I.
We are always wanting
to be
that little something
More
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
fool’
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.
II.
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
III.
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
follow
and fall
do not blame it
but observe yourself
how the shadow
can no longer pour
into something
whole
The eye, now so hollow,
bald and dormant
will journey, sponge
and blend rawness
Spontaneously
a longing will
un-form,
re-open
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
IV.
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
Core
