afterlights

Eratio 2012

2012-02-12T15:53:00.001Z

Here's a link to some poems of mine in the new Eratio:

http://www.eratiopostmodernpoetry.com/issue15_StephenNelson.html

Perfect Fit

2012-02-11T15:04:00.011Z

Where do we fit in the world?

As children - between our parents, a tiny ‘i’ between an ‘f’ and a ‘t’, nurtured, no doubt, or, perhaps, stunted. Eventually the ‘I’ develops, becomes true to itself, or not quite so true. The ‘I’acts, thinks, but never fully realises or understands. To that extent, there is always a degree to which we don’t fit, places we don’t belong, situations which are uncomfortable. But that’s ok. The only place we really need to fit is into our own skin

There’s a passage in the Tibetan Book of the Dead which describes the circumstances surrounding a soul’s rebirth into the physical world we know, where the reasons we are born into a certain family, in a certain place, at a given time are explained as a choice we make in accordance with our karma. Coming from a realm of dark phantoms, all of which are manifestations of our negative and positive tendencies, a kind of hellish zone, the soul has a vision of different couples having sex, and is drawn, through light, to one particular couple in order to enter the womb to unite with the implanted egg of the mother by way of a network of subtle energy channels connecting the spiritual and physical realms.

Mindbending, no doubt, but I mention it as a precursor to a description of a series of dreams I had as a very young child, before the sharp talons of religious belief had a chance to grip me and influence me.

So really I was no more than a babe, a toddler, enclosed by loving parents, fitting nicely into a warm milky world in this strange land called Scotland. My dreams were vivid and recurring, and always involved a being made of light, a humanoid form composed of light among other, similar forms. I wandered the dreamscape (which was by any other name a heaven) as this being, filled with light and peace and bliss, communing with those fellow beings who, I imagined, would go on to become my parents and grandparents because they raditated a kind of familial love. They did, however, warn me that what I was about to undergo would be difficult, a trial, some even pleading with me not to go through with it, but to remain with them in this comfortable light zone. Regardless of the warnings, my mind was set on the journey ahead, and I was drawn, inexorably, to a portal through which I would travel to waking consciousness. And I always awoke, remembering my dream.

Before too long, the Christian culture I was brought up in lead me to impose its own interpretation on the recurring dream, which always felt momentous and hugely significant. I imagined I dreamt about the Holy Spirit. What else could this light being be? Over the years, as my ‘I’ has developed independently, I have come to regard the dream as a kind of memory of pre-existence. I still fit this cosmology into a basic Christian structure - it helps to have context and reference - but I am free to fit it however and wherever and whyever I like.

Sometimes you feel as if you really don't fit in. There’s opposition. Scientific, social and religious orthodoxy are constantly trying to squeeze our experiences into a model they themselves have constructed, and sometimes those experiences just don’t want to be squeezed. Again, that’s ok. I’m not going to butt heads. What I have I hold in my heart and keep fresh there. As long as I fit beneath the loving, milky moon, I have no complaints, and I’m willing to keep quiet and still, until I’m drawn into something limitless and eternal where there is boundless room to fit in and feel exactly how I need to feel.

Until that day . . .

Here's a poem I wrote some time ago in response to the section of the Tibetan Book of the Dead I mentioned. I wrote it in plain language, because that was my only way of responding to something so incredible. That might be no way to write poetry. I don't know. You tell me:

Conception puts an end
to it. A landscape of
mental projections. Experiences,
tendencies. When you
consider the opportunity for light
at release. Unrealised.
The unfathomable
transition. Imagine entering
a hall of seductions, the allure of
desire, materialising on a
footfall. Manifest delight.
Pursuit. The phantoms whipped
up, whisked off, vanishing
under the strain of habitual
grasping. Cravings. Devils.
And monsters. Hideous visions of
residual emotions. Unless you
happen to loose the urgency,
even sympathetic qualities
rear up as temptations. The
grip of accumulation continually
deflects. It may be necessary to
actualise the essence of who
you are. Only possible with
acute attentiveness. A series
of judgements, like stones
on a balance. Black. White.
Countenance. Counting. Encounter.
A vision of couples, copulating. That
sudden pull towards an opening.
Entrance, entranced. Connecting
with the seed of matter, a root
in water. Cells demystified.
Womb lit. A patterning growth.
Ghost parents shaped from form. The
surge and trauma blueprint. Caught
in floating transition. Then light,
gross, material, once seen,
less remembered. The bardo of
embodiment. Life.

Unconditional

2012-02-08T18:46:00.007Z

Out of the winter blue I receive a text, and the text is from my sister who has taken time out of her busy day to send it, and in sending it and in what it says, she has given something of herself which is clear and clean and true to my recent thoughts – a gift, out of the winter blue.

The text quotes a writer I love, who says that God gives Himself to us in every created thing. So I stop, and look around, and see in people and places and things, what I’ve been given. Our food is the will of God, which is, quite simply, reality unfolding moment by moment as a loving gift.

By sending the text, my sister created a space for me to witness beauty in a shopping mall, in a bus ride, in a view over a rail track. She also created space for me to write a poem, and helped me notice something tiny and lovely hidden behind a wall where the bus stops.

The tiny spores or buds growing out of the moss took my breath away. A little colony. A tiny community. Delicate. Fragile. And, incredibly, host to an infinite grace in their smallness. Another gift on a day of gifts.

It Must Pass

2012-02-04T12:03:00.004Z

The moment you read this you surrender to the moment you read this. Where is the ‘I’? It is lost in the momen t.

From whence does the moment arise? Not so much from the preceding moment, but from inside the Whole.

Reading is a supremely sacrificial act. Unless the reader imposes his ego on the text, she absorbs it, digests it, allows it to nourish her, thus distinguishing herself from ego. The Self growing out of ego, replacing it.

Yesterday, for some reason, I was a little fretful, a tad anxious. In the city I was overcome by an array of sensory stimuli. Crowds, street music, beautiful girls. Somehow, I lost myself, became a feather swept up in the wind. I went for coffee and decided I had to retune to the reality of the moment. I had to sacrifice my senses and become aware of what was immediate, what was essential. Instantly, I felt a joy within me, and left the coffee shop looking around, completely unselfconscious, taking in the people, the faces, the lovely children. Soon I was caught up a stream of wonderful coincidence.

For some reason I had it in mind that I had to shop at my local Sainsbury’s when I got off the train back home, and fumbled about in my pocket for a £1 coin which I’d need to unlock a shopping trolley. Finding only a £2 coin, I decided I’d change it for two singles at the nearby Catholic bookshop and give £1 to the beggar lady outside. My coin was met by scrutiny and suspicion by the strangely anxious nun at the till, but she managed to change me and I left the shop, still in the moment, still full of joy, still closed off from the excitement of the city. When I handed over the spare £1 coin, I was met by the touch of the Romanian beggar lady’s swollen arthritic hand, and immediately recoiled in revulsion.

Now it turns out I had already decided earlier in the day that I didn’t need to go to Sainsbury’s after all, so my excursion to change the coin was entirely unnecessary, and my confusion served only to allow me to feel the touch of that beggar lady’s hand and confound the suspicious nun. But it doesn’t stop there.

On the train on the way home, I sat across from a really tall, thin, effeminate guy, an odd looking young chap who looked around nervously, reached over to me and asked me to open his bottle of Irn Bru because it was too tight and his hands apparently weren’t strong enough. (Me with my arthritic guitar player’s hands!) I laughed and took the bottle, struggled a little with the tight cap but managed to open it, handing it back to the nervous hands of the effeminate young man.

Those hands! A coincidence of hands, of being in the right place because of a momentary confusion of intention, because I had shut myself off to the thrill of the city’s stimuli and entered a realm of grace among a marginalised minority. Or so it seemed to me. Being in the moment, swept into a channel of joy, underneath the attachment to attraction and physical desire.

Christ is the ecstasy of the moment fully realised.

Pierced

2012-02-01T19:03:00.002Z

The yogis talk about a drop of nectar in the heart which, if pierced, releases an ocean of bliss into the body. Sounds nice. Bliss is always good. But remember the part about the piercing.

Christ was pierced and all that spilled was a cupful of blood. Or perhaps there was more. Ask St Theresa. The ecstasy of divine love through the arrow of suffering.

Whatever the case, you can't rush bliss. You have to pause. Wait. Feel the heat, the knife, the red hot tip entering the heart. And the slow drip of love.

Comma. Pause. Love.

Otoliths 24

2012-01-31T23:32:00.003Z

Here's a link to some asemic photos of mine in the new Otoliths, which, as always, is full of Southerly goodness:

http://the-otolith.blogspot.com/2012/01/stephen-nelson.html

The Eye of Silence

2012-01-30T11:12:00.010Z

If I was true to my truest Self, I would sit in silence for the rest of my life. Since the world however, makes demands of me, and I have to move through it, I have to move through it as a poet.

The true Self is secretive, hidden in the eye. So the only way to uncover it is by gazing longingly into the eye of another. The true Self is really only found in another. Once it is found it is stirred to sound, to make language. These tiny movements of language are the true sound of the Self in the world.

Tiny movements, tiny sounds. The still, small voice. 'Ah', 'E', 'I'. The sounds of our deepest Selves, stirred from silence, gazing longingly on the world.

2012-01-30T11:11:00.001Z

sumMmit

The Dream of Ailsa Craig as a Concrete Poem

2012-01-28T12:29:00.008Z

Ailsa Craig is a volcanic plug in the Firth of Clyde, off the Ayrshire coast where I holidayed in Girvan as a child. It's a beautiful green/grey rock which sometimes wears a hat, sometimes wears a skirt. For a while now I've been dreaming of Ailsa, not as memory, but in a more mysterious, perhaps symbolic, perhaps even revelatory way. It occured to me that She is a natural object of contemplation, whose beauty appeals to the human gaze and naturally touches the human heart. So perhaps, I thought, the dreams are speaking to that part of me which is contemplative; so the rock becomes a symbol of the Self immersed in awareness of Itself, a symbol of the meditative state. Seems plausible. Often the dreams involve images of multiple Ailsas arranged in hilly, rocky clumps along the horizon; often they are shadowed, dark, misty. Perhaps then these multiple Ailsas are symbols of the divided Self, fragmetation, parts of my psyche which aren't wholly integrated. Do I sound like a Jungian? Well, maybe I am.

The rock is of course a huge letter in the middle of the sea - a glorious 'e' surrounded by wind & waves. She tells tales of an ancient past in her curling outline and deep rooted plug. And an 'e' is of course wholly, logically geological. To me at least. In my dreams, where language is picture and picture is language. Dreams as concrete poetry!

Blo

2012-01-28T11:35:00.000Z

Cine-Real

2012-01-24T20:08:00.004Z

It's my dad's birthday today, or rather, the day of his incarnation, his earthdom, his physication. This is for him in the afterlife - the layers of reality peeling away new landscape's revealed all languages his. It might even be a new direction, or the first in a series of experiments, or something that's been tried a thousand times before.

(You might need to click on and zoom in to read the back text code. That's something I'll develop if there are any more of these.)

Envelope Pension Poems

2012-01-22T11:40:00.006Z

Yesterday, while dinner was being prepared at my sister's home, I started doodling on an envelope lying at the table, addressed to my grandpa who is now in hospital suffering very late stage Alzheimer's, but somehow still managing to channel a grace towards his family. I sketched a truly awful visual poem and a couple of tiny texts, then my sister added this, which I rather liked, as it reflected the way we were going to eat dinner:

tray knee trainee

The best of my own efforts was probably this concrete mini:

pin

pen
pense
pension
tension
tense
ten

tin

Not very good but still reflecting the content of the envelope, information regarding my grandpa's pension, with a rather pretentious nod to the French "pense" - "think".

There was this too:

"pense yawn"

and a lot of other punny poems, again with a nod to the pension and the dinner being prepared and the family gathering around us.

What mattered was the collective input while the more important task of food preparation was on the go. A kind of poetry cook show. And of course the meal itself, which I don't have any photos of, was delicious, all the more for the words which surrounded it.

Later we wrote a play, a male equivalent of The Vagina Monologues called "Penis Patter - Practise & Malpractise, the Ins & Outs". It had everything - politics, religion, sex, laughter, conflict. A true gem!

Weirdness

2012-01-22T11:35:00.003Z

Leaf Garden Press - Three really weird stories of mine are out now in this lively journal, so weird, I wonder if it was me who wrote them. I think it was, a while ago, but only now seeing the light of day. Weird!

Lago Ga Necro Raguu

2012-01-15T21:43:00.000Z

Lago Ga Necro Raguu

A sound poem to roll around yer ears.

2012-01-15T17:46:00.002Z

the the that's that

2012-01-15T17:46:00.001Z

waspth ought

2012-01-15T17:45:00.002Z

(who holds who)

2012-01-15T17:45:00.001Z

the coil of the kettle's &lement

Tiny Sequins

2012-01-14T16:07:00.006Z

seed
seed
seed
seeq
seeq
seeq

seequeencee

*

sleeb
sleep

slab
slap

slob
slop

slong

*

leafmute

laughmute

logmute

*

lakelicklakelicklakelick lap

*

loguence

eloguence

eeloguencee

sinfin

*

sinfin
sinfin
sinfinitymphony

Chatelerhaut 2012

2012-01-11T20:46:00.000Z

Little Red Leaves Textile Series

2012-01-02T23:04:00.005Z

A nice start to the New Year!

I'm delighted that my chapbook "YesYesY" has been selected for the Little Red Leaves Textile Series. It should be out later in the year. These chapbooks are remarkable hand sewn objects, very beautiful and delicate, and made from such stuff as sheets and shower curtains. Look out for my book, or better yet, subscribe to the whole series at the website.

All the very best for 2012! If the world does end, it'll be with a whimper, or a long slow exhausted exhalation! But you can always read my chapbook on the way out!

Belonguish

2011-12-19T20:37:00.000Z

Extension no.112 (Finland)

2011-12-14T16:35:00.002Z

Here's a link to a piece for my friend Satu Kaikkonen

owlf/lowf/wolf

2011-12-05T12:15:00.000Z

A Quick Word in Yer Ear

2011-12-05T11:46:00.005Z

I've really only been posting random found text and the occasional doodle of late. Most of my work has veered in directions which don't quite fit the blog, but I really want to keep plugging away here and had thought about posting thoughts, reflections, rants which don't really relate to the work as such. We'll see about that.

In the meantime, I'll just say that a lot of the poems I've been writing have been abstract experiments which I wanted to try out on a few journals rather than post here. There's been some success so far and a few are due out in online magazines next year. I've also been writing a prose book about Christian spirituality which I hope to finish this month. It's nice to write prose. I get all lyrical and elevated, which is what poetry can be, though not really for me. I guess I'm a poet who likes to write prose. My collection, Lunar Poems for New Religions, is also due out from Colin Herd's anything anymore anywhere press next year. More about that soon.

There will be more found text, some window doodles (see above) and I'm hoping to make some sound poetry songs (perhaps in the new year), along with the occasional finished concrete piece. So, forward, with gusto, to the dying of the year and on . . .

It's snowing here in the West of Scotland. Lovely, but dirty too because of all the mucky tyre tracks along the street. How easily beauty is spoiled! (Told you I get lyrical around prose!) So here's a little pwoermd of winter wonderment:

swow

Something is telling me I should also be posting some spontaneous experimental utterances along the lines of random typing figures, so here's a little of that too:

sm#ll one way to go on out of utter udderance.

Jings, that was liberating!

Love & peace through the deep dark winter . . .

Stephen.

The Bionic Dream Blink Lifecycle

2011-11-28T18:57:00.000Z

Hola

2011-11-13T16:28:00.000Z

DeNiro

2011-11-13T16:27:00.001Z

Flock

2011-11-08T18:25:00.000Z

Eleganza (Refurbished)

2011-11-02T11:35:00.000Z

Tyre Tyer Tire Tier Text

2011-10-31T16:29:00.014Z

2011-10-31T11:53:00.001Z

blue aum auto hum

Zen Concrete

2011-10-23T12:08:00.000+01:00

Troll Bridge

2011-10-12T22:29:00.004+01:00

White Trawler

2011-10-08T12:50:00.000+01:00

Equi's Cloth.

2011-10-01T17:00:00.004+01:00

lefan

cydr

ess.

(poem taken from an advertisement on the back of a bus, Peacock Cross, Hamilton)

Hosanna in the Skies Above the Dome of the Virgin Princess

2011-09-30T12:02:00.000+01:00

Moon Moss Growth Writ

2011-09-29T20:03:00.008+01:00

No Matter

2011-09-29T16:58:00.002+01:00

Puppy Dog Dream Poem

2011-09-27T19:03:00.008+01:00

waver
/aviary

ever
/livery

hover
/ovary

s
nail
s
s
s
nail
s

(I wrote this poem in a dream last night where I was talking with the Scottish poet nick-e melville. What can it mean?)

Eternity Grit

2011-09-25T20:03:00.001+01:00

Funkrite

2011-09-14T20:33:00.001+01:00

2011-09-06T20:09:00.001+01:00

storment

On Seeing a Fly on the Window of a Bus

2011-09-06T16:19:00.004+01:00

little fl
y God is with th
y wings

21st Century Saviour

2011-09-06T16:13:00.004+01:00

[or)

Wild Light

2011-09-05T23:33:00.001+01:00

Eyes, Nose, Fancy Moustache

2011-09-04T16:36:00.000+01:00

Adirondack Issue

2011-09-01T20:17:00.002+01:00

Some images of mine in the new issue of The Adirondack Review.

Frozen Fake Off

2011-08-31T16:08:00.002+01:00

Paper Paste Pole

2011-08-31T16:08:00.001+01:00

Pavement Glyph with Gum Stain

2011-08-31T16:06:00.000+01:00

Super Conscious Memory Curtains

2011-08-30T13:13:00.003+01:00

Slow Foot Disintegration Text

2011-08-28T17:50:00.006+01:00

Minimal Poems for a Cruel World

2011-08-26T16:04:00.002+01:00

s

up

s

p

os

e

s

ip

s

p

is

s

*

park
barking

*

mink ease

*

purpless
people

*

now
a
dose

any
thing
gays

Sick Note

2011-08-16T17:23:00.002+01:00

in pain in leaf in relief

(composed while waiting for a prescription at Boots Pharmacy, 16th August 2011)

Elephantasy

2011-08-15T11:24:00.000+01:00

Yeshua Song

2011-08-07T16:42:00.001+01:00

Yeshua Song by Stephen Nelson2670

Otoliths Away!

2011-08-01T12:16:00.002+01:00

Sorry things have been a bit slow around here again. Here are some tiny poems of mine at Otoliths to keep you going. Peace!

Holy Ghostburn

2011-06-20T19:26:00.004+01:00

The Bield - Perthshire - 2010

2011-06-20T13:46:00.011+01:00

(Here's a piece written in response to Andrew Philip's call for poets to write about their holiday reading, which in itself was a response to an article in The Guardian, I think, notable for its absence of holiday poetry titles.)

Not so much a holiday . . . more a . . .

retreat retreat retreat

retreat retreat

retreat

Thomas A. Clark in a walled garden paradise with a cat on my lap lazily sharpening its claws on my thigh; Thomas A. Clark before and after a long walk through hazy woods, stopping to sit on a bench in a bower while red deer leap through wheat fields skirting the trees; Thomas A.Clark as I walk the stony path back to the retreat house, small birds skirling a network of whistles in the hedgerow.

THE HUNDRED THOUSAND PLACES

....................................................

.................................................... x100,000

The lady who runs the retreat house asked to see my book. Perhaps she expected an old contemplative classic, perhaps something by Thomas Merton or Henri Nouwen. I told her it was a book of poetry. I told her I was a poet.

“Really?” she said, “How wonderful!”

A book about walking, mindfully.

His walk

My walk

His walk

My . . .

walk

wauk

wok

wind

waak

wawk

awk

wack

waulk

wind

wlka

wak

wuak

kwo

kwa

kaw

wind

The green grass glowing. The huge sequoia drum trunk. The labyrinth, in and out of myself. The girl with the burn marks all down her face and arms, stumps for hands. Lying in the grass as rain clouds gathered overhead. Walking, mindfully. Listening, mindfully, Reading, mindfully.

I finished the book that weekend, and it added to the experience of retreat, of silence. And it made me want to find a place to be like this constantly. In the HUNDRED THOUSAND PLACES, at once, one by one, as the mind stretches outside time and into singularity of experience. Only the poets can speak of this.

womiggge

2011-06-17T17:18:00.003+01:00

Mars Oil

2011-06-16T14:00:00.000+01:00

Harmonium

2011-06-16T13:59:00.000+01:00

cat/caught

all those dreams
oceans

the most hideous scream
tearing at the curtains

demon demon demon demonstrate

When I saw you talking to my mother I expected a novelty embrace. Your mind is full of art stars and mood music. Creativity claps then collapses at the first sign of industry.

We spin to a magnanimous karma and your ripe cheeks and tumbling hair have poured into my life at the most opportune moments. I remember when you fasted for my father.

berries

berries

a lunar eclipse

There are parallels, I know, circles and shapes that bespeak an elegant geometry.

Tell me how you were delivered.

Tell me how they brought you home.

Tell me how they nursed you.

A decaying mansion sits on the water while the sun fires the hillside sound of laughter in the garden.

cat/cat/boat/harmonium

Cell Crust

2011-06-15T17:07:00.004+01:00

Sprout Nook

2011-06-15T16:12:00.001+01:00

Angel Dust

2011-06-14T20:51:00.001+01:00

Granite

2011-06-14T11:59:00.012+01:00

Magpie'd (For Greg Evason)

2011-06-14T11:44:00.002+01:00

not only
is she
dismissive
of my
perception
of the world's
constituent parts
but she seems
to want to
impose the matter
on me though
cold outside &
wet for june
with train tracks
running behind the
out patient's clinic
how easy to escape
the margins
without even
bothering
to inform the
pharmacist
magpies
gently
hallucinating
summer

It Didn't Take Long

2011-06-14T11:41:00.001+01:00

OK the quickest comeback since Ali, or Sinatra. I couldn't stay away. A blogger has to blog regardless of quality, reputation, blood sugar level. Afterlights forever!

A Bit o' News

2011-06-11T10:22:00.000+01:00

I probably won't be blogging for a while. I think it's come to the end of the road for now. I'm going to keep afterlights open and I may return to it at some point, but, for the time being, I'll only be publishing in journals, where possible of course, and will keep interested readers informed through Facebook. So thanks for following and cheerio for now. It's been fun!

Starry Rhymes

2011-06-10T09:39:00.003+01:00

I've got work in this exciting anthology of Ginsberg tributes. Go buy yourself a copy!

Jah Flood

2011-06-10T09:13:00.008+01:00

A piece at Moria, with two more in the sequence following:

Amazon Jungle Poem

2011-06-08T00:29:00.003+01:00

plan
plan
plant

ant
planet

plant
planet

plane
plane
plaint

ant
plane

taint
plan

tonsure

t t t t t t t
t t t t t t
t t t t t
t t t t
t t t
t t
t

Birthday Poem for Shona

2011-05-25T19:51:00.004+01:00

shona
shone,

shin
shining,

shy
yet

shin
shining,

shone.

S*H*O*N*A

shingle shone

long gone gangling
gone

for SEAN,
for JOHN,
for SEAN JOHN.

Shin shiner

S*H*O*N*A S*H*I*N*A

Sheen Shimmy / Shun Shimmy / Shine Shimmy

for tunes
fortunes

in futures
for shona

fortunes
fortuitous
fort u itis

fortunes for shona in futures
for shining

four tons of fortunes

for shona
infutures

for SHONA in future******************* to SHINE********************

"cut and shut" - for Colin Herd

2011-05-05T20:28:00.001+01:00

2011-05-02T19:23:00.002+01:00

A minimalist sequence of mine at the lovely BlazeVox.

t,horn,c,orner,s

2011-04-11T18:58:00.002+01:00

2011-04-03T12:48:00.001+01:00

pinion onion opinion

2011-04-01T12:25:00.000+01:00

rice crumb microbe

2011-04-01T12:11:00.002+01:00

InterNaPwoWriMo over at ach/och

2011-03-23T12:11:00.000Z

a bandit dawn

abandon

a band at dawn

abandoned

2011-03-23T12:10:00.000Z

flaminghost

Eight Pieces Of Broken Poetry

2011-03-23T01:35:00.005Z

virgin mint dentistry

alpine pandemonium

money hair harmonious

limits of lineament & ligament

bamboo buddha dazzle

rocket crockery

indigenous cavern vertigo

rat star

2011 Mash-Up

2011-03-17T17:21:00.000Z

Spirit Nectar and the Karmic Fontanelle

2011-02-25T12:10:00.001Z

2011-02-20T15:17:00.001Z

macaroon caribou ruins

Lilt

2011-02-16T23:09:00.003Z

Those cone combed faerie folk, swinging
from the chandeliers again, thinly cultured,
parasitically drunk on foam fume foam
and ragged pop,
I take a torch to them!
I take a torch to them! -
mad egg that I am –
and scatter and evolve my way
through bucketloads of DMT,
pinioned on an oozing pineal gland.
We have the zest! - And the
s-q-u-a-s-h pip puck sucking energy target, Wee Willie Winkie’s
eyeball to brain overheard a woman,
talking to a man,
the sweetest whisper in the slipsky

night. Open tear ducts to
champagne and let the love monkeys
feast the relevant scientific data,
leafy canopies, jungle berries,
squashed ginseng energy drinks
propped on beachy
health trends. In my

room, I’m swift to ignore the wind-down
sprite jerks juiced on play junk
from the juice yard. Terence had a zinger
that he bought from Dr Leary twice
the price and sold to me as
untamed shamanism.

It's All Happening!

2011-02-14T13:48:00.004Z

A conversation between myself and Jim Murdoch at Jim's blog, The Truth About Lies. Plus, a profile of yours truly at the Salt Blog, promoting the Crawshaw Prize. It's all happening!

The Crashaw Prize

2011-02-01T16:44:00.001Z

I've been shortlisted for the Crawshaw Prize, which is really rather nice!

Ymerge

2011-01-26T23:14:00.000Z

Oompaloops

2011-01-26T22:53:00.002Z

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Oceanic Poems

2011-01-24T12:55:00.002Z

hauling dolphins over islands

*

disc fuss

*

hover flyover

*

out with out consulting her

*

honey tree bee

*

sea
shore
shop

*

beetroot copulation

*

drawn from the dream pool

Hazey

2011-01-13T20:57:00.002Z

hoverjoy

2011-01-13T20:56:00.001Z

Review

2011-01-11T19:27:00.002Z

Colin Herd reviews my chapbook, Flylyght.

Minimalist Chapbook at Scribd (click on)

2011-01-08T15:07:00.002Z

jet...is...on

Cosmic Lust

2011-01-08T12:00:00.001Z

2011-01-07T16:21:00.000Z

silver train tip
roar of crow's
wing

'I'

2011-01-06T20:34:00.003Z

object to
object

as is is in

- losing mind mid mind

6 Short 'O' Poems

2011-01-06T19:29:00.004Z

Glory or or glory.

Open arms
hold up
in

His gone protects you.

No more but also -

What mode amid dim nor dead.

fear four fear four