Poetry, essays and novels.

This page features literature. The book is my first poetry collection but is undergoing reedition.

Literature is the true abstract art, while poetry is essentially the lyrics, as in Lyre, of silent songs. Some essays may be included and a novel PDF in this or in future additional pages.

Poetry

Autobiomimesis. Reedit 22.10.23

Experience grows factional memories,

The reexperiences of which are echoes,

Haunting, the miasma of times learnt;

We are images of god, since conscious,

Patterns with no matter but selflikeness.

 

You outlive your life as the Dead did,

As you, a holy spark, did your death;

There is no equal to the holy sum,

No outside to have left or to return to.

 

You shed these souvenirs of fantasy,

Memory bares its scars and jewellery;

Experience grows a memorial tapestry.

Dead,you’ll be born again, but ghostly.

 

This is how we know fetches exist,

Believing dreams Life, like actors,

As you do when dreaming your plays,

Unaware you are adrift in airy spaces.

 

The Dead seldom haunt the world,

Though nostalgic revenants might,

Avengers might haunt, the shy might,

But happier souls are futurists, eager,

For more Time, not the ice of eternity.

 

Yet the Live might haunt,wanderers,

Wizards and witches, black ot white,

Lukewarm greys or schizoid piebalds,

Awake abroad, Magi of each twilight.

 

If birth is a trap,Time ages one dead,

In the trap of failure if dice thrown,

Showing one numberless zero side;

If so, the soul had no plot, no map,

In an afterlife full of psychotheatre.

 

Memories are images of experience;

Experiences oxydise the dead head;

Some imagine they see wraiths burn,

Daylight stars briefly bright in woods,

An actors behavioural work on stages.

 

Experience is Time lived in space,

But the experience of Immortalists,

Is space lived in time, brain dormant,

Records shut in cellular dormitories,

As if a magus sheds its black karma.

 

Memories are fake autobiomimeses –

Do not literally write your fake life,

Cells do it free, in earths atom ether;

Brainwaves are literal, truth is a gift.

AXLES

Trees are axles, with wheels at both ends,

One end buried in living earth, as if shifty riddles,

That feed on ancient minerals, worn to molecules,

The other, atop the columnar trunk, a leafy canopy,

Whose underground twin in the earthen darkness,

Is often as big a network as the green tent above.

 

But the roots are shallower than the treetop haven,

Of wanderlusty birds who alight and nest at its hight-

The trunk is naked and brazen, a target of carpenters.

 

The old axle, though, is like a tooth when it’s rotten,

That storm-winds worry, that Time plucks roughly,

When the tree must die, and Time is a ruthless bailiff.

 

I breathe the trees carbon, and it breathes me oxygen,

And I thank the big oak and its proud, green canopy,

And I think of its rootsy cluster, fed by humble fungi,

Nature’s invisible servants, that mean zero to evil.

 

Branches and roots are the spokes of these wheels,

Trees are the royal plants whose axles roll no wagons,

But are teethed upon by the eager winds, who gnaw,

As Time does upon the lifespan of the lame elderly-

Think of yourself, a loose axle, a wanderlusty bird,

Your feet, rooted to the ancient magnetoid earth,

Your head, a brain-top, spun by the heady clouds above,

And yourself a chariot that furrows its own likely maze.

 

Though the lofty trees seem deaf, dumb and blind,

They feel you pass by, friend or foe, but mainly blind,

They know if you bear a yew bow to shoot tame deer,

Who shelter in the cool shadows of their forest realm,

They feel you pluck bluebells, like harp strings stricken-

They overlook the old paths your long-dead kin trod,

Trod before you were born, they feel the sticky ghosts,

Who follow and do not breathe the trees oxygen gifts.

 

You, too, will be killed by time, your torso a trunk,

Halted by the gravity of death, and yet you can see,

How an empty skulls teeth stay firm in their sockets,

And know  you,  too, began as another lucky acorn.

Barnacles. 26.01.24

Seams loosen, your sails empty,
Time hails death to reap your ash.

Stately liars and random idiots
The barnacles and sly vampires,
Attach bloodsuckerish straws,
Leeches who love to hate you,
Your honesty, martyr to fashion.

Crew are dead, like the years,
Memories, gravestones of waste,
In the wilderness of piebald mazes,
Where youth’s time was misspent,
Eaten by the usury of old capital.

No stripling can fight heritage,
No child teach the madness out,
Of parents addicted to nonsense,
Drunk on the lies of the old Rich,
Sucking the whole world’s blood.

I see a skull and crossbones,
From the mast’s high crows nest,
That grows a face like mine,
Slowly showing in a mirror.

It is on everyone’s timely horizon;
Once an immortal fool is born,
Death awaits to chide the addict,
And the ghost is again entrapped,
In a robotnik body of watery dust.

Dust and warpaint. 06.06.23.

Snuff dust and you are a maneater –
Barfires ages ago stank like witches,
Roasted on stakes, lucky crowfeasts,
Or like crispy women on cooling tar,
In the holocaust of olde Dutchland –
Black children in tatters, once white,
Smoulder in heaps to feed Moloch;
Evil is not wasted, bigots are fecund.
You bled and smear yourself, savage,
Camouflage of hunters, mask of liars,
The brands of a captive slave, mental.
Ashes now deaden your skin’s shine,
Pale, you’ll be a spook to poachers,
A ghost to those creepy ghosthunters,
Blood, a dog licks like a werewolf.
Children whoop through the lush park,
The flora are unbent by cool shadows;
They are dead, flat daydream mirages.
Your soft skin is made of ancient dirt,
Your bones will shed their dusty loan,
As if the skeleton came before the egg.
God’s birth and death, frame a lifespan,
You owe blood to the dead and unborn;
Souls hunt, not bodies, but consciences.

Fiery Tree.

The soft bead inside each outer eye,
Is like a glassy drop of rubber water;
Hot light shoots through the bead of dew,
That clings to a spider’s tatty web;
The owner is dead, like the hollow fly…
Sun scatters light, overall, for no eye…
Live light gathers itself, through the drop;
Whose curvy skin hosts a film of the day…
Gathers all the wavelength to a bundle;
Look at the Sky! You see from inside the Sea,
That the shady wood is at the bottom of;
You forget that fire casts no shadow;
Last years, dry, ragged leaves were shed,
Nestling in a wreck, tinder for a ripe star…
A spark begins to unravel – work is on show:
The hot key is unlocking the warm door,
The empty room, within, is ablaze,
Only the dead roots will last to rot;
The Sun sows an Oven, without a fiery bolt.
Fed in Life by the same sunlight,
Was the tree not chill fire, from day one?
And may the Sun not withdraw its own?
Is the fire, itself, not a hungry Sun?
The sticky cobweb, quickly shrivels,
With that one small eye of the great Sea,
The starry heat had once sent, upward,
From the Sea’s skin, a drop in a cloud,
That the spin of the World had spun cloud,
With the help of one huge watery eye,
The breath that is what trees breathe out,
For a hungry hunters twin lungs;
All the woodmen are dead, though…
Only landlord’s thin sheep are left,
Afloat, narrow beds amidst sharks teeth…
No fires under the thick, old Sea,
Sea we cannot breathe nor withstand;
Only the cold fires of ugly fishes,
Weird as a crank’s dreams, nightmarish;
Who enlighten their grisly selves, like stars,
Like trees, with glittery baubles at yuletide –
As if the deep Sea were the night sky,
Like the Sun, they kindle themselves,
They gather tinder, light the match,
In that dumb, hellish undersea world…
Where thick water crushes the seabed –
There the Earth’s deepest wrinkles crack:
Not far below, red rock flows like gold …
Cooling into warm ingots, like weird dung:
Here, the spun weight of the molten core,
Reaches up for the body of our water;
There you would be utterly blindfold,
Where the Holy Sun can’t find you, so cold,
Nor read your fishy underling thoughts;
Gross fish, bedecked with pearls, aglow,
Dart like flies, in a wind above –
Yet, look inside the wet, glossy bead,
You will see what I have said,
Is the Law, no more, no less;
That all I have done is wrap wisdom,
Into a set path of wordwoven dream –
When did the Sun unlock Earth’s green door,
That let us up or down and out,
When the Earth unlocked the Seafloor?
How could a thing, fed by fire,
In the shape of a green oak tree,
Feed our red lungs with breath, be fire?
Your wheels, too, will rust, like leaves,
For Earth squanders no live light,
And the spook is only you, alight;
The spider is there, the fly, both hollow,
Empty moulds in sunless mind,
Of God’s one starless darkroom Tide –
Deep, thick, heavy; cold and nameless,
The womb of numberless aware stars,
Thus of your own forgotten name:
Stargazer, the Sun sends its sons,
Its fiery ghosts, down to your mind,
On frightful ropes of blazing insight,
It burns the sight of the World,
Whose wonderful guests are woods,
Into the cobweb halls of your inward eye,
And in your nightly winter as leaves fall,
You dream of the one inner eye,
That sees the films of daylight,
With the eyes and dewdrops, blindfold:
Wakening, you will not forget, will you?
That you can enlighten yourself,
That the fire of the Sun speaks to you,
That the sap of your blood is spun,
From the grass its wealth brightens:
Trees worship the Light, as they must.
The tide of moist years leaves them behind,
For lightning spark or dewdrop to make ashen:
The Earth is the grave of the unborn,
Who forget everything and take a shape:
Live tree, too damp for the acid of fire,
Its pumps alive with the hot light of work;
Eyes still young enough to tame the glare,
Film the World’s clever glitter for tonight,
When the whole World is that beady drop.
Tree’s shadow is gone, spider’s was slight,
Slight, as the fast cold, white weight
Of moonbeams, cast as keys of Light;
Alive, we can only glow, like the flashy Moon,
Like dull dishes of pitted steel,
Or as daydreams in others` brains –
What dewdrop does the inner one eye,
See-through, as if watching its own backdrops,
Cold as the Light of unearthly fishes?
Trees flicker by as I run my sunny insight,
Backwards, through years of woodland:
Sunlight spots me, even at night,
When I am blind, like a fire that cannot see:
Dead tree, cobweb, dewdrop – the Sun’s children.
30th August, 2007.

Goldfish. 06.04.23

Not gold, red gold, darting through my mind,
Streaks of speed, those orange fish long dead.
Fishy lifespans spent in a watery atmosphere,
Rowing torso through a gaseous liquid, there.
Organs gather radiant facts and also fictions,
But minds imagination also makes factions.
They pout at the surface with mute blubberlips,
Pout like smokers who blow smoke-ring quips.

History is digestive Time. Dec 23.

The present is the smug winner,
As Hereness ousts There or there;
Memories are the objects, toys,
Of survivors selfish experiences,
Electroid fossils left inside us,
Scars on outlandish tribal skins,
Death hangs on old church doors.
Your history is thus the winners,
My time, an inmates wilderness;
I may be old before their fraud,
An idol of philanthropy, fraught,
Is scoffed alive by truthseekers,
My health waning like twilight,
Into the starlit blackness of God.
Here, you are regal, I, a beggar;
Your tyranny you con necessary,
Sows the paranoia of conspiracy.
We digest our lives by survival.
Luck is a thing, a rank, a status,
For royalty or eunuch sycophants,
Fame, wealth, buries consciences,
Souls shrink to hollow hypocrites,
Apologists to a tin god, marionettes.
The present has no time for merit,
Satan is a midwit mocking Nature;
You may buy the spotlight with pride,
But today, goblins squat your land.

At Hope House, in Mousewell hill in the Light town on Tin Island.

Insight buds inside your watchful awareness,
A small charm,is aglitter amidst lukewarm ash;
Less sad about your outcast youth, in a flash,
You understand that all these awful feelings,
The odd thoughts that overran your green head,
Like a scary tide from another slippery life,
Were the early raw bulk of later work,food,
Like roughcast ingots of clay, iron, Gold, alive.
What you do is what you are as you are done to,
Your skin is even, the outer world is odd,
The queasy inner life, where things were felt…
With what did you feel things, if not the heart?
If not with hands, cast from shadow of the heart!
What did it feed through if not eyes, ears, skin?
On sight, song and word and the white din?
Youth, lived alone, on an inborn isle of its own,
Born that way like an older lost rover, a gnat,
One who did not need its elders, needing neither,
Not a son or daughter, a guest, a brat.
How old must you be to get tiny, crafty fingers,
To get crab-claws of truthhandling thought?
Fingers like the bony hands in a spooky tale,
To unearth a dusty wonder, to free meanings;
Is it a spark to an eager unstarted fire
That uplifts hindsight from old sadness,
Into a ripe and earnest worker’s birth?
The burnt weight of yesterday is the cost,
The rubble path of a born believer,
That leads from the underground of shy youth,
Upward, with a burden of sorry years,
To daily thoughtscapes in the mould of waking,
Into something new, crushing damp ashes,
Into silver toy’s, burning dung into gold dust.
Sowing seeds into moist bonemeal beds.
Yes, greyer, wrinkles have begun to run,
Streams that furrow the earth of your skin,
Seek somewhere lower to stop themselves;
To do what? What seeds do they bear?
Flags that hail death, that whores body!
Wrinkles whose runnels are casts of sweaty dirt.
Work–you are dying, rowing to a shore,
With your belief, to the island of heaven:
Once there, you will see how the trees,
Are ships that fire themselves to the stars.
For now, tease the ripening likenesses,
Of shattered tides inside where you can hide,
Alone,in a cosy room with a guttering light.
While the rain batters the panes of glass blurry,
As it once did a cold window in old childhood,
While you read from a childish book of wonder;
Long lost, your head wove dreams and will blunder,
From inside your mind, outside your head, you call,
As a dancing, drunk sailor rigs his own downfall.
Wind often blows hard in there, harder,
Behind the heartfelt eyes of glee or anger,
But everyone is gladder in their work,
Cogs running, doors slamming, its fitness,
Streaking after that thought, the speed,
Stripping the clothes of the soul,
Shaving the skin from the ghost.
Unlike wolves or wives or clannish crooks,
The thoughtful dreamer is often alone,
Selfish, the one the rest think a crank;
But lowbrow Apes, they don’t think-
Only worry, when monkeys do come,
With fiery greed to burn your canny hovel.
Selfish is what you are, shy,mad as blood,
Scrabbling like a dirty drunkard, in mud,
For that tiny key to some heavenly room:
Which room is the ore of awkward youth,
Downcast early in outcast and dim gloom,
That seems like a maze you must thread,
Backwards into an unearthly twilight,
Like an old body forwarding itself to death;
Worse, these days on the dusty shelves,
Leading to rooms that lead sideways,
Until you think your life is outspread,
Over the whole hide of the world’s tide.
The insight ripens in the wordy cogs that lurk,
Of this handwritten, mindthought wordwork,
The thorough path of a shortsighted snail,
The garden, the town, the aliveness of youth,
That is the body of the craftsmen’s work,
The gift I have to lead few followers with,
Those comrades who followed my lordly road,
Wizards, stargazers tell me what the suns are:
Daylight tells me as I watch the sparrow I goad;
Watch the spider, trim the leaves, smell the earth,
Hail the high sky with sea-green outer eye,
That this is my land, that it’s good like me;
That I am not an outlaw but that elsewhere,
There is a clingy fiend who is a bleak foe;
Sly blackness – it comes along winding way,
From a beginning rooted deep in a hot yesterday,
A madness bound up in a weight of hard stone,
Luck has broken open with a hard blow on bone.
Blood seeps steadily under ground, will flow,
Into a sea, beneath the earth that houses sin,
Where the guests are foul things of nightmare:
The underworld soaks up the feet to the head,
Floods it with the earthbound living dead;
A skull drifts in the blue-sky loveliness, agape,
Yet shrank to a speck the sun’s stern gaze ate .
Summer rain, shifty sheets of clouds above,
But no strength to besiege the bleak leach:
Mine is the good head of strong truth,
That feeds on the great inner life of youth,
That gathers days like chaff as the womb does,
Clay and straw for the heyday dust and fluffs;
Smith hammers in lofty workshop, wife weaves;
Numberless tiny short lives work and heat straw;
The evening hayrick bursts into light, like a star,
That has reached starriest weight and kindles.
What is this nameless head, aware of itself,
Even, as if the sun knew its own name,
As if clouds were aware of themselves as things,
Seeing their looks twinned on water’s sticky skin?
Do birds overhear themselves? What is my work?
To make a cast of yourself, as a whole,
So you awaken more like one true soul,
And are borne and rise to the foretold stardom:
In the writing comes the last unforseen wisdom,
Outing the unravelling knots of delvers thought…
Sky, earth, sea our holy share of the playground,
All above the things of the seedy underground.
Each step taken over the deep graves of sisters,
Of our many dead fathers and lost mothers,
These eyes and one eye, this mouth, these,
Have sown this lengthy waxing seekers dream,
Into the landscape and gardens winding stream;
These living dead have dropped cunning tokens,
Into the pond I live in, these birds drop seeds, eaten,
Drop scrolls from skies behind me, in dozens;
If I walk back, I crunch over their brittle bodies,
If I trip forward, I stumble into bony crannies,
If I crouch still, my thought freezes and bullies.
Why be sad? What a lucky guest of the Holy Dead,
Of the Sea, Sun and Stars, rain, dust and the read:
Hosts hurry me on, pluck my work for the unborn,
Pluck at my cheeks like goblins, blow the horn,
Weeds bloom to greet me, risen from underground:
Otherworldly songs… that is a wanderer’s swoon;
Yesterday was a lonely wilderness, truly dire,
Wondering over gloomy fields of rusty wire,
Empty houses, falling to fearful grubby trash;
Beset by mice, beetle and unsightly mould:
Alone,a ghost, blind to lightning outside, is cold,
But looks black in the dazzle that lasts in dread:
A longer flashback for the shy Seer, the Dead:
Like a shadow in the white light of God’s Sun;
Is the dream an insight inside the room, the sum,
Of an innermost Name that stews like broth,
On old bones and the raw feelings of truth?
You are where you live, like a wagon that wheels,
On a path, like a raft on a sea or a bird on its ways,
Hovering over a field, here, there and today;
Were you happy? Forget `then`, forsee `soon` or:
Forget tomorrow, forsee yesterday on its way,
In the room of your heartbeatweathered frame.
These are games craftsmen play with the Tides,
In their dens above mouldy earth, under the skies
Swinging in the inner tides of your bloody body,
Where the room is body, and self is the weather:
Weather of the Self, frets like fiery acid on its tether,
Through the grey ingot food of day and night,
Through the sunny light of mazy dreams of flight;
When dead what flickery moth will you be by night?
I make wordy flags, frankly to lead you on, inward-
There is an island, there are stars, also pride:
You may heal the wary or woeful, with wisdom,
Then climb the big-hearted tree or run down,
All the way below to the hellish , rootless town.
In the earthy bed I found a children’s book:
Mouldy and warped like my own lone childhood –
A book still alive in some flaky, sodden shape,
Older than I, its wordy sides once fed young eyes;
Now tat, kind words marred with many rainwaters,
Drawings raddled by ruthless, unwordy weather,
Tales tanned the shade of brown like leather,
You must believe, it can happen, like found gold,
My name was in the writer’s book, a tale told:
I showed it to the Sun, a rainbow was hosting,
I showed it to its gaze and its frank gaze stung.
Yet I never unearthed any widow’s old worn ring,
Of unweathered gold, some deathless olden thing;
Selfless widow who sadly wept herself to death,
Who won’t be back before the end of the world-
How do I know? My insight fingers the talky ring,
A door I tap that answers me: `yes` or `black`;
A gate that asks me cleverly and I answer back,
Nothing is spent without a gain later you’ll need,
Only try not to bear too much guilt or greed,
Know yourself  One and not All, nor None;
Holiness is whole, don’t ask liars for answers.
Death wags its empty finger at me, once wild
To whom I am only a spent overripe child,
It will suck dreamy me, dry as grey ashes,
Through this tattered wretch of a kiddy book;
But God winks at me through the rainbow…
At me not at you since you don’t often look.
My lofty forebears raindrop cool spots of truth,
Onto my head from the tree that sees enough;
Answers that can cannot be seen but only felt:
A fish, I rise to the top, the wordy drop,
Splashes out its rings of neat ripples,
Rings within rings, inside rings, one ring,
Which is biggest, last, holiest, thing of things?
What bird will I be? A sly king, a shy ghost,
In the unborn world, when the earthly host,
Sheds its burden of man like fat and dregs?
The lordly weather is on its raw way,
My youth came in rough bleak days, then;
So, clutching the best things to my chest,
Storing goods in boxes, badges of old days,
Once silly and rueful, yet here and now,
While you can swing a berserkers axe,
Answers come – the youth you gambled,
Unwelcome outcast was the needy kindling,
The best clay for your lifelike shell,
Dragging your underworld beneath it,
Your battered beggars shabby home,
With heathen wealth inside your mad brain,
A light lit the gloomy hollow in your lair –
The snail eats its own shell one midday,
To become what? A moth? A runaway?
Low grey, crawly slug, it becomes no butterfly.
At sunset, at sunrise, when twilight spreads,
My eyes are wiser than hawk’s beady heads:
Herein, she is a mere heraldic token, a birdy cog,
Embedded in the brazen warp of my crafty work;
Insight shows you a dreamer, who can be great,
Your dreams truer than the mere numbers of names.
I feel the dumb droves of the manifold fallen,
Tramp beneath me like an underground maze –
I hope lightning one day strikes me, amazes me,
And either the dead or the king of the unborn,
Burn a way through it to that buried sea,
A ladder that sheds light on the sleepy dead,
That they will seek the doorway of birth,
Clad in a heavy light that gathers clay flesh,
To outlive the evil wizard of mere wordplay:
The work is done, the brain is thought- muddy,
The earth is dug, the spell is cast, seed is sown-
Now I only need the bald blue-bloody clown,
The silly heir of clannish empty-headedness,
Childish old happy weed, the stubborn dolt,
The outgiver of the yokels landscapely wages.
Having, through sundry hard lives underground,
Bored through many tough layers of rocky bone,
Upward from the hell of the molten core,
Like an unbounded bolt, I burst free,
From the dusty skin of clingy earth:
Like a tree that wants to be a star or God,
Shedding its clog of body, behind itself.
I watch in a dream, in the gloaming sunsets,
My youth rumble beneath its angry roots…
Inside outside, high and low, back and forward,
Better to stretch in a growing box,
Than bent like a still speck of nearly nought.
Let the dirty tide of the crowded town and its flies,
Not drown your eyes with the drudgery of lies:
Too late, when you already believe in a World,
An elfin cog, going down with the shoddy boat.

Stones.

Rotten and live things stink or smell of life or death,
Stones are clean,like water,reek of nothing,are unborn,
They are the Earth Gods things who sends up trees,
Built from their underworld roots toward the skies,
Whose breath is old and also clean unlike the others,
And ghosts are clean,in the mad twilight that blinkers.
Thick water gushes toward its heavy lord downwards,
Wind rushes about madly driven by the worlds spin,
Bodies crumble underground,their sap feeds crops,
Leaches into the field where men clove each other,
Heads were sown into the ground by the dirty plough,
The dirty skull was a crafty toy for the black wizard;
The skull grows in the hot den of the bloody womb,
Fed by the old earthy witchcraft of an almighty God.
Earth is as clean as its goods and Life,dies again,
Leaves the God with twilit wraiths,enthralled,earthbound
And the Unborn are keen comebacks,skyborne beings of light.

The death head's smile. 20.11.23

The deathshead laughs behind your mask,
Fleshless visage on the Jolly Rodger flag,
Simple picture, motive like a convicts cage,
Deadencap, hidden behind your motley gurn.
Indeed, you could not laugh without approval,
Without the permit of your calcium skulldom,
As if Life were only a lawyer Death’s mask,
It, a puppeteer of beasts in the global theatre.
True, it does little more than open for speech,
For gas, solid and liquid, for motherly milk,
While soft musculature is the mobile mask,
Nature anchors to its sculptural mannikins.

Hermits economy.

I start liquors dribbling and coursing down you,
This time, Beauty has no smell, shame or image.
The unowned thing is worthless, be it the ultimate
or kindest realist of its kind.
This spat upon, King Gravel-
Pictures are whores, priceless, trashy and distant.
Immaterial, and dynamic, hordes of types,
Pass a single conspirator, agreeably repellant.
For the contestant, Beauty has no image and no feel,
all the wanted bodies in the world, reel away from children.
The soul in blackness leaves the body,
and sleeps and works alone in the dust and colours.
King Pain I believe in, I go on until I forget,,
Hermits economy.

Presence-Anwesenheit. 06.11.23

From preexistence to birth, mumsy’s doll,
Trophy of effective mating, boast of kin,
To maturity as a mother or father – or fool,
Hero or genius, if not, dud eunuch or nun.
Presence, of the conscious existentialist,
Ploughing through the money-hungries,
Corpse of civilizations, the megalopolis.
In the graveyard or mausoleum, present,
On a batttlefield, where are the indecent,
Stealing by bodies who souls are absent.
Present as gossamer ghosts fill the air
Present when the unborn tug girl’s hair,
Present, your name, brief loan you bear.

Skeletons. 26.03.23

Skeletons are scary are they not, readerkin?
Are you not the fleshy poseur of meaty skin,
The well-fed owner of a stealthy heart organ,
Twisting your blood as if it was a live thing?
Who is your heart? A guest who is an alien?
What kind of sculpt is clad with warm flesh,
Cannibals hunt or bombs blow to red mess,
Peach skin,blank sheet for the tattooists fees,
Inking fancy blue brands on slaves to wages.
Who dreamt a skeleton if not God; but where?
Where, that mind if not everywhere like ghosts?
Bones are within, like truth hidden as words,
In a dreamers mind, not a liar, whose brain,
Is intergalactoid, vast as things within things.
Deathsheads leer from kiriakon lintels, oafs,
Carved for koimetrion galleries by sculptors ,
Dead men, stripped clean by death, of youth,
The wiry pip of bare bones left, a last breath,
Blown into a protein bubble of wan skeleton,
While grey princes dry in silent sepulchres,
Long since rifled by sly men, flies and rats;
Loyal matter rots, but stubborn calcium lasts.
Who thought the sculpt of skeleton? Not I,
Mineral structure needless for queer amoeba,
For jellyfish, watery alien, alive in seven seas,
Yet who set that freak adrift in the liquid past?
Sailors cold bodies are eaten bare at sea-bed,
Amidst the wooden bones of dead galleons,
Whose drowned weapons are fleshless guns,
Outlasting gunners effigies, adrift in a wreck.
The bones do not live, only the ghost does,
The body lives but the godly soul drives it,
Bodies built of bones, like life from truth,
That must make liars of the boneless dead,
Wafting stars in the atmosphere of gravity.
The skeleton is hidden inside, like thoughts,
Making a hypocrite of any egoist immortal,
As if it were the true imago of the icy ghost,
Of its fate in the outspoken body, a brand,
Karma’s choice of clothing about outlook.
The bones prove man a kyborg and so sex,
Is a factory duo proving God dud for atheist,
But you ask, who set lifes bodyshop loose,
In legendary times fleshy fools think myths?

The Bitter Cold

My soul loves the bitter cold.
It Craves the empty stillness.
Oh the bleak frozen night.
Grey gossips, shiver and scold;

My fetch pines for the cold.
An owl glides inside the darkness.
A mouse soon takes fright.
The mole creeps over the mould;

My shade loves the icy cold.
A dead god sees our shabbiness.
A man snores by dim candlelight.
A spinster fingers her chilly gold;

My Self needs the harsh cold.
It yearns for the frosty wilderness.
Its warm blood dreams of flight.
A bird stirs, Its slight wings fold;

My soul loves the biting cold.
Clouds clad he moon in blindness.
A tramp slumbers in his lonely plight.
Harmless at last he feels old;

My ghost worships the icicle cold.
It awaits the onset of white wintriness.
It dreams of woods, snow-white.
A house on a bare hill is sold;

The moon sets behind the fallow wold.
The mind sets into its own likeness.
The dream heaves itself into sight.
Heaven, Speechless, seems to unfold.

The Ghost of a windmill.

Thoughts rotting your head, wrinkling its inside,
Sour acid flooding down through skylight,
Cleansing unknown things in dusty gloom,
Taking clean, naked shape in the hidden room,
Windmill, deep-rooted into the sodden ground,
Death’s forerunner below, the baying hound,
While your thoughts clot into what? Gold?
Something heavy you can handle, in the cold,
Knowing your winnings have set you free?
Down the inner steps of the body you flee,
While the wind tugs the blind bare, windmill,
Yet you can see beyond to the green hill,
Head drunken, with the clumsy clatter of Truth,
Boney truth that’s awesome, grim truth, uncouth.
Below, the trapped door creaks open, you go,
Meeting the bright blast of sunset’s glow;
From Heaven’s answers that you bade,
Can you hide from the gods in the shade?
In the blue gloom, dead kings speak to you,
Telling you from their day, downfall was seethrough,
All the sins were foreseen, sown in the soul;
These, were the awful sight’s your mind stole,
Like a mole burrowing for bones on a dig,
Beneath a windmill that dances a crazy jig…
On its great cogs, grinding dust for noone….
It is your ailing body, truth has overrun,
Those kings wait while you flutter nightly,
At your starry tether, a ghost almost almighty,
Walking through doors, life having burnt away,
That weathered, selfish flesh, like hay,
Truth chips away, sending bigger shocks…
Acid floods my mind, etching the bleak blocks,
Leaving black hollows, like the words of gods.
Alight with the white fire of stars or what?
The black windmill shines against the snow,
How can darkness, spun in my head, glow?
In a budding head that cast words into shape,
Through the bridge of the understanding landscape.
We can talk to one another, although as yet,
I am unborn and you are too soon dead;
Naming the shapely number of each black thought,
I step up into the crafty entrails, I have wrought,
Ones dreamworld oasthouse, that weary host,
Like a lighthouse, yokel folk boast,
Is full of spooky things, like scary truth,
Or things that do outlive your happy youth.
The ghost of thoughts weaves a grey ring,
Inside my head, like a cripples railing,
Some bleak thoughts became deep black sins;
You wonder where forgiveness begins.
Thoughts bloom inside as rusty, acid rain,
Washes away the old chalk they are cast in,
Leaving the black filthy bones of wrought iron,
To stumble their way into the ring of the spoken;
The good dead will be born again, evil dies,
Come with their fiery eyes to burn old lies;
That’s one shape the spring rain left,
That fell from Heaven, water rather deft,
Like a great ghost’s canny hand, shaping,
Like a Gods spell, the outlook of a King;
The windmill means my stubborn loneliness,
Withering as it does in the shoddy wilderness;
That is why I have only the bones beneath,
The weird gods above, to play rough with,
They know me for a Seer in the World of Light.
They know me tethered to my brazen plight.

The lone bug and the other. 24.10.23

What dimension evolved the bug from?
From that of Time, as if another Space?
What alien god dreamt such a machine?
The spider is Another, alone in its web;
A reckless Other sticks in its flat net,
As if to a pirates sly deaths-head flag.
It is alone, like a patient bugspider,
Awaiting another but not its friendship;
Only its toothsome body, ripe with life.
It eats the dimwit bug and is alone again,
Smug and happy as a lawyer with its fee,
Alive, but inhuman like the former bug.
Bugs eat bugs – I could squash it,Winner,
With the losers juice eking into Winner,
With soft fingers that clothe stony bones.
I have had breakfast and the creepy spider,
Never did me harm as I crashed its webs,
For whom I am no more than leaf or rain.
It eats the trapped fly and is alone again;
Never be hapless like Jehanne on the pyre,
For fire will eat you alive, like spiders.
It lives to live, not for Love or laughter,
There is no meaning in another unless it be,
A mate with whom to bud more of its kind.
Fed by errant machines, a machine,
Robots, whose chitin skin is protein,
Gadgets of Nature, frightfully alien.
The spider is alone in its strong web,
Landlord and bailiff in one grim post;
None live rent-free or stay too long,
In or on its airy hotel of invisible sails,
For it always frames its stupid tenants,
Whose bodies are woven into…webs.
It does not crave a friend or bait a foe,
Seek comradeship or duel with dandies,
But you crash its network, selfish giant.
You, ghost in times web, that spider,
Age, oncoming lifelord, or is it a door,
Toward which you trudge in blinkers,
Alone like buggy and its spidery eater?
It was another, alone – another comes,
Also alive, and is now dead, earthed,
Into the spiders guts, empty skin left,
Like a grisly trophy, as if a soul left,
That shed its outgrown skin to be free.
Heads in piles, bodies now headless,
Lands sucked dry by another tribe,
Bodies in piles, trophies of hunters.
Zero sum economist spider eats fools;
Life is cannibal, money is bloodthirsty,
As if it were God, eating everybody,
Not least alive, with hellbound fears,
God who is nobody, eager for bodies.
If the spider is a natural earthly Other,
Then this is their world and not ours;
But if mankind’s races belongs here,
Potoo, jellyfish and hippopotamus,
Are aliens left by legendary zoologists,
Or the odd offspring of fertile meteors,
Or worse, remote fungi of Earth God.
I cannot query the spiders tiny brain,
As to its lineage, nor wish such a link,
But nor query I your Red Tory speck.

The ongoing way

I saw the light, at the end of the road,
Bored thought the darkling wood,
Was the light of day, Like a white egg,
With a yellow yolk like a gold shield,
Buried in snow, hidden in its cold down,
And dreams end at last, insiders,
When we awaken at home in heaven,
Like a bold rider abroad as long, so old,
And branded with a skin of sorry welts and woes,
We trot as one in to the ring of the sinking sun.

Essays

Tropes and conceits 2019
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