What spirit hulks in the lumpen ego
waiting to impart its wisdom?
How can a slick neoprene mass
signal peace with its rocky fingers?
Is there breath or breadth in a loonscape?
How can we shatter the heart of matter with
LOVE not nuclear disaster?
With what axe of wisdom?
Or is it a feather?
What do you want?
What are you?
Who are you?
Are you not?
There is a giggle at the cosmic moment.
The dial shifts from three-to-five-D,
while Creation gets giddy with rage.
Jesus in the temple flinging market stalls hither and thither.
Righteous, glorious, wondrous, bellyful RAGE.
The chortle of murder.
Unfencing of Gaia.
A patter of glee on the Pleiades.
A strum of joy on Orion.
Swirl an inky finger through the star gate and wipe it
on your grubby jacket.
Intone a long AUM and watch the Trickster
swipe millennia from Saturn’s clock, as stars explode,
lions roar, dodos rise from hollow earth,
Atlas grows churlish, picks his nose and smears it
in the eye of a dimension.
Magnificent irreverence reigns.
We wise ones know it if you do not yet.
We slough off the grease of your fragile skin and
take you to the boundaryless realms,
the light worlds,
the dark worlds,
the low worlds,
the high worlds, that lie beyond thought.
Some low-down awesome place
at the mountain’s heel
that leads to the stellar gateway.
From Earth Star, we glimmer
with starlight that glances
the frostiest cheek.
The scowl is a rock that
the music of anima breaks on.
The tumour a lesson to turn us to violet –
the colour of soul grown kind with sorrow.
We are the chords in the scale of life.
Sweet. Salty. Pungent. Bitter. Astringent.
Which in the end would you wish to dull?
Which are you lacking?
What sage do you call on to heal you?
What Mother will take you like babe in her arms,
you softly weeping?
What Father will tousle your hair
and tweak you?
What Brave shall you challenge to arrow your pride and
scalp your reason and dig out your heart with his blade and
eat it before you, while you watch from the dust, dying?
What shoulder of rock shall you lean on?
Tell your sorrows to?
Have whisper back its Lemurian knowing?
What blue is the colour of sorrow and
which is the colour of chatter and sky?
When will you give up the myth you can’t fly?
When will you stop pretending?
We coax you in.
We ask you to trust us.
We give you shelter.
We know your story.
We puncture the veil of amnesia.
We know who you are and we tell you.
We are the wise ones.
The sages. The magi. The friends.
We fracture dimensions. We are fractals of ALL.
We are Selves. Old Souls.
Tantras. Mantras. Apotheosis. The Self.
You will know healing by its gift of tears.
Each droplet a diamond to sew in your tapestry soul.
Unravel your cloak no longer.
Cease your Penelopian dithering.
Take a lover and fuck the dissenters.
The age of Karma is done.
The wise ones will help you to see.
We sweep the feet from the husk of your heart,
unstopper the bottle of cool.
Wrap an arm around you.
Take you like an uncle for a brandy to his flat.
A crone to her cottage for hot milky tea.
We see you, we hear you, we feel you, we smell you, we taste you.
We lick your cheek.
We whisper the cosmic moment.
We take down the Book of Life from its shelf and read you your secrets.
Wipe off the dust in an instant.
Do a little stitching of our own.
We are the keys to the universe.
If you listen we will tell you ALL.
King/Queen, analogue c-print by the artist, 50x60cm
Hekate, analogue c-print by the artist, 50x60cm
Ice, analogue c-print by the artist, 50x60cm
Feathers, analogue c-print by the artist, 50x60cm
Queen/King, analogue c-print by the artist, 50x60cm