Keys for the children, 
door for the adults

One key.
Two keys.
Three keys.
Keys to our wonder.
I wonder what they unlock.

Red key.
Yellow key.
Blue key.
Keys to open splendour.
I wonder if we could.

One red key.
Two yellow keys.
Three blue keys.
These keys might unlock thunder.
I wonder if we should.

Blue key and yellow key,
green key.
Yellow key and red key,
orange key.
Red key and blue key,
purple key.
Here we stagger, astonished by our blunder,
for we have squandered all our stock.

Every tree dreams of being a forest
We are that dream. 
We are that tree, dreaming a forest. The wood is felled and hewn into the side of a great ship. The ship is launched quietly, in the night, and now ears are listening for a wind.

A deflated void has an impossible weight. 

The mute language of onion skins is trying to tell me things.

In a meaningful universe one desperately seeks out nonsense.
Then, in a meaningless universe, one desperately seeks meaning, hunting it out from wherever it may be found. An infinite tide of greener grass on an equally infinite retreat.
Sinuous sputum, spectacular spatula, baroque stupidity. 
To portion out the oblivion of one’s life.

The forest is not destroyed by a wooden hut – nor will it be harmed by a gingerbread hut – it is the path to that hut which wounds. And if the sugared prison is broken apart by a savoury woodcutter, then the forest will begin to tremble. 


Nonsense is something of a revolving door. 
Anxiety in my ears, the septic build up of years, a waxy re-routing of tears. Not deep thoughts but slow ones.

No wind yet.

There is an injustice in having to be in one place at one time. One suspects that we are creatures destined to be multiple and connected; all points, all places; and then one will be very still.

The concierge says that the key is functioning perfectly. Perhaps it is the door that is causing you problems?

He was writing a novel and had to stop because everything he wrote came true. Someone suggested that he carry on but give the novel a happy ending. And who, he asked, would buy that?
He wrote: Jimmy’s amazing jissom astonishes his gang as it leaps through his blurred fist to dance before them in animated tableaux. His come forms an amazing cartoon into which they enter so as to rescue the Princess. Twice they succeed and twice she is recaptured. Jimmy’s friends are enthralled by this adventure and yet on Jimmy’s third and final orgasm his spunk is done and the vision gone and the gang are horrified for it is all over and the Princess remains locked up and they, although shamed to admit it, feel responsible for this. They suspect they have unconsciously conspired to allow for the easy recapture of the Princess. Jimmy’s balls are aching, spent baubles; all he ever wished of his special juices was that his friends would appreciate them. Instead those friends now turn on him, and ridicule him so as to cover up their shame for the failures of their inglorious adventure. 

The liquidity of thought will erode or otherwise attack any concrete expression. Through the dumping ground of brain and mineral heart this fluid, disallowed from common or open flow, is a leachate of dissolved magnificence and terror.

Eroded like a frozen lake skated upon, the mind has a regular pattern of grooves around its edge. In the middle it is empty apart from a gradually frosting over crack, a hole that opened briefly and then shut on top of a child.

The Skating Minister by Henry Raeburn
Go conk me pan: Waiting on the stupid inside of you like a classroom caught agog at the sight of a pile of books precariously held aloft by ajar door and door-frame
A spray of glitter, pillow stuffing for a prison existence. 

When digging a hole keep digging but ensure that one changes direction. Now one is tunnelling.

Beyond its stretch marks this universe is satiated with the love of its own conception. Stars and void suffer from a sense of loss. 
In separation anxiety there is a deep seated desire for connection simultaneously linked to an oft destructive wariness of intimacy. 
We are all twins of the broken bond, our better sibling abandoned in the womb.
We are both jealous of and saddened by this absence. 
We are frightened of the unspoken knowledge of how questions posed in one nebula may be immediately answered in another. If this is allowed, so will hurt felt in one place be immediately experienced by the entire body.

I lift my head above the parapet, a crown appears upon my head. I think it is a crown at first but it turns out to be a fortified wall.
I lift my head above the parapet.
I am crowned, the crown turns into a wall which make me safe, although my kingdom is small.
I lift my head above the parapet; the sight is astonishing, as if all the world were mine. From out my brow there grows a crown; it turns into a fortress.
I lift my head above the parapet.


Anxiety in my ears, septic build up of years, a waxy re-routing of tears.
Not deep thoughts but slow ones.

The estuary beats out its own time and we, at last, are quiet for a while.

Now we dare hold it, make a shape of it, and even dredge it for the untainted sun. 

The key works fine, do you have the right door?

The key 
to transformation seems to be 

experience experienced in the process.

Where is caught experience?
Where it is transforming.

Inhering potential is received as change and change is received as an inheritance. Our wealth is of an inherent probability weighted toward change.

Thought process itself will be subject to process.

I have built a grilled fish as if it were an abstracting machine. 
But I have not built the fish.
I have burnt fish on occasion.


The abstracting machine is also a tasting machine. 
Here in my mouth it goes to work.

Transformation is indeed tasty but when I bite down on the key I break my tooth.





As a concession to mind 

we make art.

A falling through action allows that we may show that which must also be seen through.

In sight of this concession the vertigo decelerates to a mere hovering. 

One holds up a symbol, it seems robust, almost solid, and yet it is designed to be looked through. A lens does distort the view, even as it enables it.

We make and making will be.
We will be including art, play, pathway and the lunch in our making. 
We make as a concession to the nature of mind. 

Mind is constructed of elemental forces, forces are construed of almost nothing, and yet this elemental quality has material requirements. Materials require form to give form. We come as gift.

Coming into our inheritance, the shell opens to reveal coiled levels of rest and each level behaves as if entirely permeable to the other even though, when we step back from this treasure, these consensual nests return to an impenetrable aspect.

There is no exclusion, there is only articulation.

The apparatus of consciousness is narrative. (One seeks inside the shell not by skewer but by story.)


Narrative brings awareness closer.

In the play of pattern and seeking sequence consciousness functions so as to shape and ascertain its own double edge.

Such concessionary play is carving order of the real and cutting its own reality as a key to unlock this conundrum. Clavis cleaving, being close to and opening.

Conundrum, a word of unknown origin.

The drum of consciousness, the beaten timing of narrative, rung rhythm of awareness. This need never be stopped as understanding; always there is the lure of standing under the fount.


To pattern further

and to make far the patterns.

So is subjective communication acting on a pivot of the possible.

Therefore we ask in order to recognise a pattern. There, foregrounded as connection, we note a pattern.

Patterns are always only ever possible. Stars do not really create these figures. The seasons only seem to pass in a predictable progression. The archetypes have no voice, and yet they speak through a palette we have donated.


By the craft of “as if” and the subtle pass of “seeming so”, in the cauldron (and colander) of our perception, the possibility of an object is articulated as its own diminishing.

It, the as if and seeming so, appear and at once begin to recede in deference to the subjective.

Arising seductive patterns, an adaptation of the diminished object. 

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

A phase transition.


Why do we want a phase transition?

How is it that we seek the further pattern?

The stars above the stars are calling. 

An object-less subjectivity creates an event. 

A moment within the sieve of perception;
a subjective temporal event within the perceived. 

A pattern now.
A blossom, and in these petals trace pollen’s fecund telling.

Each letter

of each word has a map of energetic point cascading over its form.

Each expression

of each face 
is a terrain of energetic connection cast out among cadent networks.

Clash and mesh of expression

in each letter written on network;
the word whittled into mesh, falling ever through the net yet linked 

so as to never fall utterly.
The dust is still the net. 


The microscopic is full of scampering energy, the curlicue and shaving of letters. The loose broken bits, the crumbs of expression, all this still charged with a breath of expression.

Each connection of each word 
of each expression, a cadenza. 

The soloist is held coherently. They are held in coherence by the breath of another.

One does not seek to banish another breath and imagine that this will allow your solo to be heard or your beauty more justly recognized. If one banishes another breather their breathless absence becomes the acceleration of your own fall.

Sometimes the sound of a falling solo is exhilarating, the 
ornate 
onomastic 
onomatopoeia which provides 
                                     an omniscient delusion 
and this can delight
until hitting the  ground

                                    dead.

But such is typical of the flagrant misuse of a musical metaphor.

Other energy

ordering shape and other awareness of this

locked into point of other time.

This is locked. Ours is a hope for upmining. Upmining is also known as breathing.

This bound moment is unlocked, a mass weighted and yet received. Weight also may be an unlocked moment
in time.

The lock and the unlocked in time are neither a lock nor ever unlocked.

There is the found ocean below us, ringwoodite, resonating evidence that water came from within…

Sweetmeat, our inner ocean is literal and a speaking of the psyche and so so the planet is a cake of fire / water / earth / air.


The high water storage capacity of minerals in Earth’s mantle transition zone implies the possibility of a deep H2O reservoir. 

Already there are plans for Fracking an ocean. Draining the subterranean: let us agree before it starts, this will kill us all.



The melancholy of flat roofs 
in a rainy town.

Drunken gestures overreach the pictorial space of sobriety. Neck and knuckles get hopelessly confused. Drop it in the moon; finish it tonight.

Anxiety in my ears: the septic build-up of years, a waxy re-routing of tears. Not deep thoughts but slow ones.

Ear – Door.Mouth -Trap door.
Form – Body.Content – Thought.  Process – Thought and body.
Meaning – Process convoluted form – Force.

Thus – Thought will erase itself in event – Pattern.

The liquidity of thought will erode or otherwise attack any concrete expression. Through the dumping ground of brain and mineral heart this fluid, disallowed from common or open flow, is a leachate in which magnificent and terrible residues are dissolved, to be then deposited in the elsewhere of our attempted communication. If you cannot bring yourself to God then at least be wary of all other substitutes.


Night is the first physical material with which consciousness must grapple. It contains the day itself, all imagining. Consciousness came as a sigh.

I listen to the clack of escaping skateboards as they tumble down the stone steps of civic buildings and I do not know if the force of human evolution has always been to get us off this planet or off our faces. 

There is an injustice in having to be in one place at one time. One suspects that we are creatures destined to be multiple and connected; all points, all places. It is discovered that a window in a gothic cathedral can be described as “not a hole in a wall but the abolition of the wall.”

And then one will be very still. Although keeping silent is a mistake, it is the method I habitually employ so as to try and prevent further mistakes. Mistakenly, I believe words irreversible while thinking the shush in between them may be redeemable.

The concierge says that the key is functioning perfectly. Perhaps it is the door that is causing you problems?

He was writing a novel and had had to stop because everything he wrote came true. Someone suggested that he carry on but give the novel a happy ending.  And who, he asked, would buy that?

Jimmy’s amazing jissom astonishes his gang as it leaps through his blurred fist to dance before them in animated tableaux. His come forms an amazing cartoon into which they enter so as to rescue the Princess: twice they succeed and twice she is recaptured. Jimmy’s friends are enthralled by this adventure and yet on Jimmy’s third and final orgasm his spunk is done and the vision gone and the gang are horrified for it is all over and the Princess remains locked up and they, although ashamed to admit it, feel responsible for this. They suspect, deep down, that they have conspired so as to allow for the easy recapture of the Princess. Jimmy’s balls are aching. All he ever wished of his special juices was that his friends would appreciate them. Instead those friends now turn on him, ridicule him; in the school playground they openly comment on his degraded appendage and how it came to be that way.

If given a choice of laughing at the disadvantaged and not laughing at all then, who would not laugh? Such is the human race’s tenacious wit and capacity for joy. There are remarkably few people who are not able to turn some minuscule ‘error’ or difference in the kin, the clan, or between neighbour into disadvantage, that is, into an advantage for humour.