She hangs round the edges, all thinky and quirky.

You better watch out when you pass in an alley…

She’ll be lickin her lips and rubbin her belly ….

With a wild eyed look mixed with mischief and doubt,

She’ll mincingly stretch ten plump fingers out

Then all in a flash, she’ll clutch yer bum cheek

then she’ll turn straight around and act quiet and meek.

An ivy seed pod is structured like an explosion. i always fancied em, even before i fitted them into their name, Araliaceae. A fairy and i once used them as birthday candles on a cake for an elf. Hedera helix sounds like your mind’s vines.

Last year we cut the ivy hard: found light, and an old fence. This years growth is better behaved. The cut stumps gape like necks. you want to scribble teeth on their cambium.

The twisted trunks of dead brothers hold the ground. If we shift these old macrocarpas, the land beneath will collapse. I have visions of the neighbours house being swallowed into dust and rubble.

Dead tree anchors are tentacles slowly becoming dirt.

i open mind, squint eyes, try to feel the small lives sucking and chasing in a thick soup about the roots. it’s like switching on night vision. Protozoa pacman is happening fast down there. bacteria zen, nematode nirvana. They die and live.

If death is life, is life dead? i slosh that round inside my head.

Samsara’s spinning fast.

A rock is the quintessential non-conscious being, but i aint convinced. Look at that smooth stone, flush against the garden’s edge! It’s molecules exist like yours and mine. Surely it breathes like skin. It ghosts the yellow bank with its hue.

Certainly it’s alive.

Climbing curcubits, twined on ivy, tumbling into tropeaolum. Halfway up a grey sleeper the three meet, and pay no mind. On they arch and drop.

The blooms of a scarlet sage  are the breeziest temples in the yard. They reach for God. But the goddess is laughing, because she’s hiding in their anthers.

A breeze draws her bow through the clothesline.

The clothesline’s never heard all the eerie things that happen next to it. Or are Angry the hen and Ben the metal whirligig wise companions after all?

Personification is anthroprojection.

That clothesline’s been turning in the wind real slow.

I’m through the window, watching outside things turn to silhouettes. They are losing a dimension, and taking on another.

For some reason i remember someone chuckle… playing with the void…

Now i remember the nature of the exploding ivy seeds. They are continuous. Life doesn’t end in a bird’s gullet.

The big bang is an explosion too.

A cabbage tree’s leaves twitch, butterflykissing the sky.

The sun is tender as it drops away,

goodbye darling maya, see you in the day i bring tomorrow

and beyond on the hill porch lights begin to shine like beacons

we are here brothers and sisters

We are engulfing particulates, we matter as part of this art, swollen and hollow, we are both, part of this that we engulf.

Bevan plucked a stick from the ground and knew of aeons.

The bird plucks the aeons off the ivy and flies into the void.

I’m getting particular.

I’ve aged some.

But here it is: the same, cynical, neurotic, questioning, marvelling, laughing, admiring, swallowing beast as before, and the whirr in the pit of stomach.

me sorry i so solipsist. its all i know, man. i empathise though; more than you maybe know, dig?

excuse my punctuation, its what i unnerstand. an i share this unnerstandin, with jou (ik houven) even though, you dont unnerstand. flashes between us is all i ask, a flicker of light is a flicker of light for all that. bit epileppy though, innit…

escoos the contradictions, is my escape route back to petersburg, mang.

it is what it is, and its a tautology. Its all a metaphor for Itself: whats It like? well, its like somethin else. whats that like? its like itself, this somethin else, put it together and build a house, for minds to dwell like rats, whirrin. heart pumpin. (“life is raw, bloody, red and tender” – larry matthews,almost).

i thought i was cynical before, but now!

i thought i was cynical, but yOU?

i thought i had deconstructed the world, but now?!

It’s all philosophy, innit? Do a shit!

Oh yawn , you bean places, did stuff. What fun!  Me sooo attached to nonsense, that i can barely follow your line of reasoning without wrastling your face with the moon. i want to split it all apart, run bees down your grooves, party, wham! Zoooiiiik, reasoning bores me, and excites me no end, however did i stomach philosophy? or succeed for that matter? i suppose it was the sleep-ins, the smoke-ins, the walk on parts. i suppose it was the long dreams, interposed w castaneda. O slippery reality! how i would die for you! i have an appetite for chaos. its not repressed anger, tis just the way it grooves here, in this hole i live. Nonsense, void; i hold on it like a little acid friend: brown rock, piece o string, matchbox. little guy. I run from sense, fear in eyes, and yet i find – matter, something purporting to be solid, tryin to twist me interested. doin a lil dance, dancin my neurons into morons, dancin my moron into pureon. or obscureon, on the floor, unable to lift arms above waist height, they stuck down there squirmin round that lower shak-ra.

Maybe if i keep going yoge-arrr, the kundalini serpent will squiggle up to a more noble bit o spinnin chak-arack (O kerouac)- but then why did almightly Bob put that ass in fronta my face? why he make me like that so mo? Bob’s addicted to crack like the rest of us dear, he’s gotta be. how beautiful, and sad. but the sad things always were the most beautiful…….

matter seeks self through thought — thought finds only —

itself. Mind seeks matter through matter

matter finds nothing; no matter.

Solid salad: thats you, matter; a green salad, wiv nuthin’; no lettuce, no tomatoes, nufin’, not a chickpea in sight, just your grainy chickpea soul, in a bead of light, dancing with an atom, reading its mind. All patchouli and cameron diaz, lackin in substance – a fist of sacred dung, and a pretty face, peeled, distractin ya (when did you last check ya little cellphone screen?) and wanting, nervous, and so plush with life that it couldnt possibly be any other way. your capillaries, private, and your aura, a secret. I’m gunna do experimonts woth syke-ick phenomeenons, baby, want 2 join?

What u up ta?

“now you don’t buy a bed everyday,

to get a good nights sleep, dont give your money away…

you need, to, know…..

You can Sleep on It.”

Thanks bedpost store popup ad for reminding me of this fantasticly succinct piece of truthful marketing.

on the street was a boy

on the boy was a head

on the head was a hat

on the hat was a circle

in the circle was an a.

The a? was for anarchy,

anarchy of mind

anarchy of body

anarchy of politik

and anarchy of dress.

His jeans were destined to be compost,

his politik was designed to follow.

his brains were to be wrapped in plain white bread

for the worms to share when he was dead.
His friends came in boxes

that later were burned

his head buried foxes

that later returned.

The foxes ate rubbish

the friends all ate pies

they were vegan for a reason

the anarchists surmised.

But the foxes were many

the rubbish was vast

they turned into plants

that contained chloroplasts.

they ate the sun up

and they made it their own

and they breathed out the pieces

as crushed toblerone.

A triangle treat

for a triangle few

the hat on the head

had a triangle too.

the peak of the A

majestic as fuck

proclaiming that life

is majestic as muck.

Hump the earth

Hump it good

Hump it till your in it

Hump out, hump in

You’re it

It says

‘I’m you’

you say

“im you

give it to me’

hump the earth

just hump it.

You’d have to be a freakin idiot

there was I Think

a quiet suggestion from the office of brane

going, write a memo

write it in a letter,

Therefor,

you Are.

I yam.

The brane muscled its way in quicker than speed;

it was a big brawny bully.

It ticked n wriggled impatiently

when can we go on a journey, muuum; take me on a journey

wont you take me on a journey

please we take a journey.

Ok, royally

importantly

we indulged it

we wondered where rasputin’s penis was, looked it up on the wiki

What? There was a jar with something in it

but dick it was not

It was

a sea cucumber!

How could there be

a greater marvel?

Rasputin’s penis was

notorious in Petrograd

however it was

of ordinary size and character.

Vagina dentata,

it had a certain ring to it

dentata

teeth

it flowered with power

and swallowed the slippery salamander

Such a bully, who’d a thought

By gum – those fangs!

Oh she doesnt care udderwise,

She aint a nihilist for nothin, sir!

Why you surprise? Just a rainbow after all

They fade away quick as they come

and rain, and rain, and wind, and sun

She scowl at you with the style of her smile

Ooooh lookout, its a wittgenstein revival

light the wicks, flick on the floyd,

forget about the Dick for a sec

ohyehalreadydid

Oh fuck oh oh oh

quivering stipule of

oh fuck oh

tasting little bee legs are

tickling the stamens

Oh Shit! God! It was brilliant

It shot through me like a bullet

straight out the other side

leaving cartoon rainbows behind

silk threads of spider spectrum

beaming through the wall

Oh fuck,

My heart can’t beat to take it all

I will surely ‘splode, the sunlight

lapping on my sand

and gentle crawlers nestle

in my hands

that open like a dead man’s grab

The release is complete, you cheeky sprite

god filling cups with ecstacy!

No wonder i need to wrestle you down

and roll in you

O world,

You are too bright a place,

I needn’t bring my coat.