Posts Tagged ‘imagery’

PROLOGUE (dark druid arts)

I have sat down and tasted the words of the dead.

What do they taste of, the words of the dead?

They taste of the feathers of owls and the scent of old books.

They taste of domed silent libraries and the flow of a million minds.

They taste of iron and the flower of blood as it fills the mouth.

They taste of mud and rain and scythed grasses.

They taste of the forbidden, of the forgotten,

of the bitter and the everlasting.

They taste of answers and riddles and orifices.

I have sat down and watched them

As the old words make pictures,

As they attempt to communicate their forgotten truths

and the lying stories, and the power of breath and the power of song.


Let these sounds revolve slow:

The seed that sucks in water swells

Reaches out to worlds unseen

New airs moving, new sense, new scenes.

Becoming is leaving behind in darkness

That which feeds us still.

Moving out, moving out, peeling the familiar.

These fragments to be held without adjustment,

Without conclusion, as it were,

And if we were not shaping, as it were,

As if we knew somewhere deep already:

The old languages of the blood,

The old languages of potent dreaming.

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What we refuse to see, we dream.
What we refuse to dream, grows strong.
The roots and stones we rest on, groan.
By day and night our laborious weight increases.
Mass and energy, the great fall, the future rise.
Reconstructed are our histories, our reasons.

It is the bones that remain.
It is the bones we clothe
With fragments of colour,
Rouge and tinsel.
They mock us who
Do not delight in story
(Failing to see they, too, live enfictioned).

The essentials of life are child-like.
Delightful is the minute and the hour of silence.
Sustaining is the simple breath, the still gaze.
Listen, not even the stars, not even they, shuffle nor stir:
The middle of the night coagulating cold.

No thing can be blamed for this,
No thing blessed.
No distinction, no judgement.
An infinite web of choosing there is,
An eternity of outcomes.
Each path, unsigned, is sought out,
No goal but a calling home.

We have lost elegance.
We have lost the subtle shades.
Our cochlear spirals numbed
In loud foolishness, indocrinated false memories.
Sleight of hand – the key always was and will be, distraction.
Watch the bright light, the movement of the shiny.
The doctrine of no ghosts, neither holy nor profane.

The bones.
It is the bones that shape us.
The bones of the ancestors,
The bones of the children,
The hidden, red-marrowed, singing bones
Inside us.
Mortice and tennon, ball, socket,
Vessel, rope, sinew, glistening cartilage.
The slide and pull of grace.
The dance of staying in one place,
( an interchange of coming and going, being and forgetting to be).

What stirs us,
(I mean to say),
Is the equation of balance.
Number clothed in colour,
Colour clothed in light,
Light clothed in philosophy,
A weighing and positioning of fulcra.
Forgetting that stillness
Is not absence
But presence.

Holographic ideogram,
Mala, a string of meaning,
Where things slip between names,
Where a blink sees more than.
Circumstantial, peripheral,
Ephemeral shall I be.
Beams and motes –
A matter of simple perspective.
The opposite must also be true to itself.

The grinding down of bones,
A fertilising dust.
Tears frozen and thawed,
The watering of life.
Turn out the light, dear,
The stars shall be enough.


There is little logic in the arts of Christmas, nor is there any one cultural imprint. It is a mish-mash of archetypes and long-loved mysterious imagery. Thus this wandering of thought and layering of idea that flowed from finger to page this morning…… Reaching and goodness and redemption though, must surely be worthy ideals to construct neural pathways around. Seasons greetings to all and all.

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CONVERSATIONS with invisible friends 7


Defining our sense of edge:
where we withdraw, pull back.
Where we push through, straining to feel more.
Explorers, pioneers,
saboteurs, idiots, meddlars.
Subversive, perhaps,
because it is or is not art,
is or is not significant.
Itself. Ourself.
The interior of the earth.
Ignited cognition.
Will-o-the-wisp, ignis fatuus,
holy spirit, holy fart.
Tat tvam asi.



Mind is saturation soup,
one seed crystal: emergent song.
Forked paths tuning.
Tallis motets up spiralling chimneys.
Drowning out, diving down,
profanity, cacophany, epiphany.
But, but, but,
to do it all unplugged….!



Camouflaged as no-nonsense,
the words pile up,
identified,catalogued, measured.
You look behind, simply to check the heap,
to review.
There is a horrible vacuity.
There is a revealing.
There is a snigger.
There is a challenge.
A virus, innocent,
infecting imagination.
Something placed that cannot now be removed.
A word that the deluded only employ.
Chased lines decorating mind, clothing real and unreal, weighing souls with feathers…..


Admiral Psyche and the Wave Harvesters

His Admirable Psyche, Shades of Hades

The Admirable Admiral and His Frayed Hausers

The Fleet of Whales and The Ship of Fools

Kit and Kaboodle Cross the Equator

A Compass Never Lies

The Shaman’s Electric Fire

Return of thr Comedy Kraken

Shades of Misspent Chemicals

The Forked Tongue of Sunlight

Newton’s Little Secret

One Prism Too Far

An Elegance of Frozen Photons

That Insistent Voice.



I, standing, upright,
against a gale
Of word,
Buffeted- the squalls
Of intent,
The flay
Of image on
Somehow comforted,
Peeled open,
By the existence
Of another’s breath.



Your mind:
A city of flowers,
Drifting petals.



Bone remembered
Rock,mud, mulch.
Lung filled skies
Cloud shade
Blood song.
Step by…
Step by…
Adopted, mapped,



Barb and barbel,
soft down
these weighed words,
noted, masked,
a slow cooled river,
our estuary minds.



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Such as it is,

(All immanent),

It fades, fades, flies, falls.

Our art,

The only way

To catch the present moment,

Reflected, mirrored

On this moving, rippled

Lake of memory.



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Skittering from
The mirrored mouth,
Whooping and free.
Once they settle
In another’s mind,
What can be done?
Go hunting
For more..

( words are seeds and seas)

I wrote this as a comment to an N.Filbert piece on Spoondeep (What writing will). The comments and additions to the post were vast and various, so maybe the virtual brain became a little fired with neural connections. Anyway, it refused to post these words (several times), so I put them here instead. One leaf, caught in its own spiralling dance, whilst the wind blows the rustling red others to the horizon’s edge….

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