10. Old Motives

As a turn of narrative, it drifted overhead like the worried summertime cloudships of a misspent rural youth in ghettos of bracken and brambles. The resonances are felt to this day; aren't all our summers now shaded by those oldneweverlasting redwood dreams?

Let those thingers feel out the hidden recesses and holy places we spoke of in whisper that once. The heavy solar energy runs latent and energising over us. Can I bear the awesome lightness of your lashes refracted into rainbows by the sun? And there's the warm space between your cheek and mine, where new ventures and old motives are played out in delicious slow-motion heat-haze replay for kicks; a great long-lost protagonist-antagonist nerve ending symphony of touch.

xxx.

9. Isn't She Pretty?

What resistance may the greying officers offer? To catch me, you'll have to see me first - I'm that blur that just passed you in the street in third-hand rags of impossible colour. I'm CCTV-see-through and I can't be pinned down at all. An untriangulable FM broadcaster. A surveilled-transparent blind-spot lingerer.

Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics, to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders, to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholic) in pens to serve man's needs, to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted subway under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby architecture. These things might be important.

A dance in the park before home as the world wakes up.

As I undress myself for bed, I feel like a music-box ballerina at the end of her twirl. There's sprites at play in everything, you know, if you look the right way.

8. Drift

The emotional-historical resonances of this sprawling conurbation create spacetimes unsensed but as real as memory. Cut-ups and fold-ins on architectural scales transport me to forgotten fields (the skeletons of as-yet-unbuilt, long-since-abandoned warehouses hang ghostly and pale) whilst towerblocks abyssed by pirates topple and crash down about my ears (experienced verdancy undertakes experiments veering toward verticality). The dizzying diurnal discs of the sun and moon rise and set, rise and set.

7. Checkoneto

Priestechs, priestechs, how have dey intafaded to blacknest, estars unithought woods o' evershine?

Atlas, countriesons unmapped lie between us, ourparentheticselves.

6. Odometer

My creations already created, as if broadcasting on FM in my sleeping hours through choice and not by haphazard dreamed accident.

Finding myself in an industrial estate on the edge of town, beauty revealed where beauty (it might be thought) would fear to tread. The psychogeography of space remodelled on the fantasies of children. The everlasting beat, tuned into momentarily by percussive heartbeats, vocal chords, and the mechanical detritus of modernity. A willed favela. Battery-powered shopping trolley soundsystems. The dawn of a new age at an arbitrarily defined non-moment keeps the odometer ticking over.

In that non-existent time there was hope. I saw it flash before my eyes, on and off at alpha-wave frequency, inducing hallucinations of fulfillment and prosperity.

I don't want your money; I want my soul.

5. Swamp

He was naked in the swamp. Filthy and writhing, moonlit and camouflaged. I found him by following the screams - of agony? of ecstacy?

His hair was dark and dank like thick strands of algae. I was taken over by an irresistable urge to kiss him. He bit me, very hard, a little under my right ear. It felt like leeches, or as if I had decayed very quickly under layers of mulch and brackish slime. It was painful and exquisite.

I have often wondered about localised...well, spirits doesn't seem quite the right word...more elemental aspects of places. My friend had become the swamp, the stream, the leaves and roots and bark of this place.

I backed away, to watch and to learn. He was trying to climb the river bank. He stopped to grip and furiously rub a root that was extruding from the bank. I know masturbation when I see it.

I left for a while. I wandered, in deep reflection. I was struck by the crystalline perfection of the trees in the surrounding area. I was drawn back by the same ambiguous screaming.

He had dirt in every orifice. As I knelt a short distance from his head I could hear that he was ranting, almost chanting, near-incoherently under his breath. As I leant nearer, his vocalisations resolved into intelligible words - "the toothless, nameless desire under the feet of everyone". It seemed like the litany of the non-human world; the aspirations and thwarted desires of the swamp itself; its transmuted feelings of repression and neglect.

4. Creation

Creation?
He doesn't know the meaning of The Word.


>
The Learned are in great Perplexity.

3. No Comment

I've appeared in elaborate costume, in sly disguise, in heavenly nomenclature, in true metaphorical getup (GET UP), within and without these Instruments with which those with the power of Governance misunderstand exactly the arcane recordings and manufacture a news disguise to clumsily force order from chaos. [To play these holy records, carry a carved stick (as stylus) and create a turntable of your own imagining, to be designed and fabricated by spinning around on the spot, with giddiness and inspiration fused.] I wonder if even my intensive training could prepare me for this this this most distasteful control thought feeling?

It was all I could do to work an elaborate "No comment".



//with thanks to WSB

2. Connection

A connection opens; I find myself governed by symbols, governed by the moon as thy harbinger tonight, o universe, o one that is what is. And when we make eye contact, two whirling galaxies meet, you into eye and I into you; we swap roles and shift smoothly into (non)communication in shimmering languages without alphabets, they and us each moment made and remade.

As hieroglyphs we met once (and will again), as runes and as brushstrokes, as algebra and by chemical reaction we spell out the unspoken name of thought.

The great coincidence of matter; in rocks and plants you reflect me, revealing the everlasting dance of energy that joins us forever together.

Over rooftops I seek you and down blind alleys you elude me, disappearing without effort... Onwards, then; into car parks and forests, atop scaffolding and trees, from mountain top to underpass and from future to past, we creep stealthily only to scream with abandon, we discover and rediscover our love for each other.

I go joyously anywhere with you, o one, toward the realisation of union.

1. A New Thing

So cook me up a new thing. Make me dance. Make me smile.


A black cat crosses the courtyard. two paces behind and to the left is his pale white double; a ghostly mimicry takes place and I am left on the outside, inhabiting a very human world... I am unable to follow; like a slapdash intuition of the whispered words between a couple (seen and never heard) on the other side of the room, I know that I can never inhabit their world.

'Why should I be denied access at the door?' 'Who controls the guest list?'