The Three Banners of Sanity


Wasteland Vol I

The tavern


There are people

Who droop their watching faces. Melting clocks

I see their lips drip dry.

Hugging an angular remote control

A frozen beer mug

Falling forward

Hugging ghosts


I saw it.

The old man whose wrinkles

Seemed to be formed from a life time of frowning.

At the back: on the darkest chair in the darkest corner

Coughing like a steam engine chugging,

And the spittoon resounds by the pellets of phlegm.

He wears a brown cardigan and has yellow fingernails, holding the incense of cigarette

After cigarette.

What a kind, blue eyed old man.


He waves the glass pourer over.

And he is two men

And always is, it seems

Never the same old man


Parlor music waltzes in mid air,

Spinning and gliding

Above cackling whips of fire burning


The barman steps into the old man’s bull ring

The boxing corner


Taking a breather


Through boulevards of slot machines

And pin ball rackets

Cracked shells of peanut and glass

Crunch under the souls

Of discount leather loafers

The Matador’s sawdust slippers


Wrapped around him

The penguin nun

The shield:

The apron of splashed ketchup

And pea soup.


He flips open his notepad

And answers the call

‘a golden ale from the horn’

Said the blue eyed old man

And the barman just stood there and melted


Tipping the glass

Ticking the clock


Two thousand years ago

On the other table

Three kings sit


Under bright lights laughing

The dominant one slaps his hand on the table

To easily punctuate the conversation

And cunningly draw their eyes to his every word


The gates of lip open a flood


They hang on it as if off a cliff


And don’t look down


Though the marble maiden sits on the tall doll house bar stool,

With sparkling scaled legs

Wagging her tail

Lost siren at sea

Bearing gifts


Tempting the circle of talkers

Welcoming the wandering wordsmiths


Smacking her chap lips

She sang the siren song

As if to herself


And the yellow eyes come from their dark corners

The bullrings

And the boxing gloves fly off

The kings drop their swatters




Somewhere along the bar

Another man pulls back his cracked lips

To reveal droplets of rotting teeth and frozen gums.


The impostor!


He coils in to hug a vomit pile

Of choker pips


The Three Kings hiss


The impostor retreats.


“sorry” he smiles


Ticking the clocks


The barman’s eyes roll up

From under his lids

Pouring a golden Niagara

Through a water tap


He sees

-Hunched over jackets self imploded into bubbles on woodwork

-Rosy cheeks slurping up soup like a puffin fish

Her greedy smile warms the frozen fingers,

Now stretching out to stroke her


There is the exotic despotic looking  muse

The temptress

Who one is always braving to stare at

Turning her blistered toes in her sweet smelling leather boots

Long naked thighs,

As gargoyle slurping sippers sit there and sigh


The friends gathered round: nonsense on stilts

As they giggle

With crew cuts,

Razor sharp and slick

The clit clippers

Titter and jitter



Above them: the silver box

Where the cross used to hang

Everyone must sacrifice


The droning fuzz

And steady static



And zooming hours of television hounds

Farting out the news, coliseum games,


But no one pays any attention at all




‘All steady movement

Glowing from the bottomless cushioned crevices

Where there seems to be no end in their plush bends’

Said the unknown


And though the chatter never slows down

And the mutters never turn sideways smiles from frowns

And all the eyes stay glued on flies splattered along the walls

And framed pensioned poets

Like the knights of knowledge smoked candidly on rows of still photographs


Everyone gaping

Inhaling warmth in a blur of momentum

Swallowing oceans of hours and never remembering a thing

But all the while the unknown sees:

Heeled comforted main roads of pleasure

Through revolving bathroom doors 

Drawing their guns and shooting wild Indians

And Cackles and grins.

Swaying of hair swings






Next morning

I’ll ask ‘Who will remember?’

The spinning bottles on wet wood floorboards

The empty chairs,

I asked ‘Who will remember?’



Waving hands

And frail aging fingers

Drinking the juice of chaos

Spinning and pointing both forwards and backwards

And blaming both those you can’t touch and you can

But can’t punch like a bullfighter

Waving ribbons of red


For present actions and failures

Waving hands

And frail fingers

Pointing both forwards and backwards

Forwards and backwards


I saw a small boy

Pointing down the side of the tarmac road where howling wheels

Turn both forwards and backwards


My mind glows to the intensity of a thousand revolutions

Hot red coils

And I hope it is taking us closer

And the bull gets left to run out of the stadium into the hot Spanish Granada rolling hills

 To chase the sun


The heat heaves a heavy heart

One that I know possesses the weight of virtue


From the top of the hill

Blurted out opinions through ten thousand and one telescopes

That’s what’s wrong.

And you need someone plain spoken to say it.







Modern times


Hidden in when I wish to turn myself out.

Out and up and inside out

Further from those homeward bound

And questioning stillness and motion alike

Chopping the head off of certainties’ pike


I can see the dancer in the dark

Spinning its soul

Bursting the walls

Its brittle bricks of




And hollow halls

What a chapland, so I’ll clap this open trap


Remember what I said about warmth?

The cosy glowing tavern….






The halfway house



The halfway house

To passers by

Small buildings don’t register


Out of the slick muck

I saw mama chuckle

Waving her firm hand with the whistle of wind,

Blanketing the infinite landscape to a hug

Of corn shoots and limp weeds

With her feathered free hand to the tuneful breeze

To mama nothing registers



An image fell at my feet when I walked out this morning

An over exposed photograph

Bright white

Snowed in houses


The eye dreams or pierces the dream


My circum circuit mind is gone, far off, through some wave in the distance

And snowflakes dance a Russian tango falling

Up. And then down.

And all the silhouettes of houses and veiny branches seem like props

In the soup of swirling snow


The eye cuts from dream to focus

The dancers waddle as individuals

Some form into flocks of birds and then disperse together

Before they rest and melt

Everything passes, everything changes

Just do what you think you should do



But the only way to understand the expanse

Once battlefields for firecracker soldiers

Now the box for ribboned highways

And carefully placed houses

Like ships in a bottle

They’re my day dreaming oddity

Like houses on the board of a monopoly

Sitting still and unhinged

Ready to be wiped away by the brush of a hand



There: ancient relics of modern times

In an expanse vaster

A thousand times wiser than the giddy pin point pricks


I’ve seen the sky and the earth blend into one loud voice

Leading the heart before the head

The imagination before reality

Over the flat valleys and pastures


Over and over one another

Laughing green laughs of giants

Louder and louder


The bakery on the corner, closing down

Laughing and moaning

The power plant puffing its chimney ramp

The cloud maker

People never look around, up or down

The grey sky grows black and snow studded stars

Blink and wink down on people

As they laugh and swim in delussion through

The soft beating snare of realities’ hapless careless loveless life affair

Warehouses spread like butter on gravel bread

The last bastion of things

Laughing and sobbing

Over. Forests black as the owl’s howl

Trees thin as thread

A gently woven patchwork

Enter: the laughing giant


Stepping clumsily over frozen mud hills

And trips

By the sleeping tramp of gnarled roots

The fine thin angelic hairs

Ripping the nerve from all beneath our feet

Wet wind of winter


Jagged hail of January, starring out from inside


Scattered birds of spring


Starring out from inside


Slowly tilting




The giant falls,

Dumbly waving big hands through the seasons

To brace his fall

And he lands thick in the fields of melted brown honey


The impact rumbled the thumb sucking wanderers

Out of their sockets

Flowing through the roads

From homes, towns and cities

Traveling far

Passed rows of houses

Born on the same day and dressed in the same way

Dotted trees of likeness

Circled by cages

Ravens crowing and croaking on equidistant lamp posts

Black light with yellow beaks

Passed expansive reaching fields

Cemeteries of friends from past lives

Highways too fast for reflection

Roads too small for imagination


They travel with tools, rulers, microscopes, blood pumps, cameras, telephones, pocket pens

Film reels, starched shirts, sling shots, government charts, newspaper snippets, statistics

Summarizations, knives and forks.


Around this sunken giant they crowd

And the moon has turned its back on them

They pester and probe with thick sticks and things

In the dim sight of blue light

Some grinning and pointing between swigs of gin

Mud boots squelching in the brown honey sea

Still slimy from eye drops of the 5 day dead giant


“Hey, I could measure his toe” said the cackle whip antelopes

“what a novel idea!” said the headless bull

And they all crowd around his toe and watch the empire state ruler stretch miles along the nail


“yep, that sure is a golly gosh” said the rooster to the chicken

And now it’s pandemonium

They’re clapping and yapping

As the ravens croak

And the vultures






Right down

To the bone

And summer’s mud thickens

And soon they are stuck sticks

With telephones and statistic charts

From which they make paper boats

And swim out

Paddling quickly

Through the rain clouds of muck

With their forks and knives stuck

For better measure and a better life

For lovers lost and lust in sight

Someone’s gotta get it right


I’m sat somewhere low

By some window, somewhere out there

I can sense the rift has gaped for air and swallowed nothing

Old bones of a four story home

Tight lipped wagging fingers and high strung intellectual fixtures that don’t mean nothing in the face of life and death

It don’t quite fit with the rivers of propositions, streams of dreams, spun by cunning spinsters.

And so tighter and more thoughtful

Coiling and spinning

Until bursts and springs of electricity shoot from the fountains of years

Years from the watchtower

All walled convictions crumble one day


A boyhood dream: to run naked through the house ripping all the books of answers off the shelves

Dancing on them

The hedonist!

Replacing them with books of questions

Masters slips his long fingers under the dress of presumption and pull the dress down

And if all men and women were naked under the hot sun

Well what then?

I wanted to play loud


The kind of place where it wouldn’t matter what one said due to wax clogging their ears

Guilty of guilt!

Frills and long robes of silk

Feathered hats from pheasant traps

Jests and courts of cards

The ace of diamonds slid long across the stone floor

And lost motion before the gaping mouth and the dead eyes of laughter

Whose trap tongue rolled over motes of bile,

Licking games into his jagged mind of memory





What was then was Now. Now. And then there after.

It’s all about now you see?

Hereis now. Where. Not after. Before. But now!

And moments stumble over each other, chugging like a hacking lagging box

A car train-one I’ve never seen but only imagined. Chug. Chug. Chug

Just like that.

Spiraling between his thumb and index finger

Pointing up

A web for after, hurled far

Out. Down. Down. Down. No sound on the edge of town.

Biding time. Biting time. Gnawing time

Taking all the clocks and sending them swimming til their tic slows

No faster!

And then stop





Chaos was not presented to me by the trees turning inside out, bark to velvet. Not snow set aflame. Gasoline and the horse mane flare dancing and romancing in the midnight air. Kaboom.

Not a hundred armies of elephants descending from heaven to hand me a a cherub dove set free on a pre-paid insanity spree rubbed hot like rube charcoal rocks. Melting clocks

Ha!…that’s alllllll I rembember. Wooooeee: melting clocks!

Chaos was handed to me when all built up hours and down.

Principles of fist pounds, face frowns, crooked eyebrows burned out-thrown out-all we try to control can get taken back as fast as we slowly stacked our racks by the bending motion of crane like backs:

Up and down- and sometimes it’s fine and sometime’s it'a not

 'it aint enough I heard someone shout!'- like a whoosh-all things zoom by too soon.

Chaos was handed to me when the man

Wiped his windshield

When the field didn’t move

The wind blowed

The lights lit

And out

And on

With the sound of a rush

Waiting, edging for the earth to unhinge itself

And that is where I begin:

Where reality fails, imagination prevails



Wasteland Vol I (Extra Stirs)


A Typical Sunday 

a born road reels from the red light

some son is told what to do

and by night time 

the same line 

seems to fall on his head

to remind him

that all things are predefined

So falls the red light

revisits him on the same road 

that he turned to when going home

Offered by the prophets of coincidence

That call him the postman

it's the same in the end

To pursue the answers and come back dragging

a sagging bag of letters

sent off by others

rich in expression

the news in question

from gifts to gas bills payed

'i payed the gas bill!'

'You better have payed the gas bill!'

The droning work man slams his hand on the can 

by his side hand

I point up and smile thinking:

you brought me here and furthermore I'm bored 

like an underpaid pompadour

with dirty claws 

and hollow eyes and empty paws

It's one thing to try out of courage and another thing to try out of fear

one thing to pursue for survival and another thing to pursue out of confusion

All the while he's half nude in his childhood bedroom

do you dig mr big wig in swigs of gin sminking?

Do you see the tempered traps set up by us

as if framing our faults

a Rembrandt with all cracks exposed?

A long swipe of grey paint

a swill in the sum of things?

Day Dreaming in the Bedroom

I was born of a dreamy nature

and perched like a titan

on heights

I never fought for

Always clocked in at the clink of iron ink, dripping from

the drifting clouds

just sitting

I sat by the window pane washer

watching ripples of rain water 

written in trees

words of white winter

whispering mother

'i'm coming home'

words like splinters!

words of mad cats in his dress hat relaxed

offering to show you his cards as a tax

he's been tucked in for so long!

laughing now like a overpaid clown

long gone

sold away surely to the slave trades or something

damn teddy bears

can't count on them to defend anything...

burping bubbles of rubble

Sky faced watching nature unfold itself

Breathing balloons

the latex gloves off

underground cover

discovery's proverbs

and nifty neon blue lights

electric midnight marmite

my favorite color

cus you can't taste it

it's beyond a color

in to another 


false essence 


say yes to your bother bound lover

full of mercury and magnesium sounds

a silvery sleek shot of life

I open my eyes and say

yes yes yes

I can when i fight!


When he Came To

So were the workings of my mind

marveling at the moving leaves.

The trench of tinkering toys 

zipping on the carbon rails

the viceroy and general funneled together

with orders sent by the captain

near the romanian border

for valiant purpose to out bomb the enemy

and who were these built by?

our enemies are but humans in disguise

and always I am asking why? 

to defend myself from the tassel of tongues tied

trying to teach me how to talk

though I see it all in one drop 

I rattled the tassels off and figured I'd figure out my own way to walk

The Dream From Sunday Through Monday Morning

what past humped prods who could not answer 

what good to refer me to the phonebook of pheasants in flowery tulip dresses

fretted forward and upturned noses in frozen poses 

a nymph mare, with rabbit fur 

many mighty whores wreaked of wayward riches

only the miracles of madmen would make them in to monsters

when i ask why!

Why am I thrown off the flying dreams

Why am I shown the dust of illusion?

to the landscape perhaps

I am always referred to the gates

but when I ask why one gate

how is it I'm referred to the next?

So it is with the world we're given

the grid iron gates we're living in

the growths of gut guilt

but boy can we see through it 

Freely we'll chew it

the metallic muzzles

but broken bars bright bursts

in blankets uncovered 

in short summer lovers

Thoughts of Gypsy Dreams Classroom

Ancestors answered with songs in their throngs

Gypsy gongs ringing in rilling bird songs

crackling camp fires

open the eyes once closed with black lines 

and dots made divine

from charcoal and liver 

stirred softly swimming in

Stories rolled quickly off minds 

slipping softly 

gang jingo jiggling 

one song of longing

one song of dirges

burst from the purges

of urges disturbed in 

a tale of tried tested 

human flesh wounded

consumed by the blue jewels 

hungered to prove

it's worthless to use us

the looseness' is beauty

'The greatest kings can but hold the greatest jewels! He can but see the greatest jewels'

'The beggar in the crowd watches the king pass by on a horse, 

he can but stretch out to touch the greatest jewels and he can but see the greatest jewels' 

What is the difference in value?

both the king and the beggar

can only see and touch

and the elaborate process by which

they arrived at the possession of the action

was but a dance of distraction 

the children laugh

where the grandmother removes from her satchel 

powder and cut feathers

and throws them in to the fiery urn 

and in mad laughter watches them burn

pass on to prove that

silent tongues move

to praise those in use 

to pass on their hunger from hatred to love

from clinging to laughing

and grabbing to giving

All gypsies now sing together

with the open faced bread and sweet oils hereafter

'Musta been a magic trick'

quick kid quips with the thump of a stick

then I'd never have offered 

or instead I never would have suffered 

this is a song of love after all, is it not?

to witches of Cuzco, is it not?

the fifth rapped hand that breathed down your neck shirt 

To villains of valleys and kings and to beggars, is it not?

Psychics in co-ops, palm reading the hand of a hot shot 

pog washes squashed in shook suitcases, is it not?

Skeptics with scepters 

dead iron bears

over intellectualizers 

not to dare to drop their dresses

and dream a little.

Dare not to dig through their meshed manly hair

 shrouds n kibrahns

 n' kissing their brothers

all their brothers! 

of silky blue black and entangled colors

belched and blotched doves of the window wide world

with smooth red curved porsches ironed by llorca 

waiting outside

for the sidekick 

mind tricks

only vanity will drive him in 

with the cart of his choosing

The Goal Post Gita

For the wise man walks

carries his temple on the balls of his feet

if that's what works

best for him

It's good for all

after all

Now there's no rush to get to the antique's museum 

to oggle over long eye lash paintings

left me fainting to fall in to faith

another attempt at the assassins game

of something saintly 

from stale mate to stately

left in alienation at the flicking light wading 

packing the wood block and watching others pass by the factory clock watch 

Dragging your dank dungarees to the sea salt

offering your clothes


I ask

is it too much see man naked again?

I see it now!  i was born with a springing singing shroud at tense times 

told to try twice the amount that I tried

trapped and tickled at once

but about after 10, 000 push ups a day and a victory van that carried the courtesy past its stale stalling gaze

feigning the duchess to caress the addressees and impressed to turn to me fletching 

shooting the shards in stings burning louder

and now carried by a body of a better one still there





and finally

now seeing and believing

then seeing, 

breathing's releasing

breathing's believing 

so seemingly seeming


In the Arcade

The elvis pelvis gyrations of the sirens kind placement 

sucked in the syrup

the simple string of gaudy electronics

and easy answers

gurgled in bubblegum thrones 

tossed on the road side

roman relics despised in passing for a dollar worth snatching

the tourist board seeks to enliven

reticent world

wrap me in your botched christmas blanket

jump me in her 

get me in there

the warmth of wise 

worldly ones

the mind of mad men 

shouldered on women

yes men 

what moves your striving?

your desires?

what would you be without your admirers?

what's it worth without love?

what worth is love without giving? If you have love and don't give it. You have nothing at all.

stringless stranded soul drivers

dummed and dulled 

dogs of the tooth hounds

dreading of death

show me your wonder

bring a princess to the hesitant man

and watch his pants drop


After a Long Drive in the Rain: Home Again: In Trains of Thought

Some where out there

again still looking 

the yes of iron

the no of towers 


apathy awnings

oblong, limp, lacking, lethargy, yours

spirit of the age

life is the trainer of death

life is the trainer of your ecclesiastical saintly explosive passing

with bright rays of light and convolutions of conscience

death is the summation of life

and well lived

it's atomic

and short lived

it's a lulling



Here's some homework for every darling:

(anytime dry as the door itself-or soaked in a wet wind)

 am I living or am I dying? 

See it's two ways of looking at the same thing

is life a process of living? 

or is it a process of dying? 

like the given up mad eyes of the women by the Ganges

sitting by the banks 

and the funeral pyres 

watching their future

go up in fire

Visions of edith pilafs voice trembling out of tone

sweetened surrender 

strong and shot straight from the soul

whisky washed tender

humans are but birds in drag

long and living

je me sens fou d'amour!

je m'en fou en plus de trop penser de tout!

Don't you know it's the life of the soul? 

the life!

yes the clown that sings the song

the strong bond needs no proof

it's just let go from the get go

shut your eyes in surrender

swim in it

Hearing harem circus songs in the park

and jangling merry go rounds

Married in a month from now

toy kids with guns

lunging white balls, black balls, baseballs bright and beautiful now.

La tempteuse de triomphe

triptych triangular 

her dance steps 

stir the stream of silk

sometimes wishing

she'd stay forever


Boredom after the Orgasm

So unenthused

so unmoved

the pantry of politicians

pushing prerogatives

catering careers

it ain't right that those on the steeple should be making money from the people


Birds I View

All houses stacked on globules of rafters

trapped on top of each other

great gift of steal mills

silver bars for impious people

mangled in shackles

of sultans

the shimmying kind

for new projects


buildings up shooting 

erections for pride past in paper pound mounds

mountains locked in the lull of limp life 

though to hear the town roar

to remain impartial

I don't believe there is anything I can truly add or take away from it all.

Just a simpleton wayfaring round the water ways 

wrapped in shrouds stuck for hours in time

hands clasped to images erased and rewinded

not flicks

nor of loss

no beliefs anymore

no knowings

no convictions

no dressed to defeat

no liquid

no water

no wavering

no sobbing

or making walls around visions 

it's a hard way to fish



Wasteland Vol II



Nine thousand knives line the length of the boulevard

wordless of wanton wasters waving hats held in halo sheathes of bermuda pink paper,

wild rafts and sunset seeds,

wrapped up black fur bunnies on the backyards of subways, sold by a counterfeiter.

Grinning at his tin cup.

Shaking shudders slam the clasped cut in the canyon crack.

The foreskin of earth trimmed, caroused the cold window wide of whimsical smiles, struck now sideways,

 now upwards, to the windows dressed in diamonds, inclusive then exclusive, cramped in hearths of rugs

Japanese wood cuts, on vertical wave white washed along the wayside, within the walls, wails, 

warbles of a Japanese sushi strip mall

The Greeting of the Meeting

Everyone arrives.

Rolls in right on time.

To take the city

clambered to the thousand

little trembling ticks that talk of time passing

and the long locked love lost

amalgamation of ostriches

running rivieras,

cars crouching to the outing 

tiger striped beasts

beating the breadth of dreams

with their chattering teeth

some slouched in the still life streams

So this is how you do it?

but so many trying-for money and more

where the world woke up to wailing 

Widen the quaking, blue breath breathes better this way

at ease

still surrounded by 

steal senile streets,

dimples dressed on pink skin flushing

in shingles of sunset brimming

by the italian canal loud as a dirty mouth

camilla and vanilla clogs the cartouche of ten pharaohs rooms

Bring up the band,

hang the hand on a cross, cuticle curtailed to beautiful windows waving

about any point now the walls will break in

In a Small Village Anywhere

ten towers took the thunder

clams are cluttered inside the rudder of shuddering weather

Why the waves of tumbling leather from white urns warmed the clever

the shedding letter after letter, dust turned to deserts, bramble home cover

sunset and coffee

stories to warm us 

craggily eggs

carouse the cream climate and the steel lime, bench breathes the time in silence, 

counting store clerks tied to cash jerks, but simply smiling, put in the island of eyes in lightening shot down, thunder striking

new world arriving, summer ripening, words rowing their waythrough time, 

charged and condensed for mouths taste like lime

tilting and smiling

In a Small City Somewhere

4th floor phone call, broken first step of stone struck like the totem comb, to teeth leading sideways streets

red buds bursting by the breath of a new tree, winter gone now, no need to hinder health or harness homes for squirrels squawking at the new world.

Why our world whizzes in quizzes caught in cough tricks, calamity clicks somehow whipped in 

Wake up Call Before the Waking

Be careful

Is always my thinking: careful of what you contribute 

but when you do 

don't hesitate

It has all been said I think to myself

what is worth knowing has been known, and what is worth expressing, and the height of expression has been expressed

But the whispers of the past say: it must be expressed better and quicker and softer,

 with all our life and all you know. 

Say it again: for your friends if anyone, 

for the culture you come through,

the climate you rummage

the diamonds discovered

from mantras to magic

to stories

to lanterns in dark city landscapes

to the constant humdrum long sun shot through the shining shingling stone rooms.

Say it to anything that has tights or buttons on them. let them loose, burst the noose

and the kids from the strapped booths claws and with clutches

will shake at the sound of your talking

what's most shaking's liberating


Walking in to Stranger Worlds

By night he went to dream,

and danced upon the damsels open mouthed


and demoting 

what waded in the water.

blue balled feat, the shingling sleep

on lilly lights

and stalagmites

You're a flute player!

Please pay the piper!

Play me a tune!

And below the frogs 

with teeth are gnashing

waiting for his fall, 


reminding themselves

it's dinner soon

They hunch around talking

'my favorite food's indian' 

'though nothing's more filling than a big donna donna' 

Uninspired carrots.

A frog in the corner gnawing on a 'hoki', auctioned fresh from Grammy's

at many bob a fool's fine finger.

The cave is cold 

the paws are clammy

crouching in their caves

Painter's sermon on the wall gazing unconvincingly

By measure of the stars passing

(believed by the Mohammedans to be lightning which is darted by the angel watchers, at those demons which approach 

too near the gates of paradise) 

by measure of the thunder

by measure of the laughter

why was the blue baby dancing?

still from one leaf to another 

shy lock a looking in the water, 

ripples from the rain water

disaster pouring from the ether

The mirror cracked again:

who's this baby staring bright

his red lips parting still

the beasts are crawling from the clouds

now barking from the hills aloud

The one eyed goat with hand stitched stripes

staring at the waves igniting

So it seems the crabs are crawling backwards 

to the sea again.


We are Alone Together & Everything that Makes Up This World

There was wind

there was rain 

there were mountains

drawn on the window frame

There were bird songs dressed in dreams of death 

awoken to an under path

There were clouds clasped 

kind of round the towers running wells and pools of showers

In between this post and after

one striped red and one striped black 

blurred in between purrs

of prowling praline

ogres stirring

clinched the night owl's yellow crow 

and burps of moon dog stars shot blue

bathed in gas lights

wavering quivering

snake sight

tongue hiss

bight of the lamp light

Porch with the brittle brace

come in denizens dust of the patter of fireflies

come in shot glass shot gun slashes

On the wall the tall taxidermist bull had to growl 

purring for hours straight!

stared it straight in the face

didn't flinch one bit

Claws shelved on racks of books

probably best not to look

The brook bights soft scratches

catching matches set with fire

round the holy banks to hold them

Nigh near the whisperer

kissed in bliss

whether it be 4000 years

ago or in the future

the same voice sleeps in power and calling out to take time talking

or turning and churning our bright sickles

sharp suits

clothes worn on the tatters of matadors

bulls are the best beasts

you know 



And here past the red sheet

of theories!



All rivets in the ocean of sand. 

On a shoe box

stand commanding motion, makes a mirror of us all 

Taken to the last delight

and the rails of rushing men

running out of time

take it to parsed lips 

and hum the holy words:

"in turn, in turn, in turn, in turn, in turn,

in turn, in turn, in turn, in turn"-it means nothing 

you see

take one last flight across the world:

'in turn, in turn, in turn,

in turn"

One last lost walk through the forest:

"in turn, in turn, in turn, in turn"

one last vomit growl through the city, fleeting somewhere beating:

'in turn, in turn, in turn, in turn"

One last, let all pass 

in turn, in turn, in turn, in turn

And as all is consumed with love

So it is all consumed in fire

'in turn, in turn, in turn, in turn'

Not from one or the other

nor is it yes but sun, sky

night, eyes burning

ashes dust



scarlet clashing banks of white

poppy stars

and river kites

flashing violence passing by

forever n'










broaches coated gold



the quick tests to make things click

cameras, cell phones, pads of persistent pressing thumbs

clunky cranky comp chomps plunking the lumps,

awkward midnight lovers for fifty five dollars an hour

dominatrix mazes, religious faces fazed in dazes

yellow rain coat sweat in wet drips

sun light scorched shoes, politicians pamphleteering truth

gift wrapping, conditional love, training dogs and dead doves, 

cupboards, butter bread knives

crumbs of the mid wife

jack hammer slappers, clasped doors banging

Damning the stammering weather

wreathes of the Woodstock

nothing to prove

resting the hands of the class clock strip lock of shell shock piss posh

hog wash slashed in the miss match

He reaches for the sand with his hand

the moon, he can't hold that either,

the magicians cloak with seventy strokes

of sunlight

some deemed



by the witches who spun them 

not one sun could he gun down

so he turned his own way

and stuck to his own kind mind

his own which way

she wanted to better the bastards

seek revenge wrought with chatter

attached to the detached

will lead to disaster.

None without laughter. 

None without matter.

None without struggle, rubble and cat hairs

rabbits brought round for the feast of hereafter.



he soiled 

and swept his brown talisman

round his neck hung

and shook his shackles

every clink of the costume

made his bones brittle

something primitive about his instincts

 making ink marks on the glow chart think

given to primordial bouts of plant sprouts

shot to surrender

the tender waves of the devout

'devout to what?'

devout to nothing 

that's what it's about.


'but i need you!'

and the cracks of the motor begin to rumble

come sun or apocalypse 

if lady's throbbing breasts is of no matter 

the statues blast the brims fueled with butter

and the breeming baskets retire to the underground without a sound in their metal caskets

broken 12 fold

with eleven cups of wine

poured out on the company card

or the little finger of laborers in the dust clouds rolling in tropical sounds

parrots quacking louder now

The Monkey God



'I've been here before, I've been here before'

yes he's seen 10, 000 wars waged by the double faced jane

Every man and woman 

is a perfect opportunity

to practice the art of love

many of us have got it wrong

and know little of how to love

but it is but a practice 

for better things to come

and a question of letting go 

at every bend and every fold

The flaming tongues of the whispering wordsmiths

Sensation's reward

but time leaves them far behind

on their breath panting

Jests and Jurors 

long gone now

at the river dancing

and leaves it best for the death bed

already infested, invested in all kinds of wishes and dishes and stitches and britches 

sets of star boards hoarded co-opts snorts of ebbing the tide forth

 me on the sea shore


hugging stuck in the shoveling

tasks of might night till dusk


The Parade

The elephant leads the parade

the rhythm pervades

the heart

the jackal clasped to the past in cackling howls

caricatures in statures

clean cut master bloggers

burned ears and shears of love disrupted 

menial instructions nailed to the crucified sails of man's brotherhood

could have been gone in the oceans of forests 

deserts and sand dunes

but instead kicking the kings for a crown of thorns

set to free the mocking spree

the magicians secret library

The Elephant leads 

with tusks wrapped in beads

pearls roll in cracked shells

and sulfur bath streams 

stuck to destruction, a wrestle mane of kids on the horse flare of alcohol pissed in summer sun sinking

Back on the sandals of saints sold for a dollar at the Roman border

the white book

the black book 

bound by the gold book

All the same book

One thousand languages

All the same Buddha

All the same Christ

All the same forest

All the same wife

all the same mother

all the same father

all the same brother

all the same coming

all the same going

The Elephant leads

with tusks wrapped in beads

The reeds of Bo Peep and the fairytale squeaks on the grey drapes on incense 

the cover of sleep, gun men run the brothers of pot luck

and drum up the dreams to keep you awake

rivers wrought

with cash a plenty

& not until twenty

 was death invested in

The raising of javelins

justice pleads innocent

'not guilty please!'

a day's job done!

he's innocent

and set forth to run

the soldiers stand tall to wall the way of the journey

The cheetah leads and the foot drums and toe jam stomps

the carnival dance 

unshackled stances turned to enchant!

To enchant!

The romance of chance of who can and who can't

Wrought with leather, iron and ore

wrought with those who take, the waste of actions faked



He spilled over his alarm clock

In the tent like a cloak

punched two crutches in the pillow

saw the funny folds of his nose in the hours enclosed

to canyons imploded

rolling in 

At the thought of which he turned round to cup her breast

as if it was falling or would be stolen

if he were to fail

he would have to find and keep and hold it.

Clash cracks the cats.

Catamaran pie

Have I fooled you?

or are you fooling yourself?

There was always someone else under the bed

The local court jester or trickster

rummaging through souvenirs of the past on the mantle 

some candle sets fire to your grasp

and he ignites all the past

in tokens broken 

between cracks

the same face the flacks on the painting's 

of masters

Holy ghost spoke to

Semolina the queen 

of Marmalade jam

hampers on the hillside

thrusting her wand at the ebbing wave tide

in all manner meaning

to control her life

and over the hill rides

rips of the days

licked over ways

of wishing for cover

not another

disturber could hurt her

in gums seek to solve

the juncture of some sort of report between the morning and sunlight 

till it's almost burned out too bright

till three speckled dogs burst from kennels consuming

tanned cooing, mooing 

in flames of the fire

so through the night it burns through their whimpering eyes

and by the vomit of comets 

they throw it all up

in disguise

and by the day time

hide in what informers tell me 

are lies

while the devil deals

cards in suit ties

through some manic deluge exuding

angels come round and spill forth the sounds and the images

flowing, slowly unfolding

box imprisoned:

-your home

-your taxes

-your plans

-your stances

-your many trophies and children and things

Always I'm the one to win the wars and suffer what it brings

You and I

with claws to fire 

scratches bark of rain juice choir

on filaments of funeral pyres

You and I

the squire in checkered suits to boot and whisks of barbed wire 

out to shoot the crows of old

 with ladies wrapped in fur coat robes 

disguised thieves of nature's treats.

You and I

like bonnie and Clyde 

having run away for 55 nights 

with burst tires

on the midnight's light

frothing at the fire

in colosseums hiding

poles and rattling cattle

poems rid with schrapnel 

Me, you

You and I

Three, 5, foe fum

one eyed ogres

on danish bolders

pushing the rolling

stone of age 

from younger to older

collecting rivets, 

chinks and strokes

corroded once from large to smaller

once sling shot from top to bottom

the top with one aim and one desire

the bottom with lazy faceless liars

to slow role down the unplowed path

and unfold fast to fine the smaller 

shots round sides of blinded looks took to be spice of other's cauldrons 

trees, fakirs, fakes and fists 

pinching at the lips to kiss

sort of twirling strawberry worlds  

and sort of running from it all

and out of un clean thoughts are sprung 

the spit of hair kissed pebbles wrung from scattered small town pristine guns

whom free to fall in pools of thought 

the fast downfall

illusion's dots

There it was with you and eye 

the red I, calm eye

wrinkled spy

One eye struts his staff like kings to kingdoms come and magic strings

the subtle pluck and burst of things

unsaid, ungloved



eye and eye

the iris shoots to streams of thoughts in folding clouds 

come in from the picking leaves

and strokes of gold bark stripped with ease

But you insist

 that I am I 

and not you too 

you seem to prove

 that covered sun disks cut the skin

only whence they reveal

all the meaningless places that they've been in

But new born baby

wailing like a midnight lady 

just your little dress in sparkles sort of cuts and sort of dreams.

I have the faint urge to ask if

you won't run away with me?

the chortling drums seem to beat the maze of thought so crazily

You and I 

if not to try 

in hail storms hampered glass to fly

Venetian classes, row boats fast in laughing gay and passing anguish

black billed throats of smoke stacked choking 

hoping, stoked slammed poker gofers rowing slower down the moat

Let me reveal to you and I, where one man connects to a thread

to meander to what seems to lend

the sowing hand to stitch together

winds and dust and sand and earth

to next time moving forth to prove that whence I come around I'll try to show you what life is all about

be it the red book or the bed book

you must look in every nook and crook to see that nothing's there.

But you intent on spinning gold with three cut hands in ribbons bold

you squeeze too tight to life unlike the frightened bang of a python's eye

You yelp like fish kelp seaweed's swell of streams of rich men's ponds and dreams

He labors as a favor to flavor the elixirs of false saviors.

I'm told.

You milk the statues of golden cows.

I'm told.

For how much were the crates of milk sold?

You and I

and I and I

try because we'd like to try, it is you and I who fight all night

and wake up in storms torn through floor boards 

Every beast and rat and owl huddled in the sand dial showers

Every mad man with a tin can saying can he can't though

he quite evidently 

can can

saying how much he relishes his loneliness

but in longing we will fall again

It's in the breaking apart that sparks are darted

and I realize what it means after all

in dresses trilling the tips of toes and winging his fat hips to roll with the swan like grace and silk lined lace

you should have seen her! 

You could have been her!

Have you not been gleaning the honey held dreaming

too long the milk milked 

gone wrong

 the sour hour drowned out of your unsung song.

Bombs or swords or stones 

that spike the curb of lives in flight

Is it you've shot too many birds

in dictionaries have you fucked too many words?

from teachers and preachers and talkers and stalkers have you drowned in what you've learned?

Do your two faces make it tough for you to turn?

is the wicker wax too hard to burn?

No one can set fire to a flame 

You and I and eye and eye

 will have to splice the blanket sky

the rivers from sinners the saints and swimmers

the givers and the takersand teacher's 

and leaches and bribers by the island

the fanged fierce carnivores

the carnival of cannibals

who hunger to dice the meat of life till trivially small

and useless for all

In ceremonies of harvest rice crows build their nests

of beads and curling lice

Here the last sun drum shimmers in postcards

of pictures

of napoleonic dancers

from lands imagined

walls of images 

disperse to reveal

hats concealed in strides



not this one son,

alarm clocks and bus stops 

no son, not the promise of rewards hereafter

no guns to overcome 

Nor love lost when unseen cloth

coulees from rhythms mop the age glands

in glass gloves

be fruitful to the truthful

shoots in the looting holes

in socket roots

death is like the rest of the mysteries we chew in shrewdbold pointless knowledgeable moods

built on the ghost food of forefathers where most moods bring laughter 

bulls stuck to bar rooms

chatter behind every door unopened

far further than any gold merchant will search

far closer than any hoarding lurch of leachers treacherous 

payed up desk clerks

with stapled rulers wrought with wicked tickets passed to speak of ribbons 

or tools to turn convictions from A to B in the dictionary of what we see 

to what we'll be in 1,2,3 if drinking products pushed to please

the stock clocks sold on old parries 

and molded, slapped on slabs to be

rolling on the italian ocean

in the common revoked chapter

the capital of babble 

and sickle and shackle

unhinge the laughter

You and I

we can't win in them

there's some kind of untamed mechanism 

resting on a cloud of conviction

they don't know

that not a single day's

the same,

not a single brain moves in the same way

you speak of visions?

Begin from your kitchen 

from where the sunlight spills in.

Here in the dim night your life will begin

it's just a question of regaining sight

you'll step out and find no one stands where you stand

nor has the hands that you have

or i have or we have or one has

'they have black hands, red hands and white hands'

 all in all that's a gross generalization based on impatience 

on closer inspection not one is the same, with little alterations and deviating veins, I wish I'd never learned of words and names 

it's a hassle to start all over again, but i'll do it, just for kicks and see what comes from it.

But find your hands naked not greater than any other maker

nor faker than any other taker

no one sees what we see from where you command the infinite land to come back right back behind you

if lucky to guide you

if unlucky to bight you

Amongst division 

your position of infinite 

can not be taken

your vision can not break

Though chaos clashes

your path lasts and walks on dark nor greener grasses

Let the weather pass

those that do, will stand to last

Wasteland Vol III

"if my soldiers were to begin to think, 

they'd leave the army"

-Alexander the Great


The Witch's Prophecies Part I

Block the 



Straight faced. Tight laced. 

                   Encased. In Cases. Crippled hand Caped.

     Tooth to the back of the smack 

     Silent night.

Bubbling cauldron

 The old learn in stalls 

Stillness awakes them 


The Speech

A short man stood on the pagoda,

in his uniform and toga

He lifted a stiff arm soon to be limp and began to spurt hot words out

unlucky for him 

the audience of chimps were scratching

the bald patches of their companions

fleas guaranteed



One eye convinced of another 

cut half way across the slice.

A side dish offered to the gods. sleeping!


The Wild West: Where Man's Law meets Judiciary Law

My mind's breath on winter's wars

on reigns swung to branch the doors of pores on skin seeped sand

shook shores, the world is only waking!

String shots slice the sleeping streets to beat the pump stiff muscled dreams

in every life it starts to speak the words of woken wonder.

Tools to compass the circumference

hammered stone shawls stuck to statues hung through walls.

The myths of greatness seem to fall

from Sanskrit tales to pleasure plundered.

Sacked and whimpered jesters

Lady midnight likes to reign the horse in

Pimp enslaved her for personal gain

but theirs is a dream for the taking

with arabic oils hashish foil 

life must some times get funny

the weather's word to shed its rain

lest clouds have tongues for thunder

Be boorish, black tanned blinking dogs

the dank dead devil's arms

has no desire to climb

and god above has no depths to fall,

no ambitions to crawl to with arms to open

In the prose of rose skipped silence

lies the fumbling fur of fleas

for hunters

The gathering clapping cats on ice

on tides tilt the tempting time to take a dip in silk screens shine and out win

names and numbers 

Calculation: the cause for celebration at the iron ore train station 

85 Dalmatians solve the stock exchange equations.

Just as the juries straining to command the law of payment.

10 butlers batter cakes in lakes of silver for the taking

Towers power puncture junctions 

functions fact check fat fame hatchets

caught in thoughts of taking 




Fought to free fight frame in fist fight frightening tripe bibbed bight of dice draped once to tempt fate

once to hide

the hand of plenty 

is now empty

Growls of caked cracked coat checkout classes

Cremes of dart dream lost in the making the 10 train

 from the first to the last station

stuck inside sam's bottle

what a throttle he's offered us

thank him

Now generals commands 

they clamor together

like face framed fixtures

kings, queens, priests, imams, rabbis, shaman, prophets, saviors, pharaohs, presidents, dissidents, hussars and sultans

The bombs of calamity sing songs for enemies

fostered and festered in the breasts of inventors

tacked to enroll in all but this world.

Far flung representations like drapes of a snakeskin.

Terse and removable 

The preamble scramble of red shot white light

tapping on the concave glass mask

There's a bark on the radio station 

-'a word written'

-'epitaph under scribed'

-'proud drum beats of the ticker tape parade'

-'thoughts outbound in subway stations'

'office the coffin'

-'the schmaltz of a turpentine waltz and a gargle of toe tapping shift shaping gaping eyed layer cakes'

with guns in their wars

bayonets like claronets

near the harmless boorish squaws squeak their fingers peeking through the ceiling

how precious a barrel  

with live stock kept

seems when

listlessly resting

on the fence of extremes.

All saviors and prophets barred from the seance

tonight is a death dance

violet eruptions 



with Violence's lace dress pressed fresh against the faceless

quite a name for a dame

voluptuous punctures in gun flash concoctions

The doctorates swim in silence

the papers drowned in the flood

In purple waters parade pioneers

Grinning sharp forefathers

white kniving teeth

and tiffany's dagger.

Though words whirl

 the window wiper curls to a bomb

and unfolds to explosive commotions.

The book is the word.

After every calamity

I hear mother's say another child is dead

lain stiff on the flower bed come to pass

The whole wretched family's dead!

what's left is their chess desk 

some game in mid set

The hairs gone from fetching 5 bars of soap sweating and fat grease ball pearls

 in the curl of the mindless climate possessing them.

There's life in the mind's of the majestic

and humility's the key to find it

Only the devil himself could invent it!

what ways to quench life!?

To quench thirst

To stir strife. With bursts of energy, half baked cacophonies

clammer and break on the rocks of uncertainty

thumping screams,

poison seeps

sleeps in their thousands

their hundred or millions

when will your conscience awaken?


The Witch's Prophecies Part II


in to dark caves will crawl and claw at the walls for treasures.

So possessed by their obsession

its measure and weight and its splendor 

will scour and suck sour their brothers

to stand on a tower with food they can't swallow 


with dart boards of plans

godly commands to win what they can 

will rummage and pillage and drain every village


for ideals and thrills set the bill for their will and wake up the sleeping and dreaming and feeble frightened people

to fight to the death for the dears of their keeping 


in the bullpen


then selected to stand straight tall n' tall 

in a fine posture

of toe heeled laughter 

forced to splatter the cackle of every cow

and cat heard to blast the past with shrapnel 


to win and to prove!

Oy vey!

I'm not on that side anyway anywhere

to win and to prove: for you and you alone

for alone on our own odyssey we meet together at the end 

The Waltz

Parlour of the pensioners

now that they've won their wars

made rot of the grapes

and spilled the wine from the table 

crammed culture to the wall 

turned their back on magic and enchantment

godly parades in to plastic packages

fabricated by the ravaged garden savaged 

To it I bow my head 

give them a bath

bathe them in gold 

suck on their toes when it gets cold

to outwardly contain my frustration

and inside i have a mechanization station

that transfers all my rage in to patience

I have faith in you

to get up and try again

in any shape or form

to ultimately find yourself

infinitely human

divinely human

to win on the playing field

what of it?

ones conscious contribution to culture is quite the kick 

you can just about make the mindless sick

the teeth to chatter 

of any piranha with the mad hand hatter

the sad plan of expansion

Hey man!

a little gnome with a lot of exposure

the courage disclosed

he wishes above all to tell you some 

words if you would kindly lend me your lobes.

'Ahem' the little squirt pips

'I…..think' he continues in the hesitant scrawl of a 12 year old

'that people should not seek happiness outside but inside'

The dictator enraged, kicks him off the page.

such is the way of the caged.

Summon all the mages 

the sages

get all the posing defendants

to go deep in to the remnants of pretense. 

In my defense 'I' have a vision 

a clear cut decision

'all trees are for me!'

'all people are mine'

'all things I own from any throne, I sit on the circle of time'

'all blood brine and guts will bend to my wand' 

'all dotes will explode' 

'dears will be sheered, ducks put in pots, though its the ponds that they're wanting (but they're not having it!)

'rabbits will have it'

'cats sliced to rot'

The devil's own pot

for that insurmountable 


hunger to plunder

still starving for what?

In taking 

you lose what you've got

20 crows saw it from the top of the building

crawling from caves with children kept safe

with vision voiced to take the time to safety

chirped about the warriors now painting their faces

stepped on ten towers and summoned the showers of hours now counting away.

War on the floor is not quite the same from above

and that which desires 

and fears to expire

 the world that one writes on with black on white pages

history's face

one blank water worn tank and to whom to thank?

think carefully 

the carefree rust in the dust of their daze.


Prophecies Come and Go, Life Moves On

Storm bells

ground rattles

the desire to stand on the statues of giants

the plying defiance of silence.

The word was to wonder on two battalions set to the opposites of anger.

The fangs of white daggers flash in the thunder.

In disjointed concentration 

and rebuttal from every station.

The crows of temptation in crowds of impatience 

A commander came to order

every hesitant cell to step forth and slaughter.

Every self propelling intelligent sense of salvation is shot in to place and its fate harnessed to embrace 

or be shot in disgrace.

On opposite ends 

the hand seems to lend itself gently in defense 

and storm willingness sheds off its pretense.

The gift grappling gunmen

with warm weathered faces and lines to life traces of sacrificed stages

the roots of an old oak with branches of gold leaves

in action relaxed for a fraction of a second.

So to fear is to face the arrows of fate or the quicksand comes to command the embrace

the inevitable melting of love and of hate!

Two sides turn 

strike the chord

red and blue flaps

banners whipping in the wind

in the dim light silhouetted

on a strange night

The blind glass blower gives

with the pouring of lava folds 

in to granite pours

the ore of years in waiting

No reproach of the croaked feet on the street

of the interned toe nails in bent directions sent from the hermits and heretics

and metal clefts like cats in heat

turned and curled in all strange feats

'To both victory and wonder'

to die is to understand the hand of god 

every drop of blood 

is a gift of yours!'

and your body will be our gift back in the postal service

is my thought

ask the desk clerk

the keeper of our cloaks

our spirits spring forth through our lives and past them

Some warriors so deaf, impaled to understand

fatigue for years to seek relief 

from placards and boxes 

in strawberry ceremonies and mangos on beaches? 

to dangle through life in the fruit tree? 

But outside

its chaos kid, 

upside down in the market place kiosk clicks the good will of innocents 

here's the best beat of human behavior

from motion to motion to motion to mania

to hoard and to board up and store up ones gains

Though courage to cut through is the only way through

All Senses Stripped

Activity runs in all directions

perceptions interstected in collisions

of visions of human perfection

unattainable citations of ideals 

collected in baskets of pretense wrapped on the weekend

one man moves with worldly solutions

and another distressed by self obsessed tunes

to dance of distraction to achieve: to become!

The son of who's who.

 I've heard that one before! 

what an abrasive uninteresting bore,

to be no more less or no more

thanwhat you're worth

i want to see your soul burst

in an effort of emancipation

from any old station

of waiting

for gain

slap clap the trap.

 captain haddok the braggard 

To win what's been won 

to do what's been done

No appraisal is needed for the able who labor in love

and need not rewards nor grades nor scored boards nor

to better their brother for self puffing platform grabbing smokestacks in the cover of long clinging karaoke style singing their own lonely song

(throngs of japanese school girls with pink curls push the bibles in to hands of pampered white faced naked aboriginals. yummy. yummy. I have culture in my tummy.)

And everyman is just as intelligent when it comes to this:

one number 

one life

one sight

one feeling

one mother

one father

one first on one eye

won one every time

one river that pushes the pebbles 

revealing, upturning

what's been sealed and hidden.

One drink

One Gin

One bottomless glass of wine

to be drunk on all the time

but best with your mind

in competition with the constant obsession to win!

It's and easy decision

I have no visions but to give and have no cares but to live

no seas to conquer but to swim in what's given 

no card decks or martyrdom tricks

or resurrections planned or anything 

Except for the one every morning at sound rise

for that's when I'm born again

and again

and again

every morning 

for the rest of time


The Toll

In all real stances with guns and with lances

the same tools remade and romanced

but end up buried in the soil to toil further

Your friends are turned in 

your family's near,

 in the tongue twist of trash, 

it could have been better than that

The one eyed parrot squeaking

 'all eyes can see it'

'all eyes can see it'

'all eyes can see it' 

well they'll come to collect him in the morning…surely?

foes left to fight their gods in the elements

what pretense!

go over and help them

where abandoned children are left to swim to kingdoms of cauldrons

smoldering lessons to be learned by devotion

to shoot up: pretenders. Loony bin benders

(there're wise men among us)

Unleashing all fire furnaced by tense decisions

precisions insisted for one man's mission

How precious is what's thrown to the wind and tossed and then lost in the years that we live

Some ex russian radar hussar blurts from the side of the book

'I beg we reconsider our course in discourse opening vanity's door and welcoming brethren and deathly things jingling from ear rings and triptychs and painters with thick bits of stick stuck to objects in theory it's art-that's what the press said. BANG! 'oh another explosion' darling…could you turn down the television? war's such a 'drag'  …)

But in orders:

The coroners wait in the corner,

the doctor's on sidelines 

the men looked down but are lost in the murmur 

the general paints his finger with fire,

 the soul stirs its yearning now let go to throw:

the numbers clash like they always have 

between movement and waiting 

hell any number'll just about do it 

do it 

don't wanna be your slave


'we become aware of the chaos of numbers'


'we become aware of the tumult that unfolds and our infinite responsibility and contribution even in observation!'


one couldn't have imagined it!:

in sequence sits the possibility of melody

at the base knees of surrender in between common viscous provisions

 that lend their disjointed splendour

Both god and the devil are battling endlesly

convinced of their duty to defeat lucidity

to engulf zamblanity

it's love of insanity

to be finnicky in perfection 

and they toil and the blood bursts on the boils of their rectums

indulged in dreamlike directions in being consumed with the bidding distractions for fear of complexion.

From out circus fairs

geeks strapped in surrender, simple son and his ham and cheese sandwich meshed in the music amusing the losing.

There must be a reference some where! 

someone else surely justified this death

I have it printed-predicted in glitches of glory

the triumph of bed time stories

a memory

and what about the banners?

in silver silk I see them

the golden threads

on a bed of summer roses showered by rain drops 

dr zeus blues

popping the dry sense of our conquest's success 

and what of the enemy's laced embraces stiff as stone cages of warm fleshy faces?

I will compute our success we're winning in numbers!

We're popular brothers! 

britches twisted

we bewitched the witches

of the riches were stitched on this morning while yawning at the awnings

clip ties slipped in right

miss matched sun tan land

wrist watch

the sultan exhales a magnate to suck all the souls who have hold on his tripe precious metals.

The Last Illusion, The First True Painting

In between the white and the black 

the vinyl and shellac 

the nights of general's barks

 sounds snap like farts

 the infinite orders of super suppressed stress 

in between the glory of greatness and precious

 awaiting for people to save you

but the flakes of time are melting

fallen from faces frozen in cages of faith and of patience.

And singers in upstart spurts like a dart 

it can't stand in the rafters or laugh out the shouts 

and the snarls and the blood lost gone crusty and musk

y entombed in the dusk of drapes of drawn trust.

All faith speaks of trust

or better of luck.

With faith in another, you'll never know better, you have to fall face first alone to move on.

Far in between: what's black what's white's black

and fire and flack and spittles of diamond dust sticks and of cracks in clam like cracked canyons and sands of peeled onions by bare naked spaniards with hair underarms

and blasts of shook sand tunes of Moroccan sultans with camel grease mustaches tushes and cushions 

howls at the moon reported at noon

that's odd

only wolves know its use.

behind every ideal

sits a concealed little blipping and dimpling confused baby kicking 

life's in the waiting 

beyond the puncture of every sealed face

the bemused wise men cackle in waiting 

behind every veil waits the lips of a lady with breasts of a saint.

Burst from the bones of the end of the world

the rebirth of humor and playing

the triple edged toys of the sand box slaps at the crotch of all knowledge 

inwrapped chords espouse from white bars or black bars or dive bars or gay bars or star bars of red white and stars from bright buttered jars

Mangled cuts hugging the rocks on the splashing land locked ocean flashing in motion who's eyes have now spoken the new king

In ignorance the pig dance slowly fades away.

The romance with war now on its last legs.

I'm not trying to point you to the ostriches

nor to tamed in distracted elaborate thoughts masks made by novices.

Botched on the ink pad

the first marks of action

in sparks of distraction

to catch em we can't win


disillusion sun men spring from the rafters, wizards and quizzers, lizards and gizzards,

taletellers, whores and inventors, black smiths and braggarts, haggards and finger forced waggers, no sayers and yes sayers, hallelujah jehovas choo choos gotta wigga boogoos

draggons with banners of mystical magic leaving battalions like scallions of wars waged by chipmunks sprung from the worn wells of wonder

what fun was your plunder?

illusion is plunder

for movement uncovered in black gold the sunken will scream for another now far gone and far flung for father and mother

with artisans 

funnels of tools tuned for songs

perfectly strung through the campfires 

once huddled the sisters and brothers and whisperers and lovers

for visions belonging to thousands now gone.

To live more than you're told

was the resounding tone.

To dance on dead bones 

to grow young from old.

To renew what's been said

to tear it to shreds

to mend what's been broken

and silence those spoken.

To kill all your saints and your devils and sages.

To remake's to break what has not yet been opened. 

Beatland Vol I

"when you at last reach the sweet ray of her whose eye sees everything, from her you will know the course of your life"

"art is long, life is short"


An open letter to the clowns of majesty: I'm leaving

Money didn't matter to me

where it came from 

or where it's going

The face flushes white

like the page when nothing is said

that's because the saviors don't speak for paper

they rebound 

the eyes, the smells and sounds

of nature. 

books are carried in bags

clung to holy relics

and tangles of spangling words trick to tell them

A cacophony of restlessness

In every move a pearl 

and in every pearl a gem

and in every glitch a priceless realization 

revealing the source of all things 

before them

hear the fools

they know more 

than you do 

the wink of colorful parrots pipping in the morning

four eyes pointing to claws and beaks

the manifestations the spirit finds 

the form it takes

orangoutang boosters

scratching the asses of blue bibbed baboons.

The users! 

It's a pleasure to be an actor

on this stage,

Though I think

There are acters and there are actors

The acters,  

act out of consequence of their actions

the action itself is a consequence of itself

it is self contained and 

they're intuitive

and logical 

and enlightened with the reason of movement

and grace

every step 

every move of a muscle

is unrestrained

is free from pain

from self consciousness

is a spirit harnessed in its own way

 in swimmingthrough

singing song sermons

Without nerve or nervousness 

 'howling' at the people

as if from the preacher

all channels open

quite conscious of where it came from

The actor 

knows himself 

he knows he is what he is

and he acts for what he acts for

his actions are directed forth to

'the people'

he speaks of 'the people' 

though sees only their masks

and wears his unknowing

to portray men of glass

From the Stage:

"I trampled on the honeyed shrouds squelched in breast milk bursting! 

and kick the cups of history's luggers

and piss in the open mouths aghast

shouting louder and louder: 


Drink dinner men and chortling hens

 the party has only begun.

 It's shakespeare's turn to fuck off!"

yet unaware, in every moment

glitch and twitch of derision in the spectacle

shakespeare has come and gone

milton, byron fall to sleep

dante's tears on nietzche's dress

all great and small men

divine or dead

must come to go 

unto themselves 

The First Burst

He magnetizes forks and knives

cannonizing smiles

opposites spliced

ignitions ripe

words delight

dangling life 

the wild face frightens

not timid

the actor's night

the booing 

tomatoes torn

and rotten

flung to every station  

tied with white buttons 

the critics swallow hearts in whole

for careers and selfish goals 

Performing to rows of huffing scoffed 

unimpressed distressed

blessed men

Parallels on Zither

Perhaps on his better day

he flew away

between characters

roles were ripe

wings in flight

to be himself was impossible

to be another

unheard of

to run away

where beggars

glare at


A stolen life story

the movement of

momento mori 


for every discovery

of free form archery 

the precise target 

to tear apart

within itself 

lights the spark

Il Grotto 

He is drunk as he sputters and spills his wine on his clients, 

Calling over the naked waitress

defiantly unprepared for the big presentation

shift shaping

gaping at

the dinosaurs stationed 

fat fist pounds on the table.

Jelly spoons

Fish forks

Champagne miss placed

falls from

the face of the earth

as it were

a table

The messiahs of flesh in folds unfounded 

Smoke in the haze of shouting

ashes flip from black tanned cigars 

arabian rugs 





He Gets Down On His Knees

he's proposing phosphorescent shoes for silver laced numbers 

mashed cakes 

fig traces

stained glass gazes

he froths for dancing runners

the dart of summer tanned 

salty lovers

look kid they need them

the world consumed with unisex as it's always been

but how about a pen with russian dances

writers, composers, tsars and hussars, revolutionary reds

etched in to them

juggling the self conscious clowns

I know of the wild striped knives

the pirate's eyes reveal them when they plunder

but since 

then have been barred

by the vaudeville hammer 

the performers standards

in a stance of self reliance

they folded their hand

We'll crucify honesty right before supper 

We'll be millionaires and send all the poor kids off the plank or whatever

here here!

They gulp their beards

Vicolo Uomo Salvatico

We turn to our friends

and say surely that was not heaven

the man at the door was short passed eleven

the breath and the stench of it

stopped the mind's dance

refusal to drink without hands of help shafted

to candle lit rafters

from a songwriter's stance

black satin pants

on velvet verandahs

black and white mind like the skin of a panda

I'll sing for my chances

Distracted first for attention's glances

Drinking not money but flatulence

But I'm an enchanter

an actor

Cats of the hell dance

Dark tips the frankness

face full of anger

Illusion's enchanter

Every Kitchen's Fireworks 

We wonder in through the vapor

as if awoken

to discover the cover of a new mirror broken

When shingles kept on coming

I pass the bread basket 

to caskets of stone

Rap the window

in a still drone

at best they scramble for dangling dollars

a four course dinner with paper money

In imaginary proof

we know creations fruits were a mess

and on earth there is no paradise

besides the islands we make for ourselves 

white horse course of splurge of a mess

i can't wait for another to tell me 

a cat sheared for sunday's best

offered to me

I reject it

It's a glee to contest it

I can't make your food for you

or offer you truth

I'll cook my own broth for the food and the lot

a laughing, ogling, mind boggling feast

bursting dancing scone cream of dreams

an unwrapping of gift packing

talisman's tautology

tarantula's warmest apologies

A cleaner is needed

Lessons From A Fool Abroad

Oh yes,

I'll take you dancing.

At Doris's Park

With Zebras and go carts

In the Maze of man's Mirrors

The parisian book vendors 

pamphleteering for war on the way

I'm afraid we'll have to make a detour my lady

so as long as I'm here

I'll have to fight for them

There's a bight of commotion I can't quite resist

Clacks of the war drums

Spritz of the toy guns

All the sharp gold laces with

Painterly traces

Traumatized faces from 

Earth quakes of shaking

Ripped out of pages

Returned to the sages

With nothing learned jaded

and lost cause defendants

The serious poets are learning

 and are so short of earning a sum or two turning

to face the new world

at all times unfolding

it's on the battle field we get the real sense of things coming

Amongst all the commotion I hear the squawk of a Harlequin stumbling

mumbling his best kind of drawl in french

yet he's english equipped with the tricks of wizards

crumbs on the mattress to hawk up the soldiers

with all minds confused for his use out of order

nothing better than such a warm warrior

torn on the lawn of commotion

a passive invasive

coquettish brave kid 

Here's the vision 

come my way

like no other day

and from here on 

I'll learn new things

in opposite stages

But harlequin can't care for purpose

of being a pristine piss artist 

or pink panther poet,

just about throwing words n' kicking forward

the doors with locks and of lockets

just for the bounce or the fun or the count of it, 

fix of it

tricks in

gift of it

love of it

mixing the slouch and foul mouthed ring of tribes men

far ahead i

he's been here before

and he's back to invent 

his own form of war

Where Men Keep Their Pants On 

After thoughts of the frantic

skewed lance of chances

she accepts his offer to dance

around the bombs dropped on france

but under the condition of being completely naked 

not faking the flakes of their making

he grips her by the palm of his hand

and gives her his word 

spat in to hers

painted in dumbo dot prisms,

 it's a mathematical position to take

 with plagues as a threat

 an insistence in fish nets

high heels 

I told them 

 can't scold these kids 

they're only ten.

well shot

sold crack

 things bought from been stalks 

king kong in hong kong

to vend off and fend off 

Hollywood's secrets


of shirts

sold to 

execs for perks

the studios forget the quick change of presence 

throw all the money in fields of of the restless

honey gets stuck in the flash of the flux 

fields of mud run through

smothered moon drops

of waiting to stop 

till waiting to stop

When Men Take their Pants off

I want to see hips in quick fits, flitting and flashing back and forth coming

rocking like a horse charm gonging 

I want to see the salacious million mile road, 

I wanna row a boat down it 

I want to see the lights cranked in heat though the lights may be me

Though I rewrite in wreathes

Racks of the rhythms I know it and only it will shave time off the tepid insipid clock bosses 

A Drive Away From The City

From where you drive you say 'it is always changing' 

pointing over the Montauk blue mountains

and I point my fine fickle finger down your ear drum cupped with candy floss flack wax and bezel bum mash n I whisper 

'the change IS the thing itself' 

get your head around that cat

'Let me get my hat on first man'

and I put on a riding man's jacket

(between brackets)

with prizes from hunting

oil overspilling in fashionable comfort

because it's fashionable to be comfortable

hoo ha

hoo ra 


Hoo ra ra 

On Being Scolded When Older

Martha caught the kids pounding gold watches with gavels and axes laughing about riches turned rubble

but by the time they were done

so consumed in their fun

they failed to notice 

the first chin seed stubble 

round up the classroom 

get them painted

plastered laughter

just a suggestion 

To join hands in double red ribbons 

Yellow clipped suns by her made up toy numbers 

it's a play about time, 

about useless string rhymes

clocking the doorman

names start with nine

why's your hair long john? 

have you heard that arabs are coming in boats rowing faster

fueled without laughter

requisites serious about their endeavors

 you better get those alibastards 

agile cats with alligator tongues and stuff

don't wean them yapping around

drown em' like a fish drowns in fresh air

Go in shout out the numbers,

from one to one hundred

 pull the rafters over the pastiche paint plasters,

 ring the liberty bell and tell all free thinkers to tinker on home as they can.

we wil.

We'll get all the demons to send out their sea men and in turn be free men

we'll wake up all the sleeping brill box bones and get them pulverized on the peruvian slopes,

 hare krishna man telling me elephants used to walk these lands 

well if they can

we all can


The First Day Of Waking

Stalk starts the morning

never woke up again the same way

blew smoke at the blaze curtain

traced his hand in a circular way 

and sung out resounding

Never give your hand to a mad man come pulling

he'll lose all his meaning 

if you try to talk to him

come tell me your troubles and turn your lost life

 to fun flings and flights of moon rings

and focus on the hocus pocus in raucous song

 concentrating sharp as a master on the dart of delicious ignitions

no artist ever sat idly by

 let others row him

 don't do anything

be louts!

ain't nothing not to have but people around you to care for

just care for yourself 

up in the calm mountain air

pick up the thorns in the morning

care to not care

but then what would you do there?

sit in sharp silence and renounce yourselfwitness? 

to worlds in the waking

I say worlds, cus it's always in making 

saying wait a minute….mum… 

I'll do it tomorrow!

sleeping and such

but what are you giving back while you're living up there?

that's always going to be my first and main question

though i can pout my lips pretending

in a stance of pretension

and weave my own stories,

say hey man I'm better

I'm better and better

better than the baddest meanest man made leather

in the end it's the ones opened up by whatever I proffer

that alone justifies my actions 

not my talking, and squawking and balking like sultans

and my pretentious search for the perfect expression

but the thought provoked in turn

for other's reaction

no time to talk too much about it

just action and all that further forced flack of invention

to get to it 

move it

Beatland Vol II


Summer Streets: Sloppy Lullaby

Domina ducked

 jumped from the car flashing

teeth and the tie man set to the bar

she was on the italian slopes

had gargled down 600 hundred grapes

 in the shape of a bottle

pressed late in the day by the black warted feet 

of church faithful street sweepers 

To pick a point and stretch it far

for if you're bored of the little suggestions

but you keep sitting on them

you'll start to regress 

and by the time you're twenty five or fifty seven 

you'll be standing on your head wishing

i could have been that kid

So don't say you didn't

prancing and dancing like a little street ferret

scuttling under the city's clean gutters

to the hereafter

the sidewalk erupts with laughter

with a mustache and beret and spanish sword fencing

in the posters for circuses

with your face pressed up against a magical mirror

you'll never see yourself 

quite like the others 

sticking your tongue out and trying to lick it

The Prostitute (a sketch from the street looking at the window)

blue glaze, turned to face her after shaving

purple nipple, stuck her tongue in it

vomit cleaner, with a red shirt

iron worker, sex slave jerker

gift of an indian, for 78 cents on a political bent

The Visionary Psychic (a few shops down the road, 5 $ for palm, 10$ for Tarrot, 100 $ for your future, past and the cost of your funeral-an imagination of what she would have said)

I've tried to see things as they are,

failed but once or twice, 

bounce back up when out of luck

never tried to think of myself of how I am but where i'm going 

things to learn

bridges to build and bridges to burn

like a ball with out holds or breaks on the rollers

with faith in the cliff 

going faster and farther

had girls tell me they knew everything

latrine politicians

I guess people need the artists

cus they're running around 

gotta remember

the animal in em

the value of living

the ability of human expression

and stunned when they find it

frozen in silence

they go 'god! he's saying what I think'

'expressing my emotions!'

Well i got mine and I'm saying something

my goal is for you to yourself, find your own language

no an artist is not someone

who says 'it's sunday, i'll pip out a painting'

but the rest of the week I'm back to my sleeping

it's a faith every day, expressed every way

from high low to low lofts,

 and soaring from rosaries 

rotting in wreathes, 

illusions, disillusions

 with no set exclusion of any expression

talk without question

love without guessing 

I don't know what people think of the things that I'm saying

and that's all I gotta swallow

whether people love it or hate it

Many fat men have trapped birds in their cages

and their whistling means nothing

their puffing cigars choking their kingdom of stuffed living things

I guess it's that I'm going to forgo

just gonna wave my hand and watch it implode

get choked up in the smoke of it

let it drift in its own way

Sure I'll make my judgement and stand by it

an artist runs through with a stroke of consistency

and don't hesitate none

at nothing at all 

they breath it



viewing life 

from where it come from

don't know what others visions are

all the rebounding rebuttals there are

and all the Jehovah's soldiers

or the theories of madness

or better or worseness 

or history's pendulum in backwards motion

A lapse of commotion

The dream of a potion

I am saying that's one perception

of a multiplicity commanding of many perceptions

and who's to say it's the right perception

you can use fear to convince them 

but not reason to correct them

Perhaps you should try to

masquerade round life in your own soft disguise

it's a fun thing

I'll be the indian, you be swimmer

and never make any assumptions 

in the long unfolding sweep of things

it's wise to know nothing


Leaving the city: Karma Cooked in the Desert

Cracked eggs on the car bonnet

red hood smiled

the guile of the feckless and free flying reckless

the freckles of every speck of their action starts to bounce back 

they're tough equals drivin' 

it's come back to fight em'

the rattle snake lying in the dying ditch garden

with berries and bluebirds and leaves of all kinds n'

hissing and starting to rev up its pissing

it's adam and eve all over the news

got to marry the opposite tunes


Rajput Diner: An Abandoned Landscape at full Motion 

The vain Jesters

triangle shape shifters

pushed their plansin pretense

with wax drips down slits

in thought unlocking

of folding swing oceans

pushing its potion

on the red sandy soaked coast 

with rocks as the spine bone

it's seeming they're thinking 

the moon's got the best way to enchant the wonderers

make them think that there's more than is normal

where symbols are turning

in suns and moons burning 

they'll learn in their life time

while shaking and trembling 

for answers to take them

through hoops and through hell

back again panting

we explain the actions that explain themselves

but its glazed glass they're eating 

with gums that are bleeding

conceding in needy hands that are feeding 

the pebbles of sleepy curled treats and sweet treacles

The clowns jack out to die in their suits

Now nothing left but bobbing hats swimming 

and slowly sinking smarty dance pants

Funeral of a Clown On the Edge of Town

They crowded round and knew their jokes well,

their songs and tricks and played them settled

near caricatures for the long faced jurors

i know you're convinced of your use kids but you're stale and you bore me

who's man to condemn?

what service do you lend for your own self interest?

back to the bend:

burry him!

to cast off the last glance of maps drawn by pirates

we'll follow the line to that treasure chest island

and spy on it silently

 prance on it jokingly

We know better than to feign a fire now don't we?

I Wish I Could Be There, I Bet it'd Be Better

Again, there's only one city where you can wake up feeling like death

punch your way through the day and go to bed having earned a justified rest

but you gotta be quick on your feet

amongst swiped city streets

by cars going full fleet fast forwards to nowhere

like a boxer's first heat

and do everything you set out to do 

when you thought 'I ain't taking it'

'I'll get beat down and struck down

I won't think about it too much now

but I'll keep going

and pushing and flowing

and fighting and things'

Diamond tipped toe nail

jewels of the king pin

Pulled up at the Next Station: the Harlequin Found, Shambles of an Act I

The party of ostriches gawk in the book room:

enter the Harlequin 

shim shim shouts an atrocity 

pointing his nostrils high at the ceiling 

scoffing and coughing

cigarettes flung on the carpet

flames are just starting

Spilling the swill of champagne around him

like spittles of diamonds with clinks and clanks chiming

Flaring his hair reflected in shouting

Country cracked rim of the window glass township

entrenched in the crux of irreverence

Here his pretense shoots to set up a fence for him

bound to the glue of his shoe lace 

he, non aware, kicks it

shaking in silence he bursts out in violence and slices 

any glance

any look

and brings down the house

just around him the drawers of books

fall forth to look

Harlequin Act II: with the Desert Queen

By the drag of the chatter he clambers over the rhine stone thrown out and thrown in

a bone to the rich man's mistress

undressed her with his sensitive fingers

and Guinness pie fencing

The dense rose bush pulsing 

in meshes of dressing

Harlequin Act III: A Adroit Grin Sminking of Gin

he invents his own set of conventions 

to stir up the sequence in which the defensive, abrasive, evasive coquettes

with their ostrich frayed feathers and Siamese sweat shirts

with thighs stuck together

gold teeth start rapping 

heels on the floor click the marble contours

The waiter swings by with his fickle shrimp pies

'more?' he pipes from the sideline

'more!?' who on the floor would face past the fork?

The princess can hardly hear let alone vomit her drugged cocktail swill of defensives

giraffe feet, dragging her heels in her robot dance sequence 

(practiced in secret on streets on the weekend)

The kite flying sleep 

whips her away

to the the top of the cliff 

she faces the sunset 

and spits 

in a stumbling western 

gun fight contention

"I am the inventor!"

was it he?

she's an actor

so it seems.

She's turns to a bull

with buttons and cufflings

and blacksmith rung nose rings 

billowing, blowing

rib cage exploding

balls swinging madly 

and sadly and gladly 

describing insanity

well how does it feel?

the triumph of vanity 

and rebounding stand off 

duping the gods

spit on the cycle, 

he deathly and hiding

move on! 

forward or rust 


it's so, is it not?

The Harlequin Act IV (out in society: a brief generalization)

A cross between crook heads and crows 

battling bowes and shoots of bamboo shifting the side shows

Panda bear punchersbatons and barrets pinching pig tails

and rooks and chipped castles for figs and wig heads

Politicians side glance to court clash collisions,

 rowboats clipping the hedges

grandmother's bridges

salad mug dancers

Poets paint visions and court indecision

Here harlequin's spinning his singular dangling finangling fang of a tangling mangling shaman shark tank

He's whooping and swopping the throngs of star strutters, cabled and able ill framed debaters

Described as the muse with silicone lips

Stream line drips

Birthday clippings

Heroine ships!

Cocaine concoctions gone white water rafting

Slaving to build egyptian gold tombs 

with thousands of striped heads numbered to sweat

cats fretting to satisfy pharaohs 

a dapper afterlife

happily ever after

were the pyramids

just a whoop?

what a hoot.

Great pain is brought on to others to justify the goals of the vain. 

The theory ('all theory is grey')

Structures cause ruptures

Believe in the golden trees bursting

The worst things we proffer

prophecies show  

that swaying persuasive perverts will go

Salesmen with petty agendas 

and fur cats of lazy fiery positions

War lords with hoards of freckles will throw their cards on the table

when they're old and unable to fight future's fables 

for medals to own

to graveyards are thrown

bones of the young and idealized goals

The Action ('all action is red' and the leaving of the Harlequin)

Here sweetness in a head dress

caress, the unfolding faces

the temptress with my stiff little fingers

I'll let her know with opened legged pictures

convolutions and tight feckless murmurs on burners

the faster the learner

the letters the turner

who earns it and moans it 

down the microphone

 with the nails dug to backbones

and groaning in tones of celestial syrup.

The sugar expression of heat in persuasion

Perversion with liquid in dry dampening deserts

The experts would have to check first but by now the door has clicked in

 in near to 4months the first buds will spring

Is it then my responsibility to think?

The harlequin squeaks with the quip of his stick

Surely he knows there's more than just money and kicks to his tricks 

He unwraps the seal in sureness that all illusion is real.

He peels on his sockets 

and lazily rocks his head back

slips on his pocket watch

on to the floor

He bought back the black pearls 

from out underworlds 

what was it then worth?

with a whip in his hand 

the pirate on land

he sets off to find the horizon

define his own borders

on his terms and live by the eyes of the islands




Beatland Vol III



Drawing In the Dark

A hot cinder cigarette cupped the moon and burned out the pin holes

The cricket alone with sharp painter's tones

Hear the breathless, the city streams sweet music in to the ears of the restless

But a magic cloak in diamonds spoke the sparkling spleen to far towns rode

Might rises up and the lipstick frog by the pond paused to kiss the ideas of shadowy stones thrown away in the maze of invention.

We should have promised not to tell

 flames of the thousand bells ankled on shackles

 felt to cut the bone dry every time

 a lie or a life or a loss is dealt with

There are no gates in god's garden

No time in there passing

water for drinking

ships of slurred honey

the money shoots from freed lips eclipsing 

whisps to bell stars gone shooting

the moon in its fits flipped from day to night wishes 

kept from journeys within and without it

Landing in sinking game splitting hairs of headless sweet devils in winking

On the shoreline sinking sands slip seeds of summers soaked in the beeds of the restless

best kept in jackals gleeful for gasps of tasting magic 

plundering thunder

Indian walls on waters wait the slums of tin can gardens

 gates blue burst glass to fire faking

 blowing smoke on milk of new orleans

everyone's attractive when you're blind

best be that way

Spice turned to time torn

tricks senses sooth the slick licked tongues of friar's inventions

clamoring hands with cufflinks cast off 

a hunger pretended 

wishing for the chance to rise up the dead

exploding cock dance in tastes like sun summer

Cat mouth of apple

 piped crust comes catching the cream caramel 

 caves of the crutches

everyone mumbling 

for hundred years covered

the heated lady jumps in fits of fury and laughter

laughter's important, 

for friends or for work

please understand this

Indian Ink

By the ghats

on steps of stone 

the moss grows shaking 

to die all alone

like every true poet 

with fruits of ones nature wrapped around one

shaking and quaking and blessed awakening

come to rest here

with spears to splash fear 

to pool's of ignition,

oil coiled collisions

curl to splatter

splashes of goose fat

short smiling children 

catching the bolts 

of tiger time vaults 

now flicking of garbage 

waning the varnish

colors now turning 

tusks of the sabers

mantle piece urns 

hear mantras learning 

chanting in smoke

out of the window

day long devotion

sacred songs spoken

songs to be wrote

on marble white stones

patterned and flourished

flowers of curls

shapes under capes

ruins in water

the tones of atlantis

what's here to come passes

Flips of sandals washed in white water

Baby of brahman 

wails in the morning

Mountains moved without a use

on the shutters shut by the sleeping

dutch shadow lovers 

close to the roots

ivory carvings cut with a tooth

and penny farthings dropped to tell truths

spoken from tales of lost afternoons

slapping and shouting

pounding hands rounded 

in to their thousands

Quick cane to run in

Dusk to try loving

Practice of fumbling

two times the fun

swinging of chalice 

symbol of malice

swung back for the daily sacrifice

Sun god blocks the busts of men

to enter in the lions den

whale whoops the feet forth 

farmers now fingering picking at seeds

Incan earth interned on 12 steps of stone

Parsing sips of scattered seeds grown

the bean stalk to talk in shoots on its own

shot to sun grown

clasped castles crumbling

rattling the sounds

tripping bolts and knots of courtiers and of brave cats 

splitting by the shaking shattered and battered

churches fall

buildings fall

restaurants, huts and houses fall

out of which kids crawl

 night owl

 red glowing

 neon lives

and blue boy blushing

bright skin peeled to show the untrue rip histories turning

rubble raising clocks to higher time numbers: 25! 

squires standing at the library 

bribery ban you bust in their stale mate brace of cuffed clasped gates and tight sipped things

All rivers rouse the godly sands snake sieves sacked simmer shouting chants of thousands of ground pepper pears

peas all gone rotten 

eyebrows now brushing

teeth lodged in mud gums

spitting in to

the hands of the loveless

Open court karma came through the dharma

looked around her and flew far from it

stirred in absurd upturned pathways 

face in the helmet

bronze shine of gates

the big white breast ghost

to speak the chants to the living souls

some kind of moorish murmur

an illusion! run to 

conclusions too soon

In fusion font now river rapids interning, upturning, outrunning

of land minds always moving

Slow strumming 

mooing cows of tune

fast cats in shake shaft experiments

 whistles of sirens 

whip off the night shift

books by the kerosene lightness 

a bum in fright holds one

haven't you heard? 

knowledge burns

once its learned

Simmering now the after hour of all your excursions 

it seemed to show them

the way forth in motion

whatever you rummage through keeps moving by the heresy of tunes

magazine clips cast

strips and hand drawn maps

assuming the worst's the worst way to last

That's your ball 

that's your fate you're following

and though I'm not for it 

I'll leave no stone unturned

and untied 

the line of the mountains 

and burp at the rivets of clippings and spit

on the sun dial to stars piled in thousands 

the fecund injunction 

the puncture of lungs and of functions

at the collision of mind and of time

you'll find that no matter how much fun is had

the mission of movements is your only teacher

in what you are doing

you see the sky turning 

the earth itself shearing its passing appearance

the gods seem like suns to the infinitely fecund untarnished land

free forms in fixtures

to absolve the mixture of opposite pictures 

forced to flick quicker and quicker and QUICKER!

Begin in the morning till life starts again

peak at the tweak of all senses breathing

 with the she and the I and the you and the me

 run through all your prescious intentions

dance in the sands of your own inventions

lend all your worthless possessions

play forth and swim forth and wobble not once

 in the pursuit of fruits with your hunger to quench them

forget then and make just about as much as you take

and in waking you'll find your fears passed away

Shrieks on the Streets and Picture Pretty Prophecies 

In mornings stand to show your hand 

shadowed out on even side

To present pursue prayers and pick up

forget trinkets 

turn to others

In no way 

to no degree

in no indelible and calculated way

am I me, am I the person I seem to be 

for if I were

I would not be in the grips of something greater

in movement of the splitting sun disk dial to cover moons at once, 

to distinguish between planets spinning from straps strung out to ceilings

Book clock covered, the intentions of the starving 

the madly passionate precious knowledge

that no one can ever come close to touching

in refusal

stubbornly clutching

to push forth and endure

to show up the first forth fifth time in fever

and present the meaning

most seriously cleaving

to all kinds of needing

or being the hand print

or clocking the hour

and razor blade showers

the scan finger print man

I can't take it 

can't take it

 no damn way

I'm gonna take it 

or let that come in my way 

no general catastrophe

or finger stiff theory

no way

no can do it

no matter how lonely 

I can't go that way

where were we when we swung a long slowly

what answers are told to the knowing ones


when they're young 

of secrets unknown of?

'from fire below

and wisdom above

the feet going forth

blazing the past' 


Island Vol I



there are many things I don't believe in that I would be willing to consent to

The nature of life is illusion

In playing games we consent in playing by actions within the parameters of made up barriers

the rules of throwing games, losing games, winning games, any game

the rules of universities, any institution, the rules by which rules are run

though inside the rules, we're people you know?

we're running around the barriers walled and calling and shouting and pounding the truths out of town.

But it's like this!

We insist.


A Wizard Whispers

You! you fumbling and fretting! yes you!

You, who worries about your project

your prophets

or your precious attachments

to successes and your slipping grip on failure's plaques

you, who goes by day with your mind on fire

can you take the world as it is?

In shadows and colors?


Your Local Philosopher as Beggar 

Is it not so that everyone lives so much in their head?

their dreams? their desires?and fixations? their goal to accumulate?

to be this?

or to set a post by which to measure themselves?

to become!

Let this come to dissolution

life becomes an art

more like a dance

whence art is left behind

breathing as an art

giving as an art

not thinking

not wanting

the world as it is

at last!


Why Be an Artist

A divine philosopher


he knows

the divinity of eternal life

invested in every creek



every eye




every act of love

of every person

he sees

the soul struggling

to be free

in every gist of hate

every twist of branch

every burst of cloud

every bend of water

breath of air





the divine philosopher


the divine artist


the divinity of eternal life

invested in every creek

every sound

every fold

every eye




every act of love

of every person

he sees

the soul struggling

to be free

in every gist of hate

every twist of branch

every burst of cloud

every bend of water

every breath of air





His life is a cycle of observation

and expression


what will always be

and what always has been

13 Visible Sailors Drowned in the Mountain Pond

There are no more wars to be won,no more soldiers to be gunned

Though you seem stunned to say it

No more people to shoot them

Buildings to be built,

no more goals to be met

Our struggle is our perception

This, if need be,

need be our only aim in correcting anything

for things are as they are

depending on how we see them

What of your

desire for success?

(but to succeed in being yourself? what an internal effort! if only it was known)

be content with your labor to be lauded or harpooned

either way it is of honest gruff

of strong stuff

the gem

be it precious or in the hands of paupers or princes

remains entirely itself to whomever touches it

or casts it or guards it

rich or poor

saint or whore

our world seems to be unfurling

when we struggle in learning

of opposites turning

in time to tell nothing

our goals and our instincts

discovering each other


The Sultan's Bazaar

The enlightened human being is not somewhere in the hills, not sweating over his work in his study, he is a living, breathing, human being

as good as you and me and anyone who came before us

no matter how hard it is to get your head around

the active one

always treading

always walking the path of not planning


in thought

in word

and in action:

in behavior!

in practice!


The Widow in Waiting

You become

to overcome

your effort to release

your only priest

and your teacher what you suffered

you were all things true and all things lied to

you drank the dirt water, unclear and unconscious

to silver streams sipped the calm and the laughing

you first had to vomit all thoughts serene

and lofty ideals

till you sputtered to speak:

'I thought I knew'

but you know nothing

so to opposites clutching you stand in truth questioning

between white and black your two fragile hands

in faith resigned

to time in the sand glass

From the flare of the furnace

To a sundown shot star.

Not to try harder

To live your life longer

The linger of singers in caravan ditches

Do you think the sonars of wales weigh in scales from better to worse

Pop charts for bird songs?

Don't lick lips in veils to plunder beauty turned to bitter kissed soil?

Don't I watch the camp fire slowly?

I try not to hold flames

to let them unfold

he burning is learning

upwards rolling

from frozen matter to potential cackles and crimson laughter

Though alive and wet to no match

see the strangest tree sprouting its leaves

to one spark set the flames in flesh,

unleashing what we'll never see

Things thought dead instead

An unprepared bottle tips

all lucidity and life as reality



a potential to spill

here no description is needed

no civilization can keep it from speaking itself

from the shining shelves to the shacks

mistakes in the quake

unresolved thoughts

watch drops of rain in the tub of mud bubbles pop

Though wonder's the waking of all vision breaking

this wonder's for taking

The loss for which waiting

till death says it his way

We with body's bars

To hide the revealed change

Though the widow speaks:

the change is the thing itself.

In one I see the primal short strung urge to burst in secret suns.

the widow awaking

beyond all fate


Island Vol II

The Secret Garden

and in turn, to tree tops 

wood seen 

dew drops



Russian dancing 

emerald leaves 

run rustles clean

and coming now clear

clasped to hand spears

to understand water

wand fresh flashes smaller

for roots

stump the stale mate

fastens daily's charm

to night's false alarm

to pursuit 

and begged wishes

what is


what isn't 

and even then

the expression 

of which 

a lie to tell someone

to pry prisoned secrets

keeping with inbuilt

clockwork to click off

in sink sounds start thinking

matter makes shadows

in flights of a flicker

cloaks of coaxed mirrors

 encroached in coaches

in caverns and focus

through river's motions

or fire striped strokes

now no number marks the man of his word

 no name, nor no title, nor time, nor no place,

 incensed in sermons

 asleep in the ocean

of dreams unspoken

on dart like feet

step on stones 

of clarity

what to then?

To untangle yourself?

to strip the clips that cling to your cells?

 to take apart your towers of thought?

In stubborn stance to stride with hands of fifty five heads

and change the form of things known as dead?

Was it that truth was found at either extreme?

Both at the top or the bottom?

Is truth a possession or an acquisition of knowledge?

or is truth a question of action?

If it is a question of action:

does the action have a starting point or an ending point or does it never cease?

is truth the summation

the alchemical result of willing one thing?

The reward of a life time of consistency?

is truth illogical?

or is truth the mother of all thought?

Perhaps the force that moves behind rocks

of all our equations

and fascinations

within every taste and tip it's unfiltered

to what people call sacrilegious

 to call things as others

under white covers

though everything is invested with the same message

we divide our questions and cling to possessions


What care of the war?

On one end the farce of idealists pouring in and tripe teeth torn for some illusory purpose

on the other: the strong standing virtuous defenders of love, life and liberty

and running through the centre the irreverent dreams

of rare music waves, the jests and drunk knights with breast copper plates the free love felt gloves on the thighs of performers in sun dance enchanted in other roads scattered for kicks and quick licks neither flying nor standing.

so it seems 

like heaven and hell are fuming again

Five first fandangos and tangos on mangos

Shake hands in sequence 

break dance on beaks of the birds who start speaking

All the world's literature and abhorrence 

I'm in no need of peering through painter's performances

or wearing the lion king head dress for posh parties in hooga boogie clubs

and get in to my white pants and strut my stuff 

No need to sing others songs or twirl on the needle of morals enwrapped by the blabber of priests who tell me the word

sun clucked in some one to know the messenger air heeled frisks of free one way in never too blue oceans awaken the coast

 in the making of mama mocked magic frocks 

frisked in the sequence mantlepiece learning

clinging fill to flush and let go in snowing

sticking to settings 

Parse between the pavement and the king's exhibition of poets and pots, pristine purged pilgrimages

pre planned in pursuit of an epiphany of possibilities 

on two streamed strokes the natural grace of water's flow.

No ancient man could remain instilled 

un enchanted by the dance of the dips and turns

some so with the playful learning

handed down from the bright dawn 

till the darkness

in observation shadows flicker fine faces on the wall

no fool ever caught a shadow

possessed or justified a shout

an expression 

worst off 

a confusion

to be in possession of images


never to look back to capture 

to hold on to drops

or to hug or to stop.


Pure creativity is a destructive process. It's a circular progress.


In competing with others your standard is dependent on human faults, in competing with nature your standard is always infinite, always unfolding


Nature is what you perceive and no one else perceives or will ever perceive from your perspective in your point in time, this is what it means to own the world in the palm of your hand-the totality of what you can relate with is limited to your immediate senses. The ability to imagine is to play with illusion through languages, stories, images. 

but the ability to work from your senses is to play with reality. 

But the ability to be honest with your senses is to play with god. 


I believe the only way to know is to act and to act is to know how to believe. 


The master of illusion should be the master of disillusionment


Saying something is 'like' another thing does not make it what it is


People are what they love, and take on the form of their possessions, obsessions and decisions. That's why the best have no place and no time and no race, they're always everywhere all at once.


Success is just a river, just a faster one, the illusion always racing, but many wise men dip in to the slow rivers and laugh at the world gone pacing


We're freer alone but happier together. The choice is between fighting illusions and fighting ourselves. And then there's always the choice of moving and forever forgetting and making and swinging and weaving in free form.


Chew on bitterness.


In the times where anything feels possible is the time to focus the most.


No matter how big the muscle, or how big the brain, no matter how healthy all the matter is it's the life in the eyes that count


Everybody is ultimately a caricature of themselves


If you have lost the ability to enjoy the swings in the playground of life, you have forgotten what it means to let go


All children are artists, but not all artists are children


In anticipation to be wasted, one is already wasted


You may have found the truth, 

but if you are disillusioned by it 

you have not seen through it


The key to delivery is understating with confidence, wild confidence


A day well spent is one where you do more than you thought you were capable of 


Ineach generation, the most rebellious people in society are perhaps those who are strictest with themselves


what makes me a good artist does not make me a good human being and what makes me a good human being does not make me a good father

and what makes me a good father does not make me a good economist, nor a good cook, 

what makes me a good friend does not make me a good preacher,

a good painter does not make me a good musician

everything worth anything in requires the flame to set it 

to burn in its own color and consume itself in the making.


The deeper your roots, the higher the tree

on high trees the kids crawl, some may fall, fingers fetching peaches and kittens fangled with fear, but the shade passes over it and sometimes the light bursts,

and seasons follow leaves falling to spring forth in rebirth, and trees burn and roots refind themselves on other turf.


when we have no words to describe life, life describes itself.


when you tilt heavy stones, with tools, like a leaver, would you believe that the weight upturned was by way of the person pushing the bolder or the tool that upturned it?


I don't think god wants to take care of the problems we invent for him


you gotta be brave to face the music


There is no greater human talent than being able to partake in other people's joy


He was a struggling artist, until he stopped struggling, then he became one with one


How you carry yourself is how life will carry you


What's fame in he arts? 

a kid sits drawing in the playground

in his own world

after, other kids get bored with their games

and hair pulling

they come get curious about what he's doing

that's all it is


The purpose is not to see the glass as half full

or half empty 

but to see through the glass


any kitten with a vision

has got to be brave enough to face adversity

no matter how large 

how fat 

or how charged

for he has faith in all things still

and the wavering temptations of things bad or good

do not stir the upwards path of the perfect and steady 

ready persistence 

even at times being on the odd side of others

on the flip side of family and brothers

you can't find strength in numbers

you can get buried by the pennies

and thousands

more things bring you more weight

than needed


To painters:

if you want to draw a line, 

you must first see it in your mind's eye, do not look at the tools around you and use them just because you can, the truth of action comes from the mind first

and then we look around and see 'how', but really, the organization ofaction in life and life itself must come from the mind

one must see with ones eyes closed.


action is inevitable

but how you act is in your control


As all things come

they come to pass

except for the innate 

spirit of things


Life can be the greatest film of all if you know how to direct it


You can be an artist

 farthest from all you want

but if you don't act on what you're saying outside of your work

what does your work matter?


If you're a pirate 

you fly your own flag


Artists have to live apart from their times

in their own world

where the clock only



honesty and dishonesty


What good is it possessing the physical relics of goodness?

carry the chopped wood of the cross?

jesus and the cult of celebrity

what we see in others 

should be much more

than the cloth on their back


the starving artist is merely one who is hungry for life


true art is an expression of life as it is

bad art is an imitation of life as it seems


'everything else seemed like a painting, but this alone, like truth'


the root of life as a human being is not to simply to seek dependence or comfort

work (distraction)

and shelter (dependence)

it is to find freedom

with all its reigns and cleavers, and complicated by roads, and to keep going

and to harness it 

and master it and remake and remold it every day at every time

a wise man does not bow to a lion to be eaten 

he knows his right to life


the artist weaves his little patch work in to a greater patch work quilt of time immemorial

that people wear

to dream

every day


what better thing than to make a creation so tight so to not let time in


the warrior and the sage of outer life must also be the warrior of the sage of the inner life


our perception is the root of all our problems and in turn of all of our solutions


time is a circular trap in which man decides between love and hate


The origination of all things we build in life are from the mind as it is, walls are really a matter of the mind


The only real crises worth facing is that of faith

and what better place to practice and overcome this than with oneself

let all the grandmothers dance. 

I hate to see anyone resign to death

death in words spoken

death in actions

death in possession

death in conviction

take it on yourself to live a little 

and do it artfully


The bedrock of life is in the diamonds buried deep in to the blackest cliff faces

and people lament 'it is so dark!'

utterly oblivious to what wonders lie waiting!


clarify your position.

and then stick to it.


nothing is worth thinking about that can't be acted out


an unwise man has an explanation for everything other than that which is inexplicable


Every man has the ability to be insane, it is merely a question of what they suppress


the bridge between sanity and insanity flows over the river of life


if you see a picture of a musician you be seeing a picture of the music

for what is the musician but the music?


'to season one's destiny with the dust of one's follies-this is the trick'


good music invents its own language and rules, presents them, then deviates from them. the boarders are always connected and eroding and corroding, anyone who's been near the river long enough sees the way of these things. Rivers define their own boarders, and push back when it needs to and goes which ever way it wants.


The intellectualization of music is the murder of the muses

for to get hold of the tail of amuse

you must walk in wisdom

and wisdom receives life without question

while intellectualization strangles it with questioning


Rock and roll is a philosophy of musical action 

reared out of spiritualism 

and it allows emotion to command

we know tale tellers and Tolstoy

though they allowed the intellect to talk with its silver tongue

they had rock and roll minds


As far as I've ever been concerned-the word music is equatable with the word 'life', and if you can't experience the magic of music, you can't experience the magic of life


one thing in life is certain:

one is always younger getting older

but that is just the mirage of the body

not to get caught up in


music is not apart from any human activity

just as the cook feeds the musician

so should the musician feed the cook


If a man is too sober and cerebral, too thoughtful and reserved

get him drunk

balancing himself between the excesses


You must at the end of your life

knowing you did all you could as someone who tried to love

not say: i could have loved more


we need a home.

we need to be strong to make our own


No i don't want to grow old,

lest I forget to see, 

and though i may be robbed of sight

it's vision I speak of 


the worst thing to do is not to finish what you start

that is what freedom is

the perseverance though a self determined path


'everybody wants to understand art, why don't they try to understand the song of 

a bird?'


Things are spiritual by way of how they make you feel


when we accuse and anger 

ourselves at groups of people

we speak in action under the veil of words

and in truth

merely the babble of anger is heard in the heavens

not at who 

not why

none matters

for multi linking sources


come through the mouth of a pauper


history is not in the hands of the past

it's the story of humanity

and we tell it by the way we live

every day

and we tell it how we like

whether we stand, bow, repeat anger's thoughts

 or move forward


intelligence is not the understanding of walls but breaking through them


The world we live in is made of representations

never changing its essence

only its skin

and it is the roll of the artist

to make sure the essence is apparent on the skin of every new generation


museums are where the truth goes to grow old and crinkly

it goes there to retire and get old and die

where there's sweat, there you'll find it in the making

and see it in its inception


The only reason why man should read is to unravel the mind

not to entangle it


The spirit you put in to life

is the spirit you get back from it


what use is seeking a good balance of mindfulness and madness

why not not choose complete madness

or complete mindfulness

for from complete madness you'll never attain mindfulness

and from complete mindfulness you'll never want madness


What has merely passed away is without destiny

even before it has passed


If you seek the truth, don't be afraid of the institutions that claim to posses it. 

Say true music is religion but that doesn't mean the means to make music, or the people that facilitate the production of music, or who circulate it are truthful. Though you may think someone spoke the truth it does not mean the deification or that person is the truth. for the truth was there prior to the person.

water must be contained in a form to use it

so it is with truth and people


I think the purpose of life is to travel far without drifting from the centre


Don't let other people's myths overshadow yours


Don't criticize unless you can offer a solution


to create to compete is to foster defeat


discipline is submission, self discipline is freedom


the more you search the harder it is to find


just because someone asks a bad question doesn't mean you should give a badanswer


every day you've got what you take, absorb from the world, then what you produce, what you give


it is true of anyone that they should be creating the free road ahead of them and not the walls around them


fear of death is a fear of life

death is as inevitable as life is now


in every second you breathe

life is inevitable.

life and death are different sides of the same coin

one can only die by negating natural life

affirm impulses while living


Being an artist means being able to convey an irrational truth 

in an intuitively understandable form


an artist has to run towards that which most people run from


Heaven and hell exist on earth, there are hellish people and heavenly people.

Mix that with free will and you can go either way with no one telling you which way to go.

So you have to decide, 

best feel the way blindly 

and think the way blindly

and move forwards dancing upwards instead of downwards

and there are just as many ways to go up as there are to go down

and each one from its own angle and geographical position

age and experience.


As a skipper on a schooner it's important to remember your sailors don't care about what you can't do but what you can do


A plucked parrot said from the zoo once told me: 'travel to explore not to escape'


you don't make yourself a better person by what you own, you become better by what you do.One must be severe and discipline oneself to have an honest sharp mind. the mind is the root of all action


never cower away from that which you esteem as imperfect

something can be learned from everything


you can have it the wrong way round and live in your sleep and sleep in your life


one day i'm going to compensate having short hair by having a long beard


what you surround yourself with, what you read, what you listen to, what you eat, what you do every day becomes who you are. If you don't like it cast it off and start again.

The key to living life is its approach

listen only to your impulses as a measure of rationality

never listen to what you should do.

rationality includes a weighing of emotional impulse


anything that gives you rosy cheeks is good for you




Island Vol III


If you accept illusion you must accept chaos

it's possible you know nothing of neither

you know nothing of the human songs

or the human paintings

of cuts, rifts and shapes

the ones that flow forth as true as anything


the many sided faces

you give faith to chance and flip the coin

only landing on one side though 

others facing forth to flip the way

Flippantly you call it fate

I feel to sing the songs, show your face

your forced to feign and frame the fake 

inside withstanding 

but you're conscious of the game pretending

you're conscious of the tricks you're welding

My acquisition and persistence

 seeks to be honest

and when I swerve the bashing banging clang of past masters

come to get me, 

though I never had any fences, nor no one to tell me how to act

nor professors to correct my stanzas 

I've fallen in traps, many a time

I've stared death straight in the face

not I,

but chaos set me in place

and out of every wall voices from far past a thousand years old

came to call 

To reconfirm faith found

you ask me

Are you an artist?

you'rea joker?

a maker?

you're a player of tricks?

and illusions and things?

you fabricate fake things?

I draw a line in the sand

and step over 

and let go of all points hung on every hand

you think I'm joking?

I'm not hiding my face

the thoughts of the graceful

because no saint is graceful, 

not knowingly, lazarus was a beggar saint, with rips and meat cutlet gravy dripped down his rags with dogs barking and tagging and licking his ankles for bones in the waiting: 'don't worry' he'd tell them, 'I know where we're going'

I'll shout every trace and describe every thought that comes by my way

though birds can do better 

Anyone who's conscious of who he is 

doesn't really know anything at all

or conscious of who he wants to be 

doesn't really know anything at all

I'll craft, or I'll tell you I'll do anything

to make the truth seem like a dance


when I offer my hand

you'll feel its not mine

I don't need eyes to hear the sounds of a mad pianist of three hundred years ago

pound every note unfaltering

I don't care for who they thought it was for 

because everybody really knows every word uttered

every note sputtered or spilled out the frill velvet hands 

and everything ever come in to being

was made for you and me

and not for the dukes or the damsels in castles 

Were all these things self evident?

I am forever finding ways to speak of things unsaid, unbaked in cakes of invention

and I'll be the first to break my own rules

a thousand times over

that is the way of water


No matter what people do in life

whatever specialization they choose

judge them not on what they try to prove 

but on what they do

for you, for their brothers, for one another

for those they'll never discover



An old story tells of banquets thrown on



and heaven

However the table had been set by a mysterious giant with enormous utensils 

on earth people had no idea what to do: how to pick up the spoons and forks and feed them selves, for they were so large. They simply looked in bewilderment at the delicious fruits and knew not what to do, they prayed for an answer but didn't figure anything out.

In hell the people were adamant on feeding themselves, which was impossible for the size of the utensils, but vainly persisted in trying, and so the food began to rot over time and they became weak and starved to death.

In heaven people figured out a solution, and across the table from each other, they realised, though they could not feed themselves, they could feed each other, so they did so with the long utensils and everyone was fed the food from the table.

all the truth   all the lies  all the dreams and nightmares  all come back to belgium.

all the truth 

all the lies

all the dreams and nightmares

all come back to belgium.