and always
'aware'

(for this is
what awareness is)

of its
difference

its
alienation

from
its origin

(the original state)

and

its inevitable
return

to the order

but
its essence
is

anxiety

and its
daily
footfall

doubt

and so
it is not
a question
of beginning
but
continuing

the rouseabout
gets up
after the fall
picks up
his saddle
in the dust

and looks
out to the distance
for a wild thing

and the vista
is a mindscape

beyond

objects
states
events

it is
possible

a pure vision
beyond

the paradoxes
of thought

to where

the totality
and
the nothingness

are interchangeable
equivalent

forms

expressions

of a greater
unknown

back on earth

Rex

comes into
the Bottom Bar

on his first
of the day
go around

a drunk idiot
an out-of-towner

decides
he'll big note
himself
with Rex

so he grabs him
around the shoulder

in a hug

Rex springs back
as if bitten by
a rattler

tells the idiot
he's a fuck-wit

and storms out

the Fuck-wit
thinks it's all
great fun

and
what a big man
he is

laughs all round

(a big day
for the barflies)

and then
Rex comes back
into the bar

with a tyre jack

and goes straight for
the Fuck-wit's head

and but for
Drunk Wendy's
sudden lurch
to save her beer

Rex
would have
connected

you see
what the Fuck-wit
didn't know
is

Rex don't like
to be

touched

and Rex
is right

people
should leave
each other
alone

respect
the space/time
of another

and wait
until

you are invited
to another's

touch

I'm sitting
on a bench

outside
the State Library

reading Spinoza's
'A Theologico-Political
Treatise'

and pausing
for a thought

my eyes fall
to a small white
folded
piece of paper
wedged into
the wooden slats
of the seat

I take it
from the seat
and see
written in pencil:

'Read
Me.'

it is folded
four times
into a one inch
square

I unfold it

it's a blue-lined
A4 sheet
with a red margin
and holes
down the side
for a ring-folder

(it strikes me
as coming from
a student's
work book)

on the page
is written
in lead pencil

in a close
slanting
script:

'I don't like reality too much it's too harsh
I feel like I've just woken from a dream and realised
that evrything I've believed in was just a fallacy, not real.
Everything I've dreamed of achieving is unattainable and
there is nothing such as peace, fidelity or happiness.
a child in an adult's world. I don't belong.
I don't know why I'm here but it's been a journey.
At every moment hope fades. All I exist on now is
hope. All my dreams are dashed. I am lost.
It was all a game to me I didn't, I couldn't see
the real threat, danger the real evil. I was too
naive. I'd never been exposed to it. Everyone
around me knew but I didn't. They hid the truth
from me. protected me, I am jaded. Lost. Too far
to reach, gone. Save me. I don't live any more merely
exist. like everyone else. Waiting.......to die.

Never lose your way. If you have a dream hold on to it.
If you have someone, love them with all your heart.
Live like there's no tomorrow.
Thanks for sharing this with me.'

and to
this angel
of the city

of the concreteness

I thank you
for

this blessing

for
I was worn
and weary
of the heart

my soul
frayed
and
torn

was a place
of the dead

an acropolis
of
ghosts

and into
this citadel
of echoes

the clear
voice

of truth

(unadorned
with years)

as if

the world
reborn

in a simple
moment
of

renewal

as green and rich
and flowing

as the hill
country

I must return
to

Ground Zero
is Guantánamo Bay

this is the place

of destruction
and desolation

where
human beings
cease
to be

human

(and what is
'human'

but another's
regard

and
the world

has turned
its back
on

its eyes
away from

these things
in cages

shackled
and chained

in orange
jump-suits)

evil
is humanity's
denial

of itself

(this place
is the chamber
of its horror)

terror

is the first
premise

security

is the argument

terror
is

the conclusion

and anguish
and suffering

have always been
the great

theatre

of human pleasure

without pain

humanity

cannot recognise
itself

differentiate

subject
and
object

know
itself

as beyond

the bounds
of nature

it is this vanity

that is

the source
of all

endeavour

it is

the beginning
and the end

of thought

and action

and always
in the name
of

reason

we thrash
and tear

from the inside out

place flowers
at the scene
of destruction

pray
to the God
of love

build
another
monument

and begin
all over again

Eusebius Plot

the State Regulator
of Language

is proof-reading
'The Chronicles'

over again

in his room
in the bowels
of the State Library

as well as
his table and chair

against

the back wall
is a bed

also a night stand
on which is
a single book

a Latin translation
of 'The Chronicles'
by St. Jerome

beside this

hanging
on the wall
from ceiling
to floor

is a parchment
about a foot wide

on which is written
in Latin

the names
of the competitors
of the first
Olympic Games

to the right of this

in the corner
of the room

is a blue plastic
ice cream container

on which is written
in black texta:

'CONSTANTINE'

the container is filled
with water

and in the water

is a frog

Eusebius
works on

he has come
to know

that his quest
for the ultimate

error

may itself
be mistaken

(this was
a most delicious
discovery)

that it is indeed
possible

that error
is an illusion

a trap of language

that reality

without the confusion
of thought

just simply is
what it is

that there is no dilemma

but that of
unmasking

the puzzlement
of word

Eusebius
suspects

that beyond
this

is the real secret -

the universal syntax

and it is
to this

Eusebius
begins

his endeavour
yet again

he turns
to Constantine

with a glint
of true joy
in his eyes

and says -

"Ah -
Constantine
my little friend

we have such
a way to go"

and as if
in response

Constantine

jumps from
his container

and lands
with a splash

parallel
to Eusebius
as if to say

"but -

we have come
such
a long way

but"

everything depends on
ideas

what is an idea

but the inside
of an act

and the act
but the outside
of idea

the world of thought
and

the world of action
(the physical world)

are only
divisions of
consciousness

beyond
consciousness
there is no

separation

(the world
in itself

has no outside
has no inside)

no dimensions
to the one
reality

the inner/outer
configuration

is an attribute
of sentience

it is how

conscious beings

have been
categorized
to experience
the world

thought
is a compression
of action

action
an expression
of thought

the world
is the domain

that enables
these events

to occur

and it is
no more

than
everything

that

happens

or

another way
to put it

is this

what is there
to say

of any import?

(at any time
or place)

is there anything
to say

or

is it just

the playing out
of days

(a walking
emptiness)

and the words

as no more
than tokens

of the

evaporation

and to try
and hold language
in print

is this no more
than

a grand vanity

an idolatry

against
the sweeping
nothingness

of
eternity?

but then
of vanity -

what is not
vanity?

is not existence
itself

the Great Show?

(and this
has always
been known

by such
great vaudevillians
as
Mo and Zeke
and
Tommy Cooper

who once said:

'I'm on a whisky diet
I've lost three days already')

and if so

there is no
escape

no purging

in mortification
and crimson robes

only denial

a turning
of the back

and this too

is nothing more
than

the embrace
of darkness

the pleasure
of the forbidden

another
flight to emptiness

a final lusting
for divinity

or just a moment

gold dust

to the winds
of Time

and at the end
of all this

mental slaughter

as if
just a mirror

for the endless
battle

of humanity

you're sitting
at the kitchen table

a cup of coffee
in hand

quietly
surprised

at the start
of a new day

the return to nothing

the dissolution
of a unified
self-consciousness

is not really
the issue

it is rather
the point
of its emergence

at all

it is not that
there is
an answer
to this question

but it is
the question
itself

why it has
emerged

why
it is central

that haunts
and destroys

human beings

not enough
to be

but to be
constantly faced
with the question
of its reason

and why
this question
cannot be answered
is that
there is something
seriously wrong
with it

and by that
I mean
this

the question -
why consciousness?

implies
that there is
a reason

for consciousness

that consciousness
makes sense

in the total scheme
of things

and it is just
a matter of
working out
its place
in the natural order

but what if
consciousness
is a mistake

a fault

in the scheme
of things

a tear
in the fabric
of nature

that cannot
be healed

but an error

a
disfigurement

nonetheless

then

the problem
of consciousness

is the problem
of
error

why is it
that everything
is not

as it should be?

and the answer
is

bizarre
as it might
seem -

consciousness

and it is this
that necessitates
the flight from
consciousness

in whatever form

love
art
science

violence

drug use
memory

it is in such engagements
we find refuge
from the question

and hence
consciousness
is a self-propelling
denial

of itself

a strange creature

and for what purpose?

Shorty
at the bar

emerging
from the nod

his head
slow motion rising

like some exotic
ancient
near extinct
reptile

in a remote corner
of The Galapagos

barely moving

to the last
dying rays
of the twilight

his antediluvian
eye

fixing
on a point

of nothingness

the mouth

opening
like a wound

and as if
in the presence
of the oracle

the barflies
still -

in numbed
anticipation

awaiting
a cryptic message
from the gods

hear
a gurgling
from beneath

a slow rising
to the surface

and then
an eruption

"fuck her"

and as with
many an anticlimax

the denizens
slowly disperse

grumbling
at the lack
of fireworks

and Shorty

oblivious
to the complaints
of spectators

returns to
a century of sleep

Plato
put the sweat
on poets

and good on him

(he would have had
a field day

with the 'Beat'
poets

and the generation
of
wrecked lives

they left
in their
wake)

and you can read
his arguments
against poetry

(and
ceteris paribus
poets)

but Plato
I think
never said
what it was
that really
disturbed him
about poetry

the real thing
that bothered him

was the movement
the motion

the inherent
lack of stillness
in poetry

it was for this reason
it was to be banned
from his utopian
republic

for Plato knew
even caged
it cannot be
stilled

so it is an interesting
question

what he might have thought
of the novel

granted it is a form of
storytelling

and its power
has something
to do with
the power
of image

both characteristics
Plato regarded as
superficial at best
dangerous at worst

nevertheless
it would have caught his eye

the frozen
artificial
characterization

the simplistic plots

and the pathetic
moral lessons
generated

from such artful deceits

yes
the novelist could
have well served
a purpose

in the new republic

for even Plato
would have understood

you need someone
in your service
who is expert

at creating inane
illusions

if you are
to successfully
control
and subjugate
the masses

and teach them
to believe in

stillness

(at the end
of the day
Plato
either mistook
poetry
for advertising
which doesn't
matter
for in his scheme
of things
there is nothing
to advertise

or

he either failed
to see
or was too afraid
to acknowledge
that poetry is
an expression
an articulation
of the Demiurge
in the world
alive)

the real issue with people is
to understand the way
in which they are right

(it's no issue
how they are wrong

if you begin
with your own position
as you must

everything
is a deviation)

to see another's position
as unassailable

is to see who
they are

it is no easy matter
everyone fails

and the greater
the propinquity

the greater
the difficulty

strangers
are easier

than acquaintances
acquaintances
easier
than friends

friends
easier
than lovers
and lovers
easier than
family

and when it comes
to yourself

the problem
is quite
the reverse

the great challenge is
to imagine
you are wrong

this the key
to a free mind

you need
to hold yourself
in view

as if
an object
albeit

curious
for inspection

and look at
the nuts and bolts

try
to see
yourself
for
what
you are

and really
this is an exhaustive
task

to see clearly

the meta systems
the belief
structures

in short
to go to
the core

and then to see what can
and cannot be changed

what needs to be altered

to think
a different way

is the key

and all this is just to say

the closer you get
to anyone

the less
you will be able
to see

and there is a point

at which
you will see
nothing

it is the union
of two souls

consummation

and it is
the death

of knowledge

you see
knowledge
increases
or diminishes

exponentially
as a function of
intimacy
or its lacking

hence
the other
is knowable

to the degree
of separation

the further
away

the more
there is
to know

and of yourself
it is no easy matter

it is like trying
to come out of a dream

only to find
you are in
another dream

and
just this one question
before I go

'is there anything
Time cannot forget?'

Jesus
at the end

knew

it had all
been

a great mistake

to take on
the powers
that be

it was just that
it was so

intolerable
to live

in subjugation

there was really
no choice

but to find
a new language

and speak
in its secret world

he knew
he would be
found out

but there was
nothing else
to do

and death
would be
confirmation
of his truth

and death
would be
the final
humiliation

in the end

there was
nothing else
to do

and
old Bill Grubb
is in his shed

having
the best of times

making up
his fishing rods

and singing
them old rhymes

one Sunday
I was just playing around
on the Net

and I read
Dave Dawson's column
in 'Beat'

I was playing
a Steve Young album
and it reminded me
of the time

me and Dawson
and Steve Young
were driving back
to St. Kilda
after Steve's gig
at the 'Corner'

a flash flood hit us
at the intersection
of Punt Rd.
and Alexandra Pde.

the car got stuck
and I got out

and pushed it up the hill
a bit

enough
to get it out of the water

Steve
is one of my all time
great country
singer-songwriter
heroes

and there I was
saving him
from a flood

in Melbourne
of all places

and it's no great story
I know

but in remembering it

(and this doesn't
make any sense
at all)

it makes me
realise
what a great life
I've had

anyway

I thought
I'd email Dave
and reconnect

and it was good

he'd forgotten
about that night

but said
he still keeps in touch

with Steve

and from that
he invited me to
a Dead Liver's gig

I'm one
to leave things
where they stand
and not to go
back

but
every now and again
I step out
of my definition

and reconnect
with selves
I have been

perhaps
it's what Poe called
'The Imp of The Perverse'

or
perhaps

a metaphorical
return to a space
and time

before
the past
cut off so much

and there were days
of carefreeness

or so
the present
imagines

anyway

I lobbed

at 'The Wayside'
on a Saturday night

and the gang
was all there

as if
there had been
no 20 years

or

I'd just gone
out for a piss

and come back
just in time
for the second set

I pushed through
the crowd
and the first one
I saw

was Genevieve

and after
hugging and kissing
we sat down to do
what we always
did so well

talk

I gave her
a potted history
of the years

and she
could speak
on every point

and she
and Richard
(the drummer
in the band)

have two sons
one 16

she said
"that night
when you took me
to the band

on the tram
when I first met
Richard
I wasn't wearing
any pants

you didn't
know that did you?"

"No"
I said

"that is a detail
I'm sorry to say
I missed"

and then
I looked up
and coming towards us
was her sister
Mary

Mary O'Brien

we go back
such a long way
together

but unlike Genevieve
she seemed
uncertain reticent

just a little
unsure of herself
as we embraced

the last time

I saw Mary
we were on the steps
of 'The Village Belle'
in St. Kilda

and she's saying
to me

"you know
I don't love him"

and just
as she said it
'he' came out
the door

my God
how do you get out
of that one

I don't know

but she stayed
with him
and had two girls

and now
it's just her and the girls

Mary
was a wild one
in her day

and
a hell of a lot
of fun

but now
there was
a sadness
about her

as if
she knew

she could

never change

after
all those years
of never
wanting to

and her two girls

were there
and I could see
her gentleness
with them

and towards
the end
of the evening

I was standing
by the bar
watching the band

and she came up
and stood next to me

and she said nothing
and I understood
without knowing

and she stayed there

and it was like
just standing there
in silence with me

was all she wanted
was what she needed

play the piano hard
play the piano hard
it is the great
secret music
pounding in
the empty theatre
of your heart
the empty theatre
of your heart
is all you need
the glorious crashing
the waves on the rocks
the waves on the rocks
crashing on the shore
on the shore
of no man
centuries before

the ship of death
on the shore
of no man
the ship of death
appears

the thing is

there are people
who would tell you

that the power
of mass media
is such that
it is extremely
difficult
to ascertain
the truth
of any matter
and that in fact
the so called
'truth' is really
just a packaged
product
delivered
to the consumers
by the powers
that be
for their
consumption

lovely
little argument

but it is not
like this at all
at no other time
in human
history
has it been
easier

to get to
the truth
of any
issue

we have
the best resources
for distinguishing
bullshit
from
bullshit

but what is amazing

is that

the truth
can be out there

staring you
in the face

on a billboard
every ten feet

and you know

people
will see it

recognise it
for what
it is

and with a wry
smile

turn back
to their book

move on down
the line

comfortable
in the lie

and its knowledge

and it is
as if

the truth
(of whatever)
is just another

feature
of the landscape

of equal
status

with its
clones

and it makes
no difference

to the way
of things

people
can get by
without it
quite well
thank you

and this
is really

the first
great
lesson
of
power -

truth is not important
(its
main
function
is

distraction -

and so long
as it can

disorientate

it is a valuable tool

beyond
this

it can make for
good

decoration

and even then
it's not always
the best choice

there is
always
something

newer
prettier
faster

what I say is:

don't be left behind
with outmoded
technology

get with it

throw out
all that old crap

and stay ahead
of the legions

of advancing
morons

still confused
from arsehole
to mouth

it's a crazy world

don't let anything
hold you back)

and to the question:

'is there anything
Time cannot forget?'

I now know
the answer is

'no'

in the light of
new

astounding
intelligence

Inspector
Alonso
Veritas

has ordered
a review
of all unsolved
crimes

in the abandoned city

and has
taken
a personal interest
in a series of

violations
which
until now
were believed
to be
unconnected

the case of
Jenny Towler
prostitute
found by the Yarra
a knife

in her chest

the mysterious
disappearance
Mr. Meier

the waste-paper
baron

gone now
these five months

the horrific
tragedy
of the boarding
house fire
in Nth.
Melbourne

seven children
dead

and finally
the child rape

the little girl
in Altona

on the 10th
of October

Inspector Veritas
now believes

these crimes
were all staged

staged

to provide

a plot
for a play

and a rhyme
for a song

and
it is for
this reason

the Inspector
has ordered

a round-up
of all known
dissidents

Alonso
has come
to this
understanding -

if the crime
is art

then
ipso facto

the criminal
is

the artist

the image-maker

the pretender

who would have
us all believe

in something
other than
what is

could there be
a greater crime

a more cunning
criminal?

it is the 10th of August
2003

today
Jeffrey
was sworn in
as
The General

General Jeffrey

but this
is neither

here
nor
there

what is significant
is

that
for the last two
days

The Small Man

has been
making big noises
re -

the possibility
of

terrorist
attacks

in The Burra

you could be
excused
for thinking

he knows
something

or that

he is just getting
overconfident

with his policy

of lying
to the people

and what is
the primary function
of the state?

you might say

to govern
the people

you could say
to serve
the people

you'd be
wrong

the real function
of government

is myth creation

for without

image

nothing
can be controlled

no-one can be
served

and so

the purpose

and to
this end

all resources
are channelled

and the most
valuable
of the skills

is that
of the showman

the creator
of the spectacle

the poet
of the illusion

the magician
of light
and shadow

and it is these
artisans

that are bonded
to the servitude
of the order

and
the greatest
illusion

they create
is the one

of their own
freedom

and it is
for this reason

they are
despised
and ridiculed
by the puppet
masters

they serve
without

knowing

it's a perfect
arrangement
really

everyone
regards
themselves
as superior

to the ones
they serve

and the real
masters

are the garbage men

they
go from bin
to bin

and scavenge
in the waste
of the cities

they have
all the power

they go almost
unseen

are regarded
with contempt

but theirs

is the true
wealth

it is that which
no-one owns

so

beware

the world
is a dangerous place

and try
to realise

you may as well
not even

be here

it's that important

you see
it's like this -

what sense does it make
to speak of 'objectivity'
at all

O.K.
go with the idea of God
for a minute -

what's objective
to God?

reality -
the world

is his

his product

his idea

perception

whatever

point being
not even
God

can see
beyond

himself

that is
God cannot know
himself

from
the outside

to claim such
would be
to assert

a logical
contradiction

therefore

there is
no outside

(not to mention
God)

and the other thing
is

you can put 510
angels

on a pin head

just
thought
I'd clear
that one
up
.

once
and for all

I was down
at my P.O.
in St. Kilda
and I was checking
my mail
in the newsagent's
while talking
on my mobile
to Mick
when I get
a tap on the shoulder
I turn
and it's Mark
with a baby
in a sling
on his chest
and his girl
I finished the call
and turned to them
as always
he greeted me
warmly with a smile
and introduced
his baby
Lucy
8 weeks old
and she was
lovely
he looked
thin and gaunt
a couple of teeth
missing since
I'd seen him last
I would not
have recognized
his girl Jane
when I first met her
she was
hanging with
Dave Glass
he's an old rocker
played in a lot
of bands
and always with
a good lookin'
young thing
and Jane
fitted the picture
perfectly
young pretty
and dumb
but she was
one hell of a lovely
girl
and she hung on
Dave
like he was Elvis
(he had an Elvis
haircut
and she used
to call him
'Bubba')
I'd known him
casually
for years
at the bar
but we only really
got talking
after he walked in
one day
in a Mars
red leather jacket
I knew it
straight away
I'd porned it
about 5 years ago
in Fitzroy St.
we tried to reconstruct
its history
from me to him
and he even
asked me
if I wanted it back
but I couldn't
take it
once gone
is gone
and because
we were both
early starters
at the bar
we ended up
spending a lot of
drinking time
together
talking about music
and the old days
in the Bottom Bar
and he got
to talking about
him and Jane
and I got
the impression
it was a case of
be careful
what you wish for
and then one night
he was saying he
didn't want her
anymore
and I was listening
to him and figured
it was just the usual
dissatisfaction
and too many beers
and then
he said to me
'do you want her?'
I said
'nar -
but thanks
anyway'
he just nodded
and perused
the bar

so

a couple of days
later
she comes in
with Mark
and I thought
Jesus
of all the people
to hand ball her to
and it surprised me
Dave is a moral guy
and O.K.
he was tired of her
but I figured
for sure
he would have
placed her
in good hands
but Mark's
a long-time junkie
and I didn't like
her chances
of not being
pulled down
and so it was
as night to day
she got into smack
and then
the next thing
I hear from Zac
is she's pregnant
so I said
it was good to see her
and asked her
about the pregnancy
she'd been in labour
48 hours
and they'd
strapped her down
for two days
and she looked
as if she'd been
hit by a truck
and the pretty little
'bop-girl'
I knew a couple
of years ago
was someone else
and I wanted to
give them something
give them everything
but there was
nothing to give
that would have
changed anything
and Mark
was just the same
only more wasted
and he and I
had been long-time
drinkin' partners
and for years
he just struck me
as someone
who'd had the soul
sucked out of him
by heroin
until one night
I asked him
about his family
and it got to him
him telling me
he hadn't seen
his parents for 15 yrs.
and when I
asked him why
he said
'I'm just too ashamed'
and it was then
I knew
he wasn't lost
entirely
but it made me think
no-one
should ever
feel ashamed
it's such
a terrible waste

in Sth. Africa

so many trees
have been
cut down
to make coffins
for Aids victims

that deforestation
is looming
as an environmental
catastrophe

we are all
trapped

in image

and the fundamental
imperative

to go beyond
or behind

to see
everything
as it is

to know
the thing
in itself

(the great promise
and hope
of reason)

is no more
than

the machinery

the engine

of imagery

it is in
such a hope
that reason
dresses
itself

in nakedness

there is no escape

only
the imagery

of explanation

the dream
that 'understands'
dreaming

it is
a logical
dead-end

beyond
the image

is the unknown

which is
only to say

the end
of imagery

and this is
to say

reality
in itself

cannot be
imagined

a truly wonderful
understanding

a joy
only to those

who can
forget

the pain
of living

the truth
is an exquisite
moment

a luxury

that is of little
or no use

in the day to day
battle

of dreams

and this too

in the beginning
and the end

is the scratching
in the mud

for sustenance

naked

man and woman
desperate

to survive

desperate to be

there never was
a choice

and if there
had been

there would be
no trace

existence

is no gift

there is no giver

there is nothing
to receive

it is
simply

what is

no rewards
no

punishment

a space of time

and

motion

a physic
of

no reason

a mathematic
of

no ideal

and the blackness

no star

can see
it is all

an energy

that does not
know itself

(the knowing
is its waste

its refuse

the burn-off)

its brilliance

is its
immeasurability

its absence
of point

and timeless

absolute
focus

on nothing

it is the moment
true art

touches

before it
becomes

it is
the memory
of knowing

a trace

of before
it came

to be

the colours
the shapes

the actions
the thoughts

of a world
made

in the image

of

mind

eternity's

place of
refuse

the landfill
of the spirit

we are all
scratching
in the mud

for something
for anything

a piece
of image

broken
crushed
discarded

to make something
of

everything

and never
to find

the one object
the artefact

the sacred thing

that will stop
the hunger

that will
give peace

whatever you find

you cannot hold true

it becomes
something else

as soon as
you touch it

and each time
you look

it will be
another thing

another image
changing

so

regard yourself

as no
different

to the wind

as no greater than

a falling sunset

and no lesser

than the breaking
of a new day

the flaw

is in the Idea

you must learn
to live with this

the existence
of choice

within
the framework
of necessity

is simply
the illusion
of consciousness

albeit
a 'permanent'
and very real
illusion

(for the bearers
of self-consciousness)

and it has led
to the capricious
notion

of indeterminacy
in nature

the issue is
this

consciousness
regarding itself
as object

perceives
uncertainty
(choice)


(no great news
to any woman
hanging out
the washing
in Wst. Brunswick)

but the crunch comes
when you realise
consciousness

can never see
anything
but itself

or

to put it another way

the world
can only be seen
in the light
of consciousness

(apart from this
there is no 'seeing')

it is the 'seeing'
that raises the question

can you be sure
of what you see?

or

can what you see
be sure of itself?

on this one

we cannot
but be

uncertain

hence
Quantum Physics

the science
of uncertainty

understand
though

this is not
a science

of the (outside) world

the macro world

but rather

a science

of the inside
of the world

(consciousness
is the inside
of the world)

this science
of consciousness

its 'theory of nature'

is a theory
of the understanding

(a way to configure
knowing)

its application
to 'the outside' world

is no more
controversial

than any
theoretical attempt
to order
or manipulate
nature

nothing can be done
that is impossible

how you do
what is possible

is always up
for grabs

the fact
that a theory
succeeds
says nothing

other than
that it is

a 'successful'
instrument

(i.e.
it does
what it was made
to do
what it was intended
for)

its success
tells you nothing
about the nature
of reality

except that
under these
circumstances
this occurred

small potatoes

is the fare
of science

Albert
said to his cat

"I'm going

to give you
to Schroedinger"

the cat said
"Noooooo!"

and God
said

"Wo!"

the real question
of the Book of Job
is -

what is the significance
of the bet between

Satan and God?

Satan claims
that Job is righteous
only because
he has not suffered

that in the face
of great loss
'he will curse thee
to thy face'

after the first great losses
God says to Satan

'and still he holdeth
fast his integrity'

Job does not curse God

we can ask though
what difference
would it have made
if he had?

and
what would
it have meant
to curse God?

it seems
on the face of it
Job's life
his destiny
would not
have changed

his interlocutors
piously attempt
to justify
Job's suffering

and to them he says

'ye are forgers of lies
ye are physicians
of no value'

and still
he holds fast
his integrity

even in the face
of great vicissitudes

Job knows

what has happened
to him

is not
of his making

it is of the nature
of the world

of forces
out of his control

and he will not
cannot

feign
responsibility
for God

Job cannot deny
who he is

he cannot turn
on his knowledge

even in the face
of great evil
and abuse

he will not
pretend
to be

God

nature is blind
to morality

the affairs of men
are just that

they do not
impact on
the nature
of reality

they are
just expressions
of the order

writ small

goodness
and justice

are seeds
in the winds
of Time

how you choose
to live

makes no difference
to God

the world
is your domain

it is not
your construction

your life
with others

is a balancing
act

between
self-interest

and social
necessity

a good life
and a just society
find harmony
in the discord

but this
at the end
of the day
is

when you
strip away
all human
pretension

nothing but

the roll
of a dice playing

God

reason
is a function
of mind

its locus
is human
consciousness

and hence
its reach
is from
the inside
out

its understanding
of nature

will always
be limited
by its place
in nature

(the idea
of a super mind
that comprehends all
is just a projection
of the mind
beyond itself

it has more
to do with
vanity
and the need
for
consolation

than bad logic)

nevertheless

on the basis
of what it is
able to see

the mind can
create

an order
for itself
in the world

and so
the question

'is reality
rational
or irrational?'

is not a question
that can be
properly posed

let alone
answered

beyond
our reach

is simply that
which cannot

be known

the growth
of knowledge

is just
the attempt

to push back
the frontier

further
and further

to reach
greater and greater

levels
of comprehension

the limit
of knowledge
is the unknown

but this

is not
an end point

rather

it is the place
we all inhabit
to begin with

and
the home
we all

always
return to

only to find

we never left
at all

Zero West
is all agog

for a look
at Mars

the planet
is closer
today

than it has been
for 60,000 yrs.

at its last look in
the denizens
of Zero West
were

Neanderthal

Mars
will wonder
what's happened?

from the point of view
of Mars

(if there is
such a thing)

it would be interesting
to know

if the changes
are for the better

an improvement
a step up

or is it just
the grinding
of the spheres

to another aspect?

(Time appears
to move forward)

Mr. and Mrs. Pook
of the south-east
corner of the Burra

are trying
to get their
eyeglass

working

Mrs. Pook
is the astronomer
of the family

Mr. Pook
is more of
a speculative
bent

(he's not sure
where he is
or where
Mrs. Pook is
for that matter

let alone
Mars

and reading
Hegel's
'Phenomenology
of the Spirit'

has not helped

finding himself
'in' the Absolute

has only aggravated
his gout)

nevertheless
he is determined
to see

beyond

hence
his efforts
to assist Mrs. Pook
in her latest
scientific endeavour -

the penetration
of the red planet

(first though
he would like
one of Mrs. Pook's
raspberry muffins
and a hot chocolate

sustenance
for the quest)

Mr. Pook
proceeding
in a somewhat
off-handed
methodical
manner

meets with little
success

in the mastering
of eyeglass
technology

Mrs. Pook
directs his attention
to the 'instructions'

this
however
proves
to be

too much
information
for the Pook brain
to absorb

Mr. Pook
needs
instructions
for
the instructions

and
finding himself
in an infinite regress
surrounded by
a vicious circle

worthy of his mentor
George Hegel

Mr. Pook
abandons
method

and goes
anarchistic

(such a strategy
is true to
the Pook instinct)

and with a kind
of luck

that could only be
explained

in the deep recess
of the absolute

Mr. Pook
turning a knob here
a knob there

brings the heavens
into focus

and to his delight
the red planet
reveals itself

(it reminds him
of when as a boy
he put together
a crystal radio set
and first heard
music)

Mrs. Pook
turns the focus
knob further
and further

and sees
more and more
detail

but to his surprise
with each closer view

he is less
enchanted

in the end
he just stands back

and looks into
the heavens

with the naked
Pook eye

and sees
(what is to the Pook
Idea)

amazing beauty

he stands
trance-like
eye to the heavens

until
brought back
to earth

by the sudden
appearance
of Mrs. Pook

who exclaims
as if coming upon
an intruder

"Malachi -
what are you doing?"

Mr. Pook
calmly meditatively
replies

"Eustace,
my dear

I am seeing"

"and what is it
you are seeing?"

"beauty my dear
beauty unaccountable"

"but why
don't you use
the eyeglass
my precious

is it still
not working?"

"it works
my heartfelt

works
perfectly

but I have realised
something

something
extraordinary”

"and what pray
is that
you old dreamer?"

"well
my forever

it is this

the closer
you get to beauty

the harder
it is to see"

"you are indeed
a mystic
my one true

but if you stay
out here
in your reverie

you will
catch the death

come in
my oldness

and have a bowl
of soup"

The Small Man
has in his group
a pugilist
called The Rector

and his job is

as the Protector
of Truth

to deceive

The Rector
is good
at his job

and he enjoys it

he wears
the mask of a monkey

and looks
almost
convincing
in a suit

under the mask
is a mal-formed
distorted creature

distorted
irreparably
by anger

an anger
no monkey-smile
can hide

it is this anger
that has saved him

it propels him

it has enabled him
to redirect
his pain

on to those
who have made
the decision

the decision
to think and act
for themselves

you see The Rector
started as an altar boy

he wanted to believe

but God
deserted him
time and time again

(he came to know
he is not worthy

of women
of men)

he was beaten
every time

even when he took
to boxing

he was beaten

he gave himself
to be priest

and was rejected

rejected

again

by God

this is his anger

but even
in the face
of all this

he could not bring
himself

to deny God

he was just
too scared

too weak

but the priest
he could never be

was always there
to give him
absolution

absolution
and
forgiveness

forgiveness
for his weakness

and he would
revel

in the humilation

and this only
made him feel
smaller

less worthy

and more disgusted
with a world

that could go on
without such
shame

and so
he put on
the monkey mask

to hide his
self-loathing

his failure
his fear

and for his
grovelling

he was made

The Rector

and as The Rector
he worked diligently
to destroy

the unbelief
he could not face

and the unbelievers
who lived and worked
without the fear
of God

and he came to know

the only way
to destroy
the unbelief

and the unbelievers

is the lie

this became his truth

beware
the monkey

you see it's interesting
where you start -

take the case
of Hegel

scourge
of the aforementioned
Malachi Pook

Hegel

as a young man
planted
a 'liberty tree'
in the city square
at Tübingen

as a salute
to the French
Revolution

and he
widely
proclaimed
its values
of
liberty
equality
and
fraternity

he went on to develop
a grand systematic
metaphysical defence
of individual freedom

as an old man
at the University
of Berlin

he argued for
the supremacy
of the Prussian State

and that

the individual
should sacrifice
himself for
the superior self
of the State

it is not
the business
of government
he declared
to express
the will
of the people

'the people
never knows
what it wills'

the thing is this

where was Hegel
to go

after his defence
of individual freedom?

and what if
he had started
as a defender
of the State

again
where was he
then to go?

it's a question
always

to stop
or
move

and motion
I suggest
wins the day

but for
the last day

(and even here

there is
some dispute)

so

short of
a metaphysical
bedrock

(and that notion
is hopelessly
flawed)

we have only
the option

to change

to move away
from where we are

stillness
is not possible

and so
the question
is only

where?

and there is only
one place

you can never
move to

everything else
is up for grabs

everywhere else
is there

to be

explored

nevertheless
we are prone
to going back

and there is
something of
a natural necessity
in this

if not
some common
wisdom

to know the cause

of things

such an understanding
gives a necessary
depth

to being

it is to be
in accordance
with Space and Time

or at least
to figure within
these categories

it's a way
of giving ground
to being

St. Thomas Aquinas
the great

aetiological thinker
argued

that God was
the first of all causes

the world
on such a view is
simply

the effect

and it is
instructive
to look at this
argument

not for its bearing
on God

rather what it tells us
of cause

you see
if we say

everything
has a cause

then 'the cause'
must be outside
of 'everything'

what can be outside
of everything?

'nothing'
you say

how could 'nothing'
be a cause of anything?

the alternative
approach
would be

to take the idea
of 'everything'
seriously

to say 'everything'
is just that

and there cannot be
anything

outside of everything

therefore
the idea of a cause
of everything

has no sense

'causation'
on such a view

can only apply
to events in the world

not of the world
itself

and on such a view

the world
or
the totality

is un-caused

but here

we are not too far
from

Aquinas

did he not argue
for an un-caused
cause?

the idea being

(as I am putting it)

that the world
(though un-caused)
nevertheless is
a cause

'the cause'

of everything 'in'
itself

everything that happens
is caused by the world?

you see
it doesn't work -

because
you cannot distinguish
'the world'

from what happens in it

the world is

just what happens

enjoy

the effect

un-caused

God is
such a moment

you can walk
from

a dream

and its translucent
echoing

or anguish
as

Nebuchadnezzar

for its world
and its meaning

we are always caught
between

this is the axis

of consciousness

and to look back
is only

to see into

the pieces
of a broken mirror

beyond this

is the un-created
world

of the future

it has no
geography

no inhabitants

we come to it
in a rambling
gypsy wagon

clanging
and banging

the worn
and broken
trinkets
goods and chattels

of use
and regret

we bring
nothing new

it gives
only the space
and time

for our dreams
to unravel

and our needs
and wants

to insist

it is the place
of anguish

howling

it is
the land of hope

once stepped into

is gone

(as of
the past

as if it never
was)

and only
the present
always

a hand reaching
to grasp

and what of this question
of 'essence'?

when does the question
arise?

(in my case
I've forgotten
how and when)

like
it's always there

what brings it
to a focus?

perhaps
anything and everything

the thing is
what is an essence?

the essence
of any thing
or
person?

the precondition
for this question

is reflective
consciousness

that is

it only arises
in the world
because

we can and do
think

above and beyond
the world

and once this is
understood

you cannot regard
the world
as distinct
from thought

the emergence of thought
has changed the world
irrevocably

the world becomes
the world in thought

and so 'essence'
is at the heart of it

but what is it?

if you take anything
or anyone

and take from
your subject

all its attributes
characteristics
manifestations

what you are left with
is essence

in short
the essence
of anything
is just what

cannot be known
of its nature

it is the mystery
at the heart

of all knowledge

of all existence

we live in
this mystery

and everything
we know
points to it

it is the wonder
of being

and knowledge
is just our blind
and beautiful

action at a distance

and if not for
the great phantasm
of seeing and holding
we would be free

but there is no
time or space

for the end of illusion

and its name is 'eternity'

in these days
of great joy

I have come to rest

(and I need it
I am tired
more than
I realised
after 50 years)

still


I am kept young

in the love of my girl

Jude

who is
such a quiet
beauty

and the real joy
of my life

her love

is the true heart
of this world

and so

the great affairs
of the nations

and
the grand affairs
of man

all seem pale
and comic

washed out
and empty

in comparison to

her beautiful
smile

her gentle
touch

her deep
and loving
soul

and it is no wonder
people

wander off

into the woods

into
insanity

the asylum
of the monastery

or the imagination

to find

refuge

from the stupidity

the savagery

and the indignity
of this world
in focus

what I have learnt
from the mountebank
George W. Bush

is the irrelevance
of truth

and the absolute
necessity
of defeating
the lie

at any cost

(this is an argument

not for
society and reason

but for
the state of nature

where your right
is the extent
of your power

this is
a state of affairs

that can only be
resolved

by its fulfilment

the supremacy
of the powerful

or its denial

the victory
of reason

but this too

can only be
achieved
with force

so

as you can see

there's not much
in it

the savagery
of a state of nature

is not overcome
with prayer

and the social contract
is not a gift

of God

the struggle
is always brutal

and the argument

always lost

in the mud
and the blood

and history
writes up a reason

in the breather
between massacres)

even so

anyone

can work out
an injustice

it requires
only a moment

and the eyes
to see

what is written
in the heart

children

are the reason

when reason
itself

is burnt out

Jesus

in the end

was too tired
to run

and at least
with nails

he knew
he would be
fixed

to something

and the crows
would know
his
eyes

to be a man
or a woman

is to be
driven

blindly

by relentless
appetite

and to be able
to reflect

on oneself
and the world

without
restriction

(as if
we are

something
other than

a form
of nature)

it is
the knowledge
of death

that distinguishes
us

from all
living things

(it is
the price paid

for the idea
of

immortality)

the mind
and the emotions

only divide out
from the centre

when
the whole
is under attack

(from inside
or out)

it is a defining
of the parameters

a call to arms
if you will
a charge
to the battlements

thought
deals with
the assault

as a fact
of the world

to be assessed
objectively

the emotional
response

is purely subjective

it is internal

it is
just how
it feels

to the subject

(regardless
of the world)

both are necessary
to protect

the integrity
of the whole

they are always
contemporaneous

(you do not think
without feeling

or feel
without thinking)

and in times
of peace

you are centred

at rest

and the question
of what you feel
or what you think

does not arise

you simply
act

and this is
the truest
of joys

it is the light
shining

from your soul

giving fire

to the world

for a briefness

as if
there never was

darkness
and
anguish

Medusa
thwarted by
Minerva

for her beauty

turning to stone
all who looked
upon her

killed by Perseus
her severed head

used to defy
his enemies

and to win
the favour
of Andromeda

is a story
of the absurdity
of power

the snake
eating itself

where
beauty is
transformed
to evil

and used
against evil

to gain
the victory

of beauty

what is gained
what is lost?

as Albert
said to his cat

"C -

well squared
actually

if you are going
to be calculating
about it"

the cat said
"M?"

and God
said

"E"

the story
goes on

it is
repeated

interminably

like a moving
picture
on a screen

but never
the exact same
characters

or identical
locations

the world is
inexhaustible
in its variety

but the action
of the play

is never varied

the frame
of it all is fixed

it is just
the flow
of space and time

that cannot
be stilled

it is as if
we are
skeletons
all

and
our only
resource

is language

and it is
this resource
that gives
substance

to our bones

the act
of one

(against
another)

will be clothed
in terms of

'truth'

'justice'

'love'

but if this venture
fails

another
vocabulary

is implored

the victor

will dress
the defeated

in robes
of

'evil'

'tyranny'

'godlessness'

the same bones
but another
garb

another
description
another
meaning

and this
does not apply
just
to the 'great'
affairs of man

who are you?

you stand
naked

in your own
reflection

and

to know
yourself

you will dress

your bones

from a great
wardrobe

you will
choose

today

I am black

and tattered

of no real value

and of no interest
to another

you dress
yourself

in despair

and before
the sun goes down

you change

another

language
is to your liking

it is

the poetry

of joy

and beauty

and fulfillment

you dress
with pride

and so
it goes on

who
you are

is never
anything more

than bones

and what
you hang
on them

your choice
of cloth

is what is given

and what
is made

you have a life

there is no reason
to stick to

any
fashion
trend

style
or

design

beg
borrow
and

steal

you have
only

the days

and all
the endless
possibilities
of

metaphor

be joyous
in your choice

have an eye
to truth

but understand

you will never
find

a perfect fit

you are beyond

the vice
of definition

even

the best description
you can find
of yourself

is no more
than

an
approximation

and it is
in this

the indeterminacy
of the self

that all
your stories

have their
origin

be prepared
to travel

to come upon
the strange
and exotic

the wonderful
and the terrible

your life
is the last
frontier

consider this -

what is it
you appeal to

when you argue

for your truth?

it's the question
of authority

is it a God
you appeal to
as an authority?

your experience?

reason?

and
where is the authority
in any of this?

what constitutes
authority?

does it make any sense

or
could it just be

there is no authority?

and yes

a political system
can enforce

a strong man can
compel

but whence authority?

the thing is

the only 'authority'

the only

'higher power'
as it were

is nature

and nature
does not stand
over us
or above us

it is our world
our domain

we are
one with nature

and we

like the stars

are its manifestations

its children

when you are
young

you need

to separate out

to explore
your difference

(it is only
the uniqueness
of space/time
co-ordinates)

but it is for you
all the wonder
of being

and the agony
of definition

it is
to draw in

the world

and make it
in your eyes

it is
to learn
to walk

unaided

and this
individuation

this distinction

is as
necessary

as the seed
from a plant

becomes
itself

from all that
has lived
and died
in the earth
of its making

but when
you are older

and have lived
the turmoil

of lovers
and friends

and families

and societies

know

it is not
the difference
that counts

it is only
the difference

that divides

be one

who understands

the beauty
of a single thing

but who knows

it is

what is
common
to all

that is the truth

of any man

I was standing
in the lounge room
in front of the fire

we had just
watched a movie

she came
and embraced me
and said

"I love you
so much"

and it was
so artless
and beautiful

I was
for that moment

innocent

of my life
my history

a boy
so enchanted
by his girl

feeling
all the greatness

of love

and so
unworthy
of the gift

the four winds
howl

around
and in

and through

Zero West

it is
the great anguish

and no place
is free

of the turmoil

there is only
the space

of consciousness

that is untouched

the inside
of the world

a prison
against the ravages
of time

the darkness
that cannot be
violated

the dreaming
that goes on
and on

and on

as if

space/time

forever
locked out

of the heart

Inspector Alonso
Veritas

opens the file
on his desk

there is no hope

he reads over
the case
of the poet

the rhymer

the playwright

and yes

it is clear

he is a fraud

but then
in the history
of the days

of any life

who can withstand
the charge?

and of the claim

that he used sex
for words

there never was
a lover

free of the guilt

and so

to the accusation

of theft

yes

he stole
from the world

to live

his miserable
life

of petty pleasures
and common
pain

he performed

and he ran

he displayed

and he covered

a criminal

no more

than any
actor

on a stage

a miscreant

no more

than any rider

of the seas

the land
the sky

all stand accused

all are innocent

as innocent
as dirt

all are guilty

as guilty
as the stars

in the abandoned city

in an empty room

Alonso Veritas

closes the file

in 1975
I was doing
an honours year
in the philosophy

department
at La Trobe

one of my supervisors
was Peter Singer

he had just come
to the university

his thing was
animal rights

and he was
just finishing
his book

'Animal Liberation'

he was
a breath of fresh air

young
brilliant
unaffected

and a philosopher
who could
and did apply
abstract thinking
to issues
of 'the real world'

(as it was referred to
contemptuously
by some in the game)

just after Singer
came

another young
philosopher

Moshe Kroy

blew in from Tel Aviv

his arrival caused
a stir

he was said to be
a supporter
of Ayn Rand

the right-wing
American
anarchist

I was there

when Moshe gave
his first talk
to the Department

they all
assembled

and some of
the best philosophers
in the world

were in the audience

Moshe sat down
without notes

and systematically
talked his way
through every field
of philosophy

and in each
and every subject

advanced ideas

and conceptions

that were
to say the least

beyond the pale

from the standpoint
of 'accepted'
philosophical thinking

the big guns
were turned on him

but he neutralized
every attack

I remember

seeing

wide-eyed surprise
and confusion
on the faces

of some
of the leading lights
of the Department

it was
a kind of philosophical
shoot-out
at the Glenrowan Inn

only this time

Ned
was the only one
left standing

I lived
in the university flats

and so did Moshe
his wife and his
little girl

and I would often see
Moshe alone at night
walking the grounds

he struck me
as a very lonely man

as part of my course
Peter Singer
arranged for me
to have a discussion
with Moshe
about the ethics
of suicide

Peter and I
went down
to his room

Moshe's
view on this issue
was controversial

he argued
that suicide is never
ethically justified

and he argued
a Spinozistic line

that the reason
for life

is life itself

and therefore
there can be no
rational argument

for taking
one's own life

I was with Singer
in arguing
a utilitarian view
that the issue
resolves to a question
of the balance
of pleasure and pain

that suffering
can be a reason
for suicide

as I remember it

the meeting
was brief
and without any great
revelations
on either side

but I was impressed
with Moshe

his intellectual purity
his gentleness

his courage

some years later
after I left La Trobe
I heard on the grapevine
that things had gone
somewhat awry
with Moshe's world

he had started
some Idealist sect

and the leader of the sect

had applied
to the State Government
and was granted
a special dispensation

to marry Moshe's
twelve year old daughter

and then
tragedy struck

the husband
of the daughter
shot dead
Moshe's wife

and was subsequently
jailed for murder

it would have been
in the late eighties

I was heading
to the Bottom Bar

and I see
a news sheet
with the heading:

'Mad philosopher
dies in Israel'

it was Moshe
he had suicided
in his apartment
in Tel Aviv

last year
I saw Peter Singer
now a Professor of Philosophy
at Princeton
interviewed on T.V.

he was being questioned
about the fact that
he has arranged
for his terminally ill mother
to have 24 hr.

life-support
in her home in Caulfield

and me

well you see
I haven't been brought
face to face
with suicide
or euthanasia

but in the time

since that meeting
in Moshe's office

and as a result
of his arguments

I went on
to study Spinoza's
thought

and it was
for the most part

a most
unconventional
study

a dark journey

through
bar rooms
jail cells
and hospitals

but somewhere
in the midst
of the madness
and the horror

I came to understand

that existence
is the only reason
for existence

that life

is the reason
for living

the thing is

to understand
morality

you need to
understand
its function

that is simply
what it does

or what it's there
for

you don't need to be
a metaphysician

all men
have a conception
of right and wrong

and there is
a reason for this

consciousness
brings choice
to the world

you ask the question

'what is the right choice?'

when the facts
of the matter

do not dictate
a course of action

you bring to bear
considerations
that are seemingly
above and beyond
the facts

concepts like
'good' and 'evil'

'right' and 'wrong'

but the thing is
these notions
exist in order
for you to deal
with the world
of fact

they are the tools
of consciousness

they are ideal concepts
they do not exist
in the physical world

but they are
brought to bear on
the physical world

this is consciousness
at work

it brings to the world
categories of understanding

that facilitate
the individual's
action and movement
in and through
the material world

and
for what I'm saying
it doesn't matter

what you think
'good' is

or what you think
'the right way' is

the point is
just that

when faced
with the problem
of choice
you will enlist
these concepts

they are there
to enable you
to deal
with the world
you live in

and that is all they are

stratagems for action

necessary for survival

in the course
of time

you will notice

changes in what you
consider to be
'good'

what you consider
to be and

'the moral way'
to live

what you believed at 17
will not be the same
at 50

and this is simply
because

your circumstances
have changed

your life
has changed

you have changed

and no doubt
partly because
of the decisions
you have made

or not made

but the moral framework
and the moral faculty

the ideas of 'good'
and 'evil’

'right' and 'wrong'

will not leave you

so long as you have

the faculty of choice

they exist
to give you
a sense

of order
and purpose

and capacity

they are
as it were

part of

the architecture
of the self

and
these ideas
of 'order'
'purpose'

and even
'self'

may not
stand up to
too close
an inspection

but that is not
the point

the point

is function

and the point
of function

is survival

now the human being
has the capacity
to question
his own survival

many have

and some have chosen
not to survive

the possibility
of such a choice

is what defines
our being

it's the price
we pay

for being
human

today

in Vihear Suor
Cambodia

just before
dawn

the sound
of giant wooden
drums

the deep melodic chant
of Buddhist monks

the offerings
of rice
and prayers

to the spirits
of the dead

an honouring
of ancestors

it is Phchum Bunn

The Festival of the Dead

in the time
of Pol Pot

1975-78

after the devastation
wrought by America

under Nixon
and Kissinger

1.7 million
people

one third
of the population

were
executed
tortured
or
starved

in the
Khmer Rouge's
genocide

to the goal
of a peasant utopia

in the rice fields
of Southeast Asia

Pol Pot's

logic

was impeccable

to create
a utopia
you must
destroy
a reality

it is the logic
of utopian thinkers

from Plato
to More
to Marx

it is based
on the idea

that wholesale
social and political
change

is both possible
and desirable

an idea which
makes no sense

how are you
to know

what a wholesale
change would be?

all you have
is what is

and granted
within that

changes can be
made

but a total change

what would it look like?

we have no idea

but we do know

what the attempt
at such madness
looks like

it looks like
and is

a mass
graveyard

and it
will look at you

through
the hollow
empty
eyes

of skulls

you see
the dead
do not

go away

they just
stop

thinking

their spirit

is the memory
of mind

and it is

in memory
they live

at this festival

of three days
of

wrestling

water-buffalo
racing

and dancing

dancing
with the dead

the State

any State

is no more
than

a system
of customs
and rules

it is not

a moral entity

to think
in such
a way

is to misplace

the locus
of morality

it is
to suggest

that society

is morally
responsible

a dangerous
notion

for it leads
to

acts
against
the individual

by
individuals

in the name
of something

that cannot be
held

to account

the secret
of the misuse
of power

is to misplace
the centre
of morality

from
the individual

to
society

to a collective

which
can never
be

morally
accountable

for
it has no
centre

of consciousness

and

without
consciousness

there is
no question

of good
or

evil

and so
to the issue
of reconciliation

made famous
by

Nelson Mandela
of Sth. Africa

(whose
stroke of genius
it was to leave
the economic
and social privilege
of the whites
intact
while giving
the blacks
the illusion
of power
with the old
three card trick
'democracy')

the idea being
that

evils
perpetrated
in the past
can be

'reconciled'

by acts
of the current
collective

through
laws

and public
demonstrations
and outpourings

O.K.

it is one thing
to face the truth

of the past

but how do you

reconcile the past
with the present?

how do you
'reconcile'
an evil act

what do you
reconcile it with?

you can't
go back in time

and make
something
that happened

not happen

or visa versa

the idea is
absurd

at best
you can understand
what has happened

that is understanding

not reconciliation

the concept
of reconciliation
is mis-used

if it is applied
to acts

(past
or present)

an action

is not negotiable

it makes no sense
to say

one act
'disagrees'
with another

disagreements

are a matter
of attitude

not action

the living
can reconcile
their conflicts

if they can change
their attitudes

if they can find
common ground

on which
to proceed

you cannot
reconcile
with the dead

now the idea
that a damaged
society

can move on
from the past

is worthy

but here
we are talking
about
the living
dealing with
the living

making
the changes
of outlook
and policy
necessary
for progress

but

let's be clear

immoral acts
are perpetrated
by individuals

and whether
they wear
a uniform
or hold
a position
in government
is

irrelevant

it is not
a society
that acts
immorally

it is an individual

be that
a president

a senator

a general

a soldier
pressing
the trigger

and it is
the individual
that is to be
held responsible
for their acts

'society'
cannot take over
individual
responsibility

to suggest
as much

is to relegate
moral responsibility
to the never-never

now

can I
be held

responsible
for another's
acts?

(past
or present)

how then
can I

ask for
forgiveness

for another?

what sense
would it make

for me
to apologize
for my great-great
grandfather's
behaviour?

none
at all

but for the sake
of the argument

imagine
I could

so what?

what would be changed?

nothing

and simply
because

the past cannot
be re-written

and the dead
cannot be held
to account

and
in any case
what is

'forgiveness'?

is it no more
than a form
of denial?

if I am violated

by another

am I
to say

it didn't happen?

are they
to say

they didn't
do it?

or are we
to just pretend

that with
the passing
of time

what was evil
is no longer
evil?

people do
move on
from their
problems
with each other

but it is not
because

what happened

suddenly
disappears

it is rather that
new bases

for understanding
are reached for
and found

people
can change

their ideas
do change

new grounds
for commonality
are established

but these
advances
will only be
successful

will only be
real

if the present
is faced

fair
and square

(with none of
the ducking
and weaving
of forgiveness)

it is only then

that people
can go forward
with integrity

justice
for the dead

is not possible

prosecution
of the dead
is not possible

however

we can move
to ensure

the living
are not victims
of the misuse
of power

and that
the injustices
and inequalities

faced by
the living

are addressed
and corrected

and those
who misuse

power

are brought
to account

and insofar
as these matters
have an historical
dimension

it is important
to face the facts
of history

and to learn
its lessons

but do not
get lost
in history

it is not
the issue

the issue
is now

the truth
bare and hard

and it can be
ugly and mortifying

but no dressing up
or denial

will hide its face

in Australia

'reconciliation'

has been
a clever ploy

to divert
the attention
of people

from
the real issues
facing
the Aboriginal
people

and we've

even had
a national

'sorry day'

the idea being
we (the whites)
say sorry
to the blacks

and the blacks
being very grateful
say

'she's alright
bro

you got a dollar?'

in the meantime
the genocide
goes on

not quite
as obviously

as in the past

but even then
the massacres

and the mass
poisonings

weren't thought
of as genocide

as the blacks
were not
considered
human

now

though

regarded
as human

(reluctantly
by some)

we've taken

the approach

of making
their passing

as easy as possible

(for us
that is)

various
(albeit preventable)
diseases

atrocious
living conditions

and a good dose
of alcohol

is working
wonders

but everything
is O.K.

because we've
reconciled
and they've
reconciled
and the other bloke
has reconciled

everybody
is reconciled

should make
for a beautiful
funeral

it is all in the end

the tyranny
of difference

and the deficit
is on our side
in this case

we have much
to learn
from the Aboriginals

and all knowledge

is the knowledge

of all

it is only when

this is recognized
and embraced

that any
differences

of culture
and history

will be understood

for what they are

the diverse
expressions

of a commonality

rich in diversity

in the end
we have to
go back

we need
to begin

(in Latin):

'ab origine'

the world
is this

a structure
in emptiness

an emptiness

within

a structure

this is
the pure
point

of being
of knowing

the world's
beginning

ends here

its ending
begins here

the rushing

of history

through
the frames
of nothingness

the noise
of consciousness

in the caverns
of forever

leave
no mark

no trace

the sacred

is without
content

it is pure

(eternal)

focus

I am

no different

no greater
no lesser

the same as

Zero West
itself

suspended

in the nothingness

of everything

a moment
of forever

with no direction
but that given

and no goal

but the self

and its

dreams
upon
dreams

upon
dreams

knowledge
is

in the end

the greatest leap

omniscience

is pure imagination

free
of its moorings

lost

in a space

not yet found

it is the nameless
that cannot

be named

for there are no
objects

in such a space

you can
only approach

the essence

with image

and so
to the purists

of science

and
theology

who would
deny

the truth
of

the fleeting

for you

there will
only be

confusion
and

perplexity

it is the source
of

anguish

its fruit

is perversity

and its
action

the drunken
clamour

of destruction

its displacement
of things

with no regard

for place

the blackening

of landscapes

and bodies

stumbling in
horror

through tangled iron
and minds

reaching
for a solace

in the hope
of

madness

for nothing but

the failure
of another

and others

to accept

their

existence

and embrace
their pain

you must ask yourself -

'where does my pain go?'

if it leaves
your heart

where does it go?

can you transform
your suffering
to joy?

or will you let it
destroy you

and if not

you

who?

this was
how the wind

was born

of God's pain

released

it moves eternally

over us all

you can be still

it is
only

the confusion

of heart

it is
only

a clarity
of thought

that is all

there is
in it

all that is between

hell and heaven

the greatness
of Job

is that he knows
what he is not

and it is this
knowledge

he cannot renounce

his interlocutors
his 'friends'

and a ring-in
by the name of
'Elihu'

argue
for what Job
is

it is the argument
of the world

against
a man

a cleverly woven
shroud

of lies

all in the name of
God
and justice

but still
Job

is steadfast

in his knowledge

of what
of who

he is not

the tragedy
of Job

(or is it to be
his salvation?)

is not his suffering

the 'injustice'
he is made
to endure

the unaccountable
wrath
of God

if you like

it is that Job
finally

accepts

that the arguments

of his 'comforters'

and

the word of God

are one and the same

Job

is beaten

by the whirlwind

to a submission

'Wherefore
I abhor myself,
and repent
in dust and ashes'

at the last

Job

denies
what he knows

and is prepared
to accept

the false testament

of his society
of the world

(for Job
comes to
understand
the world is
God)

and
as a result

he goes on to
not only
survive

but to have
great material
wealth

and prestige

in the end

Job knows
what he is

and
who he is

(he is
of the world
not
apart from it)

we hear
no more
from Job

he has no more
to say

there is
no more
to say

God is silent
too

the question
has never arisen

the world goes on

so

I'd made this
arrangement
to catch up
with me old mate
Swampie

(he's about
three hundred pounds

in his early forties
speaks pidgin-Cajun

wears
a great 'Charlie One Horse'
hat

you can't miss him)

at the State Library

not

our usual
rendezvous
I might add

and by way
of explanation
I should

chronicle
something
of the history

of me
and Swampie

I guess

I must have met him
at a country music
gig

probably

'The Esplanade'
late '80's

my first memory
of him

is him and I
standing against
his old Pontiac
outside
the 'Gatwick'
in Loch St.

and we were
talking

we'd gone
beyond
country music
women
and alcohol

and I recall
he was telling me

something
of his family

and origins

it was all bad news

there was prison
in there somewhere

and a lot of
family breakdown

and he was basically
on the run

from somewhere

to here

but you know
for all that

he was

one of the gentlest
and kindest
of men

that I have
ever known

and I guess
it was a combination of

a love of country music

and where
we both were
at the time

Swampie
basically homeless

and me
at 'The Gat.'

and also maybe

he'd been through
some ups and downs
with alcohol

and me

well
I was in a bad way

but whatever
it was

we struck up
solid

on not much
of a look

a rare thing

unusual then

and I would bet
the same
today

he loved
the Zydeco Jump
band

and they played

Sunday arvos
at the 'Espy'

they were
great days

good music
mad men
and some great
girls

it was just before
St. Kilda
went up-market

and there
was still a solid
community
of wonderful
ratbags

I never did

actually
get to the bottom

of the origin
of Swampie's
Cajun
fascination

but it was total

as much
as he could
he spoke
Cajun

and
did his best
to think
Cajun

he was Cajun
(I know
he came from
New Zealand)

but when
he was happy
he was down
in the bayou
in Louisiana
hollerin'

for all he was worth

so
we would carry on
Cajun

all Sunday arvo

and often
end up back

at the 'Gatwick'
room 60

to kick on
with more music
and beer

when I was drinking
in those days

I could get
very generous

one night
I gave Swampie
my turntable

another time
I decided my
'Charlie One Horse'
with bullet hole
and signatures
from
Billy Joe Shaver
and SteveYoung

looked better
on Swampie

and it did

(and
Old George
up the hall
got my T.V
after
a couple
of nights
on 'Jack')

so we had
a lot of fun

and when things
went real bad for me

and I spent

some years
in and out
of hospitals

Swampie
stayed

in the picture

he would
always turn up

usually
on a Sunday
arvo

he knew
what I was going
through

and
it saddened
him

and then
he had
a real rough time

himself

with hospitals
and getting some
treatment
for cancer

and so

the State Library

idea

was mine

I hadn't seen him
for a while

and I thought
we could find

some stuff
on the Cajun
language

well we met
at the Redmund Barry
Statue

Swampie
says with a nod

'regular cunt
that one'

as we headed
up the stairs

a young female
student passed

'I could put

some blow
in that'

at an elderly
gentleman
reading
in the foyer

'look at that fuckin'
idiot'

he laughs
with nothing but
good fun

as it turned out
the Cajun project
hit a snag
in the bayou

I discovered
Swampie couldn't
read

and it didn't
bother him
he didn't seem
embarrassed

he was
just happy
we were
hanging out
together

first stop
was the library

my turf

next stop
the food hall

or as he called it
'the swamp'

and we had a great feed
and a lot of laughs

with such
lines from Swampie
as

'I 'd never get out
of her swamp'

'I'd crawfish
backwards
up that bayou'

'I could empty
into that lagoon'

and when
we decided
to go

we were having
so much fun

we took
a wrong turn

and ended up
in some security
corridor

at the end of which

was a locked
steel door

Swampie
was not for turning
back

he charged on

and kicked in
the door

as only a man
of his size
could do

every alarm bell

in Melbourne
went

off

we were pissing
ourselves

and then
we came out
on the street
again

and after
eyeing
a pretty girl
walking by

he said

'you know

when you think about

people
going around rootin'
each other

it's pretty odd

isn't it?'

I cracked up

we shook hands

it had been
a great day

when I was
with Swampie
it was like
I was a kid
again

hanging out
with
a big brother

and today
the anniversary
of his death
five years ago

I remember
his fun

his laughter

his joy

his courage

and wish
he was still around

how someone
knows you -

you imagine

everyone is
at a disadvantage
relative

to

how you
know
yourself

don't we think
we have
the goods

at least
on ourselves

always

does anyone
seriously doubt
this?

and yet
what is in it?

yes
you can view
yourself

from the inside

a privileged point
of view

true

but
aren't we
here

appealing
to something
like

geography

psychological
geography

yes

and what kind
of an argument

is this?

you have
'better' knowledge
if you can see
something

someone
from the inside

why
is such
a point of view
epistemologically
superior?

consider
the view that

the 'outside'
has a greater range

more points
of view
are possible

in fact
it's limitless

could it be then

that

if you could put
together

what everybody
who knows

knows of you

would that not

most likely
be

a better
more comprehensive

understanding
of yourself

than you
could possibly reach

from the 'prison'
of your 'self'?

I mention this
in passing

only really
to remind
myself

of the greater self

we are all
points of consciousness

we see
we are seen

by ourselves
by others

consciousness
sees itself
in consciousness

the true
picture
is not
the isolated
point

of view

there is no such
thing

(unless there is
only one mind)

in a world of minds
we must understand

we are never
separate
and apart

we are always
of another's mind

and in
the consciousness
that is

me

is a trace
of every other mind
I have touched

or

has touched me

directly

or in the world
of knowledge

the lines
of communication

the mind-tracks

of life

you know

for all its capacity

for all its power

the action

of consciousness

is as

determined
by nature

as the physical
life of a body

it is a
brief appearance

and there is
only

a number of days

there was once
only

blackness

and then life

the light
of consciousness

reveals
the world

defines
its content

and parameters

gives action
to the space/time
of its domain

and then
it dies

in the natural
order

of its own time

the light
is returned
to blackness

so brief
is a life

and no reason
behind

all the reasons
it found

we are
for all that

no different

to the stars

a light
that shines

returns
to darkness

it is
as simple
as that

it's closing time
at the Bottom Bar

Drunk Wendy
beer in hand
is staggering
on the pavement
outside

going six for the dozen
in her little girl gibberish
with the Fuck-wit
his arm around her

across the street
is Rex

in his spot

watching
snarling
waiting

inside
the chairs
are on the tables

Shorty
is asleep
at the bar

God
is at a table
in the corner

in the form of
Old Snowy

worse for wear
with a full pot
and a pair
of dice

Zac is cleaning
the trays

there's no-one else
in the bar

God looks up
and calls

"hey Shorty
you up for a game
of dice?"

Shorty

though
apparently
shut down

is really
in stand-by
mode

slowly
looks over
and says:

"what are we playing for?"

"what 'a' ya got?"


says God

Shorty
says

"same as you
- nothin'"

God says
"hey

what about ya girl?"

"Legs -"
he says
with an ironic laugh

"she's gone -
gone off - gambling

but what's your stake
old man?"

"the world"
says God

"fuck that"
says Shorty

"you can stick that
up your arse

no dice"

Shorty goes back
into stand-by

God
puts his dice
in the ashtray

he has no-one
to play with

and nothing
to play for

Clayton
the duty manager
comes down
and says to Zac

"what a' we do
with these two?"

"dunno
but they're both
fucked"

"aw -
fuck it"
says Clay
"leave 'em here

it's where
they'll be tomorrow
anyway"

Zac grins
he likes this idea
and says

"yep"

Clay leaves

Zac gets his gear
and heads
to the door

before he locks it

he has one last look
at the maker

and his creation

and says
with a laugh

"O.K boys
lights out"

ever since the day
Mick Grubb
introduced me
to the State Library

I guess
well over
a decade now

I have regarded
the domed
reading room

as the finest piece
of untouched
architecture
in Melbourne

and I've been
jealous

(as far as one can be
of a room)

of its beauty

and its presence

whenever
I've been asked
to recommend
a sight worth seeing

I have always

and only

directed the curious
and worthy
to this great structure

and over the years

to show something
of the outer surface

of the quiet
magnificence

of knowledge
and learning

I have taken
various people
into its centre

to let them see
and feel

and touch

a special
place

that belongs to
everyone

(this was always
my gift

to another
of God's
travellers)

so

when I learnt

the Kennett
government
had decided

via its
chief librarian

(a sister-in-law
of the Premier)

to renovate it

I knew
the heart

of Melbourne
was about

to be

ripped out

by Philistines
dressed
as cosmopolitans

I'd seen
some advance
pictures
in newspapers
and on T.V.
of the changes
made

the steel dome
had been replaced

with glass

and the bookcases
'the stacks'
above the ground

leading from the walls
had been removed

and the walls

were painted
white

everything
was white

and from these images
it looked like some

ancient insane
asylum

that you might find

in a Kafka novel

where inmates

walk around
with box cages
on their heads

today

after two years

it was open

and despite my
aforementioned
impressions

I went in

purposely
with an open mind

and found

it was not
the chamber of horrors
I had imagined

it was rather like
a palace
that had been
ransacked
by an invading
army

and was now
being put

to some
other use

it was
war-weary

washed-out
exhausted

numb

to any activity

going on
in and around it

the violation
finished

there is no
redress

life goes on

a rape
victim

standing

in her
own

emptiness

deep below
the world
of change

Eusebius Plot
The State Regulator
of Language

is forgotten

in his room
in the bowels

of the Library

with all the successive
changes of management
over the last few years

much has been
lost

and in the current
management
statement

there is no reference
to Eusebius

or his position

there has not been
for a number
of years

and those
that knew him

valued him

and worked
with him

have all left
the Library

have all died

and that
no-one
has called
on him

and
that his expertise
has not been
summoned

is of no consequence

to Eusebius

for his dedication
to his quest

has
slowly but surely
obliterated
the outside world

Eusebius
has forgotten
the world

he knows only
the history
of his endeavour

and its conclusion

and the great
conclusion

of his work

has finally given
him peace

after
it would seem
centuries
of work

Eusebius

has come
to believe

that the answer

to the problem
of language

and of
knowledge

and hence
of man

is silence

and it is
to the great silence

he has
surrendered

completely

and his meditation

is so complete
so deep

he can now
no longer hear
anything but

the absence

his lifelong
friend
and confidant

Constantine

ever
at his side

hops onto his knee

and croaks

again

and again

into the darkness

waiting
for the reply:

'Ah
Constantine

my little friend

we have such
a way to go'

the truth
about Zero West
is

you will never
find it
on a map

unless

you can find
co-ordinates

for the imagination
of need

and the absolute
of desire

we are all

the strange
children

of an emptiness

that cannot
abide itself

that must forever
manufacture
a reality

in order
to be

and from
its creation

we move in
dreams
of nothing

living lives

of hope

building
worlds

within worlds

within

worlds

all for the sake

of being

the eternal
reaching

for completion

and the knowing
it will never

be

there is only
mystery

beyond
your touch

and only
love

to light

the way

across the whole of Zero West

what can you say?

it goes on

and we think we know
why

(this is called
'the state of knowledge'
specifically 'physics'
'myth' in another age)

but as to
where?

well
is there anywhere?

(let alone '-else'?)

your much maligned
'man in the street'
(and I have in mind
here
just a good natural
woman
at the tram stop
as her eyes
are crossing
the road)

will say
thoughtfully:

"I don't know"
end of story

(her shopping in hand
and the question
of her kids'
basketball match
and what to cook
for tea
foremost
in her mind)

you are left
standing
wondering
"why?"

and there is

no-one
to answer
this question

and it is not
because
there are
no answers

it is just that
there are
more important
things

to think about
to talk about
and do

it is
the business
of living

day to day

that is
most important

it is the nature
of the matter

as true
and as real

as the coming

and going
of the seasons

to do
to be

it goes on

and there are
the terrors

and the horrors

of many lives

and the places

of starvation
degradation
and death

and no one man
should accept this
for another

and still it goes on

as if
it is necessary

and with an energy

that I find
incomprehensible

people
are brilliant
and dangerous

conflict is unavoidable
passion is beautiful
reason is truth

it is all in the end

a dancer
in the darkness

a solitary
spotlight

an empty hall

(close your eyes
and listen

there is a bluebird
in the heart)



© greg t. charlton. 2004. 2023. 2025.