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.

Lattice patterns consisting: 

Patterns sometimes becoming 

present as jewel, as laser, as a hot line rejuvenating one’s eye. 

One eye rejuvenated staring at the queue. It is line.
In line and patterning time, lattice patterns consisting:

Patterns persisting act as cages. Manifested and corralled, lattice and lace up, a conduit for the expression.

Lattice patterns contested; the frozen out queues wrapped around a mound of food.

The food is never old. 

Patterns of present jewels, one’s rejuvenated eye seeing the stepped line. We step out of the cage; we step into the house. The food is delicious

Energy traps this moving and this moving is an energy trap. Retaining the made in phases; each phase is the making of a lattice and its simultaneous unlocking. 

The phased works of the lattice are fields; fields are labour and obedience. The aligned lattice is a road, a rood for one’s back. 

The field and the road are a pattern marked around a trap and a simultaneous liberation.

Lattice patterns consist in the structure of a house. A matrix of some stability within which is one quality, outside of which is another quality. 

Neither obedience nor disobedience will gain entry to the feast. For those who obey as they come out of the field, for those who disobey as they return from the dead; the feast is always available. A pattern marking the trap and indicating a simultaneous liberation from the trap.

The owl is not caught.
The suburban edge, near the seashore, is turned into a funfair. Horses and mythical creatures are projected into the air.

There is a climb up to the owl’s perch, one balances on the pole in order to gain the heights.

For the owl to come to you it is necessary to present it with a garlanded cradle. If the owl steps into this it is re-captured.

It flies away.

Later the owl returns, you climb the pole, you hold forth a beautiful posy ring but still the bird will not allow itself to be caught.

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.


“If one holds the power of the evil eye and is frightened of his own eye, let him gaze upon the wing of his left nostril.” There are squint eyed people who settle for cake while failing for want of bread. They say: Fight fear with a ratchet, a hatchet, catch it and stab it.

The General at sex… A found text:
The General at sex
It’s true what they say
About army generals being cowards
Well the one who I’ve had the displeasure of meeting is
He really is a man of the lowest standards
A pompus git who relise on an image alone
He thinks the word patriotic is his ticket to kill…
Innocent men
who’ve far more courage in their little toe
Than he’s got in his whole body
He’s the type of man who likes to be carried [……] of using his own two feet […………..] to him are like sado masochism [………] must obey because it turns him on
SAVE OUR PIGEONS…cry Westminster Council:
A campaign has begun to reinstate Trafalgar Square’s much maligned and yet, by the Capital’s visitors at least, perennially popular bird. The pigeon has in fact been officially deemed the lesser of two evils. Anyone visiting central London recently can hardly have failed to notice that the pigeon has been replaced by the gull as our airborne pest.

“The common gull,” says one councillor, “we at first thought relatively benign. They help clear rubbish and actually reduce the pigeon population by taking their chicks. Nor will they nest beneath bridges of befoul our theatre frontages. Unfortunately,” he continues, “the greater black backed gull has also colonised our streets.” The council’s tolerance is not to be long lived. “These birds,” it is explained, “are huge and can be very aggressive. They have been known to peck out children’s eyeballs which we feel cannot be good for the holiday experience.”