no reassurance on the path

Drastic transition;
raw, vulnerabewildering
exdentity, extasy,
catastrophe, epiphany
shedding skin.

Deliver me
from the nostalgia
for safety, comfort and ease.

Fabrication, confabulation:
we make the path as we go,
minding matter into meaning…
moulting myself, moshmeaningfully.

[Read more…]

infinity from a cell

I’ve got a million secrets,
none of ’em i can tell,
I hide ’em all
in a prickly shell.
it’s my home
when i’m alone,
and i can see all infinity from in my cell.

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Bomb Shelter goes song

Most of religion is dedicated to creating a bomb shelter and calling it hope.
I’m gonna build me a bomb shelter and call it hope,
I’m gonna fix me a faith ’cause I need my dope,
I’m gonna climb right in when I’m at the end of my rope,
’cause I don’t want to fall
’cause I don’t want to fall
’cause I don’t want to fall…

[Read more…]


There’s a window
out at the edge of everything
where the soul’s go
out and in,
and this is all just a bauble, a bubble, a puddle,
which we fight war’s over again and again.

There’s a window,
O dear brothers departed,
I see you all gazing in,
wondering why we become so defiant of love,
again and again.

There’s a window,
at either end of everything.
I’ve seen them go out and come in
and here we are wondering
thinking that
this is all that there is.

For some I know,
after all was said and done
it seemed the only way
through the wall
after all
this world’s a wall.

But there’s a window
out at the edge of everything
like lightning
like the tide coming in
we all fall down down
down to the ground, ground, ground…

There’s a window
out at the edge of everything;
in every room,
in every wall,
down every corridor
in every hall –

burst of bright birds from our finished bodies
through the window
to go home again, to go home again….

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Consciousness is disembedded being.

Consciousness is a disembedded being
dwelling in a bellicose comatose disenchanted world.

Being disembedded:
out of the nest,
out of the bed,
restless, unfinished, incomplete,
no place to rest his head.
Now a doddering nodder
thinker round and rounder,
wanderer round arounder,
love lost and squandered.

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Beet burst and bloom,
plume of bright red life,
rise up from the dark brown earth
and beat out your rich red blessings, round and whole.
You are the bell clanging health,
you are the root bearing fruit.
More scarlet than the rose
you rise up from below,
from the place where love grows.

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climbing without ascent
running without advance
were you thinnking about dying?
or are you dying to be reborn?

Between the straight line of evolution
and the circle of revolution,
in a held tension,
is a gyre.
In tension, creation,
In tension creation,
In tension, creation.
Snake advances by vacillation along the ground,
gyrfalcon’s wings beating up and down.
In the greatest tension, the greatest creation,
and the greatest creation is the gravest danger,
and destruction is tension held taut beyond limitation.
Taut ’till broke,
bent ’till rent,
the acrobatic art
splits apart,
and the acrobat
The fearsome fire white hot burning up,
white knuckled clenched fist gripped tight,
the teeth that grind in the night.
The parched string screaming taut,
bow pulled,
shivering back,
bent to point of rent,
the piercing pointed
arrow of light,
seams bursting,

Enantiodromia through the wall that is the inside of an egg.
Primal instinct in integration with x-ray vision.
A bow of hope pulled to the tightest taut,
bent to the quivering razor edge of rent,
knocked with an arrow that was blackest coal
but through fear’s anguished energy
was crushed, fused and crystallised
into a piercing pointed diamond
of sharpest compassion.

I recorded this poem over a raucus jam session in 1998.
It can be found here.


nxne is the week
when all good rock + roll slaves meet
obfuscate to industry priests
compete to sell themselves like meat,
elbow and shove their fellow musicians,
jostle and struggle to keep their positions
prance and preen for 40 minute parts
genuflect and call it art….
snap a cuff on the wrist,
raise it up in a fist….

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When your whirld is twisted

When your whirld is twisted
the straight seems bent,
and what sucks the living pulse from you
seems heaven sent.

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Shooting the Saint

I’m shooting down the saint
I’m losing his skin,
breaking free of that straightjacket,
that idol, that sin.

I’m getting darker,
listening to my soul,
getting dangerous,
getting whole.
[Read more…]