M Theory Heavy Zen (light verse)

Leading physics ‘boffins’ now concur with Abidharma,
That it’s we who are the authors, of our individual dramas.
The Universe, they say is a membrane; of wobbly ‘not matter’.
It’s about a zillionth, of a millimetre thick! Or not much fatter.
We roll and fold it about with our minds, in a process of perceiving.
But all that we come up with, is a means of self deceiving.
Since ‘self’ as such, is not the case; there really is no ‘you’.
As ‘you’, are an agglomeration, of all sorts of stuff, and goo.
It seems that what ‘first’ happens is the membrane; has a blip.
A plasma instability that causes it to rip.
Well ‘ripple’ more than rip is right. Remember this thing wobbles?
And the wibbling in this wobbling is the cause of all our troubles.
This wibbling is reaction, it creates an interface.
In which we fold the stuff about to construct time and space.
We start out as a springy thingy; a non reactive wave.
Then we start to assert ourselves, getting rather brave.
Other waves and impulses, shove and bounce us around.
Then we take up the impulse, to shove back, or stand our ground.
So we start to ‘sense’ and ‘feel’ and in all this wavy shunting,
We carve ourselves a space in time, and think that we are something.
But if we don’t react to impulses; refuse to take them personally!
There’s nothing at all, for us to perceive: Speaking Universally!
The Abidharma authors, knew about all this, way back.
The brilliant old Buddha man, put them on the right track.
He said we, ‘emerge as impulse’, from the cloud of unknowing.
And by grasping at sensations our perceptions begin growing.
Sensations become feelings. And feelings become force!
And what do you do with force? Well you push things round of course.
We make worlds and stars and atoms, forcing little whirls and rolls.
That gain gravity as spheres; a real load of balls.
Like kids with sticks in puddles we go stirring, making waves.
Then the waves roll back and hem us in. We make ourselves wave slaves.
The example of the ‘Chariot’, was how Buddha explained our lot.
Wheels and shafts and a cradle together! And see what you have got?
But take away the parts and you do not have a whole.
Take away all our perceptions; we don’t even have a soul.
So the ‘you’ is just composed of the bits of mind’s perception.
And ‘you’, literally are; the fruits, of your own conception.
But desire drives sensation, and we feel and force and quest.
Nosiness! Possessiveness! Mean ego without rest.
From unknowing into knowing, We leap into infinity
And when we find we’re in a mess, we appeal to some divinity.
Ah! But it’s all down to us. We make the thing with mind.
We look for things, and often are distressed at what we find.
For duality is the demon, because we always insist,
On a double edged capacity, in all that we make exist.
We want ‘better’! That’s the trouble. In fact it’s a real curse.
Because if we make a ‘better’. We have to have a ‘worse’.
And worse is all we’ll ever have. For nothing meets the test,
Of the underlying gnosis; that what we have is never best.
We rush around for greener grass, for deeper love, for brighter gems.
And the angst that we won’t obtain them, is from where all fear stems.
We sacrifice our peace and lives, in a rat race to be free.
But by grabbing and holding on to things; we’re cluttered up! You see?
Chained and bound like Marley’s ghost, with stuff that we acquire.
A detritus we drag around collected by desire.
Encumbered thus we move through fields of energy that swirls.
Billows and bobs in little waves, and great big monstrous curls.
The energy of mind inhabits vehicles in succession,
And we drag collected burdens, through lifetimes long progressions.
Attachments form attachments and our burden won’t be cast,
Until sweet realisation, dawns on us at last.
Of course the temporal notion, is all our own construct.
We cram ‘before’, and ‘after’, in a dualistic duct.
A metempsychotic morphing, of ‘mine’ laying, in the places,
We return to, just to have them, blow right up into our faces.
A singularity of will, that forces a wormhole
Through fractal flakes and wobble wibbles, blibs and blobs and all.
So mind swirls in chaos wormholes, into worses; into betters.
Greed desire, pain and fear, welding attachment’s fetters.
We push and twist and whirl and turn, in being we are bound.
For as long as we just incarnate, to screw our ‘selves’ around.

Forest Dancer.

Forest Dancer, silver stream
bounding on the woodland green.
Bounce and bubble, hiss and sing.
Splash a spray on Heron’s wing.
Over rock; roll, boil and spout
making stairway for the trout.
Through the gorge in raging rush,
giggling in the underbrush.
Running by the grassy glade,
where the Coney path is laid.
‘Neath the Oak grove’s darkened leaf:
Haunt of ancient robber chief.
Muddy beach and shingle shore,
silent waters slowly pour.
Drifting o’er reflected sky,
hovering magic dragonfly.
Silver thorax gleaming bright
twirling wings throw rainbow light.
Alder, Willow, drape the banks;
veils that sway on Dancer’s flanks.
Wagtail paddle, Dipper bird dive;
from the Dancer’s store they thrive.
Combed like horse tails for a show,
submerged Water Crowfoot flow.
Rat and shrew and water vole,
nestled in a streamside hole.
Yellowflag Iris blazing bold,
Purple Loosestrife, Marigold.
Patterns paint on waters edge,
hailing Warbler in the sedge.
Surging life force never sleeps
where the Forest Dancer leaps.


Could have sworn I'd already posted this.
We unfashionable Romantic poets, are only partially in this world, y'know!

Genus Loci.

Some places own you.
A charge of rare energy seizes your soul.
Your mind hears, a familiar distant call.
Synchronistic déjà vu.
You were here before and you never went away.
Being somewhere else, was just a game you’d play.

Some places embrace you.
The prodigal child is hugged and squeezed and kissed.
You are home and it’s OK. But Oh! How you were missed.
Time was a bird and it flew.
Your absence was an aberration of insignificant duration.
A dull beat on a drum of lead, buried deep, beyond all exhumation.

Some places become you.
Their resonance mutates genetic coding at your core.
They walk with you, talk with you, weep with you from every pore.
The one you were is two.
Your dreams and thoughts are forever and always, something that you share.
The life that was all yours is lost, for the life of the place, is also there.

Some places eat with you.
They digest deluges of dialogue and dictionaries of definition.
They gorge with you, on gobbets of gargantuan erudition.
Your senses are their pot of stew.
Ingredients of information stir into imagination.
Casseroled considerations, cook into co-operative… joint… considerations.

Some places open their souls to you.
You know them from when nothing, snapped into dust, and you know their
tortured temporal history.
You know that their condition is a confusion, erroneously labelled, mystery.
Such places think and feel, it is true!
And whatever you think and feel, wherever you are, whatever you do…
Some places own and embrace you. Some places eat with you and become you…
Some places… are you.

Helicobacter Pylori. (A study in blame)

Helicobacter Pylori, you tentacled slithering swine.
You’ve had lots of fun, but now your time’s done,
in this duodenum of mine.
You’ve wriggled and rampaged, and taken advantage
to give my poor innards a roasting.
A terrible way, I will say if I may,
to repay, my most generous hosting.

You first gave me gut rot, when I was a wee tot,
that loved to go in rooting in drains.
For decades I’ve writhed, as you’ve burrowed and strived,
to visit on me, awful pains.
A fortune I’ve spent on, acidic prevention,
unaware, of infection by worms.
Intimate relations, of quite some duration,
and not even on first name terms.

My days have been crippled by ulcers and cramps.
Most debilitating, it’s true.
I'd be in Halls of Fame, with the champs,
if I hadn’t been lumbered with you.
I’d have nutmegged George Best, and pissed past the rest,
and lifted the cup for the Rovers.
But I’ve only been fit, to lie down smoking shit,
burning potholes, in my new pullovers.

You have impaired my love life, or so I am told,
though I haven’t had many complaints.
Oh what a Lothario, I might have been,
if not handicapped by your taints.
You’ve caused punctuations, in bedroom gyrations,
that I will not miss on our parting.
An amplification, of audio gastration,
with excessive belching and farting.

My fondness for boozing was not of my choosing,
the medical team now have found,
that a gut full of ale was a tactic I used,
to dull you, so’s I could sleep sound.
You’ve stayed bloody sloshed, on the loot that I’ve sploshed,
and never once paid for a round.
I’d be stinking rich, but for you, you vile bitch.
You have screwed me for many a pound.

But now it’s all over and I am in clover,
to you the death blow has been dealt.
I’m hoping somehow as you passed through my ass,
that you found out, just how I have felt!
So science has triumphed, and antibiotics
have settled you, to my delight.
With one loud ‘Hooray!’ I have flushed you away.
Begone! Evil dread, parasite.

Past sell by date, food chain store seconds.

The bugs already rule the world.
They can easily defeat us.
For the moment they're content,
to just let us breed and eat us.

Tourist Information.

Once I had a heart
that carried no scars,
when I lived in an ocean
of spinning stars.
Once I had a mind
that I thought
was my own.
But it flew off wherever
the wind was blown.
Once I believed
the Earth was still.
In a wilderness night
on a cloud covered hill,
by the old Roman camp
at the head of the Aire.
Silence and peace,
without worry or care.

The radio chattered
and the TV, flickered.
The Governments groaned
and the Oppositions sniggered.
The salesmen prattled
and the advertisers pitched,
and the women in the sweatshops
stitched … and stitched …and stitched.
Bulldozers buried
old circles of stones.
Mechanical diggers
unearthed old bones.
War planes screamed;
dope smokers dreamed,
while drunkards sang
of sweet Sally Jones.
The Summer sales
were lewd parades
of peroxide tints
and pastel shades.
A rattle of stilettos
and the accents
of the ghettos,
echoed from the concrete
with the ambulance's wail.


Sweet Sally Jones,
her brain burned by sin,
stares at the shit pot
in the loony bin.
What the nurses see
when they peep
through the door,
is that when she shits,
she shits on the floor.
She is staring at the bulls
with purple skulls
that come charging
through the wall.
Every snake is an elf
my dear,
and every elf
is a snake.
You can get a
snake kebab
but you can’t get
an elfin steak.
They vaporise
the elves do!
They slip through
metamorphic veils.
The prize of having
fairie eyes
is that you
can follow their trails.
Do you like to be
beside the Sidhe side?
When the portals
are popping
and the barriers
are dropping
and this wheel
world is buckled
by the force
it sits beside.
“Where are
The portals found?”
she asked.
“How can we
get there again?”
Imagination, meditation,
concentration are…
the portals in your brain.
It becomes so much clearer
when you are dead
that you need me
like a hole in the head.
No jewelled gate
in Samarkand
can take you to
the promised land.
But some old stones
on lofty moors
are doors, my dear.
And that’s for sure.
So bathe thy feet
in milk each day
when it blows
cold and breezy.
And do so
when the Sun
burns bright,
and thine feet
will be cheesy.
Weep for nothing.
For that
is what you’ll get.


A law was passed
forcing Scotsmen in kilts
to gird up their gonads
when walking on stilts.
There’s a flaw
in the law of gravity
that induces
severe depravity.
The wheel world
of Cicero, is really
a rolling reality.
It’s hub is a collection
of perceptions of infinity.
And the paths
of the perceptions
go out
in all directions.
And gods are
nature archetypes
of elemental kind,
empowered and enabled
in the limits
set by mind.
That’s not
how Cicero, said it!
No matter,
for that’s how
I reddit.
For we are
what we dream,
sweet daughter of Venus.
And you dream daily
of the
pan galactic penis.
I could be anybody;
brilliant or thick,
but I’d do for you
with money
and a prick.
Do you dream
of Jesus
as your lover?
Good looking
well muscled
and tall.
With a powerful Papa,
the guy had it all.
Of course as you know,
power can be manic
and usually is
when it manifests organic.
The protection
of power
is the primary preference
where pain
is a permanent feature.
Nerves and emotions
sum an organic creature.
Emotions have
thermodynamic propensity.
Dormant! Then they overheat.
And their hearts
are eaten
by entropy.
Such is the state
of organicised fate.
Think it’s unfair?
Don’t go there.

Here And There!

Transcendence and kenosis
are far from inconceivable.
For what is conceived in chaos,
has to be believable.