unpack

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.

Advertisements

ecstatic dancing particular nothing

unstoppable beauty

these sounds

those ones

made from recordings –

sounds in

African mines.

Reenter instructions

to consider conditions

as the sounds do

their work.

Did you ever think how

so much music

is beautiful, broken,

all compelling rhythms of

work songs, passing down myths

to future

escape, to escape

     now, right now.

And these works

of transmutation, these get into sensation reminders,

what life is,

inside/outsides attempts

at escape through

with talons, machetes,

claws, fists, dance moves,

fizzing to…  <    >

pulses, living, stories, remembering,

wing movements, proboscis,

bells, drums,

changing

one elemental substance

into

another, a chain reaction

involving

whatever is to hand…

to work through

and not around…

And. Us. This. Now. Working in

Ineffable yearning life space,

dream

Call it strange, call it home

Make a world from it.

We tumbleweed into spirals of tickles and licks.

Your spines are gentle in my hands, not soft, no,

but never there to hurt me. You

could be a creature that comes to

live in this home, for a moment

bought and sold as a pet in my

Imagination – before I realise it’s you, again.

Tumble to our senseless senses in

flashes of light and spirals, bites, claws,

transformations – you spin into snake forms, you spin

Around my arm in serpentine dances,

You are so fast, so intense, so present. I fall into

flow space, I keep up, it’s easy. You

allow me to overtake so we oscillate,

you, me, you

waveform double helix,

and this is what energy is. Life is.

Energy is, as we dance and fall and

rise around each other, clattering exo-

skeleton on skin, slipping passages of air,

flutter,

ecstatic dancing particular nothing,

gentle animals in a strange bohemian apartment

formed of imagination,

formed of long, dry savannah grass.

Flicker between worlds

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.

Untitled (Brighton, June 1 2017)

Brighton is that sort of place that makes you want to throw off all responsibilities and declare everything a holiday forever. The beach is always there, whispering all Siren. Bright sun through the window. The promise of fluttering sparks of energy, dancing with your gaggle of tremendous oddities. The spinning rides in motion on the end of the pier, tangential lines and angles.

The sun is out, the beach is full. People have plenty to do, but sometimes the call of the beach is greater. Everyone feels a bit guilty about it for a moment, then laughs it off. If you escape the guilt you feel the tingle of a kind of immense freedom. The streets are full of shopping mothers, folk on lunch breaks, weaving hippies, mod stance, fluttering gulls and pigeons. The sunshine/chatter/open/flit through the crowds in a sea of possibility. This is the only place in the country where most people vote Green. And you can feel it. 

And still violence happens. Gaybash tourism to St James’ St, drunk football louts shouting trans* slurs, almost no one realising how insidiously racist the stupid little things that fall out of their conditioned minds and mouths often are… all of the above is true, but also this is England. This is life. This is not so different, and the streets are full of dickheads and people who have no idea they could stop griping at each other. Cops. And people who are unable to get a roof over their heads.

I remembered recently a primary root of the floatsome weight that seems so often to be inside of me, the heartache at the core of my being, all hoofy and impossible. I remembered why there is a seriousness, and why I have responsibilities to it. Plus I also have to eat, pay rent. It would be great to get out of debt. Fun doesn’t pay for itself either…  and wouldn’t it be nice to buy some records again one day.

But look at Brighton, although you can’t see it the sun shines through the window all shimmers and you know it’s out there, holiday town, mini windmills, put on those imagined or actual cowboy boots, a featherbow-a, little shorts and a spangling attitude. Mince down that promenade like you know you were made to! Howl at the folk trying to get on with their regular lives. Fall over laughing. We’re glitter trash queer party otherworld motherfuckers from the future. We’d better make it right now!

And later in the soft moonlight, crash hush waves, repeat, repeat, and the two moons hang gentle power in the sky. Close companions suddenly on why we are no more to blame for this mess than the moths and butterflies, leaves on the trees gentle rattle, yet sit in shared responsibility still, as with so many things. Remember the stillness, the wide open brilliance of sitting on this rock in space and staring out to sea, out to the universe.

Absurdist patterns that we make together and apart are not merely to shock each other into realisation of political emptiness, no. And that is why those tools cannot be left to reside in the hands of those who do not at all seem to perceive these things (and also why those tools may still yet have effects on them that we have not yet seen). It is the profound emptiness of everything that floats our boats and blows wind in our sails, the experience of consciousness that for a moment in time appreciates it, and within it the being of those glorious roots and connections, flutters that function so obviously as this is one, this strange process, us strange process, universe, All.