Exo existence 

in this galaxy we find planets 

planets from another galaxy. 

Orbits stray, we meet at a distance. Planets mesh in their patterns and begin to depict a new set of orbits.

The interior field becomes exterior and sometimes after this beginning growth it may well be that we abandon one another.

Our planets part, our patterns sag, become disconsolate, and one orbit or another must eventually leave the galaxy. Infinite space is deemed a room too small.

Sometimes entire galaxies are lost.

In the scheme of things, one should not get overly protective about planets. These elliptical strays will have days and nights but they will not have our days or nights. This is a presumption, of course, because days and nights are a lucrative and on-going robbery; they are rarely “ours”. Days and nights are a luminescence set within a bookies tally-sheet.  

People are light. People are grandiloquent ellipses formed of free light. We knot and condense and purpose as if other than light. We are not planets and even so we are not so dissimilar to these engaged edges on the frayed far loops of our respective systems.

Light set free from the minimum and yet repeatedly drawn to walk again as shadow, as a show of circumstance. 

The circumstance of light is that its showing is absolute. As the absolute knots up it becomes shadowy, less showy, and so light in its condensed materiality will on occasion doubt its own absolutes.

Life on this occasion is the expression of condensed materiality. A gelid tally-sheet.

Life only appears occasionally.

Life may be revered as this; the impossibility of shadow woven up into an actuality.

Confessed library dreamer

the earth is struck from above and below simultaneously. The shelves bulge as if a rubber mask suddenly and grossly inflated. Manuscripts and sheaves of paper and reports cascade upon us. As we burrow through this academic rubble we exchange further reports of our language clogged reverie, explaining in detail how, when dreaming of books, those books are always wanted. Books violently desired. Books hoarded and piled high and of impossible reach.

A fearful droom. The human resource department have a token system by which to reward good uniform, although no one outside of the department is aware of this. 

An anxious dream. The head of department is collecting brightly coloured tokens in a very large bowl.

An overwrought fantasia. Students remove an entire bay of shelving, taking even the brackets off the wall, and begin to fill this disrupted space with their own artistic creations. The bowl of tokens is tipped over but the rebellious learners are brazen and casual about the anarchy thus far inspired.

An instructive musing on a series of concentric constrictions.

We dig a labyrinthine set of tunnels and pits and then watch it fill up with our own projections.

In this mesh of hallucination the first person is also the observer and the observer is also the observed. Those who disrupt are also I. Those who need space for great creations and all the contents of all the books, also I. Those determined to control and hoard, these also must be I.

Bureau is from burra, a shaggy cloth used for covering desks and tables. Bureau is the covered writing place; bureaucracy is to set in order by a covered form of writing. If a root is not rested upon then it will not be squashed, it will not become scratched nor in any manner disfigured.

The written surface is always disfigured.

Veils are pulled over an essentially uncontrollable situation. Once a fine collation of layers settle, then the layers may be controlled.

Language is immaterial and material simultaneously. Language is in the same moment layered and controlled, revealed and uncontrollable. Emptying and approaching; the gift I have hidden is the gift I also wish to reveal.

Writing may be 
dreaming as a glove turned inside out.

Reading and dreaming may be the same experience registering on different sides of the glove.

Yesterday I invented a memory.

Today I invent in memories.

Tomorrow I will test an invention of forgetting.

Max Klinger

The book is meant to stand in for the person. 

The book is an elaborated name.

Can we not all be named by all names?

The king’s man is beheaded on The Kingsway.

This text is redacted on Royal Way.

Names and trails mark the passing.

In the naming of name, which is scored throughout the book; in the naming of the name, which is found in the reading and in the dreaming; in the read and the dreamt which sail together, so do a multitude of papers flutter to a standstill.

It is heard as the one to be heard. 

In standing still, a name is heard. 

The hearing of one name which is calling the full passing, the full trailing, the scratched pendant of person.

Stillness is therefore writing the whole book.

Of every fragment and every broken stature a secret task; to elaborate this statute which says: language.

Which says: that this dreaming and this reading may so continue into all that is done.

This dreaming and this reading may so continue, snagged on a nail, pulled off between teeth, dropped in the woods.

All done is turned inside out. 

The journey is always unrecognisable.

Several times during the night 

I realise that I am the reconfigured ashes of the cosmos.

The King and Queen have given their son a gift of an ornamental lake. When he goes to inspect it the water’s edge of this lake are occupied by workers, day trippers, sun bathers, and lovers. He walks across the stepping stones to the lovers and then returns and the lake is connected to another lake and the other Prince has a lake also. This Prince walks across the water features to his brother’s lake.

Then there is an adventure in another space. It goes like this: a young boy tackles a great foe.

At the end the boy goes to the foe’s birthday party. Back in this space all alien forms realign to the human. The boy is much smaller and he is mocked. He says:

You know I am not afraid anymore.

There is a great conflagration on the fourth and fifth floor of a hotel. This is because of the cosmic battle undergone by the forces represented by the boy and his opponent.

At the party the foe befriends the boy but warns him that his family may still be hostile. They play a game of hugs. The boy gets two very large ladies who take great delight in him, smothering him and falling on top of him. On the ground and squashed below them, one of these ladies describes her tattoo to him.

Before this game he is taken to the kitchen and here he takes ginger wine as a drink. He had been expecting to get milk. His mother and aunt are in the kitchen making vol-au-vents, holes in the wind. They enjoy his company. It turns out he has smuggled back powerful salvage from his victories in another space.

First the birthday boy’s guests get the other boy to play in their virtual reality game. They have vindictively reprogrammed it and yet the boy is not afraid. He calmly outwits and out-fights each situation. It is a gaming disguise of the battles already fought in another space. The boy’s foes takes his side, despite the scorn and ridicule this entails.

The contraband arrives. Games and victory complete, the boy goes back to his house and garden. All the actors are there as people set to enjoy the gathering.

His smuggled goods are powerful and malevolent forces utterly subdued, enriching potentiality, vastly enriching. The boy has them buried in the garden. They have the form of eel like fish, seen with heads stuck down under the ground. Even so, he chooses not to become rich and travels as a hobo. He walks cross country and is seen taking jobs in supermarkets when he can. This allows him to feed the places he goes to with the contraband, these malevolent fish have been turned into seeds of liberation and freedom.

The hotel has reopened. Our hostess also owns the hotel. She tells the story of a great battle that reduced the hotel to three floors. It was a fantastic victory but one in which her lover sacrificed himself. And now she sunbathes above the third floor and no one must ever climb this tower for it is sacred to the memory of her love. In her nakedness however she senses that someone has disobeyed her and she warns them that they will need to leave or be destroyed in battle. Yet it is actually her returned lover, the boy who is now a man, and he is naked also. He is sunbathing. His form flourishes, becomes magnificent, and the hair on his chest is verdant, sprouting green new growth. He is becoming the new earth and she hikes up, becomes the stars in order to copulate with him.

I am reconfigured ashes of the cosmos.

The magnificence of rich becoming form running potent through all matter,

The matter of this earth reaching to and beyond and throughout all spaces.

Dear child, look carefully, listen closely and pay attention to everything I show you. Remember, you have only been brought here for me to show you everything.

The memorial recipe

for these flavours which gloop from off the glittering string.

Ground up flies make spider’s silk and your masticated annoyance can be combined with the past in such a way as to create a dew draped net of wonder. Once this net is cast it can sink down and settle only in the present, everything it catches is the future.

When you empty yourself it is a rope tugged through bodily.

A glittering string pushed in via the nose, to be removed below.

Attached to this rigging there will be great reams of the shamed and the shimmering, memorials and simpering temptation anew. One might eat the rope, so alluring are these besotted and besmirched flags. Eat and pull through again, your body and memory become a corroborated pulley system. The great weight of who and what and when as “you” begins to move… Up and down, up and down. Barely anything.

Does the string still glitter?

Those moments

when we allow.

And sometimes indecisions will decide us.

Those moments when we allow, sometimes, all that is hidden.

Moments of all that is plain, and we come to know. 
We came to know, unknowing. It is simple. 
In the suspended step, a flow curtailed, simplicity.

I have come to know and come to be known.

I have come to arrive at this moment, before the knowing, instigated and initiated; the ignited and the engaged.

The engaged between, this arrival at the to be knowing. An interstitial of things, to be knowing. The in between of things dissolving in order to become moments.

The numinous is hidden in the absolute. It is the absolute we face everyday. Everyday time, which throbs with its unwarranted night.  

I know I cannot chase this night. A blackness vanishing within itself. A luminous disappearing act, the swaying feint of the collapse. Time’s crumple zone, a moment sat in amongst moments and the absolute elusive


And so I wait. I wait with the thing. 

The thing has no problem waiting. Delay makes me twitchy. 
In my itch I prod the thing. It rocks back and forth, it moves as if it were a potential.

My great array of things objectively interfere with this moment of waiting. Busily I scratch and call this potential. The itch has a potential for calm, the charm of a soothed moment.

I touch things in their swaying motion.Things rocking back and forth relatively. The shaped oscillation undulates along the length of obscurity. My moment is a line slung from dark and hung in dark and I am unwavering clarity, in between.

The foggy analogy

talks of how far one can see.

How far can one see in the fog? To the end, surely, to the end of the light one brings with you.

The narrative can only reach as far as the end of one’s light source. 

The narrated extension of being, this story; it is neither fog or light, nor is it the movement along the road or the gestures by which one moves. 

Some rush foolishly and drunken into fog, hollering for the murk to make way. Some creep along cautious like. All the same, the story is told as such or the story is told like that, yet the whole telling still ain’t getting to the thing. When it it is told, and the light has come to its end, who holds the story then?

Who then is holding the story, so the journey begin.

A supple singular

curling awareness, such is the singularity

holding around the crude of consciousness.

A simple and told wound, spilt stuff, this astonishing tool we call

language. We call language

that which keeps the weather warm and that brilliance of the cruel wonder

named communication.

Who then is to hold a story? so spill, so allow the travel and shine a torch

that one can peer into the grey tipping night. Let us roll over once. All roll over

and the the little one said

roll over, roll over

so they all rolled over and one fell out and the the little one said roll over

roll over.

So, the key

as subject approaches subject. 

So, as subject approaches subject they seek an exchange.

So, as subject approaches subject we seek an exchange.
In this gifting it is required that we match the quality and tenure of our giving, one given to another given, the singular subject matched by singular subject. 

So, if there is to be an exchange, the gift is a manner of summarizing the quality of energy within that exchange.

So there is an exchange, a gifted exchange, and a key fits together these energetic exercises.

So an object.


An object is produced in subject to subject exchanges.

An object thus collates the subjective.

An object thus is the communicating function.

“A child will discover parental qualities in stars, trees, and stones… without realising the cost its parents incur in upholding the fabric of its world.”  
[Eric Rhode. Psychotic metaphysics. 1994]





So the parent is an object to provide objects.

So the functional energy here is to allow the energy to function.

So this figure we call parent can be translates as; they that collate subjective experiences.

So they that collate subjective experiences are the pre-archaeology of this singular subjectivity; this singularity of experience which always stands counter to the summary.

The singularity of experience is subjectivity, the deep reality of our consciousness which always stands counter to the object which represents it.

Even so, singular subjectivity must be communicated.

So the must be communicated seeks an object through which it may bypass its own singularity.

And so this figurative object is the funnel through which subjective experience is directed.

The subject to subject experience becomes a gathered weight.

Thus weight and point provide new pattern, a pendulum swing, a new key for this melodic array.

“A liturgical object is one that carries over meaning from pre-birth times.” [E.Rhode]

Thus the figurative is redrawn, or drawn back, in order to reveal a subject.

So a revealed subject, pivoting around a liturgical object, draws subject subject and object through an exchange of gift.

An exchange of gift gives not gift for gift but reveals a further pattern of possibility. 

So subjective communication, acting on the pivotal possibility of the object, is an adaptation of the diminished object. 

A further pattern of possibility has caused the key to vanish.

A phase transition.

The diminished object and the subject singular become


One fable after another

dropped into the vessel, displacing the flow so that we may sup of that flow. And drinking thus, fables are uttered

one fable after another, dropped into the deep.

Well the deepness; eating from the water table we discover it is not level.

Where is the opening moment that allows allows? A cup placed on the water table is forced to become a boat, floating downstream. The bowl in this boat is a force, a flowing through which sees all the soup escaping. The cup and the bowl and the ship and the cave, the declivity of all this is buried until rocks are dropped into their hollows.

I am tired and so tired and it as if a great importance were put upon me. The energy I take to put it in the cave is enormous. To create the cave also, an aeon of digging, tiring and tiring, I wonder of the allowing and the allowing.

What is “it” in this cave? (And.) Where did I put the cave? (And.) Can such pits be easily lost? 

The cave is related to the well and the well is related to the vessel and once the vessel chooses to stand on its head so we can see the kinship between vessel and balloon.

Rock related to water, fire related to air. Air breathes in rock, water runs within flame.

What did they do to Isope? 

He told a story. The story of a burning door and the story of rocks which break themselves open and the story of the flow rising to kiss freely and deeply of this breath which has hidden at the bottom of you lungs.

“Run him off the cliff!” They shout crux and defenestrate; the ugly man has stolen a chalice. This cup in my bag? I thought it was a story you wanted, how can you hear any story without first drinking deeply? How can you drink deeply if you do not first hold a cup? You say this cup is the chalice, and you say life is brimming over of it. Surely the life of such waters are but a story, unless and until they are drunk thereof.

So this is how annoying authors are dwelt with, and the Isope of this fable lived before the term author ever truly existed. Perhaps the term author only came about as he was suicided off a cliff? (Yes, he must have slipped, and these creative types are always so, pardon the pun, “jumpy”.)

In the fable the conclusion is always allowed and only allowed. The conclusion is open.

In the crafted tale the task is to extract a simple shape from the multitudinous plenty of the real; fables are therefore akin to choreography.

The dance is extracting a shape in order to slot it again another.

Another to another, shapes slot into shapes, and these animated otherings are shape of the real. Rock water fire and air; shape to shape, shape from shape reeling over a consciousness we sometimes call a page or sometimes call a stage.

Dancing across the page: alphaalphaalphabet………..

Be a detail, dare the chance, caress exulting free existence:

Reality is the alchemy of expectation.

The alphabet is the scoundrel’s last resort.

All poets are scoundrels.