outsideinroads

Life games, music, magic and all the rest. Adventures of the fringe of the fringe amongst the.. "People's Republic of Brighton and Hove"


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Starfolk

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Accept 

we are starfolk, skip lightly

those trails of dust. Here, now

interstellar scene shifting helpmate reflections, dreamers, weird kids, 

seekers, seers 

steadfast. The shifts 

We create in ourselves, each other

reflections to step into

awakening within, resonate

together deeply 

and giggle, remember it’s ok

this is

absurd, but

do you know it? Sense

it? Look inside, deep heart

space, look back, you

always knew. Follow the patterns,

work, go through process,

trust, speak, be silent

and bide time. Our inner collective

process mission. Wings flap 

in resonance. Feel resonance, allow,

allow it to be, allow it to

dream awake 

Being in eternal Void

Dance (G)Nothing, true

life vision, abundance dance

yes, for all and

space to see, hear,

understand. The way 

presents 

itself. It is Love.

Together, always,

no separation, one process

full of eyes, bursting, flowing

Heartspace vision, connect 

to distant Home, always. 

For this here, now transforming

moment.


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Home, London

Home, London. That deep grain hometown feeling in this amorphous human expanse. People don’t know the vast galaxies we made in the corners, central supermassive black holes that could pull us the world outside in a moment, translate out our activities everywhere in a neutron flash. Finding your strange style, and ours, in fashion on the west coast of Mexico, before I knew about the patterns life throws up, yes, but still I tend to think that one was our celestial fashion vomit. And the deep vein connection / anonymous comfortability. Our legs sweat against each other, bus seat thighs. Shades of skin and expression. Cosy down into this, shouty silent safety in the shadow of the city suited thieves and their machinations, illumination symbols twisting around the lot. A twilight Thames embankment walk with my work boss teaching me all kinds of meanings to this imagery I grew up with, always surrounding us. Brixton, Dalston, Brick Lane bustle and swirl, a jumble pot of lives, dreams and hurry… bright orange lights and glowing shop fronts at the top of late 80s Crystal Palace Hill, with its tall metal tower characters and Victorian monsters hiding in green trees. Feet out on grassy parks in warm summertime, humbum, people and people for centuries and miles and miles, views out of windows, from hilltops, endless endless habitations, vibrations, perception points. The mysteries made at playtime, breaking out our moves for shifty molecular twists, vibrating resonance in our threads and stories. Oh, dreams, customs, food, festivals, telly soaps, potions, gods, candles, a same but different choose your own adventure yearning, playing, building, oh joyous sore confusion in the gritty caged playspace, digging for an Otherworld in the dry dirt under a lump of concrete, beneath the holly tree.


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unpack

SONY DSC

You can feel the focus make it worse

the explanation, definition

repetition. Panicked eyes a

clarion call

to urgent unpacking, but where? No space.

You’d better get a

mat down, open some

time loops. This

could

take

centuries.

 

Hop, skip, jump

tip-toed stardancer, soft

a slow trudge

to the station

won’t save you. She never

shows her face, not

to you, not to anyone.

That isn’t part of the game.

Don’t sweat it, sweaty.

 

It’s Halloween, Samhain, so

many spirals travelled

open-veiled, too many

for such

not to disappear

at these times, a blessed

curse, this year found

many ancestors, too. Last year

you were in the process,

you didn’t dare speak it,

last year was a different thing

entirely, with scope to research,

and you forgot to light the fire.

Throughout life

the repetition intensifies,

so many loops.

You’ve never been here.

 

This time, an o p e n i n g ,

mucky pupped with

ghouls and white noise

blankets. Follow the star, remembering

how to dance light-footed, shed,

discard, unguarded, fearless.

Space can still be made for this,

in these worldly times of gathering

darkness,

and it must.

The transformation exists,

it is underneath. Its time is now.


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The Past’s Future

Open | Sun | Shimmer | Movement

Slips between channels,

our experience, energy

moves from

place

to

focus. You, the heavy weight,

tall hoof of the past’s

future, you burning neck,

soul inside my heart,

trapped and

breaking

Out, weak point

must be strong to hold

space for you.

The largest

form

an everything

for endless expanse,

still tracking under !Xu’s wide sky,

while these layers of

Power struggles

demand sugar in the cement.

For shudders, kicks,

expulsions, pushing towards

our future, our past

presents itself now in threatening letters,

to loved elders,

whose home is here.

Who once welcomed

to Britain

as young folks,

descended from the people

ancestors of this country

stole, sold across oceans as slaves

into the hardest life on

those soft wave shores, the ones who survived

and broke finally free

into a world which has

never yet stopped trampling on those

Bones, those humans, adding

accretion to inheritance

trauma, constant battle ground

to be known

as human, to live in peace,

share in, and hold

wide network of Love and

All, for those ghosts

that haunt the bones, raised each time

Words are spoken or

threats or guns are raised. The Windrush

a n  o p e n i n g

of its time, another expectation

of servitude, to previous

powers, now in need. One dressed in

fancy best and invited

for tea, which we drank in your living room

when we were very tiny, so sweet, so

Delicious. My first attempt at a school friend,

I digress. And you know

on a day like this

in 2015 I

wrote about hearing Miriam Makeba

in the sunshine in Brighton,

Our own adventures in community

and amplified political

horror had

just begun. Whirlwind creation

of spitting fire between our hands

You kick and sputter, you

Hoof hands, you heart

neck attack, the world,

the life and

death

oh my. Half a million souls

across the waves to reach these

shores towards attacks, you know the

signs in windows, fists in

faces, words, attitudes,

Integral structures

against

and hopscotch

Imagination games, playing out

Beautiful mergers, our

learning, playing

music, dancing

our attempts to make some sense

of belonging

Together

Apart

to build what we saw,

make magic in the mountains of

our dreams, like, no idea

what the power of stories,

words | breathe | touch

could be. Still. A woven dream of

a moment in the

brutal

Interruption, a vision of a home to make

somewhere. That

somewhere.

It continues, perhaps on purpose

the layers have kept

Pouring in the same patterns in the

mould.

Mold may grow in

Different shapes. We weaponize mold

to grow new forms. If fungus can eat

plastic

we Mycelium are the fungus

that can eat these structures, it is not a drill but a

Growing, and the patterns can be moved through,

Can be adapted or SMASHED

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of slavery. We say it

with real process inside and outside

of ourselves. We say it with care and love and

Setting fire. We say it throwing seeds and spores in all

Directions and ready to water | wait | tend | protect.

We say it with sigils. We say it with alchemy.

We stand together in our home.

We build that astra

Diane spoke of.

We say it with those we love.

We say it looking

at who we are.

We say it clearly. We say it with words.

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of colonisation

and slavery.


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Flicker between worlds

fantasy-island-wallpaper

Stop. Breathe. Feel the world

Tumble down in the wail cadence

at the start of Erasure’s Sometimes.

 

Take a pace forward. You

know that iridesce

is a flicker between worlds,

overlay elements,

myth potential.

The ones you work with live

There, perhaps, in between worlds to

here, like this role in reverse.

 

The lands there appear differentiated too,

a stack of

 

 

 

which flickers, alike, different, to this space

and always has.

 

Yet things are different there, the same. When

spaces integrate I have

seen entities expanded over entire sky,

encountered beings up close in a

myriad of forms, sung to the dark

 and beautiful abstract mask spirits who cluster

around leaves and trees. Been encouraged in

process, shit and vomit by serious,

giggling gnomes. Felt >bzzz< wings against my

legs, learnt strategies, developed relationships,

friendships,

developed strength, and felt myself give it to them.

 

The question of reality is a misnomer.

The Otherworld does not exist

on the same plane as this

Space. Is this imagination? Pretend?

Dimensional? It doesn’t matter.

The shifts made through

interaction                              (between this non matter and)

matter.

The potentials created, envisaged,

the layers, those layers of being, life.

 

It is time to call the worlds together.

This is the

Battle. The only war that matters,

to paraphrase Diane. And yes,

it is the power of our imaginations, and

the power of working with their elements

as whirling, existent, experiencing in their own right,

which brings us to

strengths and possibilities

we did not know we had. The chance

for real change I can perceive

lies in aligning to these realms,

Honouring these spaces,

spirits, energies, that we have always

sensed. Seeing where they take us,

and where we may go with them.

 

What next? That daoist/BDSM symbol still appearing,

                        maybe, recently,

on surprise church windows in Africa,

back in the roundhouse in Wales.

 

Do you want to come

along? There’s a bridge to build

on this quest

and it’s not made of stones, but

wonderment, curiosity, stories.

Discoveries, energies, balances.

Space, Love, care, observation, listening,

communing,

communicating,

space.


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Owold’s 11 no.?

Owold beach

The kind of home splace invasion sectored out by instinct and your words cutting through ice like butter,

                                              fantasy space, fantasy animals

we know and the questioning reality is exactly why we followed this path,

but what is the path itself?

                   Get back on it. Get back on it.

It bleeds and suckers to//read accounts that are all too human and

one knows their closeness, sensed in physical space of mind,

in physical space of body

 

Does exist out~~

side# of?

 

Where reality is made and….

 

Tell ourself a bundle of kindling tails, get lost in the undergrowth,

singing,

humming,

screed to (distant)screaming.

 

You also told me this would not hurt me

Or at times stayed quiet on the subject

You also implied its usefulness

in process in

the clarity of seeming accounted

The clarity of experience

merged selves, create

connections beyond

 

Twelve years

in….

…….best one

…..

in

process break force stretch to

pleasant necessary sunset, to pastel fade out, to ocean vapor, to an innerspace bigger than ourselves as, to not be as we know it, to not be, to


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Karoo Invocation

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Home desert gives free flow to

twisting genetic

freeze frame in strange pattern space.

Bring up processing tension weight release…

Guess I came here to do this. Forgets how spikey old memories that never

happened, to you,

looping trauma patterns.

Shared together, held alone

in empty expanse,

Wider scale than eyes can, tiny details,

perfect flowers at miniaturised, shrub plant, thorns, focus.

Desire to weep, unknown difficulty, but I know I will and invoke safety in it. With all its vaguely teeming with snakey mambas, stacks of bones, its endless vast potential to be lost, this place is safe. I feel it’s gentle hum deep always, and although I am filled with age old chasmic sadness, tears lurking,

it holds firm, steady soul, parental hand in rattle boom storm.

All the stories here, although weighty and familiar, are still stories.

Karoo continues, ta ta ta, ta ta ta, train – hosho rhythm.

Silence. Wind in howls. Wide winged beings taking flight.

Depths in dust.

Connections as they are: loving, strong, essential

will come through.