Mortal coil

Hurricane Floyed has arrived in Norfolk as angry mountainous continents, billowing in deep transparent oceans you can see through into space. These stormy orphans of Floyd crack and rumble turning lanes and paths into rivers. Breathing is to absorb what you see. When the skies are like this I don’t miss the mountains. They are in the sky.

This morning the sun is diffuse, like through paper.
There are no shadows, it is bright.
So little definition but for the humming presence of cumulus nimbus,
vaguely seen in a pearly brilliance.

In the gas we call air Water billows everywhere.
And for this spectacle, Has grown our eye.
In transparent turnings the clouds are there.


A road is as fast as the slowest car.

Walt Disney was right: Life is good with heroes and light.

Essex, my country laid there rich in clay,
Fostering flints, gently rolling in the trees to the sandy margins of the muddy sea.
Hard nut hedge and jilted oak, frame the fieldy factory form.
On a day like today the ditch looks good enough to lay in.
All tucked in by the combing zipping warble of the dear skylark.


Prayer To the index

xListen to an ancient prayer......


I am used to making wishes and them not coming true. Some do and they are like messages in bottles flung into chaos landing ashore at the feet of a kind person.
Its hard to make a wish and fling it into the world knowing the chances of it. Instead to make a wish now, the wish itself has power in its making. It's a positive gesture to the self, and those that hear it. A motion in the mind that the world can gather round. Inside me, the bottle is launched and the organs are eager to help.

Cosmic second - the push and pump of the heart and the thought that sits on it.
Cosmic breath - the rising essential wave the absorbtion of nomad air from earth to space.
Cosmic day - the envelope curve that is the turnig wheel, the unit measure to which all is analogue.


Immortal invisible
God only wise.
In light inaccessible
Hid from our eyes.
Most blessed most glorious
The ancient of days.
Almighty victorious
Thy great name we praise.
Unresting unhasting
And silent as light.
Nor wanting nor wasting
Thou rulest with might.
Thy justice like mountains
High souring above.
Thy clouds are the fountains
Of goodness and love.
To all life thou givest
To both great and the small.
In all life thou livest
The true life of all.
We blossom and flourish
As leaves on the tree.
And wither and perish
But nought changes thee.
Great father of glory
Pure father of light.
Thine angels above thee
All veiling their sight
All laud we would render
O help us to see.
Tis only the splendor
Of light hideth thee.

W Chalmers Smith 1825-1908 Based on 1 Tim 1:17

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for~ your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

....... From The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer


Sexual To the index

Sugar cane

Hurried Love

Those who make hurried love don't do so
from any lack of affection
or because they despise their partner
as a human being —
what they're doing
is just as sincere as a more formal wooing.

She may have a train to catch; perhaps the
room is theirs for one hour only
or a mother is expected back or
some interruption
known, awaited —
so the spur of the moment must be celebrated.

Making love against time is really
the occupation of all lovers
and the clock-hands moving
point a moral:
not crude, but clever
are those who grab what soon is gone for ever.

Gavin Ewart (1916-1996)

The hot stratus blue day aroused the air into towers of lightening,
Distant and all around the evening gloaming.
A creature a great column of Earth to heaven power
Kisses the flashing gums, the glistening flower.
Headless lust electric, flash of silent thunder air
the will of time, place, space have brought this here.
The sky leads the serpent up to her open throat.
Pillar of earth lets hear her open note
Flying above the storm among the stars from deep down.


If you have a pussy then you must treat it right,
Stroke it every day stroke it every night.
If you want that little pussy to curl up by the fire,
The you must do what that pussy require.

If you want to hear that pussy purr,
You must stroke its fur.
Groom it with a comb, sometimes slow sometimes quick,
And you must remember to give that pussy a lick.

If you treat little pussy thoughtless amd rash,
Than little pussy might begin to scratch.
But if you want pussy in a playful fashion,
Then lay it down nicely on a little cushion.

Mortal coilTo the index


Life is a fine art of mortal denial and nurture.
Like pencil on paper, A ghostly form of a vivid being.
Grotesque or beautiful,
From intention grows a skill to portray.


Joy seeps from everywhere like a narcotic vapour,
Getting us high about everything.
Gently weeping from the wood and bricks,
Gathered in raised menisci on plastic,
Tanked in happy homes and pooled in the nests of the new born.

Joy is part of the Sun's spectrum,
Filtered in with all the colours.
The shadows stir it and crystals comb it,
Till there is no question why we are here.

But there are planets where there is no joy,
Except for what you have stored on your back.
Battery powered your survival now depends on a steady low voltage hope,
And your little light peering through the senseless dust.

We must find our way back to the children playing in garden.



Solitary, before daybreak, in a garden
Dark amid the unchanging snow,
Watching the last star fading in a fountain
Whence melodies of eternal water flow,

Festus, seeing the sky-line burn and brighten
Coldly, far above the hidden sun;
Seeing the golden thread of glory unravelled
Along the wall of mountains run,

Hears in his heart a cry of bewilderment;
And turning, now here, now there --
Like one who pauses a moment before departure --
Partakes of the grace of earth and air,

Drinks of the vast blue splendour of the sky,
The mile on mile of dew-blanched grass,
The cloud-swept trees, the stones, bare cliffs of bronze;
And in the pool, as in a glass,

Ringed round with nodding asters, frosted leaf-tips,
Stoops to see his image; and behold,
How faded is the scarlet of his mantle!
His face, how changed and old! . . .

Sing now the birds; on every bough a bird sings;
Slowly at first, then fast and faster,
Till the walled garden thrills and shrills with music;
The cricket beneath the violet aster

Cries his joy to heaven as the first beam strikes him --
The foxgloves bend beneath a weight of bees;
Praise! Praise! Praise! the chorus rises,
Drowsily, happily, dumbly, sway the trees.

Fades the star in the mountain, and the sun comes.
How motionless stands Festus there!
A red leaf, falling slowly to meet a red leaf
That rises out of the infinite to the air,

Floats, is turned by the wind about its image . . .
Ah Festus, is this you,
This ruin of man about whom leaves fall coldly
And asters nod their dew? . . .

Pale, phantasmal, swirls the forest of birches,
It is a dance of witch-girls white and slim;
Delicately flash their slender hands in the sunlight!
Cymbals hiss, their eyes are dim

Under the mist of hair they toss above them . . .
But Festus, turning never,
Heeding them not, nor the birds, nor the cricket shrilling,
Stares at the pool for ever,

Seeking in vain to find -- somewhere, somewhere! --
In the pool, himself, the sky? --
The slight, clear, beautiful secret of these marvels,
Of birch, birds, cricket's cry,

Blue sky, blue pool, the red leaf falling and floating,
The wall of mountains, the garden, the snow,
And one old man -- how sinister and bedraggled! --
Cawing there like a crow . . .

Instant the miracle is. He leans bewildered
Over the infinite, to search it through . . .
Loud sing the birds! On every bough a bird sings;
The cricket shrills, the day is blue.


*when the child was a child*
By Peter Handke

When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging.
It wanted the stream to be a river
the river a torrent
and this puddle to be the sea.
When the child was a child
It didn't know it was a child.
Everything was full of life, and all life was one.
When the child was a child
It had no opinions about anything.
It had no habits.
It sat cross-legged, took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair
and didn't make a face when photographed.
When the child was a child
it was the time of these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Isn't life under the sun just a dream?
Isn't what I see, hear and smell
only the illusion of a world before the world?
Does evil actually exist,
and are there people who are really evil?
How can it be that I, who am I,
didn't exist before I came to be
and that someday
the one who I am
will no longer be the one I am?
When the child was a child
it choked on spinach, peas, rice pudding
and on steamed cauliflower.
NoW it eats all of those
and not just because it has to.
When the child was a child
it once woke up in a strange bed
and now it does so time and time again.
Many people seemed beautiful then
and now only a few, if it's lucky.
It had a precise picture of Paradise
and now it can only guess at it.
It could not conceive of nothingness
and today it shudders at the idea.
When the child was a child
it played with enthusasm
and now
it gets equally excited
but only when it concerns
its work.
When the child was a child
berries fell into its hand as only berries do
and they still do now.
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw
and they still do now.
On every mountaintop it had a longing
for yet a higher mountain.
And in each city it had a longing
for yet a bigger city.
And it is still that way.
It reached for the cherries in the treetop
with the elation it still feels today.
It was shy with all strangers
and it still is.
It awaited the first snow
and it still waits that way.
When the child was a child
it threw a stick into a tree like a lance,
and it still quivers there today.

Old age grows from deep inside the tissue like any cancer .

Middle age is a thin chasm .

Look across it so near so far ,
At the cringing stupidity, at the reckless ways,
The waste and laughter of precious days .
Tears come…………has some one died ?
A child !
A child looks back across the chasm to the future .
Has the world enough oats and I enough spunk ?
To joyfully drift toward THE END.

Middle age comes in the wee hours.
Awakenng to desolate 4 am .
A terrible petrified panic, pounding in nothing .
Death is here and time saves me at 1am .

Middle age is the accelerating days and weeks of duties .
The thin hope of another side to THIS ,
To blast out of THIS .

Middle age is taking account, and moving on wiser .
Having the right tools for the next joys from here after .


ANALOGUE radio scope.

As I listen to one of the last analogue radio receivers in the world, I am aware of how fortunate I am to hear so much more than what any human intended. There is the transmission of storms in far off continents with their gentle falling whistle sloping off the curve of the earth and the distant waterfall of noise comforting the monkey mind and more locally there are the clicks pops and whizzing of switches and motors.

The radio beside me is a scope through which I can see the world and probably space. Listen to the stratosphere heave in the transmissions of the worldservice, hear the great event right here on your radio. Hear the music, the way that guitar is stretched and compressed to an extraordinary tone, bringing delights unknown by its musician.

Analogue belongs to the free world, a world of danger, where the strength of a broadcast is set adrift on a great wild ocean till it lands upon the ear bedraggled with distortions.

I remember way back in the 80's when I drove an old car fitted with its luxury extra, an AM radio; and on it I heard the song "Ink in the well" by Dave Sylvian. I loved the way the jazzy drums phased and the hollow vocal tone gave it a large feeling. I bought the record but on my hi-fi and it shrank.

Its true that on my radio I can hear sounds no man intended. I can hear the gargantuan world of nature and may be I can even hear an "alien"

DIGITAL narrowcasting

Digital TV where black is black and sound is sound. Digital TV is just what they intend it to be. Choice, more choice no choice. Choose what they give you or what they give you, the choice is yours. There are no accidentals or pirates here, you get it or you don't: its on or off. This is a new dark age hidden in light, this is the new dictator hidden in choice. Welcome to free-based media and "crack" TV.

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