Inordinate Desire


Like the throbbing allusive vapour of despair around the mirage that pretends to save,

Like the implausible 3 a.m. animal howl of an urban myth, too intangible to abate, too real to get back to sleep,

Like Halley’s Comet, dripping with the momentary fireball of lifetime promise, then cast blazing, forward in time, to await the eyes of souls not yet even born,

Like the malformed memory of a misremembered death, morphing its grief betwixt a miscarried soul…all this a morbid, malignant entity that broke all tethers,

Like the ruined temple, a shrine of old which the wind will not demit, where ancient voices of promise and pleading plague the serenity with the chill of a discordant history,

Like the fear of existing in time – “can you touch the unstitched seams” – an icy terror which ravishes my sweating, mouthless nights of distilled detachment,

Like the shining, pregnant words of a woman in the deep, flourescent grace of weightless freefall, the words now locked away in a closet of distrust, the orbit crashed into the tattered rocks of oblivion,

Thus you came into my life with all the sweet brutality of dissipation; the seeping, honeyed remonstration of inordinate desire; the moonstruck disequilibrium of a jarring seismic love; the tender acuity of poetry in the great throes of hallucination,

And then you were gone. My atomic structure amended, my mutation reconfigured again, and finally, into this ceaseless, weightless, directionless fountain of light and despair, this self-fulfilling deconstruction of man, word and the real, illusory, tangible, empyreal, inevitable, impossible love that pervades and eludes all organic aberrations.


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Velvetine Hips


The velvet of your stare,
The elocution of your hair,
The way your skin exudes,
Your sensuality it broods,
And broods my imagination,
Making you the destination
Of my homage, my thirst;
Bestow to you my hungry worst,
And my best erotic remiss
Of touch, of hallucinogenic kiss 
Of your denouement lips,
And urgent velvetine hips.

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Where Word Belongs to Man


Do not mistake art for theology, evangelicalism, philosophy or even for a cohesive worldview.

Art is the sacred space where the human spirit can ride free in unfathomable, overlapping, tangential ethers, without fear of admonishment, annihilation or the madness of crowds.

It is the supreme realm of soul expression; the inquisitorial and creative drive of consciousness alive.

If God exists, then art may be his greatest non-sacrificial gift to those he has made sentient. If he does not exist, then art becomes the divine providence of the indubitable cry of indivisible, individual and collective souls across all of expressive history.

Art is the place where we can fail to know what we mean yet still mean it; the place where we know that we fail, yet still wish it; the place where love, hate, bliss and agony can change clothes without limit of imagination; it is the place where hope lives inside despair, without specific, preordained or prescribed precepts as to what constitutes deliverance.

Art is the soul of the imagination; the imagination may or may not align to great rocks of divine and immutable truth, but it is its own truth.

Art is the place where word belongs to man and not to God. This implies nothing about the existence of God. Art may be the place where we realise God without knowing it, or it may be the place where we console ourselves most mightily, most fervently, if he does not exist.

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Crown of Thorns


“I am condemned like all great condemned men to always feel that it is better to think than to live” (Fernando Pessoa)

I share Pessoa’s faith, his reason, even. But I do not feel so condemned. For to live without thinking, is to die the death of an animal, untouched by the great agony and the great joy of the true isolation of our souls in space time.

* * *

Faith gets us nowhere other than lost in the mire of whether or not our faith will deliver us, to which those of faith respond with more fervent faith. Go figure, one might argue.

Reason also gets us nowhere but it gets us there quicker and there is no entry requirement of gambling our soul on a hunch, or on thousands of years of accumulated fable, as wise and illustrative as much of it may be.

When all seems lost, it is, ironically, reason that suggests faith may be the answer, aloft on a logic that our faith may have been insufficient to prevent the catastrophe which has befallen us. If only it had been sufficient, if only it were now ample and resolute enough, then, reason be, faith be, I shall (perhaps, hopefully, probably, no definitely be saved, yes, yes, definitely). If I am saved, eventually, I can thank my faith. If I am not, I can disown my faith as too weak, my sin as beyond redemption, and resort to underlying reason after all.

* * *

I have no faith. I have no reason. I am an entity in time subject to the refracting light of prismatic experience and the overtures of my biochemical glory, all folly, hunger and marvel that it is. I am proud to be a carcass from which words vent forth. I have no other purpose. Love is beyond me, but I shall not be loveless, for in word, good and bad word, lies affection and the gravity of souls towards flashes of inimical truth. And love is an inimical truth, no question, one whose crown of thorns is intrinsic to human consciousness. The pain is the very proof of life. 

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Dadaist Pig Dream


With incremental imprecision I laid out words which pulsated with the red dismay of the abattoir line. I am here to kill George, I said. Nobody heard me. Or at least nobody answered me. But then why would a line of pigs awaiting a stun bolt through their skull any second answer to the name of a human man? And come to think of it, pigs can’t talk.

I felt overwhelmed with compassion for these animals and awash with guilt for eating their flesh. They looked beautiful in all their snuffling, innocent ugliness. They all looked resigned, not afraid, which made it all worse. Then I remembered Patagonia. A wildlife documentary. Seals eat little penguins. Orcas eat seals. People eat pigs. I knew this was reason, a justifying rainfall of logic and deduction, but in truth I wasn’t here to eat pig, only to kill George. The problem was, I couldn’t remember why. In fact, I couldn’t remember who I was all of a sudden. I must be in a dream and I heard Cobb say, from somewhere beyond the dream, if it was one, that in a dream you never remember how you got there.

I knew that the dream was over, big style. I stepped down the layered words that must have brought me here, with a great deal more precision than I had erected them. And even if I had had the guts to see it through with George, I’d seen enough of the look of blood to come, in those agonised, melancholic pig eyes, that, even if I’d been able to remember who George was, why I wanted to kill him, and who in fact I am, I would still have chosen the surface, the desperate swim back, up, in the cold dark, to so-called consciousness, where, from within the dream, and one’s ever-emerging awareness of being within it, a great, chilling illusory façade lures us, waking and screaming into the shocking reality that we are, God help us, in actual fact, still awake and only trying to escape in the other direction from the one we’ve been supposing the whole time, to the world of dream reality, where George and slaughter-lines of baying, bloodied animals on hooks don’t exist. I closed my eyes tightly, sweat beading and prayed for sleep.

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Infinite Pulsar of Words


The words came tumbling out,
Incoherent, I heard my hurt shout,
I knew not what I uttered,
Heart stutters that I muttered.
Motion surrounds me, whirling,
Dizziness abounds me, swirling.
I, Dervish, spin in time to heartbeats,
Racing pulses, gravity, ego conceits,
Burgeoning my arcing path
With the unlogic of emotional math,
As I turn and burn, faster, blurring
Into furthest space, dreams slurring
Like the loss of ages old,
Stories by sages told,
Of destiny, of the word of man
As the only spinning masterplan.
And I spin my words faster, faster,
This infinite mass pulsar, my glorious disaster.

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Flourescent Wakenings


The bizarre daydream of your hand in slow motion, its parabolic arc, as droplets of water fire off the tensile fingers, like the coloured streaks of a Catherine Wheel kaleidoscopic explosion.

* * *

The stained and empty cup before me. A sickly green colour with half-hearted, inane striping around the middle. The pointless nothingness of design in the face of love’s cheap glaze, in which the cup appears to have been dipped, and which barely reflects the fluorescent lights above it. The hot drink within it no longer within it, consigned to an equally non-reflective history. What happened to the moment that I began to drink it? I was in that moment. What happened to the moment that we met? Was I in that?

* * *

Ludovico Einaudi’s piano meanders in from another room, alongside the churning, groaning washing machine nearby. Is one the soundtrack to the other, or are they both the great melodramatic movie score of this settled, unsettled reality of my life? White noise and music abounds in my soul as I consign myself to standing up from this hard wooden chair in a moment, placing the cup in the sink, undressing and washing away the dream, yet again, in the thunderous miasma of the steaming shower. Oh how I would evaporate…

* * *

“I’ve witnessed, incognito, the gradual collapse of my life, the slow foundering of all I wanted to be. I can say, with a truth that needs no flowers to show it’s dead, that there’s nothing I’ve wanted – and nothing in which I’ve placed, even for a moment, the dream of only that moment – that hasn’t disintegrated below my windows like a clod of dirt that reassembled stone until it fell from a flowerpot on a high balcony. It seems that Fate has always made me love or want things just so that it could show me, on the very next day, that I didn’t have and could never have them.” (Fernando Pessoa)

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