ineluctable and rampant naïveté …

20th century / schzoid man



cover(s) to "Court of the Crimson King" by King Crimson, painted by  Barry Godber (1946-1970)

cover(s) to “Court of the Crimson King” by King Crimson, painted by Barry Godber (1946-1970)


                20th century
                schizoid man

                                              … I am Rosa Parks
                tired of having to give way even though I am sitting on the right seat in Montgomery
                                I am Steve Biko
                still chanting with my bloodied lip face down on the cell floor in Port Elizabeth
                                                              I am Solzhenitsyn
                                              blowing warmth onto my hands far far across the Archipelago
                                              I am the Chilean mother
with pictures of my sons tied around my neck in Santiago
                                                                                 I am a Vietnamese family
                                              split up and adrift on several boats in the South China seas
I am a silent Thich Quang Duc
                                              sitting by the Austin Westminster
                                I used to be a monk
                now I am a tourist around the restored Jokhang in Lhasa, China
                                                              I am a ‘best minds of my generation’
                                succumbed to madness

21st century schizoid man by ivankorsario; found on deviant art

21st century schizoid man by ivankorsario; found on deviant art

                                                              and I howl
                                against the society that put me in this cell
                                                              and told me I am free
                                                              I am tired but I push on
                                                                                 even pick up the pace a little
                although I forget: I am weak
                                              no one cheers me on
                                              others only notice
                                                              when I stumble


aaghhh; MOLOCH

aaghhh; MOLOCH




20th century wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
[Allen] Ginsberg wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
Have wormhole: Dr Strange III – the needs of billions
history wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
living & society wormhole: – sigh! –
others wormhole: fully clothed


a gift




                                Thich Nhat Hanh’s advice:
                                take time to aware anything
                                you do just simply and only
                                doing it in all of its voluptu-
                                ousness – alright, that was my
                                contribution – and smile like a
                                bud as you do it, a gift
                                to even hated


Thich Nhat Hanh is a beautiful man; he is aged and ill; please visit his home to see how he is doing – he will appreciate that




awareness & being & doing wormhole: – sigh! –
love & smile wormhole: smiling
Thich Nhat Hanh wormhole: hint







                                I found William Carlos Williams
                                on an open stall in Beresford Square

                                early-morning Saturday sky grey
                                lemon-smear looking for titles

                                that dully glinted new things
                                to know of all possible new ideas

                                that are 17 years old the Penguin
                                caught my eye and his name I also

                                picked up Metropolitan Anthony (never
                                read it) and Thich Nhat Hanh which

                                I did read but didn’t get but William
                                Carlos Williams I got

                                by simply possessing the book right
                                there and then; I wish I still had it


William Carlos Williams: a critical anthology
Metropolitan Anthony, (it might have been) ‘God and Man
Thich Nhat Hanh, ‘Lotus in a Sea of Fire




finding wormhole: scattered
grey wormhole: the echo of / a small box
lemon wormhole: Maidstone
morning wormhole: Jean Miller kissed Salinger
Saturday wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
sky wormhole: – sigh! –
Thich Nhat Hanh wormhole: hinted
time wormhole: Dr Strange III – the needs of billions
William Carlos Williams wormhole: ‘I wanted to write a poem’
Woolwich wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114


no cars / no planes




                                       no cars
                                       no planes

                           a single swirl of wind
                           prompts a curved-dry
                           leaf off the pavement
                           onto the drive with
                           clean clicks and scrapes
                           of its sides then silently
                           it rolls on its spine





cars & sound wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
silence wormhole: footfall
stillness wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop
wind wormhole: sitting up in bed s i m u l t a n e o u s l y


– sigh! –




                                – sigh! –

they built the throne high
                homage to the words which reach to the sky
                                homage to the words which dissolve into sky
                                              due and proper

                they built it too high
                                              with no steps
                                              with no steps!
                                                              the worst sort of idolatry
                                              all homage and no practice
                                all industry and no yield
                all protocol and no truth
                realisation stuck in amber
                                              the way of all institutions with walls

                                they seek to expose indolence
                as earnestly as if it were true practice
                                              for the sake of the Teaching
                                they would renounce even eating sleeping and defecating
                                              for the sake of all beings
                                the Teaching cannot be besmirched

                                              wide sky everywhere
                but it is so dark …

                                              the throne is not high
                                I am not low
                                              I shall sit on the throne
                                I shall sit on the floor
                                              shall I give them a talk
                                or shall I talk
                                              I shall talk

                of jewels in refuse
                     and refuse in hiding
                          of vows to pause
                               and pause to keep finding
                                    of finding to step
                                         and stepping with poise
                                              of poise to balance
                                                   and balance to sit
                                                        of the sky the sky the sky
                                                             of the sky and everything

                look at their faces –
                                some of them got my jokes
                                              (a few of them saw them coming)
                most looked around the place to see where my voice was coming from –
                                all of them are so perfect
                                              but variously blind

                                I’m off to the South now … oh!
                                                              I never left!


if you’ve made it all the way down here it might make fuller sense if read before or after this, or this, or this; or it might not, or it might both alternately, or it might neither permanently; either way, or not, I am happy to have propagated the name of Shantideva




attention wormhole: sunny morning
awareness wormhole: no biggie:
balance & voices wormhole: should is good when / too used to cruise
being & doing & emptiness & realisation wormhole: that
faces wormhole: tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:
giving wormhole: the utter beauty of giving when receiving
identity & living & sky & speech & talking wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
meditation wormhole: posture
posture wormhole: smiling
practice wormhole: poessay IX – … just saying, is all II
Shantideva wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
sitting wormhole: there are patient listeners
society & words wormhole: Dr Strange III – the needs of billions






                           at the café by the Grand Place
                           on the terrace by passing people

                           I take a sip of lemon tea

                           for I do not drink alcohol
                           to notice beauty of tired-step

                           out of tick with neck-tock
                           the elbow-pull of shirt-wide fin across the back

                           and the variety of toe-plant matched
                           reassuring to the heel lift-flip

                           to have a good time





beauty wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
love & passing & people & smile & walking wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
posture wormhole: should is good when / too used to cruise
tea wormhole: a cup of tea, gov


Dr Strange III – the needs of billions


sequel to Dr Strange II – … things are the same again and Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street respectively; Dr Strange appears in this episode, but at a receding measure of size rather than distance; what ever is ‘strange’ about the character is that he plays an infinitesimal part in the build-up of events, but is nonetheless the essential hinge in the whole business for the events to not matter: an ersatz-ordinary human in an en-maddening world who is nevertheless the only sanity in the whole experience when he sees through his own ersatz



                                              a colossus
                strides effortlessly across canyons and generation
                                fed by the needs of billions
                                              engorged enough to consume
                                              itself nucleic
                                it speaks with flaming head
                                too much
                                                              too much that
                                              it will disperse itself even as it reaches,
                the needs of billions
                                              flooded through a world of veins
                                                              like pumped yellow fat
                the mother is bound the father is blind
                                              and only all the words of worlds
                                                                                 will speak
                                                              all while Strange and Devotion
                                              expand through dimensions
                grown alarmingly through the stages of their lives
                                              quick for to get there

                                                              it      all
                                                              the son
                                sits ‘by the blackened wall
                                              he does it all, he thinks he’s died
                                                              and gone to heaven’*


askance from: Dr Strange #6-13 (Feb 1975-April 1976); Marvel; writer: Steve Englehart; artist: Gene Colan
* Steely Dan, The Royal Scam, The Royal Scam, 1976




Dr Strange & Gene Colan & society & world wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
father wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
Have & life wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
mother wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
time & yellow wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
words wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate


Plumstead – Woolwich 121114


{Every year and a while I travel 40 miles up to Woolwich, where I grew up, to check that the journey I make started off in the write direction (HA!); while wandering I write, leaning on peoples’ front walls and making a coffee last in a cafe (and every once in a while I treat myself to an afternoon bench); I haven’t been up there for awhile, certainly since the echoing tragedy of Lee Rigby’s death on 22nd May last year; I wrote snatches of life as usual and came home; I realised that the snatches patch-worked together and worked them into a whole landscape which they had ever were in the first place; I know it’s a long piece but please pursue it for the sake of Woolwich; I realise now that my previous visits’ writings need some rendering due-ly …}



                      Plumstead – Woolwich 121114

                      all fractured now, slightly misshapen, still
                      holding together, the grubby art deco window that
                      coloured the stairwells bracing two rooms
                      maybe three now, don’t know why they used coloured

                      glass, the bay windows still looking up the street looking
                      down, occasional five-finger buddleias like Empire
                      plaques on the wall above top floor windows
                      scud clouds above the coping

                      then flights of step up and up and straddling and down
                      the storeys of irregular variegated plastic cladding
                      upwards upwards for to breathe free and live while people
                      pass on the wet street with small steps and quiet slippers

                      I had a dream once something anxious and dreadful
                      followed me going into and out of Polytechnic Street
                      from Wellington along by the stacked flanks of seventies
                      double-glaze all screened and blinded from the street

                      cannot see in cannot see out, people walk awkward
                      on the tiles flexing metatarsals under the slight over
                      hang of the library from the colding rain while, look,
                      a rainbow arches hidden down the side-street turning

                      the bricks and glazing purple, no one looks up
                      arranging bank loans, arranging brunch, after noon
                      the sun divides streets in half, the buildings too
                      dark to see the shop fronts too dazzled to walk into

                      the sun favours ambitious plants between torn-down
                      building and upright support, plays along the side
                      of preserved plots – flanged shadow from pipework and
                      signage across circular windows – eye to the sky – under

                      hand-brow, too bright even for tinted glasses;
                      so many of my people generations poor in the sun
                      from Empires and Union under the Royal Arsenal
                      Gatehouse; each passing step collapsed and proud knot

                      in kneed of any support, thank you: their shadows reach me
                      down the Square’s access channel long before their pain
                      walks by: I don’t know any of you now with your plastic ID
                      badges with your back-pat handshakes and bent-heads

                      sincere-talk, grouped and scattered by the public toilets
                      your drunk over-emphases your ways like pigeons – where are
                      all the pigeons? – and your beautiful language aged as
                      public benches; dark clothes to wear, light clothes to buy

                      and you don’t know me – lost son haunting the streets – but
                      I love you all constant as the windows proud above roofline
                      between turrets looking onto the Square; I long ago made
                      my vow to you at a time when borders seemed important
                      I know, I know I am slow but I return again and again to see you
                      and you break my heart each time I learn to smile again

                      out towards Plumstead on the lower road (I cannot find
                      the tree I found before through all my travelling) new trees
                      and tapered posts with lights for the road and lights for the
                      pavement and posts just waiting, reaching into the blue blue sky

                      you have been done up many times, Genesta*, so
                      I only notice now what hasn’t changed, for the first time:
                      unassuming tapered pillars between the windows and bays
                      of my youth that reflect the blue sky now (yellow leaves

                      highlight the paving and tarmac wet like petrol) only noticed
                      when a swift skeeks across one pane, not the other;
                      up Dallin Road, she’s got through another day
                      she’s survived the juddering divided walls of ‘have to’

                      the way things are these days, with music in hand
                      she makes rewarded way along the steely street where
                      the sun has slipped below the higher roofline, singing her
                      do-do-do’s to the endless chorus ‘why do we do it;

                      how do we do it?’, and looking for her house keys
                      under metal clouds; the long grass grows rosettes around
                      yellow leaves, brown leaves, by the leaning iron fence the
                      steep tarmac cracks and the shorter grass takes over; past the

                      bronze age tumulus it’s clear, London’s grown up a lot
                      since I watched Francis Chichester sail up the river
                      from the window up on Eglinton Hill – something he did –
                      now there are Shards and Wharfs and stacking planes

                      and significant lights denoting all manner of whey and access but
                      still my nose is running and I need to have a wee; I suppose
                      I need to get home now the light is fading slow and fast
                      at 52 – the ash has only lost its upper leaves by the roof

                      at 48 there is afternoon tv after electric piano practise is done
                      at 44 – the estate agent climbs awkward into her clean soft-top with
                      high clip heels; at 36 – a lantern shines arched in the porch while
                      sirens circle the borough and there’s nothing left here now outside 46





bench wormhole: the bench / on the fourth sister from / Birling Gap before the / wind-brushed scrub and gorse / and the grey-blue sky / smoothed through the / fishtank-blue horizon to / grey-green sea
blue & leaves & sun wormhole: Jean Miller kissed Salinger
breathing wormhole: born again
brown wormhole: on sitting / in front of / a hedge
buddleia wormhole: (Little by Little)
buildings & travelling wormhole: I could step / more open
cars & roads wormhole: the long road
change & time wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
clouds wormhole: the utter beauty of giving when receiving
communication wormhole: Maidstone
compassion & feet & love & speech & talking wormhole: there are patient listeners
dream wormhole: we’re born // to die
Eglinton Hill & Woolwich & yellow wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
eyes & looking & shadow wormhole: a maturity
Genesta Road & rooftops wormhole: corroboration
ghosts wormhole: only the Batman realises that he is dead
glass & light & streetlight wormhole: oh-pen
glasses wormhole: first a mishap then clear vision
house wormhole: day off
identity wormhole: that
living wormhole: scattered
London wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
music wormhole: no exit
passing & sound & walking & windows wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
people & rain & sky wormhole: Luisenplatz
piano wormhole: … walking down the street
pigeons wormhole: tune up // baton taptaptap
purple wormhole: consturnation …? // consternation
school wormhole: tag cloud poem VI – anyone’s eyes
smile wormhole: irretrievable / breakdown / of marriage
streets & trees wormhole: Dr Strange I – the trashcan tilted the better to see now the street
Thames wormhole: letters to mum II – family // like a grate
tv wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
walls wormhole: stuck free to move within







                                          the more I find myself
                                          awkward and embarrassed
                                          about what I have not done
                                          or achieved the measure

                                          the more I can embrace
                                          the emptiness of there
                                          being anything to be done
                                          or achieved in the first place





acceptance wormhole: HPB
being & doing wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
emptiness wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
identity wormhole: there are patient listeners
realisation wormhole: a maturity


there are patient listeners




                                there are patient listeners
                sit upright on wicker chairs on the terrace
                                the right foot wrapping
                                              higher – lower
                                              around the left heel
                every single ‘like’ and ‘so’ parenthesis and meander
                                of the talker –
                                              litany of I and eye –
                                buoying with scansion
                slight steer with syntax and closed bracket while
                                              parsing the rejoinder
                                which might never need
                                              be used
                                if the map is spread
                                                              wide enough





coffee shop wormhole: Maidstone
compassion wormhole: we’re all the same age really
feet wormhole: happy birthday, my love
identity wormhole: Matildenplatz / & Luisen
listening wormhole: sniff
love wormhole: footfall
meaning wormhole: scattered
sitting wormhole: poised patiently for / hours
speech wormhole: Dr Strange II – … things are the same again
talking wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love



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