On wheels 

shaft driven
cycle rattling I found

an aggregate future
the reduced past.

It seems that the tasks of milling flour and of shooting film are linked 
in the family of Rank.

And neither in the first instance
both wave and particle
dot point dust
flow wash stream

the photon is considered as fundamental

clearly it is mutable and elusive.

Neither wave nor particle
until the unit of observation is attached.

Our perception is either wave or particle.
We are of dot and point and an aggregate of dust.
We are flowing, awash, we are the fundamental stream.

There is no mass, but we are all weight.

Light is gravity.

We curl into being, we snuggle into the curvature of existence.

Our light is darkened into becoming body. Moving into becoming body, so do we tap down the surface and planets are made into perfect pies. The savoury crust, the sweetness and hotness of a most desirable centre.

From the centre comes weight. All the surface is fly-away, the dancing place of photon, the fecundity of light. The light in the centre is a murmuration.

It’s meant to be fake, of course its fakery
that’s why it works.

Cover-up star cover star 

up star stared upon
the starry deceit seen not 
covered deceit star and seen deception star…

Our eyes are twinkling.

The falsity star misstatement; oh that was just an accident, a slip,and 
it really meant 
at all.

Star perjury brings fine rewards.
Star witness, nice hotel,
maybe just four star really.

Prevarication stars.
All tales told
tall tales
deep tales
long tales make for the star turn

conjuring and surgery, masks and masks, spells and fixes to control a creature whose control is largely given, already within the remit, a creature of combustion, of chemicals and mechanics, flow and rigidity, exhaustion and centre, gravity negotiated… Gravity negotiated in most instances…

But socially it seems this creature is wild. These social rules are all its own, only this creature makes the rules, and yet so often it is only this creature which refuses to abide by the rules. Here this creature becomes strange.
It becomes a body, as if by magic, and this is why it works. 
And this is why it is wild.
The put upon and torn at and pushed around body

and in the fierce locality of utterance, of will, of dispel and ego, of the great swelling, world conquering, the swift surety of knife, and deep booming resound of a transaction

this how it works

noisy, unanswerable, beauty imperious,

an underground empire of need

needs body

whose needs are slavery resting upon a lie of reward.

Do not rehearse the future. Reverse from day dream and rest in this moment.

Turning and change lead nowhere; stopping we progress.

One day your just doing will not do.

Lament not you eyebrow’s broken symmetry.




The simple line to be walked as nous.

The knowing line to be walked simply.

The walking line, simply.

The walking nous, simple line.

What is the abyss but nothing?

At the end of the line; the drop



The abysmal nothing is known as a huge transfer of energy.

From nothing to nothing to appearing.

This energetic presence known through its abyss.

I am known from absence unto absence.

Woe to the one’s who bring harm to these little ones; better a millstone be tied around their neck and they be thrown into the abyssal depths.

Here is the millstone.

Here is the void and the weight worn by all.

Even so, even so; a smallness will grant access through this hole. Wriggle through and drag through, you bring an immensity of light into this dead depth.

A simple line. A knitted together line. An energetic transforming line, neither nous nor knowing, and not not knowing. Ours is the cold seep community. Ours is the broken open mantle, a steaming vent of fecund mineral.

I gather
around me, a veritable wall
a grand array
of cheese variations. 

The feast is atomised but available; stacked high, and yet hand sized, mouth sized, fist to bite size; this rotovation is the mighty mastication of plenty. 

Cream cone crenellations are erected and all too soon digested. This immaculate defence is thus internalised. 

Although some have asked if I am pregnant, in fact it is that I, by steady accretion of adipose tissue, become impregnable. 

To carry this much weight is to be the greatness of a visible and confident storehouse. My barns are the brag. My feasting is bravado. Surely one must be royalty in order to drag along the street so vast a weight; I do not need to run away. I cannot run. My societal wealth is immersed in this fatty connective tissue, my vast round is on show and certain.

Tradition demands that such bounty be returned. 

My uncanny stature must, in due course, be returned to the ground. 

Instead of my wobbly royalty it is suggested that we gladly sacrifice obese children; other children. The future is only ever a threat, after all. So to sustain my stature hereby welcome the suggestion of how the cheapened excess of neglect can be squashed under a shopping stampede. 

In the central person, properly defended, this great breadth of person, who is after all an entire system, the sovereignty of fat is a candle. This corpulent burning cannot today be extinguished. Too big to fail; such is my belly. In this long night one must not snuff out the individual largess, which we have now agreed to call light, for otherwise it will prove difficult to raise the bowl to one’s mouth.

Prepare your ground well
for it is distortion

and not reflection which absorbs
those long and terrible hours of scrutiny.

The quality of the mirror
creates the quality of reflection.

Meanwhile, the billboard prepares our awareness:

Get ready for close encounter.

Meanwhile our solar system in doused with extensions of our own awareness. Mirrors are deployed. There is oxygen sublimating from our rock, the rock hurtling through space which is ancient beyond the billboard’s easy imagining…

And within a year it is discovered that life is everywhere.

Our secret bodies, hidden echoes within, always knew this. 

We always knew this because we were always already a portion of that extraterrestrial life. Nonetheless; when the news is made official, and it shall be carefully and most tactfully done so, most people will discover they are not ready.

We are not ready for any encounter, close or otherwise.

Let us go back to grinding the lens; this glass is dirty; this cannot be true.

Everything reflects.

Reflection is a division.

All light is divided all ways, in this manner is the spectra perceived.

Perception is an analysis of the reflection, a division further divided.

We daily partake of the infinite in this manner.

(( Neither is there a smallest part of what is small, but there is always a smaller (for it is impossible that what is should cease to be). Likewise there is always something larger than what is large. 

Anaxagoras ))

By reflection the world is infinitely and minutely and exquisitely constructed. 

The construction is light infinitely reflected, light reflected from light. 

Reflection is our manner of infinite perception. 

Our infinite perception is entangled with many qualities of the spectra.

Matter is the mannerism of reflective perception, a spectrum of qualities.

In the spectrum of qualities consciousness is reflected.

Consciousness knots together reflection. Light multiplied by light.

The eternal, that which holds the infinite, is subject neither to division nor multiplication and therefore it is beyond perception. 

The eternal is open to awareness via an infinite reflection. From what may such an incomprehensible force reflect? Its own light, which we the knotted reflection cannot perceive.

Primordial language generated as an awareness of incomprehension.

A sheer surface of mute return, this word as the first reflection.

Reflection, refraction, perception; first consciousness as a knot woven in an infinite drop. 

A light which balls around itself; in this curling motion the finite is invented. Therefore by perceiving the falling the falling does not go on forever.

The curl is the first shape of creation.

The curl instantiates infinite light, invents its finitude, and insinuates eternity.

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.

One to ten:

One. The poem is a space into which the reader listener enters.

Two. The poem is the space wherein reading and listening are forced toward intimacy.

Three. Traditionally this has been called singing. 

Four. Such song is heard when the leprous water is drunk and the water tastes of the sweetest wine and the dead, diseased skin flakes therein catch in the throat and yet taste of the most wondrous bread.

Five. One form veils itself in another and yet the poem is more than synaesthesia. The simultaneous veiling and revealing amounts to a meeting of at least two singers in a single song. The single song meets a cycle of song, the space into which the reader listener author enters.

Six. The sweetest wine and the most wondrous bread are never made of grape or wheat alone. Already there is sun and water, but consider the germination over time and the labour of fermentation. An ongoing miracle of growth and inventive transformation nonetheless remains rooted within this mundane realm. (The dalliance of the miraculous, how the everyday occurrence of the everyday persists by impossible means.)

Seven. Mundane realms are vulnerable to song.

Eight. We must be careful of how language travels into the void. Always it carries meaning, collects attention, and attention garners story and story is sometimes sung. 

The last image taken by Messenger before impact. Nasa.

Nine. The Messenger spacecraft is also Hermes, messenger of the gods, a go-between to mediate and condition powers which are otherwise overwhelming. Messenger is also Hermes is also Mercury. Mercury is also a planet scrutinized by the spacecraft Messenger Hermes Mercury. Name to name; at the conclusion of this moment the name plunges into name and immolates itself.

Ten. From Latin immolat- ‘sprinkled with sacrificial meal’, from the verb immolare, from in- ‘upon’ + mola ‘mea. The sacrificial meal, a song that sticks in one’s throat, a throat whose open woe and infolding joy has struck all the way through one’s heart.

Messenger, tricky and loyal language (called gathering information) negotiates a void, creates indigestion and/or expulsion, studies the gas.

Be careful how we eat language.

Name to name; at the conclusion of this moment the name plunges into name and immolates itself. A meditation on forces bigger than we.

We must be careful of how language travels into the void.

Sounding built meaning

and sounding is limited, so meaning is multiple. It, the sense of it, is rarely contained.

Sounding is unlimited, and thus meaning is meagre. It, the sense of it, can rarely be attained.

Cannot be contained soundings. Silent leaking containers.

We are greater than the limited. We are greatly reduced.

Listen of the soundings. Listen especially and en-spatially to the nesting knottedness of bird song. Do you have a garden? Then you are witness to empires falling and rising, to loves and passions, to a feudal fury, and the most tender, appropriate compromise. These tragic and triumphant soundings are whistled in through an open window.

Articulated meaning is a single sentence with no discernible limit. The sense of this is nesting throughout out a purling empire, knotting together the planet’s mantle, knitted from the rattle and hum of your silence: consciousness.

The nest of the conscious, always peeping over the wattle and daub, a persistence of articulating. This is why the body is jointed, several shifts through the sieve of meaning. The sounding of this that means, the pierced film of another.

Consciousness is that which balances atop of limited sounds and in the combination of gravity and noise there is this flimsy base of our perception, the flesh. It is the flesh which discovers dance.

The grave drawing down of noise and the suave surrender to lift, such a dance is consciousness and it is oblivion.

Oblivion greater than limited meaning, oblate to the soundings, becomes music.

Becoming music, greater than the limited, mentation scoring its travail across body; body becomes the notation of thought and thought’s vanishing. The invisible and the not noticed and the forgotten also has its flesh, and this tenure of being also has its dance.

The compass of articulated meaning, resonate soundings even unto the music of the spheres. The music of the spheres is also the trembling of black holes and impossible beginnings; such is our compass. It indicates directions other than North South East and West.