The Psychic's Sermon

I have peered into the plugholes of countless bathtubs,
 and seen into the sunken docks of submarines.
I have searched in spy holes, which bend the room into my lap,
and washed my eye back out until it was clean.
I have talked with devils, struck deals upon the pavements,
and smiled with relish at my inner appetite.
I have prowled down dirty roads,
where the camera cannot go.
Those sleazy sidewalks,
where silence sees the human show.

I have placed my pleasure on the altar,
where radiant sunlight, in streaks of gold, shivered through the window.
I have encased and kissed the leisure of the night,
and licked the empty cups of a loving life
I re-traced the ancient symbols, threw these sandcastles together,
and stomped to rubble those tombstones of the rabble,
where they had buried the bonfire of their ecstasy.
I have polished and perfected my invented meaning,
and danced enraptured by the holy toy,
of a creative life and boundless joy.
Have asked the driver of the midnight bus,
if he might not take into the sky, with the fever of his lust?

I have coursed down beaten tracks,
where the money and the sleep did lack,
and all we had was bliss.
I moulded my clay. I settled my mud,
I was the silent space in children’s form,
and saw with starburst gaze, the weather it could raise.
I cut all ties, all nooses,
the spider web that we are fighting,
as programs reciting.

My thoughts gave birth to lightning.
I saw the fire of my eyes swim inside the looking glass,
as my love began to laugh.
I fell into another door,
where the sun does meet the floor.
I was thirsty for eternity,
returning on the stream of Evermore.

The Social Stripper

We are worms, crawling back into the womb of our brain,
We are cracked china, broken ducklings,
That left the lake to bathe in the rain.

Together we hopped off the track,
Together, these wind-up dolls, cased in tinned brass,
Lept across the barrier and paraded into the wilderness.

Now we wrestle in the mud,
And all our faces have been smudged.
This inky land, where the sunken dead dwell,
Lets us trace back our lineage in the quivers of the quicksand.

These leaves now murmur their prehistoric shrieks
In midnight relish to the moon.
And the smiles in the windows look like candyfloss,
As our eyes swallow this monsoon.

*

A kaleidoscope of colours, a creative chaos, a come together
of kindred, a demonic indulgence, a circus in motion,
coursing through the commotion of Time.
A force like fire,
Crackling in the sublime.
A ring of smoke, a crowd of ash,
An applause of holy desire,
A cigarette dedicated to a city and to all it aspires.

*

What sunken streets,
With coral traffic and citizens of reptile,
Carrying themselves in this preconceived state,
In this embryo of empty dreams.
What scientific sterility,
The human hunger tamed and nursed,
Until it is but a rehearsal of reversal.

What technology of faces, holy monuments,
What theatre of identity, imitation of expression,
What scrolls and books, hieroglyphs of thought,
The effort to conjugate the collective mind.


*

But this is wonderful, because in this polished room
we caress and cuddle the centre of the whole design.
What splatters of rain now drop, and burst into gold,
And what of the ember in the eye,
curious to reach into the mould of the night,
desperate to peal off the shell of your vision,
and the let the yoke of your fancy drip,
to melt together the nectar of your strife,
to taste the fruit off the banquet of life.

This is all.
And once you are stripped, you are silent.
Silence now, is your sole society.

I. The Cemented Men

“I’m done tormenting the cemented men,”
Cried the boss in my brain, through the stroke of his pen.
“I’m writing these lines to erase all the ties,
With the public insane, and their prudent disguise.”

“For long ago, the rules were paved across a liquid land,
Cementing those who could not make their stand.
And as the experts carved their silent task,
They sold as sanity the human mask,
To curtain our Imagination’s sight,
And bind a darkness round our heart’s delight.

And those who call it free to think beyond the stone,
Are still cemented in a concrete throne,
And those who bear the actor’s script,
Are stranded in their rusted ship,
And those, whose pain does stain their prison cell,
Have hoped with tears to fill their wishing well,
And those who preach with borrowed phrases,
Have been taught to seek in polished mazes.
They all have hoped in vain, and yielding to ancestral strife,
Are raised, through Time, as the statues of forgotten life.”

II. The Path of the Dead

A departure from the living dead:
Those monuments raised to the sun,
As deadened life seeps from the head,
And patterns on cement do run.

The dead leave all their baggage,
To be limitless and clear,
Then to the dust, eternal marriage,
Breaks their chains of mortal fear.
Beyond all fleeting purpose,
And shrouded in time’s mystery,
Their souls slip through the surface,
And tred into infinity.

A blankness in their eyes,
Allows these ancient stones to crumble,
‘Til they’ve shed their old disguise,
And with a peaceful voice do mumble,
That the stars have never been so bright,
As on this path beyond the wall,
That they’ve gazed into the light,
And swim the silence in us all.

III. Awakening

Their smiles are welcomed to awaken,
As the Ancient One is to the new-born day,
As all shackles from their selves are shaken,
And hollow voices, echo far away.

As hunks of clay, lost in the labyrinth of time,
As inspiration, bathed in the immortal shine,
As rays of crystal, streaming through the blind,
As the light which leaves all thought behind,
As vessels emptied of mankind,
As retired from the mind,
As the dreaming shadows, dancing on the wall,
As the awakened eyes cast down the hall,
As the breathing glow before the fall,
As the ancient space inside it all,
As awakeness before life or death are known,
As every object is, in every object shown,
As every ripple sparkles with the ocean’s glamour,
As the awakened gesture, seen in every manner.

IV. Mr. Smith Reborn

The twinkle of the stars are painted in the sky,
The moonlight laughs tonight,
And Mr. Smith knows that he’s not to die,

But is reborn inside the light.

Words that shimmer, as diamonds on a lake,
Are shot in crimson through his vision,
Of a world that’s now awake,
And the dawn that melts division.

Now Mr. Smith is well aware,
Of the layers in the earth,
Since he’s found his home in everywhere,
And treds the land before his birth.

Now Mr. Smith is drunk on love,
A taster from the well of Evermore,
And with ignited eyes raised high above,
He cries upon the endless ocean, from the shore.

Now Mr. Smith has laid aside his mask,
And in rapturous delight begins to play,
Because the tide of time has broken,
And eternity has come to stay.

Now the world is wishing to elope with him,
And Mr. Smith knows that it’s time to fly,
When his light eclipses all that’s dim,
And the starlit sky, swims in his naked eye.


Now Mr. Smith has melted in desire,
As a new-born nova that has longed to die, 
And as a lullaby which caught on fire,
His exultant chant does dance across the sky.

V. The Boy with the Hollow Eyes

The boy with the hollow eyes,
Is the infinite in disguise,
Beyond the realm of what is shown,
He sits upon his timeless throne.

His empty eyes do access All,
And gaze on both sides of the Wall,
At hollow stories he had spun,
As fossil visions, melting in the sun.

Now his mask that withered with the weather,
Knows a silent spring that lasts forever,
A kingdom where the hollow boy,
Wears every face now as his toy.

His eyes traverse that thoughtless ocean,
A twilight land of depthless motion,
Where dying comets, smothered in the sea,
Are moments flickered through eternity.

Where a lullaby drained through a dream,
In silence notes its hollow scream,
As a message for the blind,
By an empty boy who knows his kind.

Now peace surpassing understanding,
Rest in his eyes so undemanding,
As a current of serenity,
Shines through this empty entity.

And our ears have heard it said,
How from these sockets of the dead,
A stream of light does run,
To the splendour of the sun,

How dust returning to the dust,
Are ashes of extinguished lust,
And eternity returning from the One,
Awakes the hollow eyes beyond the sun.

The Whispers of the Night

Have you heard the whispers of the night,
Those dancing murmurs of delight?
That possess you to let go
Of acting in The People Show?
That rise to surface that forgotten state,
When neither you, nor them, had mapped your fate?

They tell of sunken dreams that you have buried,
When infant Time had not yet hurried,
To chase, or dare to catch you on the run.
They tell of midnight riches, nestled in the sun,
Long before the boulder that you bore,
Mistaking every pebble for the shore.
They tell of ancient rites beyond the pane,
Where the wildcats roam, and lizards chant insane,

They wonder if you’ve peered behind the veil,
Where thunder strikes to freedom’s hail,
Where wrong is right, where all is naught,
Where unbound chaos mocks your thought,
They wish for you to see, this splendid sight with hollow eyes,
As a looking glass held to the light, by an empty being in disguise.

You surf the sound of their feverish play,
Screeching as their voices fade away,
Though celestial wails end their satanic dance,
A wave of exultation begs for one last chance,
To forever make you stay,
Beyond the realm of night or day,
To awaken you from your slumber,
With a lash of new-born thunder,
To a naked world,
Uncurled beneath a starlit sky.
There’s no sweeter time than this to die,
When past divisions bid themselves goodbye,
And willows whisper to the wind,
That all is well behind the end.