i sit on the wall with my baby
whose just dressed in her faded knickers
her wild locks doth blow and bobbing in the ionized winds
we look out to the distant horizons
as the storm comes in upon us
oh storm come unto me
the old milky sun reduced to a joke
struggling to be heard over the rising tumult of the storm
my succulence and my heliotropes move by natures unseen hand
words flow to me in non mechanistic streams
words in other languages pour into english
my deep self reads it all
i let it sort it all out
up in the speed of thought
which is 666 times quicker than light
the words appear to me on old fashioned reels
in my head pyramids revolve flashing symbols and numbers
and glyphs and hieroglyphs
and pictures of nude blonde american women in b/w
baby runs inside to get away from the frowning sky
but i remain savouring the coolness
rejoicing in the miracle of holy life
and convinced more than ever
of some supreme fucking genius
who is behind everything
the marrow in our bones
the electricity that animates our flesh
our place within the big picture
the regulation of the heavenly bodies
the songwriter for the birds
the architect of mountains
the painter of skies
so huge and benevolent he is not seen
lord
call him zeus call him deus
call him vishnu
call him the unnamed
well this world
know well this world
this world which seems so ordinary
this world which seems so tame
oh baby baby its a wild world
full of yoga and magic
everybody contradicting everybody else
the experts disagree on EVERYTHING
each age disagrees with the last and the next
youth mocks age
age scorns youth
man and woman fucking each other over n up
everybody so convinced as they preach their left wing right wing
i cant tell the real from the unreal
i keep on swallowing more misinformation more disinformation
i cant tell
who can tell
so i feel it
i feel the storm
the real storm coming out of nowhere
across the sky and for a moment it seems it will blow over
my tiny fig tree grooving in the zephs
baby comes back out with her stormy eyes
little baby frowning like the february skies
late summer child careless in disarray
sitar music n incense
old white hippy drippy moses inculcating an atmosphere
of faux spirituality in his bondi pad/ dump/ shack/place
w.h.m. leading you back to the promise of land
the promise of rock n roll…thou shall be released
my box set of solo records will get you started
ignore the drum machine and watch the time just being
burn my music burn my eye
order me from eye tunes
order me to go on a quest
baby comes in and eats some grapes
she like some old time film star
with her improbable lip
curvy hip
and her eyes reflecting the stormy vault overhead
her teeth are big and white
and she moves like puck or ariel would
we are alone here together
on this unlikely afternoon
i am the impressionist poet
who writes the first thing that comes into his head
from his deepest self
to his shallowest manifestation
a voice guides me
baby herself is not to be guided at all
she plays with the shrubs n her little creatures
and bounces her head from side to side
she kisses my back as she goes inside
just once
just ever so lightly
come back out here i command in a gruff voice
no she says
no
i dont want to