Woke to the words (and it is only ever words which wake me):

be prepared to be 
on your way
on that last day.

The same shone first (and if ever anything wakes me it is only light).
Shone first, shines within, and this same light will shine out at last.

The word wordless when these, wordless, have many sayings
yet little string to hold them.
So how is it, wordless and stringless, they have their world strung together?

Time in both directions is inconsistent. 
Any inconsistency makes time timeless. 
The space runs without knocking any edges off. 

We are one and we are another, without edges.

Paucity and the deceased. Beauty and the least. The boat pulls out, escaping the intricate device 

of the word worldless, of the heist, a sea stolen of its ground. The bottom dwellers struggle, finding not the bottom.


Lifted fire
twisted around this fallen knowing
of forgetting a candle. 

Neither fire nor smouldering
just the gathering

in anticipation of together.

Another note of repose

enthusiasm prodded toward meeting in the future.

Life is life is
life all the way down.

For life not to be found, 
there can be no life

yet here is living seeking living,
here is life peering toward the possibility
of no life,

being therefore,
seeking, all the way down.

One wonders at how a combination of death
may produce the seeking life
who investigates its own vestigial absence.


A cave sought 
is a story
a story bought begets a journey
to seek a cave
to gather each item
to tell the story thereof
the cave
and
the riches we once hid

in a story
in a cave.

Hold
this

the grandest
the most urgent to say

and this
the most unspeakable vastness.



Of this there comes
a soft persisting and particular ethic.

From hearing the story
it is recognised

we do indeed know the answer

indeed we know
of how the unity urged upon us

of how this is in accord 

and this which is of the creative
this is held.



Your people contain incredible potential, but they die without using much of it. 
[Lilith’s Brood; Octavia Butler. p.24]



The rooms of the narrator get written in.

Language blockades: what is the external situation of going to conflict?

In the midst of their social being
which is also a mist
they write up the quality and quanta of exile
and describe a rootlessness as the world.

The narrator dwells in this room.

Their story is in another

rood

or the beaten situation.

One listens through the wall and all is recounted propely,
thus:


If there is a perfection
of the hidden self

then self hidden is perfect
and that it is hidden must be part of this perfection.

For self to be self
which is to come to its perfection 
self must yet be turned out into the world.

Wide Wanderer they call self, Wide-Traveller. 
It is said that the self will re-shod your horse. 

Leave it by the smithy overnight
no payment
just an appropriate gift.



Self to self giving. 
Self to self given over

the wandering, turning self out
from the hidden to the open 

road travelled to seek the activity of the perfect
tattered paths of the simply sought.

The perfection of the hidden self
which is hidden therefore perfect
cannot yet attain perfection anywhere but in the open.


The wreckage of destabilised tribes.
Stones in the dell.
These stubborn dreams still trip us up.

The self in the world is ever an imperfection;

the scruffy re-run
the back and forth vulnerable
made available, made safe, made and unmade.



“CAN I NOT GET OUT OF HERE?”

Sharon;s carefullyy calibrated mental adustments for the karmaic force cease to b life necassary


I wrote thus whilst asleep.
Who is Sharon?

Can I not get out of here?

I cannot get out out of her the necessary adjustments.

The force of a calibrated life.

To not get out of here.

Whilst asleep a growing sense of familiarity grows around the day to come and the day just gone.

Waking and the sleeping submerge one another and neither can quite remember the other.

It is home. It may not be your home. Here is an alluring body, here are a known set of pleasures.

The connection is already set, introductions are hardly necessary.

Beneath the surface there is everything, yet we slide one over the other, always on the surface.

Familiar old patterns.
The limits are also the comforts.
Sharon;s carefullyy calibrated mental adustments for the karmaic force cease to b life necassary

“CAN I NOT GET OUT OF HERE?”
I wrote thus whilst asleep.

Coincidentally beyond coincidence
by the sheer fact of multiplicity.

One for sorrow,
Two for mirth,
Three for a funeral
And four for birth


Magpies line up in the hope of meaningful significance, their message yet ever extended into meaninglessness.

Four and forty birth birds mirthed of the earth. In the tree the sorrow, up the sky we scale. When the sky was hollow we all began to howl: Now was not this a pretty fowl to sing us through the day?



Only when the magpie population attains the critical mass of becoming lumpen – a large entity onto which significant projection may be secured – then will the flock be transformed from the accidental and to the meaningful.

It will be single.
It will be singular noticed. A cursing sponge to sop up all our unease.
This is the point at which a determined eradication programme begins.