Posts Tagged ‘unconscious’



All the clues are there in the symptomatic madnesses. Here they come willingly.
Lurching dressed in the horrors of those Germanic artists driven mad by the scent of the rot of death and the acid blue veins of ergot. Give us this day our daily dead. My very bonnet badge: clan mother belladonna and mad dancing.
The restless limbs rippling,
A hot wind, a sirocco over the waterless sands
Of dried, flaking skin, a glowing leprosy,
A holy transformation back to earth.
Tropanes needle and embolden. The Golden Mean, the Fibonacci, eroded by endless rains so the weighty cliffs of selfhood grow sodden and at last liquify collapsing, stone to mud and root and revealed bones, the sunken bells already deep in salt silt haunted – the unblinking cynic eye of dragons counting the too few millenia of tall brains swaggering top heavy and profligate as if all were truly made for them alone.
Chiselled are the precise gargoyles vomiting rain,
Pissing spouts of life.
The clues are all there, my dears,
They are so close so as to
Raise tiny neck hairs with their breath.
So moist are their lips, my dears,
So darting their electric tongues,
Their opaque eyes staring still,
An inward crouch, a search for vowels
In a sea of consonants.
Only evil comes of elucidation. Eat it all up. Revealed are the shadows in light to be answers.
Clear-cut the butterfly-winged angels come straight from sucking the nectar of God, will drive the penitential into burning buildings and the queues of forbidden passions will be kebabbed and skewered for each chimereal constructed thing. Stare long enough. Turn not away. Given signs and clues and testings. For how many millennia have the lists been corrupted? Turn away upstream or downstream. The same song.
Even angels wither there, becoming demons.
Self-mutilated, gnawing on bones of certainty.
Marking aeons in long, shallow scratches, muttered lists,
Reasons why and why not.
The shelved, locked-out passions, the dirty shameful things. Power piled up, an unused compost that can never rot lest fed, forgiven or owned once more.
It ferments, ignis fatuus, Hand of Glory.
Abhorrence and disgust,
To look elsewhere and forget,
To disinherit, to deny.
Not an easy thing to remain sane and honest. Not a habit that is cultured or condoned. A dangerous device is this difficult conjuration. Likely to consume as consummate. There may or may not be maps, may or may not be instruction. No consensus from a millennium of points of view whispered into the rhythm of the blood.
Be wary of the insistent ones.
The ones offering sense.
White noise as their echoes build up.
White noise becoming stillness.
A perfect inaction,
suspended, turning slow,
turning slow,
cocooned and waiting.


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Weighed down,
dragged down.
The dreary shadows of Hades.
Evaporated, become vapour,
a sigh, a damp complaint.
Tumbling or attaining
A natural level, gravity grave.
All the Wise Ones. Look! They have the heads of animals. All the guardians of the Hours along the River of Night, they all have the piercing eye of hawks, the sharp noses of dogs, the cunning of crocodiles. Look! The Sky Dancers, the holders of secret clarity, flying cloud-free, singing rapt with heads of horse, lion and vulture. Elephant-headed is the vast Remover Of Obstacles, librarian of memory. This is the meme, the clue, the thread. ( this thread, shallow steps into dark cornered gloom, where the monster, of course, is waiting, of course, with bull’s head.) Follow the dream meme to the shadows.
Six weeks respite
from relentless rain.
Now it drives down.
Wherever it falls:
the same streams and rivers fill.
They brim and gurgle
above the howl of wind
in their long, worn familiarities.
The waters rise up, and I am sunk down, becoming nothing. Abandoned. Lost. Forgotten, misplaced. Having lost the long lists, the fabricated descent, step by step, blindfolded, to here. In sepia, well-presented, motionless, in Sunday best, they are staring out nameless. Forgive us our forgetfulness as we forget those who are silent. Forgive us or forgive us not. For it is only the slicers, the severers of arteries, the disdainful destroyers, the meticulous murderers whose names we remember. The blameless, the harmless, all failures unknown. It is to the entrepreneurs of tyranny that we look up adoringly. Those who lead us to the precipices of dogma – it is to their simplistic gravity we tumble into darkness, grateful for the black and white of damnation.
These are the dark paths
through the deep forest,
shadows cast darker,
deeper by whatever light is shone.
From here, from there,
those shades cannot be driven.
They adhere to form and fact,
for that is their way.
However bright the light,
though they may shrink and shirk,
they spin and do stretch to find the corners.
Only if they should self-ignite, bloom,
flare up in glory of their own natures,
ceasing, then, to be the other,
will they become all radiant.
Each speck, each curse,
each scar luminescent.
Offered a single choice, here or here, we set off down the wrong path, at first hopeful but soon abandoned, suspicious of irredeemable error, fated, doomed. Each turn incised, carved in those shadowy lanes, brushed by insect antennae. The rasp of quiet, scaled, coiled flanks. The drip, slow drip of cold poisons. The hero, the fool, the hermit, along the path of crushed bones, dry, marrowless, to the castle of skulls, cemetary of good intentions, of careful planning.
No matter how one thinks of it. How eloquent, how elaborate, how sapient. They will become expunged. The soul is woven from these dark paths, these cul-de-sacs, these alleys. Even, even, without a name, without a body, their tracks will whisper that same pattern, draw along the same lanes, the familiar valleys into oblivion, the pathways of your soul. The slight impression of each signature, the names chosen to be ours. Mind matter cascading along, funneling down the worn crevices, fingertips wearing the print from crumpled maps.
But that is not all. There is no simple black and white (should you still think it so). These dark paths are the roots that feed us. Now and ever. The strings that knot the random into puppet dance.
That shadow identity.
There it is:
that, and this,
Vast and strong, stronger even than seems goodness, than polite graces, than washed out, mealy-mouthed heavens bright with weak wonders, bloodless fancy. Left behind to thrive, to wait, to build armies of reasons why: the roads that were rejected, the masks felt to be inappropriate, the behaviour reprehensible, the lusts out of step, the loves and hates unjustifiable. Building our building on the dead, who live yet, who live in the corners, the alleys, the shades, who steer us showing the way ( for they know the light so well, where the limitations dwell). And should you think yourself attempting holiness, or at least well-intentioned, trying hard, socially responsible, you will ( and this is most certain, most true, most shocking, rocking, roaring your slick foundations, my dears), run most, run fastest, run longest, deny the most vehemently what is also the golden, radiant best, the limitless possibles, the unfathomable depths of glory, screaming from it as if it were utter darkness, an ending to, a melting of.
Haunted will we be, relentlessly, drowned in guilt pretending to be good intentions
will we be. Hunted, will we be. Slain over and over.
Dark paths.
Visit the interior
Of the earth.
There shall be found…
There all shall be found.
The source, the spring
That can flow pathless,
Requiring no other truth,
No other choice.
A silver cup
On a fine silver chain
A dip, a sip,
To become
Unchained, dreamed, folded, woven, returned, unharmed, whole.


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Working towards some text-art pieces for the “Great Night” project, I began playing around on the iPad ( the app was Zen Brush). Its a delightful tactile process and the text was not much consciously filtered in any usual way. Semi-automatic writing, I could say. Not quite as calligraphic as I would like, more spider scribble! Translations follow ( before I forget and can’t read my own scrawl)…


Within the darkness
Within the walls of night
Jailor stars, spyglass planets,
The wild things lap and strut
Lines of thought dissolving
In manic, fearful laughter.


The long trident of night
Forward spontaneous deliver
No more the …..
No more the light.
A shimmer, a shade,
A will of the world,
A whiteness.


The weave says
The way, the deep says,
Yea or nay,
Gainsay it will not prosper
If it has
No inherent breath.

The slow soft
These anchors
Of shrift –
A vocabulary
Of light
Reveal the


Dissolve you
Dark lines,
Darker lens.
O, obsidian eyes
Deep set,
Your own soul
Would hardly
Recognise you.


Do not cackle
Dishevelled one
Dark, bloody lips
Deepest urged
Eater of night.


This slow
Drawn out means,
Lost in lines,
Time wept
Scribble sounds,
Not gathered
Nor pooled-
Hard to distinguish:
A drain descent
Of echoes,
A distance of deceived
Night stippling.

What is lost when it is not hand-written? Even when hard to read, it conveys to some part of us more of the intent, the hunt for words, the fight upwards into air. Illuminated by illuminated manuscript, time and care laid down for all time, a voyager of parchment and mind-matter across ocean centuries. What could be more enchanted, the mind of one millenia dead, born egged safe in new skull, scratch of quill, cockcrow and vespers…..

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