Lying discarded beneath some urban undergrowth, near a mulberry tree, a man is discovered bisecting a dream or an insect — it’s not clear which because the evidence suggests he may have hijacked his own unconscious mind.
rolling stone gathering no moss garden
The easel is a cello, why can this simple fact not be made clearer? And also, why is there ambiguity and doubt about the nature of spatulas? It’s still possible to come across people who deny that spatulas are used by painters in the same way and for the same reason that murderers sometimes use knives.
A page is a map for when you are lost, which is always. Pre-existing maps can be of enormous assistance, but the ones you draw yourself are invariably of superior quality. The art of re-drawing either a pre-existing map or one of your own maps should be undertaken, if at all possible, using green ink.
the tide is ebbing. time for the old sailor to express the transience and emptiness of it all in a single breath. a final, salty breath.
ocean wind –
the wings of an albatross
become a flute
stock up now with a small long sleeved white nightie a coil of wire and a liberal amount of tinsel
the way a feather sinks
touches the earth unseen
The monk makes it all look plausible. His beatific smile is in itself an aspiration.
butterflies between the brows stillness darts
The mind makes notes of all the things that need letting go.
After five days, realisation dawns. Clinging looks appealing. Nirvana is best in small doses.
And anyway, from what he says, we all probably have a zillion lives before we can levitate.
New Year’s Eve. Scanning the ether for something beyond
another decade’s weight in fireworks.
lest Betelgeuse croak
700 years before us