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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Allusive Truth


The archetype was just an idea he said, I said no it’s more. It’s less too it’s hard to describe I said. As music conveys feeling I said, that we cannot pin down, so archetypes carry something too. What he asked. A kind of truth maybe a code even I thought. I was unsure then if I’d said it out loud. A kind of truth maybe a code even, just to be sure. But music is concrete he complained, it’s sensual, right there in your ears in your brain in, in…in. You feel the feelings. He was italicising now. But you feel the archetype when it, well, I can’t say when it expresses itself I said, because what just is doesn’t then speak, but you feel it without knowing mostly.  I said I said. It frightens me he whispered. What on earth is this thing that is always there but we always miss!? Exclaimed question rose through his panicked larynx, a manifestation of the archetype of vocalisation machinery and all possible larynxes. I think it’s the answer to our purpose I said, the question to our truth, the truth rather. Emphasis and tremulous breath now with me. He was quietly shaking his head, a way of agreeing. We looked straight at each other. In the middle of our gaze, rays of light met and transfigured themselves yet again ad infinitum but still it was out of our reach. My eyes darted around the vacuum but actualisation hid from view as always. For now, I said. We are coming, we are coming I said and turned away.

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Vagabond Delirium


I am but half of what I would be. But I have abandoned hope before I am abandoned. Dostoevsky. Jung. Loft me high. My bracket hero Beckett. How fulesomely dark the angular shadow of his juxtaprose. How narrow my chordless dream before now. How sleep calls at times odd and abrasive to the endeavour of prising open the archetype. These feeble febrile volleys of pea-shot against a leaden armour. Nietzsche. Cioran, his infant. Salvos and volleys again, here, you see, some striking, micro-dusty shrapnel just. The inscrutable becomes the truth. The undermining of language topples nothing – not yet – but I excavate more. Deep. Flagellating the foundations. Pushing. Creeping. Brushing away in the dust and heat of this furious impenetrable monolith, shadowless, heartless. This anger rising, imploring, screaming, an answer! Give me an answer! Do you damn me to my art forever?! Hell me down to this fatuous seething desire this agony of punctuation syntax me into spiralling depths of sensuality untouched. Touch me with your great reveal. Give me a little death le petit mort at the hands of your linguistic cosmogenic glory. Language no fucking accident of evolution, all part of the epochal unwind…purity, extreme, finite…words as pick-axe, mad hammerings disguising a font beneath the rambling inchoate – the drunk vagabond echoing his delirium back across the courtyard and from afar, seeps through windows open and to an ear-drum resonance. Bolt upright! What divine effusive elusive meaning in that far-off babble?! Incoherence suddenly smashed and all harmonics coalesce on an amplitude of such pregnant uneasy joy that the contents of my mind my veins my stomach my scrotum my soul my oxygenated eyes prepare to ascend, to begin the heinous exquisite descent to the realisation that you deny me. You will deny us no more…

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The Birth of Truth


That feeling I have. You know it. That sense of otherness. That knowing that more lies beneath and behind and in-between. I wanted to wake up transformed today; able to see it, to say it, to be it. But still I merely skirt. I’m pressing gingerly on a great opaque veil. I don’t know what happens if you burst the seal inadvertently. What phantasms, what hideous glories are revealed? For there is indeed revelation ahead. The untapped. The undiscovered. The denied. I cannot quite encapsulate, adrift in the murky middle-ground, but it will be. The arts, the sciences, the fates will unwrap all of this in the folds and forces of time. Our place. Our purpose. Our reality. Uncovered. How when who what it cannot yet be said but these millennia of scratching and probing and the knowing of the great artists and philosophers will come home. The truth is yet to be born but it will come…

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Beckett. Proust. Elucidatory Genius.


Beckett. Proust. Beckett. Proust. Binary bilateral uncovering. Decoupling before and after a tryst amongst the detritus of spent words. Heave ho these heavy ripe admonishments down down here beneath the veneer, below our hearing frequency. Those deep resonances between time’s angles which we cannot see cannot hear only feel in chiming moments of elucidatory genius. Beckett. Proust. The unwrapping. The projection. The sub-retinal acuity of what lies beneath and beyond. Beckett. Proust.

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Love at Scale


The vacuous hilarity of the universe’s preposterous scale – its delicious, breathless gravity around our infinitesimal speckle of dust – fill me, on the full moon, with emblazened wonder,  the distilled, anti-nihilism of how little any of this, the zeitgeist, the encyclopaedic history, the mundanity of personal existence can truly, deeply, madly matter one jot, with all the relief, the freedom from angst and the release from mortal fear that brings. And yet in this mere Petri-dish of our world and microbial, fleeting, lives within it, how beautifully clear it still becomes, without contradiction, that it is still our monumental all and everything, how privileged any existence is, most of all a conscious one and how the loss of fear and the untrammelled embrace of love in its glorious, modest, enlivening entirety is the only rational response for those who choose to live.

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