Word as Music as Silence as Soul


Words as music – flowing, changing motifs, fluidic and seeping genetic code. Language as art – yabbering strokes of ululation sweeping emotion through my ventricle with the race and rush of finality. Sound as being – arcs of vibrating harmony embalming my flitting, fleeting attention with heady sugars, oozy, pure. Expression as knowing – notes and beats and memes and adrenalines of surfing emotions and words and passions and the desperation of dwindling time. Beat and pause and silence as the great cacophony of our yearning soul…

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Beggar in Rags


A man lay in the street like rags. The whistling cold must surely ravage his soul, his red angry skin stinging my gaze. Not for him, an idle envy or dazed commute. No self-pitying sigh of boredom, no wistful eyes on exposed cleavage. No drudge, no impatience, inward insularity banished by the vengeful calamity of defeat. He could die there where he lay, like rags, and I could die of shame. Shallow breath carries me past his begging cap and cardboard scrawl. I dare not read lest I disbelieve or lay blame straight on him. I hurry by at normal speed, slowed by the pretence of not noticing. And then by him, I am past with great relief, my guilt bellows behind like a vapour trail and I return to my vapid obsessions too quick or not quick enough. Man in the street, dead tonight perhaps and I carry on regardless…

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Immerse! Love as Interstellar Dimension


Just tiny, crepuscular, molten – this human condition, of course. Who will hoist us upwards beyond this perpetual sink? Where lies resolution absolution in the face of chaos? Questions only rebound, their lyrical thunder resoundingly unanswerable outwith our apparatus. And yet how I would immerse! in an interstellar vision of thundering evolution, a dream of hope, of human firmament, of our planted trajectory across a miraculous, curving, dusty universe, the belief in love by far the weightiest faith of all. Love, for us, a ready-made sixth dimension, a covet, a wormhole, a passage in gravity. The sheer fabric of endlessness in and around us, microfibres of time and creation forever destined to pulse and seethe, as love, and sadness, and the glory of peace lives in our prismic, joyful tears of affection.

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Infinite Glory of Music


Limbless music hit my gut with downright tremble. Tremulous cadence wrecked my tears with abstract joy, real it was, so real this pointed pointless encompassing beauty. A life without word, memeless, devoid, filled my senses. The glory of empty, of swimming tentacled amorphs in vacuous space, neon shimmers pulsing with linear abandon – purples, reds, blue flashes of eternity. This delirious monstrous exquisiteness… This universe. This timbre in arpeggiated emotions teeming with pure data and the cosmic knowledge forever unknown to our limited minds. How sumptuous and how fateful to lie, inert, folded, succumbed and bristling, listening to this stellar display of bent sound and furious light. The glory of our hopelessness forever buoyed on the twists and surges of infinite music.

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Eclipsing the Dichotomy


I became convinced that divinity and deliverance lay only in unity, convergence, holism. Collapsing the dichotomy became everything. Dualism was dead, collapsed beneath the sheer weight of passion, the unstoppable drive for emergence. Acceptance of fate traversed the silences between notes and drew them together, most beautifully, into the one. Melnyk, Satie, Frahm astride the piano – there are moments when they stop the anarchy of despair dead in its tracks. How untouched, how untouchable such shining, tremulous eclipses are…

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Tomorrow, Your True Birth


We stagger on today, limp and livid; hurt by the broadsides of our failures, angry, pleading, grasping, clamouring on the phase transition of a major chord change – raging red violas condemning tonight’s dreams to the formless fever of coitus, of the slither of unspeakable hunger that never ceases. Tomorrow, you awake impregnated, impermanent, spent. Arise again and walk face-on into the beautiful torrents…The secret helix of near-infinite data pouring around your shape, swirls and floods of ether cajoling your senses and you run, you race, you rage this time with glory. There shall be no stagger. No fall. Tomorrow is but your true birth.

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Mutability of Soul


I largely saw, I thought, a mathematics of the soul. But then becoming not being became my being and I began again. As the roll and desist of my piano heart, all twist and burgeon, so with this soul, the primacy of time over space in every note, each silence between just breath. The mutability of love, oxygenated by lung, by capillaries of growth and change. A singular universe fraught with beautiful unfoldings and the coursing blood of the ever-new.

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