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Ethreal Mindscapes Collected Poetic Works © 1994 Tim St.Clair Music Music I can hear is music to my ear, But what you are is music to my eye. For when you are with me, you are my sanity, Your loving grip slips graciously ’round I. My words for you can describe you not, I really should not bumble like this on, But I would surely die the day I turned to find you’d gone. So I will look you in the eye and say Just exactly what I feel. Then you’ll just look back at me and smile And know that my love for you is real. Wait like dawn on a silent ocean, and clouds evaporate inside your open eyes. again, again opening, to see what you must see. wishing and waiting for him, caring already for what you do not know. he’s there, in your mind, coming from the other side of awareness for you. to take you there, away from this still, lonely world. like the tiny bird of a morning, a song that bursts out in loving harmony. the breaking chill, evaporating the cold with its sensual warm. still there, still there, existing somewhere in your memory, loving life, as you do, and loving all there is to love. you know him already, and love him as much as life itself. like the giant sun, after the great storm has past. and a flood of emotion, gushing through you like a new emotion. like the soul of earth, filling in each tiny hole with new life. he’s coming, you know, to seek you out and give you what you need. soon, soon, he will be there for you. The Selfish Cube A light side, a dark side, a side I can not see. In the corner of a corner— a place in which is me. An image of a consciousness, small and looking strained, A wooden box; within the cube is my soul contained. Locked without a key, hinged without a screw, Glued without a trace, hidden away from you. Pick it up and shake, within it does not sound, Searching for a soul— a piece that can’t be found. An Ice Kingdom; winter within. Locked away; free from Sin. Buried well, routed deep, In for ever to purge and keep. The selfish cube, six sides the same, Eight sharpened corners on which to blame, The hidden truth inside the skin, So similar to the place within. The Hermit The Phone. Do I want to go out? To a movie perhaps? Leave here? Go somewhere? But today is so special. Tonight I am here. There is nobody here tonight. What do I want to do? What am I doing? What more could I do? I turn out all the lights in the house, Switch off the TV and radio if they’re on, Turn it all off and just sit there waiting. Waiting for dark. Looking at the sky in it’s crimson glory at twilight. Gazing up at Venus as it pops into the air. I take a chair out beyond the garden and sit there. I sit there in the cooling air, Watching the dark arise in the east. Sitting in the balmy blue under a wan moon That washes filtered light across a polaroid landscape. Cooling off in the night sun, Watching the lights of a town twinkle in the thick air, Dreaming of reaching up to the stars with my hand And picking out the one that I fancy, Then place it on a necklace or ring and give it to one I love So it gleams through the dark and vanishes under yellow day. Then I sing a song that’s in my mind. And sing until the songs are done. Then I know I am cold and alone. So I take the chair into the house and turn on a dim light And sit and wait for the sun to rise, thinking of a star. The Day. Sun through the clouds in beams of hazy love. Birds in a birdbath, cuddling, quivering. Frosty ice on composting grass, crackling under the feet. House on the land, upright, stunted, sharp. Song in my mind, gracious in its calling, Set my mind at rhythm, thinking of a star. Zephyr flutter, a leaf falls. Autumn. Falling of leaves, curling of a flower. Cold pulse of a reptile lying in hidden trace. Cold hard seat resting in a garden- Staring upwards, waiting. Eyes, searching, staring. The Phone. The TV. The Radio. Dormant. The house. The trees. The birds in splasing song. Window of the mind, In hue of Earth and Sky and Air and Sea, Waiting to call, to hear, to see. Loving in slow motion, glazed and smudged with time, The giant Eye of God stares down eternally. Suicide Expedition Calling out. Nobody there but me. Calling your name to the wind, as the song goes. Rushing so fast it sucks the words right from my mouth. Replaced by a subconscious thought, twisted like it is. Bedroom scene. Not sex. Bedroom: Four white walls, grey carpet, table, bed, yellowish light, door, aluminuim window. Dots on the walls from Blu-Tac: Bygone pictures and posters torn out of existance. A bygone time. Blank eyes, blank ceiling, blank expression, blank soul. Dark from lurid night. Evil/Fear from torrentuous night. Plaster cracks:A smile from a friend. No smile indeed: Sadism subconscious tormenting the lame. Friend and a friend: Pure love, no restraints. One on one. Going out: Forgotten joy. Good time: No comment. “...The purpose of life is to live. Understand this and be at one with yourself. Have a nice life...” Quoth God, who never one lived and lives eternally in us, they say. They say alot of things. About people. About feelings and stuff. Putty in the hand of god, a mind. Putty to shape and perfect. Putty to bake and putty to shatter. To shatter: Scattered pieces of a whole. Mostly replaceable, though nothing’s perfect. Life as an ant. Carry a load, drop a load and repeat. Until eaten by a bird or torched by a brainless kid with a magnifying glass. Meaningless existance: No love drive, no will to be. A springy helix of finite length and infinite possibility: An algorithm. Existance as an algorithm. To be or not to be. A sum, add up the worth, see what you get. Nowhere. The algorithm is wrong. Change the algorithm. A sum, add up the costs, see what you get. Cycle of dependencies, liberate each other from a hopeless life of drudgery. Nowhere. Change the algorithm. It won’t change. Society is to blame. Television. Radio. Stereo. Mono. Computer. Virtual Reality. Hollywood. Pleasure Island. Space colonisation. Isaac Asimov. Fantasy novels. Fiction. Science Fiction. Alien Attacks. World Peace. 1984. Internet. Information Superhighway. Cyberspace. Cyberpunks. Greenpeace. World Wildlife Fund. Ozone Friendly. Hitler. Stalin. Alexander the Great. Atila the Hun. Jesus Christ. Sidartha the Budha. Mohammad. Gods of all. McDonalds. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Pizza Hut. Hungry Jacks. Social Security. Pension. Monitory Assets Testing. Taxes. Politics. Communism. Democracy. Heirachy. Anarchy. Chaos. Order. Socialism. Fractal Geometry. Circle. Square. Triangle. Shapes. Images. Boy. Girl. Man. Woman. Adolescent. Teenager. Adult. Mr. Mrs. Ms. Mstr. Miss. Black. White. Red. Yellow. Colour. Skin. Race. Paint. Ink. Background. Portrait. Symbols. Icons. Representations of idealist ideals. Graffiti. Words. Ideals all. Is there a difference? Society is to fault. Change the algorithm. The algorithm won’t change. Blank eyes staring at a blank ceiling. Love: The algorithm. The algorithm can not change. Need: External device. Batteries not included. Get your own. Find it yourself. It’s not my problem. Years. Seconds. Time passing. The algorithm can not change. Need: Values of Variables and Constants within the algorithm in order to solve the problem. Need: To change the algorithm in order to suit the variables in order to get the desired result. Chemicals reacting in response to neurostimulation. Action Attained. Electric pulses across cellular bodies cause genetic algorithms to resolve. Action Attained. Murder within the soul in an empty coffin. Metadeath within seconds. The algorithm does not change. Smudged Impression on a Window Night as it was was stormy Electric lights browning out suddenly Howl of wind roaring like ocean Fresh smell of rain dripping in Brilliant flashes lighting up the night Fire warming room with orange ripples Bubbling stew in black pot Coffee black against creamy white cup Something banging in distance Bellow from some animal, lost perhaps Smudges on window, tricking downwards Swaying green branch outside Tricking sound of water off roof Both. Voices, mumbling, low under silence White teeth smiling through dimness Coffee cooling and diminishing Bubbling stew in a crucible of taste Squeaky chair, rocking slowly Smell of wet pleasance in air Tiny indigo flowers smiling from vase Green twigs smoking in fire Red hand cut wood makes walls Straw lined shingles complete roof Large brown implements adorn fireplace Doors loosely fitting frames Whistling wind through tiny gaps Mosquito whining someplace Pair. Laughter through home Red flames dancing in joy Chair creaking congradulations Coffee spilt on rough wood floor Storm subsiding, building up again Lightning moving back, slowing Lucid fragrance wafting though air Moist atmosphere cooling thought Gratitude with a spoonful of hot stew Smile with a meaning shining though Hard floor but soft understanding Fire low, charred smudges of hot coal Straw mattress inviting company One. Seeker Domain Open my eyes See you Love you, you know How tell you? If you know? Do you know? Ask you if? No reply. Silence. Wait. Wait. Silence. Tell you love you. Silence. Silence. Oh come on. I am waiting, I am waiting. Tell me. I love you. Do you know that? Do you? Please know that. Silence. Silence. You look, you smile. Wait. Wait. Don’t you know what Love is? Don’t you know the pain and joy and hurt and- Please acknowledge at least my feelings. I can not explain it further without showing you. Please take notice. Seek answer. Is answer? Wait. Silence. Pause, ask again. Wait. Answer recieved! You don’t know? Why not? You don’t know? You’re only joking. You do! Relief, joy, hurt, pain, sorrow, question. Feeling indescribed. Feeling new, feeling question. -Love-. Nothing more said, nothing needed said. Non seeker, quench seeker domain. Eternity met. same mind (separate life) Nightmares are reality, Spelled out in the mind, Physical excitementations Being left behind. A digital replacement Is becoming our fatality: Electronic dreaming In a virtual reality. Another world to see and loot; One more to destroy. A binary land to overcome And much yet to deploy. The next place of society, The extra place to flee, The other place to find youself— A place you won’t find me. Reality. In reality. The reality. Reality is what I see, And what I see is you and me. The world outside, the world within A world I do not see, Excavations of the mind— What’s dug out is not me. Open rooms and unlock doors— In a place which is no place— To search for truth, to seek a love Greater than time or space. Reality. In reality. The reality. Reality is what I see, And what I see is you and me. We come and go within a time That has no time within, A virtual projection of A life of lust and sin. So short is life, so weak is love That speaks not of it’s shame, So show your self and too your fear— I will not judge or blame. It’s reality. I’m reality. The reality. Reality is what I see, And what I see is you and me. Reality. In reality. Our reality. Reality is what I see, And what I see is reality. Revealance There comes a time when we must disclose out true identity, When this happens, some others do not believe us. Some are skeptical, such as the idiot psychiatrists that believe only in their own wisdom, Some are uncaring as to anothers feelings on the matter, much like a naïve child, And it all stems from the question “Who am I” So, Who am I. An immortal question indeed, As one who watches the TV game shows knows, ‘Who am I? I was born then and I did these things, so who am I?’ Who cares. I do. At least somebody wants to know. You see, in our ‘western civilised’ societies, everyboy is a so-called individual; That is, someone who will make their conscious feelings felt in whatever way. You see, the individual as a person is recognised, is someone. It has, I suppose, to do with the egos need nor personal safety and company- Nobody wants to be alone, even if they say they do- So they become the Somebody Different in order to gain Respect. It is like holding a gun up and saying: “Hey, respect me or I’ll kill you.” There is a choice. Either you say “Yeah, sure man.” And you’re his friend, Or you’re dead. It works, doesn’t it. You’ve become the forced friend. The friend forced to become the individual in your own group with The so called Elite, ie; you and the wielder of the force- the gun. But seemingly away from the point that is, it really is the point. Let me explain again. No, let me say the point straight out. You cannot be the individual, therefore you cannot express your self? Wrong. You can become the individual in these days by doing things that are Socially unacceptable? Wrong. What is right is by becoming ‘normal’. The average, the mediocre, the mean. Whatever. Be the ‘norm’, for no-one else is. In fact, if you think about it, there is another way... Who am I? What do I like, what do I hate? Why am I what I am? Who, why, what, when and How? I will tell you my side, then you think of yours. I am an author, a poet, a writer, a nobody. I do not want to be anybody, I want to be the societal norm. I want to be the individual? I cannot escape from life easily while fixing it up and not causing social backlash, I cannot, therefore, escape myself. I understand that to change the world, I must, as one songwriter I know puts it, Change myself. I must become something different, I must be able to change and be willing to accept You, and Him and Her and them and everyones reponsibility and point of view. Now, I recently recalled somebody talking about their personal façade, their mask And I think “I have a mask I wear, which hides my fear.” I am afraid to talk on the telephone. I am afraid to go to sleep at night. I am afraid of being trapped by a bushfire or flood. I am always afraid of everything... almost (I will explain). But I don’t show it. I lie about my weaknesses. I joke about my fear. Why? Well, perhaps I am afraid that somebody will find out. But isn’t that what I want? Why can’t somebody else know? Because... I don’t... I can’t tell them. Why not? But there are those who know me, Know my insides better than most. Perhaps better than me, perhaps not. These are the people that I am not afraid of. They are the nameles few whom I love And for whom I really care. Maybe it’s the people for whom I have no knowledge Or any sense to care for that scare me. I think it is. But the question is “Who am I?” And the answer isn’t easy, but the solution is simple. The simplest way to find out who you are is to ask yourself What are my fears, and how can they be overcome. Once you know what your weakness is, Murder it. Kill it. Overcome it. Do not be afraid of your weakness. In a book, Dune, the main characters main idea of fear is this: Fear is the mind killer. It can be overcome only if you want it to be overcome. Face it and it will decline, run from it and it will mount behind you. Basically, he was right, and in the end of the book he overcame his fear And won. And so can you, just look at your problem, face it and say That isn’t so hard. This question is easy. This has to be the answer. And this was my solution: You are nothing at all. You are what you think others think you are. You are alive. That is all. What else is there? Photo Album Green. and Blue. and Red. Chemicals so distorted by the negative light, Composite crystals twisted under the dim lights, On sleek paper, shiny paper. Just paper. A house, a car and somebody there— All out of focus, hard-to-see figures— Still, just chemicals. A boat, a car, trees and the sun. All on paper, somewhat enclosed by a plastic sheet. Memories, of a sort. But whose memories? Then more faces. Happy faces, people— Chemical representations of memories; But isn’t the mind just a chemical? Smiles of people known, unknown, happy smiles. Eyes of the people, happy, eager eyes. Eyes that reflect the light. Pages and pages of paper, altered like a memory, Their souls coalescing into the sheen and shine, Glossed over by the plastic retaining sheet. Memories come and gone all remembered on paper, Unable to be remembered in chemical thought, So dissolved onto paper— Forgotten, as it were. Stolen by a book of paper and plastic and card, A book of chemical theives that feast on memories; Photo album. Mind Words Writing— pen and paper. Lying on my back. In bed, tired and cold, Alone, of course, in a room, somewhere. Words, a communication of thoughts, Strung together to form ideas, Compiled by the dying brain Into an image of itself. Words nobody reads, Stuff duplicated, stuff discarded. Images drawn, compositions played, Words still just words on a page. Poetry expelled as ink symbols and gestures Creative expression copying a feeings description. Loss of energy, loss of communication— Despair! Just words on a page. Mind Image Shifting, churning. Billowing in bursts that sting the eye and naked leg. Whipping hards shrubs that grasp fistfulls of oxides, Tress that retch white salts from their waxy complexion. Sand on a beach. Pain from walking. Calcium deposits far and wide, strewn and forgotten by long-dead creatures. Cuts and abbrasions up the naked leg, a fallen victim to the wash. Broken bottles, a rotted thong and a needle amongst the spinifex. The shelly shore. A bird pecking too hard at a rock that won’t give, An innocent creature peeking from the dirty wash of pale sand. A naked leg burning, searing, melting, in summery heat. Clothes, a towel, ants crawling through the grass. The holiday makers. Spinifex to shrubs to undergrowth to trees. A rough path cut by water and wear and inquisitive tourists, Happy in their way to and from the other side, Odd holes, as big as a finger, poke crevices in the whiteness of earth. Home of the crabs. The water, blue as the richest eye that stares down. The sky, bleached by the salty horizon. The house on the headland, lost somewhere in the misty spray. The smell, cleansing, washing though, filling the soul. The shore, of course. Mind Game Invisible. I can see through you, child of deciept. As a ghost, a Wraith of despair come to haunt the soul. Imagination superimposing sweetness on impenetrable truth. Eyes like curtained windows of a darkened house. Hope. A glimmer of recognition. I see in through your blue eyes. A wind, a straw strand of your long hair falls. Then movement spoiling a photographic still of perfection, Creasing the mood of suprise. Anger. Memory of a recent accident, dissapointment in a wish. A scar in the childs’ mind. Turning your head, away, away. Denial of regret. I forgive. I forget. Can you do the same? Love. Kindness in two eyes, a smile creasing the mood of hate. Memory of a feeling, deep rooted, obscure in origin, Like a image of your childhood. You leave me alone, cold and hard, for another part of yourself. Latent Exhibition — Inherent Inhibition Sort of bizarre. Out of phase living in surrealism places. Faces adorned– punk, and yet, Norm by circumstance. Digital phantasms adjourn to the street, cast out of their screens. Moods in colour– Need: overcome, Want: dominator in selfs. A grim Café, pure leader in wierddom, casting shadows in the light. Crystal laughter– out of place, and yet, Norm under civility. Coffee and chocolate a lust by an inflation of inadequacy. One in a window staring, A view from a broken life. Screaming falling out from the underground unknowns, Tunnels down defended by the unloved, Also just standard. Art noveu sprayed random in xenophobic dissaray, A message of peace– and yet, A message of death. Of lives disorder, wander aimless in nontime happiness, Structured anarchy, Useless dithering of society. Stemming from the genes of a reproductive wasteland, Barren thought patterns in status Develop into barren continuum. Loveless society, uncaring as to death and the other, Unworried existance, like High on a clouded trip. Flawless society, unmoved as to a life other than no other, Ready to pass on life, Ready to retain their’s knowledge. Key to a Cell 1. Round and round! The clock! The cogs! Blessed be they who go in circles, For they shalt be known as as Wheels! Clockwork springing back and forth— In the demure, demental head, In the sogged up tubule of brainy stuff In the cog that isn't part of the bloody clock At all. A head like a squarish room Padded with a rubber tissue that Bounces a chemical ball all tied up inside, Churning over like the ocean tide, Dreaming of a coat with no arms, Sculpting and smashing and moulding and mashing The thoughts all mangled around, Twisted like the coil in that clock. Tense. Jelly balls with an in built camera Recording endless spools of erratic light To twist and reinvent elsewhere later on. Photons thrown away in multi-hued formations From the other body that is so perfect— The other thing that looks the same and Looks different and is not the same at all. You. 2. The face is in the clock, a work of art. A grand old wooden timekeeper, never fast or slow. An even tick echoing gracefully in a silent place. Exquisite tiny hands, clearly guiding the eye. A delicate trace of ornaments complimenting the style. The cute, shy look apologising the time. All in all, a masterpiece of refined beauty. Clockwork crafted by a genius creator. The coil fine tuned to give perfect response. Small wheels and unbelievably exact cogs That think, think, think, precisely all the time. 3. It is a cog that lies outside. A wheel serrated on edge to give a use. But it has no use, alone, like that. It's not quite right, there's a tooth or two missing And the axle hole isn't quite centred. But the unkept cog lies outside, staring up at the clock, Almost wishing, if it could, to be a part of the perfection. God is my friend, he cries, as is the bird and the butterfly. The wall is there, staring at him, accusing As it does. His watch is lost, broken too. Time passes as it does, who can stop it? God hates me, he screams, so he broke my watch. He tore out the cogs and wrenched out the time. Now I must exist outside time, with my heart bleeding A new emotion into a shred of existence. The square room is padded to keep the brain from Him. He hates me, and I am Him. I hate myself. Sanity? 4. Scream out, there's nobody home. Clanging gong that signals a certain time. Sing your resonant overtone, chime away. Putrid clock. Evil hand that grips the soul. The key, the hand that winds it, is gone. The coil unwinding, relaxing. Black joy. The clock is stopped. 5. Void of thought, a dying mind grasps nothing. A space is there, a hole in the lump of soul. A missing bit taken right out of the heart. I have the key. I must wind up the clock. I must turn the key over and over. I must leave the key, but for just one more turn. The coil snaps— Just tell me I saw you in my room. I was there, do you remember? Lying accusingly on the stiff bed, Standing hidden behind the hard door, Staring unemotionally through the pale window. You never knew, you never cared. You come up my road, You follow my so carefully weathered path. You enter my house, You don't even knock. You steal from my richness, You take what is not yours to take, You don't even notice me watching you. I was there, I saw you do it. You never gave me the reason. I handed everything over directly. You never even looked at my giving hand. I offered all I owned, even myself. You took it all, all but me. Why did you do it? Did you not see the face in the window? Did you not see the person who opened the door? Did you steal my world right out from under me? I do not understand this. You take all, even my love, Yet you never give any back. I say your name— All I ask is why?. Inversion A hologram floats now on the ceiling, Rippling like a stone under water. A projection of the minds’ mind, Chucked out by the lens that is an eye. 1. A Nighmare only once, never again seen, except—. Gray, like the lucid lights on a night avenue. Except that frail, earthly colourless void That is no colour, not all, not none. A blanket of despair. Or a veil of peace. Or something else, Who can know? It’s like there’s nothing— Was, Is or Will Never Be. It is timeless, ageless. Lifeless. It is not like a desert. Nor it it like space. It is like a gray fog that limits the sight To nothing but gray fog. It is like floating up, floating down again. It is like a dead tree, twisted against the rest. It is like the silver hair of an old man. It is like the lifeless rag entombed in the coffin. It is like cold, wet cement. Death is gray. 2. Moving sands of time, washing shores in the pale gray moonlight, crickets and beetles battling through the stinging trees, harsh wind reeking painful havoc on the land, thickets swaying to protect the thirsty roots, flowers crinkled from the days sun, and a gray branch, melting back to the ground. 3. The hologram is but a representation, Cast out by the hurting brain. Colourless and motionless, the nightmare will continue. Waking up, facing the world, seeing the life spawn. So colourful, so weak and fragile. The fog is solid, calm. Gray. I’m leaving you The day I met you The day I died The day I met my spirit The day I didn’t cry The time we were together The year we spent apart I did all but forget you And your place in my heart The caravan burning on the beach The day that I went home The evening at the restaraunt The years I spent alone Those times that I spent smiling And those parts I can’t forget Times when I did not know you Long before we had even met Times I say were wonderful Times I say I hated Times I say I really missed And the time when we first Dated The time when I first failed you You thought my love was a hoax The place where I kept my feelings Locked in their empty box The time when we were lovers The day we found out ‘us’ The week we spent on holiday in a Miserable broken-down bus The times we do not remember The future we do not see The love we can no longer hold For we are no longer ‘we’ And that’s all there is to it, Goodbye. I am the Onion I am a bowl of fruit: There are many flavours to discover, But many are left for mould. I am a tomato: A glazed skin and juicy taste; full of little seeds, But I will pop and tear when in hot water. I am a banana: tall, proud and ready to ripen, But I peel away to reveal a soft interior. I am the citrus: golden, earthly colours so tempting and sweet, But so sour and bitter when peeled away. Through the eyes of a string bag I can see, Looking up at you from a paper bag in the corner. From the masses of sweet and sour stalks of green and white I come. I am the Onion. I have many, many layers that slowly peel and flake. Soothe me and I will flavour your mouth, But cut me and I will whip your eye. Hypocrite Hypocrite! Make the insane man demented! Murderer of ambition, root of anger. You think you’re god— Can do anything. You’re wrong, you know. You are wrong. I had hope, You—. It was love, wasn’t it? You didn’t get it, did you? ‘Ha’, you spat in your own face, ‘It was not love, It was something else.’ You hate yourself. You say you hate nobody, You say you can’t hate anybody. Bou you hate yourself, don’t you. Love others? When you hate yourself. ‘Ha’, I spit. ‘It was indeed somethig else— It was ambition, an answer to love; Make them hate, twist them around. Reach into the heart, squeeze out the life.’ Yes, you give and give and remain passive. Bullshit, it is. Lies. You lie to yourself. You reckon you’re so good. You can pick the faults of others so easily. You make them hate, Then you mock and despise them for hating. I murder you again and again, You rise up like bile after a bad meal. You, my twisted mind, You, the Hypocrite. Giant Trees Between midnight and dawn, when sleep will not come and the old wounds begin to ache, I often have a nightmare vision of a future world in which there are billions of people, all numbered and registered, with not a gleam anywhere, not an origional mind, a rich personality, on the whole packed globe. -J. B. Priestley Night. Cold and dank in the room that is the world. As it is, always, Unforgiving. Night eyes watching cold time pass. Night eyes waiting, perched high in a tree. A tree of glitter and glass, a tree higher than no other. A tree full of eyes and ears and lights. The squal of nature when nature is dead. Sounds not sounds, just noise, filling up space. Everything filling up space. Night ears, listening for the sound of a tree falling. A tree falling where nobody can hear it fall. Night ears can only hear the noise That justifies what the Night eyes can see— Night. Night light waiting, cold and dank. On a corner of the tree of liquid sand, On the floor in a forgotten room. No more in the sky where once it burned endlessly, Warm and forgiving. Night eyes waiting for the shadows to come- Procrastinating, suspended in animation. communication decentralisation the world is breaking down. The coffee is cold, freezing slowishly. eat at macdonalds, it's fireproof and waterproof - the food, I say. interesting that you say that. why is what I ask. like john laws on the radio, asking why. never does he get it. the answer, I mean. I ask if it's raining in siberia but they don't tell me if it's raining here either. but looking back over my shoulder is like glancing into the past. it takes time to process it all, everything I'm trying to say. because I'm sitting at the computer, staring out a window, looking into some other future and reading into the past, because i want to know my now. knowing off the moduliser/demoduliser that connects my brain to the void. that's the web, is what i am now saying, do you see? I learn from you and the rest of you but you learn from me by only the same and different means. do you undersand? like reading a book, because his (or her, too, now, as they aren't content with it now or later) thoughts are there. a man will die but now his ideals. pity though. that novel was about socialism but it'll never work because of now the information can't be controlled like it used to be controlled long ago. Too many know. trust nobody, they say. They say things like this. they know why they say it and they know why we don't know why they say what they say. but I know. I am one of them. I am them, but they don't know. they say it bacuase you're all easy to control if you know nothing. of if you think you know nothing but you know something. or you know something but think you know nothing. it's a good policy for breeding mistrust and doubt, don't you think? that's because it works. not like my electric kettle, though. it doesn't even keep the water hot in the drink after it's gone cold. the kettle I mean. you see, I don't see how you misunderstand. I always knew what it was that I was all about. it was easy to see that it was simple to understant and probably simple to not understand, but I don't see that because I understand it. do you follow? I do. I know, but I can't tell. It's forbidden by them. I am not one of them, they are not like me but in some other ways they are, like before. isn't there so much to understand? isn't there so much to see? why can't you realise what I'm saying? then you'd find out about me. why is it that you can't find out? what makes it so hard to do? why do we even try to at all when there's no point for us to? it's stupid that i think i know, when it's probably that I don't. why don't we just all give up? what's in us that we just won't? its trying to understand it, and communicate it with all of you. that the mind's alive and that's the point of what we're here to do. Bus Trip Pay the driver, an hours journey— Too much, even for a ‘Quality Coach’. A terrible video, who chose it? It doesn’t matter, the video player doesn’t work anyway. A full bus, crammed into the aisles with caches of personal items, As if of a load of refugees fleeing a forlorn city. Seated, moving, the orange curtain drawn. A beautiful reddening sky, clear Heralding a frosty morning, perhaps. An uncomfortable seat, even extended back. Cramped knees— the seat in front crashes back. Pearl of all laughter, soft, sweet. Ringing in the ear, delicate, even sensuous. The bus is not so crowded, the stiff air even sweet. The flowing hair cascading down the crevice— Cleft in the back, groove between seats— Like a perfect creek ticking rocks in trancing song. Skin of a fairy tale, unmarked, smooth. Warm radiating out like a soft animal in the lap. Another glance, then a sliver of goosebumps down the spine. A pulsing rhythm— A heartbeat heard by another— under the sleeping sun. The journey complete, too soon, too early. Stiff air returning. bad dreams it is the time of sleep. one side of the world an effervescent black, another side a dull spectrum of colour, and the rest, a gray timeless mix of the both. as like the rest of the universe. lying in the shadow of a shadow. and eyes are closed, the wondrous dark plentiful, but ears open and white noise ecstaticates in silence, senses nullified as the body warms the sheets. as does everyone, sooner or later. for a while the dark is perfect. the brain cools inthroughout, the body feeds and heals, the stomach squirms and dissolves the energy, the sheets go cold and the body moves. as is the way it is every night. then there is a memory or something else. it stirs the figments of sub-thought, it recollects the dimensional flash photos, it hears and sees and feels and does everything again, as there must always happen. then there is a rupture, a seam in the fabric. the beautiful dead gray that is the dream is lost, the silent hiss that is the mournful toll is gone, the glorious wash of illogic non—thought slinks away. as the real world dreadfully returns. Atomic User And he runs : And she runs : And it runs : On the Atomic Fuels And he works : And she works : It all works : On the Nuclear Fuels And he runs : And she walks : And we all live : On the Powersafe Fuel And we need : And we thrive : And we lie : Of the Wastage of Fuel But it’s safe : It’s not safe : Yes it is innocuous It’s deadly : Look at me : But we all run and work and thrive and live and die and it will kill all you see It is safe : We’re alive : We need the vast energy And we are dying : Yes we’re leaving : It will kill us all- you’ll see And it works : And we work : And they work : Under the Nuclear Fuel And we run : And it runs : And they run : Within the Atomic Fuel And it dies : And it thrives : And we all change : from the Power of Fuel And we try : And they die : No-one survives from : The Killer in Fuel And he runs : And she runs : And it runs : From the Atomic Fuels And he works : And she works : It all works : Under the Regime of Fuel And he talks : And she walks : And we all live : On an Energy Fuel And we thrive : And we hide : And we die : Of Euthenasia Fuel At the Party Lynette. A name I hadn’t heard before. I checked it twice. Lyntette (a combination of Lyn and Annette, perhaps?). I will never know, now. We were drunk— Or at least she was. I think I was still fully aware, Although isn’t being drunk a bit like that— When you think you’re right but you’re not? Still, I remember as if it happened just now. We didn’t do anything— Like everybody says they don’t remember, But they ‘had a good time’ and probably ‘got laid’ And they can remember what it all would have been like, Even though they said they can’t remember anything. We talked a bit, like you do— It wasn’t like we were getting onto each other, Just that ‘How are you?’ type chat that you would have, Like sitting around waiting for the subway or in at the dentist, Talking about the weather and politicians and taxes and all that. I liked her, I really did, she had a great character— Yeah, she looked pretty, but I don’t really look for that. I do a bit, judge like that, but so does everybody. No, she was nice to chat with, over dinner and other’s chatting. It was a sort of sit-down party, you see. She told me what she thought of me— It wasn’t like what I thought of her. I really did like her, I latched onto her, this girl called Lynette. She said I should buy a life, get me a personality. Not in those words, but that’s what they meant. She apologised later— I don’t need apologies, I could see she meant it then. First impressions are good like this, Somebody you’ve known five minutes who says to you Just exactly what they think of you. That’s why I liked her— Not because she was pretty, or because she apologised, Or because she wanted to sleep with me. Because she was herself, Made uninhibited by the alchahol, perhaps. I’ve never seen her since— I know my own ways, I think that’s her good luck. If I see her again, I most likely won’t talk to her. I’ll let her be herself— this Lynette— Because that’s why I like her. ...all the best, then We can see each other by and by, we can think of us, when we were us, we can wish to be together again- But also we cannot. You see, we’re apart again, we’re not as one we reminisce of the times when we were having fun- We could run and play, or lie on grass and sleep, or hold each other in our arms forever in this hold to keep. But we don’t, now. We could love as one, be as one, we were oft unapart, we could take the good times with the bad because love was in our heart. I loved you and you to me did want such evermore, but what did happened between us? We when left alone were sore. And now we’re alone. Yes, we’re apart. I still love you, you know but I wonder if you love me. A year or more has the great rift grown within our small family. And so with life ahead and you behind, my soleful journey must go, And my wish to you that you will find a love like mine- for I’m still here- A great love like mine, you know.

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