The sea can seem still from a distance
but its true form is movement, listen:

From the edge of the dunes, stood in the lands
bordering the grass and the dust and the sand
you may not always be able to see
the trillion dancing pyramids; the surface can seem

But standing in the shallow surf
with the ocean sucking your toes, and her verse;
dragging pebbles along the soles of your feet

But leaning over rusted bars
at the back of a ferry, starting to tire
as the whole body vibrates underneath you, and with you
as you stare into the engine spray

But sitting, pale and sick, at the fore
of a sailing boat, one mile’s distance from shore
and the waves draw back and roll away
piling amongst each other, and sinking you
until you can’t tell the horizon:

Movement reveals itself as her essence.
You could say stillness is the symptom of distance.
For calm is a relative term: listen:

Lonely Traveller


What use, friend, is leaving your friends
the only ones who keep us calm
on the stage of life with curtains down
after all, in the end?

For our short way is so uncertain
travelling this way and that
with days that each could be your last;
this is a human’s heavy burden.

What use, then, is saying goodbye
an age too soon and heading out
to search for others in manic bouts
of confidence all given the lie?

If this is how I am, and it seems,
then staying home, hearty and bold
not wasting away, but growing old
with more certain help and joys for me:
this is how I know to be.


Perhaps, friend, let it lie
for given time your buzz will fade
vent of that particular haze
and your uncertain being, gentrify.

For though uncertain, life is full
and all the others there will wait
until returned and all with haste
to feel the light again and choose:

To sometime perhaps, say goodbye
sometime that suits, and fly again
to see what comes, what alien
experience will beckon – ‘try’.

We are the change we aim to tell.
And leaving home, hearty and bold
not wasting away, but growing old
with the wonder of the world to delve;
and with the journey, make ourselves.


The dark sounds of the aether
rain from without upon me
but, I think, how can they?
For the aether has no sound.
It must be my speaker vibrating.
But my complex soul
more so than any simple wave
is shaken corewise
and threshed of all calm

Where they used to cite the iliad,
the oddysey and the comedy,
or mahler or wagner, they were right.
But I, with equal right,
cite Skyrim, for holding my hand
and guiding me through the mess of life.
Each moment planned, as it were.
But iterations of an artwork.
And shining with a snowy light.

Meanings 1

My words betray me
I speak them and they scamper
into the nearest shadow

Their invoice left at my feet
I hold it, awful damp
and sodden now with time

The words betray me
deserting the field to join
my enemy and partner

Who shows me they were built to do so
and that I their foreman,
neglected their foundations

Rashly they betray me
always too quickly
with intentions falling away
like brick dust to a paint brush.

And I sit, unsure:
why do I have a mouth
when it so seldom shows its worth?

(Later thought: …or rather the problem is that you can never be sure that you have worked through enough.)

Star Wars

Star Wars makes me feel a lot of things which are hard to put into words, maybe it’s most crudely put, and revealingly put when I say ‘I want to be Star Wars’ because if I try and flesh it out with – ‘I want to be x in Star Wars’ I can never find the true sentence, when I try and concretely work it out, as I don’t want to act in it, I don’t want to design it, I don’t want to film it, I don’t want to direct it, although it’s possible that I want to write it, rather I want to be absorbed by the complex continuum of elements which make up Star Wars, which, if it is a consistent whole, is a crazy object which includes zones affected by thousands of people, the writers and directors, thousands of designers and concept artists and many thousands of manifold experiences I have had as a child and young adult, and the structural relations of the story and other stories and myths and emotions, and the complex expectations which I have of Star Wars as I watch it (governed by hundreds of other films I have seen, and stories I have read, people I have known) which combine and create a strange almost ‘sublime’ overload which is like an upwelling of strong lines of emotional affects, of enjoyment and agreement with the message and being of the multiple works of art that Star Wars is, which is bound up with a kind of attraction, a call to meditation, an enjoyment of and towards the thing – like a rough sea which pulls you towards its beauty and you lose yourself in it…

Basically I need to stop being selfish and not trying to create because I can’t create all of an idealised thing which is actually the record of a hard to define or impossible community, and stop being afraid of trying, if that’s what it is (it’s definitely one way of saying it) and though it’s hard to remember it in heat, there are other, worthy ‘stories’ to let go, but the feeling of being a part of something is hard to shake or replace.

The Poet and Some Logic of Poetry

Our world is getting prude again
It’s all the drink
There’s no more edge to straighten
It’s all centre.
Drink more and write – break
the literary rules
The advertisible rules –
and all is so.

from the origin –
they are sent out, spiralling
on the universe wing, to write
and fight, and to reverse
the strange path, strong force,
that saw them soar forth,
a configuration of angels
only to have their wings
snapped by a passing aeroplane
from the west.
The poets’ guest. Movement.

– –

My brain machine is configured
and the pencil marks start, the art
that is the particular sort,
of dark induced thought, the poet
and the pen and paper machine,
play catch up with the neuron – neuroses –
the thought patterns rise
and are surfed.

with all the expectant noise
one would expect, by now
at least the sound of coming crowd
of the deep works of the apocalypse
spread out on the world, like nutella on toast.

– – –

How can I be trapped? How?
In a body owned from time immemorial
and weary even in the calmest morning
my strong brain menacing me, grinning,
until my teeth fall out
and I die a granite heart.

My body makes me moveable,
it frees me from my bed, for the world –
why does it also confine?
I return to the same places each day –
not thinking, reading
and buying.

I need a muse, gleaming hot of soul
to calm me and entice to urge
and join me on the page.

– – – –

my complicity in the trick
loudly proclaimed by my conscience
lets out no solidarity, and
framing each problem alone in the dark
God leaves us unknown.
Whence authority comes,
from where society’s run
the dancing rats cannot see,
1 2 3 tongues up – and the death penalty.
Waiting, watching each is bored
before the modern horror store.
I need a love, not a scared heart in a bar.