Delusions of the written form


We are always wanting

to be


that little something




Always turning

and in turning

turning from


I guess this is thought


walking forwards, towards

the hope of horizon but

sloping back down the walls

of a circle, reaching for

the abyss Freedom

and coming up short


distraction, distraction


bottle, action or

drug of choice


attaching fulfilment

to the finite

body, love, will

or even

these paltry words


ringing in my head ‘don’t

don’t – O do, you



we sing and dance, mask

ourselves and perform


but who for if not the truth

of self?


We aim for this that and the other,

make lists and twist ourselves in delirium

and oh always this or that other we come

to miss


is this existence.



Can I say something?


what happens when then becomes

another then,

then then becomes no more

more and more the course


must reach all


and before you know

we are old, mute

and reborn


but are you so sure?


At what point does discovery turn to ruin

Surely we either become nihilists or

we remember

to bloom


Life may never reach its goal

its only purpose is to be self-curious

only then we may enjoy

and truly discover universes



You should not listen to me,

I am only still learning

And you are still only your own force



Turn and evolve

this oh so insatiable motion

inwards, revert the current

condition, compulsion in-

to consciousness – song-

bird swallow ocean, comfort

your beaky bones, the water

slows, holds before and

beyond the shore

you are already

already born-all



Let ego



and fall


do not blame it

but observe yourself

how the shadow

can no longer pour

into something



The eye, now so hollow,

bald and dormant

will journey, sponge

and blend rawness



a longing will



the storm


morning will spread, lend

the socket

its vision, O

lost volition


oh who am I, what is place

what is circumference

if not space


and what of today


no more


than a mote, a cell

a magnificent emerging for us

once more to soak in up




Fill the

reality of this orb,

ye old namesake of sensation


yes shed and shake snakeskin

voyage, voyage, journey down voice

all the way up the angles and chords of

your own throat



until there is nothing left

between it and dream or

this belief of the imagination      imagined things      ideology


nothing to separate life

from the poem


yes commence,

eye said the I will open


the echo will sound

its source



One must only know the process

of nature’s invocation

and respond


to this oldest liberation


The unknowing cure

that germinates shapeless

as breath

at your forgotten


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