MD01lhpT1WS

 

In synchronicity 

Dew 

Becomes sun blood, 

Like morning becomes the stain 

Of dead birds, stars made of ink, 

The shedding of the born 

And unborn - 

Fingertips of balata, 

Water palatable, plausible, 

Flesh to yield the colour of the moon, 

In Albion gum, 

Sap. 

A tree drips. 

Elsewhere a tree is Mountain, 

Is dark skin of hands,  

The motion of prey and predator, 

Throats of castles, clasps of  

Hyper anther reaching to sun, 

To blood, 

To birth, for unborn, 

Dew is  rim, is spill 

Is knowing you, 

Is meeting you 

Who I knew  before 

Who I never knew, 

Who is petal, grand dance of  

 

Cerebral stems bursting 

Into velamina, sky grass 

Of cells, like brains became clouds 

Disappearing, 

To reappear as if condensation, 

As if a conscious vapour 

Stream to cycle to up to down 

To turn – 

Each we have , a hemisphere: 

I am woman, I am man,  

I am man, I am woman. 

Dew falls, rises from earth, 

Pollinates the sky, 

Coincidences of being here and done 

And being there and undone. We are 

Two sphered heads, fish trunks,  

Suck-tails 

Wait for the interiors of each other - 

 Our Nebula rests. 

 

AS01lhpT2WS

Stimulus: MD01lhpT1WS

 

New belief systems. Like the old ones didn’t have enough going on. Nature adhors a vacuum. Who adores the vacuous? They are pleased enough – smiling, always smiling – church music much better than thin-paper, American-text. Who would reduce the language of the KJV to something that is awe-less? I prefer the ICHTHUS Christians, pocketed throughout the old Roman empire, a fish on the door of the dark cave, signifying secrets. I see we are still in awe of star-light, but yet, we are flesh; flesh eaten up by time; flesh seared by illness and inappropriate behaviour. I saw a sculpture made from a 3D explosion of a microscopic cell, so that the whole world is there: like the universe in a locker in the “Men in Black” movies. Thinking: Will Smith range Prince the night before he died. I wonder, had he an iPhone, a Samsung, or some kind of Purple-Prince-phone, encrypted, secret hanging from a wall like the Batphone? Gotham city enters all our dreams. I can where you might entertain the simple life, and look at the sky tut-tutting at the airplane contrails, yet we are human in all our frailty and grandeur, and there’s something to be said about the little black vinyls or silver discs or packets of zeroes and ones, that can take the greatest performances from a state-of-the-art studio and make them available on the same day, at the same time, to anyone in the world with the means to play them and a few pounds in their pocket. So, if I pull out the frayed sleeve of “Around the World in a Day”, dust off lightly since its so many years since I played this record, I realise it’s the exact same copy I took into sixth form, earning the scorn of my indie-guitar loving friends. We believe what we want to believe at the end of the day, like the Aboriginals following the songlines; I don’t think they thought the world would remain only immaterial, I think, like Donne, they had an understanding that the spirit world was only too real, that we sat alongside it, avoiding its gaze or drawing our strength from its intangibles. For I believe in man, and that gives me a devil to play with, if not a God – instead, perhaps versioning of God – dubplates spinning over the same groove, as timeless as the Songlines, so that when I finally crack and reach out to something that doesn’t grow inside of me – for I am human too – then at least I’ll recognise something of its timbre, something of its melody, something of its rhythm as the world spins.