Art Of Saraswati.

The Goddess of my destiny
is as a river unto me.
A mighty curling current flowing
through the hearts, of hearts, of hearts.
Through the afternoons and mornings.
Through the dusk and mine dark nights.
Through the hearts, of hearts, of hearts.
Becoming every thing She lights.


The stuff of life, Great Zoie, blends,
from notions, into finite forms.
Egoic grasping E.M.E.:
A damned and dreaming thing called me,
is carried and weathered by Her storms.
In streams and brooks and rivulets
of imagery construction:
She cuts and curls and bobs and swirls,
this helpless cork amid Her whirls,
and shapes and tempers nether worlds.
Creating by destruction.

Her rippling waves will stew and brew
wherever force meets with a force.
And all directions from the source
will know the passing of Her course.

She takes me with Her energy,
in the weft and weave of time and space;
rushing and flowing and drifting:
Fury and Chaos: Stillness and Grace.
A moth unto the flame, I am,
reforming in incarnate streams,
addicted to Her conjuring flow
and the fruit of Her wondrous schemes.
Whichever shore I rise upon:
A desert plain. An ocean moon.
A city; hive, or dry cocoon.
Neath' heaving main. In icy womb:
As human form. As beast or ant.
As blazing star. As parasite.
Whatever lot She gifts my soul,
I cherish and hold with all my might.

For I have heard the pan pipes shrill
and fed with ravens in the dawn,
and rode the serpent through the forest
where the tall mushroom are grown.
And I have bedded elfin maids
on downy leaves in shining glades,
and danced with fluid nymphs on pools
of sulphur, that would melt a blade.
I’ve slept beneath the dragon’s wing,
as she slumbered in her cave.
I’ve torn the guts from earthly kings,
and fed their entrails to their slaves.
Universes; I have blasted,
with Dharma’s nihilistic rays;
slain demigods, against all odds,
and rendered nought their days.

Her Knight, I am. Her feeble pawn,
Her paper boat set on the sea
to sink or sail; triumph or fail,
where ere’ Her washes, channel me.
To burn in torment of desire
and shed my blood to quench the fire.

Creation conflicts, generate;
ionospheric, membrane blips.
An exhaled sigh, then the sickle of Pi,
carves in the breath, Her breasts and hips.
Her splash and gurgle whisper rhyme,
Her weirs and torrents, roar design,
and sketch and mould the shape of time.

Short Backward Point.

Where are the Larwoods and Trumans?
Those bowlers who ruled by fear.
Oh! For the force, of ‘A man called Horse’...
And a ‘Snow’ of yesteryear...

Cross purposes.

Cross Purposes.

In the next Passion Play
we produce
I want to be the star.

The crucified not the cross.

I’ve done the supporting role
the mast and the spar
rooted and rigid
in the background of your agony
without so much as a line.

It isn’t even a part
it’s a prop.

It takes good acting
to stand in the stuff of the set
like the wall
in a Midsummer Night’s Mummery
but without a single word
that will ever be heard.

No introduction or explanation.

No restless movement
of painted fabric.

Stolid and grim
in the threatening
silent meditation
of an instrumental thing
death and torment dealing
without feeling.

Yet infinitely divine
in structured geometry.

Determined in the doing
of it’s being
to be more
than an environmental accessory.

So when the curtain opens again
you can be the craven tree
and I will be the victorious victim
bashing the back of my bloodied head
into the joints of your cross piece fitting
until bits of flesh and skull bone
seal your fixing
like glue.

I will bleed and sweat
and piss and shit
and weep and spit
roaring and wriggling
groaning and jerking
screaming and cursing
pleading and bleating
and I’ll twist and writhe
through every second I’m alive.

I will work my body fluids
into your heart
through the grained folds
of your growing.

I will scrape the skin
from my heels and calves
and thighs and ass
back neck arms and shoulders
onto the whorls and knots
and rough hewn edges
of your natural and man made design
until chunks of me
have joined with you
in uncleansable
inseparable
perpetual union.

Then in my final glorious scene
in a dying shuddering spasm
I will magnificently forgive you
for being what
you are.

Then when the crows have torn out my dead eyes
and the vultures
and the climbing midnight rats
and wandering bats
and munching maggots
have gobbled my flesh and guts and veins
the wind will pull
at my bleached brittleing bones
until they fall in a heap
at your faultless foot
russet stain steeped
in my dried blood
and then … then … then …
as nature is wont to do
she will turn
on you.

Birds that perch on your arms
will splatter
their white waste
on your greying rottenness.

The foul of fowl
will mix with my stinking
shredded skin and baked blood
which with the last of your sap
will be boiled to a broth
in your innards by the sun heat
cooking a savoury soup
for wood lice and worms
that will drill and slowly kill
the last vestiges of life
in your once green heartness
as you crumble
and fall apart.

My bones will have been carried off
by foxes and dogs
save the tiny chips that remain
at your base
left from the gnawings
of mice and voles.

The slender slivers of grime
rotted wood that made you
will mingle with my bone chips
to be breeze brushed away
together in the anonymous sands
drifting and dancing
in dunes and depressions
until the globe is swallowed by the sun
when the sands will be flung
across the heavens
to be sucked in by some gravity thing
and another star is born
to play it’s part
in the so called beautiful
tragic drama
of passionate doom.

Boxing days.

Boxing days.

I used to go years between funerals;
but now,
everyone I know
seems to be popping their clogs,
taking the train to Croak city,
kissing their asses goodbye:
Cashing in their chips;
or so we speak who survive,
in efforts to find darker
and brighter ways
to say.
They die.

There is some funerary variety.
Some are soulful,
sobbing affairs.
Desolate disconsolate people
who can’t be comforted:
Un … comfortable.
Crucified by their cares.

The celt throwbacks
dredge up druidic rites
in christian guise,
seeking to celebrate the old belief
that death is a beginning,
whilst birth is an end
to the reverie of Sidhe.
A whitewashing of grief.
Some wakes are booze ups
that end in punch ups.
As former foes and forgotten enemies
gather by the bier and meet.
And sleeping old resentments,
suddenly get to their feet.

Some are massive. Full to bursting churches.
Everyone asking, Who is he? Who is she?
Who are they?
How did Jim know
that man there?
He looks as if he’s gay!

And some are very small.
Hardly anyone there at all.
The clergy person,
a woman in a felt hat from Glebe Street
who comes into the church,
every time it’s doors open.
The hired pallbearers, gratuitously
grim, with gloomy faces.
A neighbour of the deceased who says,
‘I didn’t really know her well,
but I thought I ought to come.
Just the same.’
And the lady in the chintz overall,
who changes the flowers
in the vases.

Ghosts.

Ghosts.

We are the ghosts.
We haunt our own tomorrows
and yesterdays,
with ‘will do’s’,
and ‘should have done’s’.
Rummaging in
pantamorphic probabilities
for solutions;
sure reconstitutions,
and amiable outcomes.

We haunt the minds of others.
Manifesting in their thinking,
through the channels of their
memories, and expectations.
Exploiting the anaclitic
affectations of their imaginations,
and embedding in their minds
the cultures, of our infestations.


We glide the corridors of fantasy,
compiling schemes of dreams.
The interfection by selection
of transient temporials,
sends us flying with the fishes
on the road to Mandalay.
As our shades secure scenarios:
Composed, gubernatorial,
as stages where the ghosts of thought
we generate, can play.

The images formed in our minds
link with reality, and impinge
on the fabric of it’s nature.
Retrocausaly, rewriting history;
prophetically polluting peradventure,
with personalised preconception.
Declaiming that it was ‘that’ way.
And robbing the future of mystery.

Our minds abash our flesh
and escape the cloying mesh
of impediments material
that damn corporeal hosts.
Impositions and invasions on
ethereal terrain, stake
our shadowland domain, that
we haunt. We are the ghosts.

Off the rails.

Off The Rails.

This used to be a railway line,
though now that’s hard to tell.
It looks as if it’s always been
a shaded woodland dell.
The rails were ripped up long ago;
forty years or more.
How quickly nature moves
to reclaim the crown she wore.
Where creosoted sleepers lay
the Rhododendron flowers.
Beech leaves in a breeze, a-sway,
throw dappled sunlight showers.
The cutting looks for all the world
like the dried bed of a stream;
but it was gouged with picks and bars,
by some old navvy team.
Slim saplings of the mighty Oak
grow tall as several men,
and seem to silently mock the days
when trains ran through the glen.
Fallen stones gleam green with moss
and form a bulging ridge.
Now, Stoat clan, dart among the ruin,
of what was once a bridge.
Tansy, Fern and Holly bush
grow thick where Rabbits play.
Young Foxes frisk; upon what men,
once called, the ‘Permanent Way’.

Nebulous bliss

Nebulous bliss
is this.
Like fallen leaves
on a slow running stream
we drift apart
and then together,
until death us do part
or likely as not
until I break your heart.
Again.
Or you break mine
with a throwaway line,
or a sneer that is curt,
and heedless of hurt.
Misty ribbons
that curl,
in the dizzying swirl
of the rope maker’s art …
How the hell did that start?
What happened there
with her?
Well you noticed me,
and I noticed you,
so we thought we might
mingle.
What else
should we do?
But the currents
that bind us
are the same that
unwind us and
We.
Become Me,
and Me.
And free.
Of
this …
nebulous bliss.

Thoughts and dreams, colliding.

Between the folds of empty sleep,
where consciousness stirs to rising.
A space exists where dreams and thoughts,
ever, are colliding.
In that space, uncertain time
and distorted image obtain.
A stairway to nowhere, a gate never closed,
and a thunderstorm without rain.
The dead live on, there.
The unborn too,
in places well known, to sleeping eyes.
Although we have never seen them awake,
they are places, that we recognise.
A recurrence of dream or half dream?
A life gone or one yet to be?
Synchronistic parallels enfolding?
Flashing visions from Chaos’ sea?
The zone of the Locus Coerulus,
a darkened patch, deep in the brain;
accesses areas time out of mind,
which I visit again, and again.
So who is that maid with the raven black hair
and a skin that is ivory pale?
Where is that gallery hewn from old oak,
in the flames, with a broken rail?
Where are those streams through the flowers?
Those mountains of lilac and gold?
And why is that man in the post office van
so much younger, than when he was old?