posted on November 3, 2012 at 9:02 pm


people say to me

whats it like to be a visionary?

well if thats what i am this is what its like:

as i move through the world today

each place foists its vague memories on me

in a series of blurry vignettes n  echoey whispers

a million things are implied in my mind

i hear names

i see inside the houses

i remember things

mostly good things

mostly lovely warm feelings of contentment

like eating breakfast on a sunny day

or lying in bed sleeping with somebody on a cold stormy night

or reading a book by the fire

in days before power

a million lives drip into my mind

every street calls me

every window i see the faces of the past

i contain sorrow and joy

and their friction inculcates my openess

i cant concentrate

the children all talk to me

i say huh……?

i am a tuner scanning the frequencies

i pick up the chatter of the ages

i hear the bygone days through the gauze

i feel the impression of their feelings

left on times fabric

scars in its hide

everything flows through me then

a sleepy dreamy feeling

like a whale feeding on tiny tons of plank

i dont know what any of this information is

it all just blows through me as it were

i am deficient of the shield that seems to keep it out for others

god and the world are in and around me

no judgement no agenda no ulterior motive

my life is a film gone haywire

all these other actors all these other parts

no one knows where we are going

no one is driving this world through the darkness of space

something good at the end of the journey

something warm and calm like a bath and a cuppa tea

a narnia for sinners who want to go home

a lovely sensible and very english result

choose your own heaven n go in for the prize

acres in dreamland just for a song ….just a song…!

the spirit is a sea we all swimming through

so real so palpable

this liquid invisible prana

this golden chi power

god what are we waiting for …?

maya with its sex n drugs n rocknroll

fine print in the sand

an opera recorded in a sea shell

a painting of the wind

a pattern in a wave

fleeting arc of orgasmick  surge

fragments of shake in a bag

the nights of beltane

murmurings from assyria i still listen somehow

my teenage lovelives in their simple naivete

the western gates of this city in ruins

under enormous strains from the witch who reigns

the complexity and brilliance of nature yes of course

the vegetals listen they are talking to you

coca leaf and poppy and the vine and the bark

the mushroom which grows by itself in the dark

oh its all becoming quite clear  to me now

how the pummelling sea beats the shore in the night

how the angel watches over his ward so unseen

how the devil is stupidity dripping with cunning

but nothing they offer you is worth even a look

where is it all coming from where is it going

where is the bait n where is the hook

we are the broth who are the cooks

i was a little trout in a tiny brook

my zone is unmarked

you can wander off the road here

in this hazy fog of my life

shapes coming out of the mist

i mighta guessed

god not on the guest list

(someone hissed)



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