Posts Tagged ‘dissolution’



It is not the placid herds of angels mooing praise nor the conniving pedantic demons.
It is not the male nor the female, nor the roaring furious ones, nor the cowered silent ones.
Nor the eloquent silence, nor the tearing ripping void of sorrows and despair.
Nor the words
Nor the music
Nor the movement
Nor the flash of wings
Nor the sleepy curled furry ones
Nor the bleak uplands, nor the cold winds, nor the emasculating inanities.
Not the glorious truths of dust and measure, nor this, nor that, nor memory, nor forgetfulness.
It is nothing but a book of voices, an intercourse of pulse and pause. A regardless cause, a fleabite itch, primary and secondary, a flowering of galaxies in a tumbled arc across what is not itself. A fierce catastrophic ejaculation, a burst of incalculable seed that looks, feels for, fertile ground uncompromised by purpose or censoring scissors redacting sense and nonsense. A piling out of truths and lies. A justification for beginnings. All the words ever spoke uncysted, growing wings and spines to feel the new red flow, to make a difference, a sifting wind blown unmappable, desert nothing to be quenched but regurgitated photonic haze.
It will inevitably
Fail to favour the blasphemers
With muscle and righteousness,
The gore-caked murderers insistent
Will be cropped and fed quiet bones
Ground down by swans
To cloyed, sweet dust.
There it is, a landscape emerging from mist, a dawn construed half familiar, half achingly strange, inhabited, or not,
Pierced with fierce birdsong
And scything swallows.
A slow mind of colour ripped up,
Pasted from a memory belonging to others,
A grated zest palled, recalibrated as means to an end,
Muscular worm palpating, digesting,
A little nothing, an almost nothing (see there, a failure to avoid fake evaluations, an arrogance indicative of the species that so presumes an elevated itch: the ability to destroy is the right to destroy). Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from the evil of others. Every time. And slay our enemies who laugh at us with good reason, mocking our belligerent, petty gods, our loathsome, vast and irreducible shadows….


Read Full Post »


Spera saturni, saturn

The old grumbler has seen it all.
Knowledge no one wants.
Stiff bones and stubborn in his ways,
For soft bread and warm tea
He will tell such tales, names strange,
and names ancient, as eyes unfocus
To stir the past.

Old time, stuttered, halted,
Father of years, creaking progenitor.
His scythe notched, blunted
Only his tongue a grating whetstone,
Licking lips and air, his hooded, heavy lids.

Things will become dust
And he shall watch
The narrow glass, the sifting moment,
Until all falls silent.
A slow rasping exhalation,
A rest of sorts.


Read Full Post »


Are we cradled in this new, cold dawn
Or do we fall weightlessly,
Our feathered bones hollowed by the mighty?

It comes in waves and seems to say
You must remain, but I,
A majority of one,
A minority of millions,
See no way to please the chosen machine.

We weigh nothing,
Vaporous, without memory,
Vacated, echoing,
The inconvenient, avoided, disregarded,

What it is we seek has not been found
In this slow, death-quiet brightening.
This birdsong is not for us
Nor has been given us this breeze.
No blessings that are not earned,
No comfort not calculated.

To fall without sound, to fray
And neatly dissappear,
Not to whimper or moan,
Nor to cry out to the invisible.

I shall put on the wings of the crow,
His sharp eye.
I shall guiltless rise on storm
And consume the already dead.
Guiltless and open as the sky.
To accept nothing, to bless everything.

Our peace cannot be stolen:
It only lives within us,
And cannot be traded
Nor snuffed out.
Yet we tread the ruts of long war,
Futile, strive to best these dark passions
With muddy fires and sounds of ripping time.
Run, run, from silence,
Run from stillness.
The hounds of midnight mad for blood:
Their hunger is our failure to face
The white mirror of emptiness,
The fall,
The long fall,
With no end.

O ye birds of silent air,
Ye travellers before dawn.


Read Full Post »

Cold flame
Crisping leaves:
Autumn stars’
Distant roaring.

Into the endless

We revolve slowly,
Catching sight
Of where we
Have been….


Read Full Post »

Dream, Dreamer, Dreaming.

The Master’s Garuda boat
Untouched by the turbulence
Of the rocked earth.

The long, deep lake shudders,
Sweeping away the lost
Into other worlds.

Winding avenues of rock
Rising from the shore,
Steps, tunnels, pathways.
The clustered, caved homes of disciples,
Comfortable, apart, sedate.

Shrines of Herukas,
Whispered shadows.
The First Seventy dissolving, dissipating.
Shallow basins and channels guiding
The flow of gore,
The seepage, the transformation
From flesh to food
For the invisible ones.

On carved, curved walls
The lives recorded,
The passage through hell-worlds,
The First Seventy Disciples return
To dissolve in mantra –
Butter lamps floating
On red globules of spent life
Drifting into sinuous darknesses.

Keeping watch, the New.
Taking turns as long as can be withstood,
In the presence of final collapse.

A chance to overcome despair:
To witness the passage of the Elements
To dance clear of the smoke,
The flame of laughter
By True Emptiness.

The horror of Reality –
A flower of great beauty,
But no one name.

On the roaring edge,
The Master asks a simple question.

The Sublime awaits.

There is no answer.


(Imagery from a dream last night, satisfyingly Jungian, dark, bright, strange. A mountain lake, an earth tremor sinking boats, a large prowed boat rides the wave, safe. The main story, a Master with disciples living in the steep rock-cut lakeside mountains. The return of the First Seventy Disciples, old men coming back to their Master to die together. The New disciples, set the task to be continually present during the dissolution of the bodies, encaverned, aware, candle light in small shrines. Hard to bear the horror and glory of the implacable transformation, taking turns, Master watching on, silent, slight smile, compassionate, unforgiving. One opportunity, every opportunity, to break through, to break out……)


( the diving, swimming, flying man is from an Iron Age Celtic coin of the Bellovaci tribe)

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: