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sounding the other light

… a biography

majena mafe

…because it was a woman
who built a house…
a shining girl tore it down…

Hildegard of Bingen Scivias


larynx of light 6

A Shining Girl
un-house bright 15

the bright within the blind spot 31

fetid flower 46

stealing into the word for torch 50


A Woman Built a House

within the bright a blind spot 63

sounding liquid aside stone 79

nocturne’s iris 98


larynx of light

(this what
this… …where

darkness preceed-es the hole …as me…

ho-el-ed up

there is no nothing…or samething

…named. namename named as me)

(of reflection being as speech unwhole. unsaid…walled-up
as open. a tunnel a-cross…simil-ar sim-u-lacra. with-in hark-
dark halls welled written…(and I write it down for the
blind…light) LIGHT…but am I not…the lighter of shared
darkness. am…I knot…the torch, your light-house, the flame,
sour aurora, lighting your all, your illuminant. not at nor on
nor one. I am within-goneglare. I am in you-r glaring gap,
piercein’ a gated glimpse, the glint,…as an glissade, I am
holed in the great gulf, your glissando, a-the listen, glisten,
your glister, glitter, glower, glower…without self…grief me
over…tear tears. unseenly. my blind bright unable to say my
face. what is my name? bare me wet shiny tears…)

(voices fall from the wooden mouths of small men who sit alive on knees of bigger men
in suits. strings play mechanisms. behind the wooded walled off throat-s.

some spit out messages that are if unclear, dear… they shape what I’d hoped for solid
to become.
some fly to firm reason because of…no doubt
some shake…no…they were never
some are doused forced through a bigger whole than many.

each time the mouth is open a new craw comes out, similar but not same as…be in in
two twinned collatical lapses of time and muscle around the same breath of air. some
voices make it a practice to cope a copy a way with a plumb in their mouths with the
accent, with a twang…minding the elocution spelling out rhymes to spit-air. others as a
profession become the voice of others disembodied their faces nonsense they become to
look alike too.

the anatomy the larynx situated as a bell curve suspended as a bone dove in the pillar
that holds the mouthpiece where they do come from… thoughts do they rise in their
heads flood in the throat pump air over the struction and back up pour out over the
tongues through the open teeth spat from the pursed and open lips through the air flung
to the face of the other entering the ear encircling the...

mouths open onto ears and breath love. I’ve seen it


(mechanical voices

the voice of the lover in the poem says come here …to this spot in the paper believe it is
me enter me… here

the voice of the… tyrant

the voice of the carmelite is rare indeed. the voice of the girl lurancy is shrill. or flat.
here is a doll says dora.
I can’t says the eclectic. I will says the liar. I did says the minor…
I will. lie. says the man.
henry was too big for his boots…
but lurancy…lurancy walks and walks till her feet sit her still.)

within the visible I head the dirge dire dialogue of the thin brightness
through the bare small words. the base the matter.

The corner of this page. in-moist frame…it wells up. tearing mine sinew. swell. at the
ocean of loss…spinning on the head of a pin, each one an eye, forward vapors. fog…dew
and droplet. lake. spoon. utter thunder and fume desiccated rainbow as spigots. deltas
and locks undone…a blind white of bellies slimed trout, toad-throat and pelted wigs hair
down dripping rivulets across bare backs, in blackened pools bore wells and ink pots, in
encompass cracks against crystal of blue glass whipped in the drip jugs medicine and
lineaments juice perfumes a tonic. in soak of to-bathe, instep the steep. in eternal launder
of floors and walls and ceilings. cloths midstream. clear cleansing. in the crack of a
boiled egg, at the gurgling of the throat. the death wheeze. in pneumonia and dropsy. in
the green and in the blue. in lapis. in phlegm and lymph. in dews and drifts and swift

shifts. in flows and eddies in jellies and in…all heat…in the fever of nervous palms, in hot
breasts that refuse milk…the blaze of anger, the flame of phosphorous, of frenzy, of hot

churned fear. in the firing and discharging, fuel, in allowment. allmovement…in heated
straining bowels… the basins that are empty and the basins grumble of
discontent, the rumbling cries…octaves of allegros…in throats and chests expanding
toward hope of more ever more and again…the fall back to empty…life…the next
thing…thoughts, hopes that move out…yearnings…needs un to fill, to furnish daydreams,
glut past reflections, tomorrows betterments…ground…the field, the open, the fell, the cut
the cut down...the flattened…the level raze…great girders as grinding stones and holes
that are uncarved out empty crypts the home the cave, the cavern. the hold up, the
hold...out. the clavicle at the sternum, caramelized bone the spleen…carapaces…
conglomerates…silica and carbon…salt. and in ether that holds all as luminescence on
the inner side…)

(refraction halves spit on the tongue

what do you see…
poured on over till the space of dark minutia flies
…a word
in multitude, bright all, is gone
mirage am I…here as the drop warm
that you seek.
to show.
you see.

and flame
this lamp the word words fall part in the
handle) and close to the corneal eye eyle

a harboring comes undone and enters the tryst of

utter unshape along the sinews of ganglion and cone…)

(…a syncope at atime

to each segregating a thing a called for
the nothing- as Sophia say your wise words…

from selective portions

you see your hand
behind the flame
the frame behind…at the arms short length

my voice becomes me
a documenter of frames. The torch has fire at its throat)

(a reflection)…(in refraction)

my self erasure
a camouflaged
dis-sembled flows

in choice lies the voice of the absent

nowhere…and now here…where…

a great small expansion has come into me
myself is further…something has fallen away...left with ‘that’…

from one estimate towards another the filament draws first one way and then not…)

(stoppard as sun as flame as frame)

(rather to. flow. out. on. through. away from words .overunder. up. inside…dispelling
into the walls of the throat in its breathing…down corridors of flesh, the lilies lie flat…in
structure this cosm of labyrinth fresh and verdancy…gene cells an awareness. a
succession of awful awarenesses…silent deserted cordon breakers…filtrate towards the
corners of the cornea that appear in consequence of doubling. fall’n between one system
and another of blood, of sap, of plasma of the imaginary, of memory…and wonder. bright
unutter. to be ever poured as, as heat, as flush…widest as to pool from an eye across the
field that shines heat …golden as husks slip against husk in narrow openings…and small
as mice in the womb of the first born of the first born hunkering for warmth. open in the
belly…winging back the peel as layered to most furthered openings and lungs un
thorax’d squeezed shut as they are pulled from the formed cages uttering a half formed
tone. a name. call me… I stand alone dripping…
beat then one two. to the nomore. to the denegrade and the sullen…decompose)

…paradoxically each tongue on my name is lies dark


A Shining Girl

un-house bright


…a move in me imploring, imploding the darkness pooled as me.

as here.
…where small light sunlights. piddles puddles…where and there as boxed too.
on floor boards,
skirt dirted, dirty skirted walls, in just about space, neither here nor there, neither too
much or too wide a periphery on the cusp of brilliancy.
a yawn in each direction. all of them filigree lack. more lack with bright and gossamer
and sheathing restory windowed towards the outer-side.

two small filaments of bright white stab a delve across this room…the gap unclose as
specks swim poker dot three dimension spool pools of pollen splice hair and dust
this my skin.
the slow aching of moments in tiny splinters of how…catch swathes.
sun palms. open. up against.
circumnavigated in tiny frames.
the culminating.
the operating.

…must there is sure. outside there is four times more.
more light most light than I can swallow more most light than I can hold up or away
more more most light brighter

(…outside the dark and play)

…in here a dark is slashed. a membrance. each. here once drab a drape, hung along side
another fabricated in a subtle remove from all others. one bordered by bunches of red
silk berries, stabbed over and over. ringed as coral of deeper long line slip shod
stitches…each pool hoping whispering/a little song cherry cherry cherry to the
sun...shine. light. each other. another. holed up. pierced with slabs of shine entering
through here. door small (centrifuge). another is third with its muse. and another nother
is spun with tiny lemon spot dots.

is grazing in nicks…ticks…pricks…a face of gossamer, as breeze brings itself splash

up to me. mine eye. to mine as together I stand in the middle stilling and unreeling,
thoughts…of further and fuller farther.

.out aways.

(a container contained

from innerside outersee…but out she will say. sent to fudge… come to the edge

often enough to preamble the blistered…she will be out on the innerside. out of the


(in cupboards sun cannot light

…a dark flower a dark tulip)

…in this cupboard there is darkness doubled. two darkness’s in all the world
…a lift of latch to handle on pull…reaching for to open
…inside the flower is brimming with tears dark eyes struck/ open.

(sure memories past the seen)

…there was small light on the mantle, sure a sign

sure as light. a bridge
in the pane from the flame
…no light on me mine. cause I turn round
the house is fallen away. a dissipate in the glare ahead.
the shaped is broken the shaped broken away

…as I move memory so far away is fallow

(daydreams releaving (a) content)

…in memory…my picture…tiny glints in small holes on the pink china filigreed silver
and crystal chrome…the table laid with all the food and the air is full of voices and
them talking words of natter… …clinking worlds and rustling skirts against the legs
inside them. my chin rests on the edge…above…there is plenty everywhere…the table
capes the floor in boxed peaks of white stiff stuff sewn over with small bulbs of cream


arrange reassemble ro-tate seed’n read just
the unseen
the handle is off.
and look into light’s eye on-me
…to ask it its name…to speak it…bright
light will be gettable…possible come-at-able. a welt of hope. lettable.

moonset me no more.
I will pleat moist light into pintucks. plait it into cuffs,
shirr it in the hems of puckered dog ears.
the dimmer will eclipse. implying light within each crimple, wrap and wrath unfill.

(truly darkened)

…my true body pressed in here, lacks the full. its scuff swelt skin here won’t peel.
its mind meanders rooms within that dismantle and reassemble unclasped
slip…discontinuity from form to empty. like a deepest pull.
…not constant in self anywhere.
I repeat
what dark is here.

so I see not the shade, in me. I leave… …. … …. …

…leaving the house the deadend hope box
I am stepp-ed-ed out.
towards’n forward’n from step to ground. pulling the hemmed skirted up with the right
hand as I swing down unpicking it with my left…my drawn in self is turned towards an
underside of feeling… a gulp of breath a lift, the head and opens hit out with my voice
blind aside
drazzle’n of sun wherein
a shimmer

(in a gulp of the outer the heat hot breath and at chestlift her head comes up. I saw it.
hit in the face with the sty of blind dazzle across her eyes. at.
wherein she stops and out and up…becomes the wide

something up ahead for brightness

is everything now for brightness)

…bright lightness
…a long line of more highness rightness
(and behind) …my feet will draw bright lines across the empting field behind-ing
If I walk, If I walk

( )

…to head out, to proceed to open to one two would walk forward
and one would cover over the dark this land by placing one step up and over
and then away from the place where one is and then was and then another repeatedly
the filling of the endeavor is breached one span at a time unknot.

and…continue…being there is no place to go back

…the glow is burning at the place unheard of as yet
…of what can be remembered…in words…are gaping gaps.

…one solid sun is a ball flowing forward from its behind.

(each step forward is one of reverie)

…each of everything has happened stance.

now I am
lit as the ground.
a hundred ways to explain.
to see.

(refusals lie flat upon)

…so much. all the bright against the field of grey ahead as a rising.
a red ribbon.
a sigh at a time.
my voice could/would can bounce is all over the land.
at my eye, at my throat/ bales, buckets pockets.
pulled wide out and open
inside of my tongue even
the undark even in the quiet night of nonsense.
books should be full of it.

(while dread ends circumscate

the hills of ants blur into ever colonnades of red to be read.
the closet’s vie as spun as spinifex. as the path.
course taken).

(ever towarding conglomerations of brilliance as sinews taken)

…on…this sun coming in to me. sun. sun. full of brightness.

a day makes it more or less so. I know a riddle. the wick.
the trick is one started in the deep crevice. of one day.
when it is not yet called yestermorrow at all.
waking because I have been asleep and in this half whirl walk directly towards going
out(side) where there are
no gates of anything much but of the inside my direction lived
a pups call to liver
to get a farther…a something further
for the
happen happens.
…one foot is lifted and swung forward. pirated bliss. forward it whispers.
out and away it consoles.
it furthers outward as stretch becomes home to place again here further here again.
till the familiar echoes back distance travelled distance held open.
one step becomes another held as the mapping of land of space of yonder.
earth as smooth here. no hard from the standing in the yard.
the earth is soft here. blown with the dust from the bard.
the earth is finely cracked here.
ants move about abruptly arabesqueing whines between my steppings.
out and away the sky is my open.

(the weight of pace on the ball of a foot)

…twelve reams fall from me

two spinning sapling spiralling signet swift swallow swallows
spin round my head.
raising my arms upwards entangling in the net of pale bindings…
and of birds and of wind and sun and of threads of hair…
knot unknot…

a foot is a line a weight is a time the field is stream of feet.

each foot weighs four lengths.

a foot will not only walk as feted.
in each centre there is the tremor of weight.

(began and forthwith as a continuum, a tongue that eats its own foot
walking away a dark-more and more
as steps
taken with)

…everything of this bruised is form.

(until edges unknot)

(the land was white
the seed was black
it will take a good scholar
to riddle me that)

I’m a narrate as rhythm a slip to field.

…a linear lightwhite field opensout. fields to gallop and flee and open expeeel expand
and peel.
back as walled with warmth all over seeping in through rue and skin
and nose and eyes insinuating order evaporate within itself.

…field inside of very small box

satin in mud
wet bones and warm tea
yellow and ice

(the very tiny-tiled tin like box, is a series of small corners that when peered to
reveal seems of black dust and the smell of only loss)

(a neverthings fit)

…my mouth. a mouth mouths the full of the taste of burnt plums

…ears. fill. full with cool puddles of wet tears

…my eyes are full of small specks of referred wonder transferred into guillotine dregs
of shot glass

…my tongue is heavy with the taste of lead weight sinkers

…my sinews are piped with bitter pips

…my nerve in my right cheek speaks of sarcasm to my ear listening to essential


…the bone in my right elbow skews the gesture as my hand opens wide to greeting

…my eyelid dips as I looked up to see the shadows at the feet of things

…my mouth is full of the memory of oil of cloves and the ache from learning to whistle

…my nose is full of dry caked spit that had grown brittle in the heat

…my bones are full of the spice smell of the dark

…my spine holds tickles of jonquils and in my knuckles bloom blisters of bleached
wisteria…in my desert

(…to fill…in her hems, seed, in her hair blossoms
of quandong…rose dock, grevillea, silvertails…horehound curry bush wire grass
full her a clutch of wrens egg set on the warmth of her mind…bright)


(the wind of leaving is travelling backwards…

memory hits hard at the frail

the whinge of airpress reaches in hard…into the bare corners, and up each steep wall
and across the far away ceiling hung with a swaying grand piano, dining. suite. six.
chairs, two side boards and a sheet of corrugated iron with dinner be-sets and fine
china and crystal and linen piled high on it. swung.swung…the wind plays nine
ropes...attached as to pull across the expanse of ceiling. creak. sing soar crack.
louding to the tone of three then snap. in the gulp a clap a crash. iron falls and falls
down…bellowing every. everything. Fall’n out from. every thing falls out from above
from and lands out down from at separate pacing of just about and there spread about
in cut diamond slivers and wedges of crystal and white china handles and sledges of
cup scuttle as outward a rock to and fro. to and fro across the floor to and fro. and the
great of linen cloths unravel and billow wide before drooping as coverlets over the lot.
copper rounds implode and the door in the closed wall opens with a pinch of tight. All
of’n the wood moans tight againsthope. Tighter. and a stream of warm frightened air
expires from the closet…it stands open the width of an eye placed sideways in a

…distance BEING is a small eye moving from far away…FAR AWAY.


the bright within the blind spot



…the orb of this eye is ceaseless
a hole
this and that
that and this


(look out…look out sing-song one song to me un-home
one after another
dragging the known running a limp behind hrrr)

(in pace)

…my walking. out. the walking out to further gather is the farthest way to be…
Here. there is nowhere to go towards and there is always one more step to step
nothing being finished. forward to go from either the steps are, two…halves, that are
limped over as one does not see everything that is accomplished as a whole. to walk
forward is many. to lift shift. pauses hold and swing forward and the across does not
ever complete any action that is it in itself

…the centre is spun peripheried.

…sight across is distance traversed in increments
as slivers of incidents a range of possibiles
without the matrixical many it disappears
the range cannot be judged forward.
the way forward at the place is to move first and then by habit the body will take one
towards one’s destination, no doubt why then do I arrive beginning at the place of
begin again.
and again.
an argument within the edge is incriminating. the refusal to give light up to me

…must the need.

(…looking up upon)

…on the ground under the crooked gum, ghost my head faces up the sky.
watch’n insects fall about each other in the space before me up above. measuring the
gap between each particle. screaming. between each breath.
each midge takes each belch at depth.
each bit of light is seen each star between each dazzle.
…watching my watching.
I am yellowing the looking up is this.

(too far, too far to see…)




(in sticks that crawl, in spiders with eyes on their back, in lizards that are stones
rosellas screech at budgerigars galagah screamtttsh…painted-finch me)

…on the ground broken as wide.

the creviced vertical deep deeply. here between my feet a gap.
one pace. the ground down teeth of an old dog. Faces. Up.

(here there)

(here there jelly the fish mesh to mock. in pause.

fossils of fringes disked)

…everything is rock out here even the birds, the lizards eyed denser becomes

…the small stones that are lifted roam the surface in the wind and in gizzards they are
the colour of red and black so deeply stained that there is no long or short opening in up

to find a find…a stone-pebble white and clear and full of its own milk in places. one
two can look in and see it inside. a cavity less than the hole of it and it can be swished
too and fro in a small way from minute side to minute side
making waves break inside of it.
like all the seas in-between two fingers held tight to the light. to want is too want this
more than anything. it is an ocean in a dry book sealed off and held.
what rain filled it and season. Forced as an inside in its depths of it’s sleep in the earth.
a spring of always water.
the unnavigatable.

…up ahead the sky is holding back and away through a flapping blanket of wings
green and now blue…a blaze abuzz of tipped screeching pour across now a this way
and now that
waves across the light. budgeries fly so close they hold each other’s wing tips they sing
into each other’s ears they lie in a bed of slipped space in dreams a blanket.
they whisper toorali…tooroli and in the midst of me happiness pleases.
within pleases.


(watching. her. her eyes gather all around her into herself. the vastness, the ether of the
sky, the infinitude of distance measured by a step and a blink. of the eye. the intake of

looking the far the deep the within she gathers it all up. from layers at the distance of
an arm of a span of two)

… there is watching me there is watching. the depth of the big paddock.

of the road to a town broken wide of even further…
the flies fly at each other and knock their bones gether
the breath of spiraling hawks leave a trail
dust…filtrates in eddies across thin cumulus…

(across from her at that distance halved.

a lizard stony-eyes her skirt flapping as a large butterfly. let it see it see it her
a termite with one eye on stillness makes it known to another that the sky is
falling heat enough to always continue
all watched by a face of rock
that by conglomerate as aspects of eons and epochs dark with crags that spell…snake
to the dark beads of a small wren twisting the shadows of spinifex into a hawk,
a shade, a hawk
a dozen blind chicks smell nothingness and then a moist warmth)

…out across this sky this gaze traverses each edge into invisible cloud hands
and the shape of droughts
of dry draughts and hot air pockets
wings spread out into found dimensions of certitude never dreamed of. spoken.
the sky narrates the season as thin of moisture by peeling wounds as filaments a finger
depth deep. like words across a tract of land, small as a spider-egg’s corpuscle.

(a thin cloud looked upon another and another looked to another

there is a small gathering above a cord of white trees…the leaves are full of wind
turning them this way then that away from the horizontal bleed of the sun and in each
one a colony of mites are eating slowly the whole of the green…there. planning to eat
the whole if they can)

…the trees look out

for the horizon
and then as far as the roots had milled
out and with a gulp push’n ‘em forward a skeric in all very very direct-tion,

centipedes shake blue eggs

backbone fossilfish

underground courses
eons looked back from their rest and see.

(a hundred years ago(men carry a dry boat across the sway…)

…the eye this-eye this I is but a hole in me
gathering more

where does it ever lie flat

to grasp.


(now that all finishing has remove)

…the house emptying was now filled,

the darkened furniture belches bleach in the sun.
as appears,
and the walls flocked light patterned plumes at corners of my eyes
and windows are becoming walled bigger as heavy drapes fall up under
the away.
spinifex blankets the screen door

…I look I walk. I look
through the whole

…I stand just about…I look across unless I lie down and look up longer.

(reasoned a measurement around the whole…

I’ll take your measure girlie girlie

…at a distance

at the beginning and end of each day. busy in the half light…with all your own
memories measured as yardsticks. you are wide and high enough and you have the
more too gone…but when it is night…even the dark licks the light from the smooth
mouth of the land. up. you’ll close. two worlds became one in the shadow. you walk
ahead I see towards…in all the day and now the sun has ceased you have stopped
parted absconded. you turn your face up. look up to see your light leave the sky last…it
is this unspace…from behind you tomorrow that you will start out again… and
follow…some light, that same light you say…getting lost-er every day. where are you
going except across…light I have. You say I became the one standing still. at a place.
still standing. at this hour else pauses, in repose, before either sinking further or rising
up away…but you…you stand up against something fluid in the dark…for as long as
you feel you can … your pupils grow succeedingly large and fill first your eye and then
your whole face as I look on from morrows…the black pours back over your face and
then your head and neck and chest…they empty you out.
I can not stay for the rest)

…five foot

(four bends in the body cavern to make
a small mark in the dirted land)

…light corralled in concentration destroys the order of the edge of their edges.
in my eye.

…a pile up of dark whiteness suffices

as a centre
of the whole.

a line.
across my footfall is a lineground formed by the waist of a snake
skirting the heat. the rivulet.
bending on my haunches at my ankles at my hips and waist
white pebbles venture rivers within a parallel
thinking- a rumour
east and west direct
a line of quartz broken out of the red land wefting.

everything being outside of me from this centre.

…if I follow the sun I go towards it at every turn – I bump into the previous.
said and am I tangled.

draw in the sound the roundness of the circle with no name.

I draw the eternity of line with no frame.
from the unmade.

…both bright and its dark pull away at the pattern walking by my side within
with me. the different shades take it in turns…they move things into a way.
to make my eyes grow wide…
the animals talk of kissing,
births from tree rot, beautiful death, I come back to the unsaid the ungathered
a snake in my mouth.
a bend at the hip.


(structures (unreasonable) take the place of no fence line)

(from piles to holes)

…from holes to circumspect radius

…a field.
I make the field with my eye before me.

(for a long time first there was a gliding of my bright into the darkness that had filled,
my posse, that conjured the smells of warm with it and hid in the ground the tastes of
the dark. she smelled the warmth before it came on her and she knew that she was
thinking this and it warmed her to feel herself moving in her self again she was ready
for it coming to her…)


…the placing of a pile of the grey of seeds

two inches by two inches by two inches on the red sand

(a cup
a funnel
a recess
I aspire)

…a whole DEEP I prepare…

is gone
is gone

fetid flower

…no further…
a broad pain


(and the broad pain in her chest…stops her still

seeped through her
and sinks into her lap
unfolding a great breadth
of darkened bright warmth
and a sweetness which fills all her immediate. In her
rising, it drops through her knees to the
ground of her floor and curles around
her brown toes lapping there like too much
honey is right


(and approaching her stilling / her fingers grow

ever long.
spooling words.
that lay in her lap upturned
across valleys of dull wool, skirting up and
over the rise of her thighs
they swell’n and wheel’n from her palms
out and over the space that is still inside her.
their whiteness milks all the aglow a glow
and lisps at the gasping shift between the no wall and her.
and still they pour on pouring. words. till the whole
of around her is fold.
their eternal moistened cupping the
dark and the smoke and of her and her.
all of her. quietly throbbing.
elongating. moving out and out)


(and she reaches into her folds then and

parts them and from elbow deep within her pulls there
out something so bright she falls back as shadow
the beast the straw floor the stone wall
all still. all reeks the aglow of her iron blood and
the birth breaths of moments never repeated.
her tongue rises to the rafters of height and hangs here
eternity blessing possibilities. outside here
old men piss themselves and worry about tomorrows.
and the whole of her eyes fill with the bright/bright
and her arms nestle her own milk and the
lapping of lips. and dew and down.
and kiss when she kissed it, the burn seals
her lips and the awash thereinside her I here.)


stealing into the word for torch


(to slab words in increments

‘…perception is a form of pain’.

‘…if therefore thine eye be single…the one who openeth his eyes…and there is light …
an angel will appear in a blazing fire. graze gaze…all is aflame… darkness is upon the
face. of the deep. separate the light from the darkness. there is evening…therefore let us
not sleep. but let us watch…’watch in pause.

‘the light of the body is the eye; thy whole body shall be full of light…’

and then there is mourning…

it is morning)

(morefraudulent your fesses.
falsehoods fathomed as firm
undearing the slips from
the light on ariadne’s veil…the shadow in persephone’s heart)

your reals all suffer all differ

I suffer bent

the worth of difference is undone

your love is a strange love a small love
a tiny unsustained love…)

(order disorder
The space of appearance
My quiddity as phrased comeuppance

I am unable to read
There you bear the word
we sit together separately
as in a window

Picturesque as Verse Scrap the manuscript…What remains of a beloved?)

(…a chorus of codices echo all which we behold…and so strongly doth it entwine
itself…and fill all space radiant, put to flight blindness…Hildegard whispers her
name…‘touched and I was set on fire’…the deiform placed as…the frontier between
sense-ible and the knot…enabled through the former to see…and to what pertains to the
body, 'when I was forty-two years and seven months old…the light of the sensible
world shone more brightly within compelled to stand midway, light through
participation…a fiery light of exceeding brilliance came…permeated my whole brain,
and inflamed my whole heart…I saw with an inner eye I did not perceive it in
dreams…but burning like a warming flame…as the sun warms everything its rays
touch. not sleep, nor delirium, or by the eyes of the body, I received them while awake or
by the ears of the outer self, in a hidden place… and the eyes and ears of the inner
self…in open places…fire, incomprehensible, inextinguishable, with a flame in it the
colour of the sky…the viscera are within the human being… into the changing sky and
spreads… and because of this way…the light that I saw is not spatial…nor do I
perceive by thoughts…of my own heart or by any combination of my five senses,…as
partial. I am not fallen prey to ecstasy in visions, but while my outward eyes are open, I
see the wide as awake…and it is far, far brighter than I can measure neither height, all
the words…nor length, nor breadth of it all…in this vision are… but like a shimmering
flame…Moreover, I can no more I see how I see…but while I see it all…sorrow and
anguish leave me…it was as a woman who as a shining girl tore it down…unclouded
the brightest of light domains…though it teems with things unnumbered… unsettling
all. I see above my mind, and below, the light…as if the light were to shine far, far
brighter than…it is something quite different from any ... it shines above, and I below
(or lower) because this light knows eternity…’)

(a reflection)
(in reflection)

(my self erasure

a camouflage

in choice lies the voice of the absent

nowhere…and now here…where…

a great small expansion has come into me
a self. myself is further…fallen away...left with ‘that’…

from ‘that’ estimate towards another the filament draws first one way and then not…)

(palm on
still on balmed knuckles you crease painfully in and further in till the stiffness stops you.
on the page and across the text the small scribbles fall into relief as ideas as thoughts as

on the pin at the throats knife slim.

on the dull mat splattered mud and shit and sheep in the field milling together to push
across each other towards somewhere warm somewhere else.
seep out from the warm centre of pale green pearls.

still-further on…the faces of pinched babes, red and white confluent,

wax and blood and thin spit words and cries now to opening.
in the earth of the ground beneath the feet sigh in coal and shale and shit.
across the laps amongst the skirts of young women.
in linen drying flat on the side of hills and round balls draping lavender bushes. out

flay past the reasoned spacing of trees, down the avenues of hammered poplars, pillared
candles falling up the sky.
repetition follows endless repetition and gaps fly home

a need
I need to find darkness to wrest to rest)

(onus on

…so I can be done with…so I can stand up…as the shape of the thing held up. on the lips
of gazed at children. a parameter glistening in spools of milkspit…held aloft from
tumbling by sudden sucking motion of the involuntary…carving out, holding back on the
backs of bare heads at dawn and dusk. a face held naked in the halo that enters the lines
of repose…necks open to the hold of dresses, shoulders that arms fall out from, chests and
flanks and flayed book tidied down upon…

see me…)

(evident the duty

argument a fist. ache me which am unalone…am I one or twinned to two. or tied three
created to tier…unbright light. an unheat … burn in the spark that flies between embers
of hopes detained…as glasses raise the eye, windows open, eyes rubbed the harder for,
shepherds guide, ships stars counted, rooms are aired, bodies are left to lie open. the
depths of the resting. throats song that cry ahome, for…songs

(evident the dark

here is your face and hers. her face theirs. now them. hers. everynow theirs. here thems
also...all too twoing and froing…big slabs gulping a line of treacle spun time for. ever.
there is a lot a lot of the darker pleasings, the face, a face, crowds everywhere over above
in side and out, towarding. two faces. a closure of faces. walled up. in slabs of thatch
walls wood across the emptiest of fields. spreading the out in the hallows of land tracts of
place on the spill of dew dried up bits twill me from each stalk of grass…as far as that
and then further more so down stone corridors a wedge inching at dawn from one front to
another past grovel and slight and towards the back and up into the frame and through
the slump of the glass and full the curtain gauzing the slightest breeze a girl standing up
to leave in a room over her face spilled with blank…a happiness…… …of the out………
………………………………one gap towards another the spread of the way across a flow
towards song on the deep of an interior. small bubbles break from one world to another
constantly, lulling me to the granulation of their depths…in shafts grown soft and
wide…teaming towards where dark becomes again…in the belly of beasts and across the
fringe of anemones. as a frame for the darkened singing in the margins of great heavy
books. I flee with all bright on there).

(evident the wish
in their necks. of the small. glazed eyes find all and on gem pearls twilling within the

wing wing

across the steam of the lottery in the breath of the two mares…at dawn,

in the furnace of forgetfulness and the pit of despair. the hope. for me is more more)

evidence of repetition

the feeling of sometimes held up comes from not the slip between but in the grasp of the
gap in wondering for a moment…yellowing teeth increment smallness endlessly repeat’n
and no hold on fix. the nature is to shine on, the task is to light but the doing is once
removed from something not found for to dazzle. here now spread many monuments and
moments towhere there are any inconsistencies.

where is something or someone that will stand up or lie down or refuse…)

(evident memory

all seeing…being as the one seen and the one reflected. around beings there is only a
distance of just about…past there flows nothing but dreams and memories, left tagging
behind caught. …on and on, away from the handhold…every creature identifies with the
centre of their world that is them they say but there is no centre only an endlessly rolling
on and out and over and through…

speaking backwards …not even the frame

From the flame
the undone
in rest for movement in memories and in meters…
one holds all that has been said and it is a joy…
two lights they said.
two if only. no horizons. no inside no outside. no edges still me.
there is nothing to see there cannot be anything to see no object.
some say they hold me. some say they see me enter their throats or pour
from some eyes and hearts some do some simply say they do.

the various wells stationed at every turn in the spectacle are stoppered
as refreshment. everything swallow pains.

the certainty of loss lost…forever undone…the eye beseeches…opening wider…always for

more… more light…more more more more more some…more.

I separate from brilliance).

(dream’n of being a part…no name no edges no solution…now
dream of being embraced…

a dream of being set free of…

dream of becoming dark, resting…undone

a dream I have come to sympathy)


A Woman Built a House

within the bright a blind spot


iris flower
cornea cornflower
similarca similar familiar
lens lessen
retina retractinator
optic nerve
orbit orb
eye ball storm
ganglion green gantry
I eye-mind

fragment 16

in wrestle…
I write you down
a sphere at a time…

fragment 17

meaning. un solidifies

…my hand. a wrist before me turning

up across a parchment of words and
knots a quill…blunt and frayed and
blackened with ink, the wax tablets as
milk sours before here, the wet small
height of the ink slitting the black
puddle on the lip of the shell. a mind.
on the powdered pigments… in the
dark within we are firstly lost to the
breadth of nothing excepting if we are
binding to dark, that dark as light and
then there are suddenly an equal to all.

on the edge of my hand writing I can

see my hand reflected back to me as
itself familiar…all versions of it travel
endlessly between my eye and the
touch of me…one touch and then

I can think I see everything…I think I

think all things but I think only a few
of the things thought of possible

with this quill as my vein if I open now

will I find I find bright?
if I open this…this what is this to
see…at its edgings every shifted

fragment 18

what is this brightness burning in me

at me?
words fall about nothing holds. tillnot
even this question is part of the

fragment 19

closeted light.
cloistering within each thing
I am growing light in my belly

in the eyes, in seen…seeing stretches

the inner dark away…so in the habit of
pausing before that which I am before
to do…to watch. and wait. there is to
see everything. not to move not to
enter the place till all is still. but to
enter it…all…at will. the stilling
happens by being behind my eyes and
waiting. waiting. waiting for along
while nothing happens and then I see
how it is here now…before me is a
deep box of sunlight punched through
with warmth and…from the stone it
floods it to a granulated softness
haloed on all sided so bright that I
cannot see where the light breaks glass
and where it breaks wall…the flood of
its brilliance then pours towards me
across the stretch of tables and
shelves…glints as jewels on the chains
securing the tomes to each other and to
the world of matter …before me I
know is the psalter of saint…whose
eyes were torn out. and the whiteness
of light makes of the illuminating a
white sea of the heaven it refers to. I
stub my toe on the first bench as I walk
through the spectre of the glowing to
begin work. I am in a script, in a
scriptorium. I am in a land I am in a
country I am in a sea that surrounds. in
my throat I can feel it stretching the
dark away.

fragment 20

there is seen in watching

increments of differ…
between each slip towards one more
there is a loss of the first that is shaped
from the first between its death and the
new. its elements monuments of
consequence. before it. each time. and
still it carries on grouping with other
moves towards something or
other…awash with the opaque veil of
time pulling it…always pulling it out
more and more so towards the
conclusions that shape light bigger
than the eye.

…the icon the painted faces that are

are not one thing true but layered
within one another, many many faced
creatures, beasts, mothers and
vagabonds. one eye strays of being
overtaken and stares hard out from
layers out. the other is new each time I
look towards it the work, the pupil of it
being the dark one remains the same. I
am the pupil if truth be known I am to
see…it sounds me

fragment 21

versions OF un-BLINDNESS

in two…in one
I see in one I am bound dumb as
inside vision I am most completely
but inside the screen of my brow and
in the depth of my heart I envision
myself as mud as light.
it fills me like the surging of sunlight
into the vault of the chapel. like the
vessel it warms me deeply. between
mournfulness and the sun. between my
ness manifest…a double sight. inside
each, finger and tooth each stone,
gem, bird, each womb and its seed is
this sight this-light.


fragment 22

to focuses one’s eyes on the root or

base of each form before one
one sees that each is split in two that
reflect each others repose. This is not
the space to root

roots show the trees true nature the

roots of the trees for all we know may
be the flowers of the darker side
beneath do they glow as the blossoms

aspen and elms, walnut, a forest of

oaks cork trees laurel elder holly.
all the trees as words.





fragment 23

what is truly seen? further

further than clumps of stuff strewn
about. around. layen thrown. open
below. under and before and behind
and closer…on the river and the land
far. this body. on things that hold and
the things that lie deep…as thatch and
barn and gaunt flocks, as trees filled
with blossom on small rises across
green sways on spires, as piers upheld,
doors with iron latches. the lock in. the
lock out. the horizon is full of it.

…what eye in this portal quads light

the delicate thinly. across the mantle. a
stone angel bespecked green plaster.
white snow and her furrow under
feet…in the crevices of ragstone.
doves break the stone sky above.
across it all the great window shatters
into coloured fragments…yet does not
in itself touch lights breath…being
only the beginning and the end of each
day of creation. light’s exodus…the
grand march forward and back of great
plain columns forward and back up to
the rounded close of the apse. towards
the death of things, as a pattern, of the
geometric as a yellow stain…as fog a
mist a blood green hail.
I am sad white snow.

fragment 24

…the inner eye dreams of the edge

of evening. about to fall into a
borrowed night. digging a hole in the
wall of dark brightness. shovel I am.
somebody’s digging out. digging out
of it. somebody excavating a darkness
or a light with a blade, a funnel, their
hands, a book.

…what eyes see this delve…

leaf…across…handbooks. painted
manuscripts…pierce the pattern books
as pictures poised. the letters…image
the instruments for digging for
gathering. the crypt. dry throats of past
choirs. an apex of windows. the whole
naive flooded through…amber soft.
light wasps fly off…dripping honeyed
varnish. alms boxes. canopied pews,
naive benches clinging to deep places
of long hallow…chambers

…what participle…the innerside

…when light falls from inside the eyes
‘sanctuary’ the sight of a one reaching
up and claiming the knocker as refuge
‘I beat travelled to the edge of the
kingdom here I will rest’…the
ordinary and the ordained be
wailing…tears of bright form as
chipped pink plaster…when you know.
how. wonder moves in into thats dark.

fragment 25

faces that are holes

not shone back from.

cross one face appears another…there

are a multitude that hold open possible
cartilages of predilection. if pause to
space before what will come…a
tomorrow?…patience of an internal
craft?…mulling over the feel of a
wizened tongue without answers dry in
a mouth…waiting for the pain to pass
waiting for…
something…someone…being one…
to truly see.
in waiting watch.

fragment 28

…I watch red light read the yellowing

glossary aloud to itself across each shoulder

I watch blood light finger the page

…in watching the sound of it, I am struck stranded at
the entrance to myself
and in watching, I am. struck..

fragment 29

sophia opens her lips in mine…

(build on the dirt a level that holds five
types of matter, colours five fields,
five foundations, five flows, a walled
space that contains five couches or
tables with five objects on the
uppermost levels, and shine five lights
on each. in the above raise five
ceilings and five roofs and then finally
place each in five night skies).

my eye in memory traverses

memory’s guise.
the foundations dug nightly.
inside walls of stone sweat.
tears corner red darkness … still me.
there are cut to a size that flows
beyond the self edges the small the
effervesce and shift. I look hard
towards and out to them. I open my
ears and see the lines of my palms
knotted in branches of crossed out
time. Its gone.

fragment 30

all that’s possible…

the perceiving falls towards a hundred

score perspectives.
the voices rise

detailing the edge of colour

the edge of the ball of the unseeing.

indicating the innerside of…
as filled. as filled

fragment 32

this new cell in me

ripe infirm of my edges
pulls apart the wall of me. to the whole
makes naught but a series of dry rooms
and corridors a concealment to the
open…most. edge of this room at the
edge of two corridors that connect a
library to the orchard the cloister walls
at the edge of the edge of the edge of
the wall spill small gleams of
crystalline as tiny gleams. as candle
flame flickers in the darkness. it glints
a thousand suns...a tiny mosaic of
gold-stone floods in. all the sun in the
night all the sun that is hot and makes
all things full of itself warming bones
and fruit and hair and cheeks cloth at
the lines drying on the lavender the
dirt. love unfades in this light. the sun
my old sun…I am loosing you for

I make a move to lay five colours

black then red then yellow then green
and white.

in this place mud does not lie alone, it

lies within a bigger field that is
impatiently radiant. and sing

fragment 33

I take from scriptorium felted fat

and make a parapet of light.

wall and beyond

wall of emptiness
wall of self details emerge as points of

my throat

my hand…
my feet…coming up to the wall of
existence…bumping my skull hard on
it falls open one eye emerges from the
gore and sees
that the eyes see only that the veil is in
the seeing.

with the lips of my everything

sounding liquid aside stone

fragment 48

red capitals. flame. knot. inlay
confiscating. the word. with one frail
flay glimpse. an eye, mine, falls out
upon a foolstring of words lying
limp. lying low. mortar stones of
unline. wailing for mordancy.
reach me lifting fingers toward’n
page. at torn touch worn linen
shroud. wefted.

slipping into still.

pressed foundates.
fragment 49

I am aside as a multitude…through
the tip of the tip of my tongue, my
finger, the stain aching in the vein in
my arm, through the pause between
breaths, the deep hollow quiet in my
sob holing through the tall wall of
tissue of blood of spit and tears. I
enter a portal cut as me. zero
allowed. in iris. one times one. I fold
three planes through compressure, an
abiding smooth against the every
skeined skeric. with my arms closeby
I leave nought. I leave everything
out…for every number rhythm or
rhyme there is a largess behind. the
feigned falls into me over and over a
well draped cord round my (chimeras refuse to lie low,
shoulders…the darkest of halls are
lean. close upon
walled pockets of light. shaped frame
told telling words wynd holes within spit split. in recitation name spills a
them. trivium that are made of more
genuflection, reflection as spoken.
trivium indecipherable. the pages are
small stars scraped thin amid the echo near at the contained distance.
berry ink. midnight thorned and
the root of uttering enters skin and
burned. I dream in a dream in a
dream I am lying asleep on the book grows there when handled attend, I
of all books and I push up on my
had words when to contain. seen no
arms, to lift my head it is a pillow
that is hardened to leather stuffed to one seems to know. saying as feign
fat with the things known. heaving
ignore. unvoice the sounding as
words that screech on and on…above
the delusive dread of being. of being stone drop to the bottom of deep dry
seen as the darkest dark, a swag, a
talked words hold together by the
form, a line, a mould, cast as a die
sphered. indecipherable broken of weft)
indistinguishable from the page…
what feels to be small is largest.
night ink on fire. wording tongues
singing the undone.
fragment 50

ssshh (ash vespers cloud the minds of

aspirants detailing pocketed gestures
an open wordstone
whimpers….chasms dark and both as congestions of praise. swarm to
the break of the apart as you. sweet
fall to down digging a below more
in weight love. swear...on your sigh. your hush.
then above in distance.
sight is a half cleaved flame
echoing devisable by nine.
chewed in its own half frame
attended by two.
one is by one diminutive.
smaller than the I aside.
having none but a name. mine own…
being one with eyes turned in.
the other one has as body turned out.
four eyes hold six open.
stand it as still and right
all slight flies pared back
from swamp ink
vague tongues as shape splatter
one flowaway…a black lochia.)
…and one become yawn in a throat
alert to. beginning. building. what
does not fall down what that that
fragment 51

…there is a rising up. four square. (afore shapes thoughts to fill

the throat. first-there are six-score
corpuscles within sinew and bone…
sunk and leaded into sheet earth
made hollow to all change. the floor blankness thought dark. as between
is ground as standing up onto me.
the apse in the heart and the nestling
my tongue is burning, a siphon of the lungs and all partpast the
spitting song
compression of length, each
in a within…I am careening
across a widening alley. walls a emptiness is blank. come call to a
stream rivering away.
shallowed shadow. in ear vessels
…unframe. being built. hollering deciphers ease as praise.
the way. as it is lit as movement
ever-always a… fore time oblique- forward once begun with honey a
ing double
wax fissure into flame. mourn as the
dog as a infinite diagram a mapped
bi-story their own tongues. sun comes to ward the loose hold of
is a dark is a map with a wider neck
night from one of to nother in a slow
at next you will say track
a wolf is milder but endless come up, with seamless
wings of a raven move so
eyes corrugation each artery each
beating draughts into tie me over
air drawn into light space coalesce corpuscle each dream each hope
empty dark. the core of each particle
all around me-it is bright as the
brightest day of thought is flesh. a participate at
the edge of named…name here here
look I taste…tasting
sight…memories are the unroom here. something very much does form
the house is built the house it is
ever unshaped unnamed slippered
bright. out of the limbs fire pours. air
breaths me. teeth chatter.)
fragment 52

plain weave look to-through

wale and warp as shapepace
danceing across the all ungone.

catenate half light as half shadow

the scrape inside misshape.

must be to be that …in deform

firmament a filament…love
memory it is in the eye…lives
is cuckold…love look takes up place
my throat a deep a weight a taste
enter a chart burrowing a wall.)
bitter-sweet-sour, and I am cold in an
unsweated death…
roughened at each edge its scraping
out my tongue. unround like a glass
sphere…each bone bolder grown into
me from without – and then out of
me holding voice come up from me,
keening and spinning form to delight.
a lament to pine. it holds no laughter.
heaving a heavy weight drawing
down in a drag of throat. cheeks
ache. past the edge of my tongue so
it cannot be seen, it is there in the
(with sharp teeth.
unseen that it pulls every joy, every
breath every happiness back down
into my belly and holds it there as in
she has bitten the whole inside of her
bursting in the hollow compress as it
passes under my hearts asp and mouth …made of it little mouths that
pushes ( ) divisible apart
myself in two.

… a girl, a girl spit splitting.

fragment 53

a container contain undone

structured unstructures that hold.
the sound
… ing (…what flows as withdrawn from the
nothing is to untie. everything once
pressure to stoop. to stop. if when the
knew…cannot hold to be contained
without an… holder. The house does pressing lisps anxious, swallow the
not hold. the container. space. has
waxing at instances the point in the
five many rooms more than. all
roam. ceilings multifarious far wide field that becomes is the move as line
as the edge of a sphere from the
merging as too shallow. a solution
inside at a limit of stretching it is as
light as dark. everything aglow and knowing so sure is its becoming
contrasts constant shine at
something someone thing that it
seamstreams of dust as phenomena.
inform felicitous dunce. scalds the tender shut and goes
forward and onward. interside itself.
as once was.
space moves leads more. my away
ever always doubled.
from is known from. a great distance
memories are rooms.
at great speed.)
fragment 54
(…the crunch of pressure swoop
to enter the point of hark is the
opening to an unknown. the way to reams step as off all steps pulled,
held becomes to hold one above
pullen endlessly the open door wide.
every all thing. all unpart removed.
the opening of forward pouches the at feet the belly evermore a sweet
heart as pocket-kerchiefs of wonder.
something calls…empty wordings
unexpanded. heat whole transparent.
matters songs singing. it is said that many times over sweetness a wider
the broken is spun together with
nothing handed emptily back to me.
gold. this heart mine is a maze at
base a torch of yellow azure…the once repeated till tired. and so now
opening of the inner-eye is ablue,…if
with nothing once black broke into
thine eye be sound-ed…it is…
the source for touch. thirty penances of bitterest…there is
more then three and all became…me
where enter the great un-doors are and not me. all are something added
shaped like the bow of a ship heavy
up to more. still there is no shape
with oak the boughs of which grow
in all my mother’s gardens. or and that holds -anything open…in the
they are a sheet of wet fog that
refused dark is one secret wish. to
clothes one from out the pours. here
they are un doors and I am in relation open the closed as all open is stilled.
through an inner gesture like the
this is a risk that holds at the edge of
lifting of my arm. in my mind. one
must stand in cupellation to un-or possibiles that speak…if I tell I say, I
what one is…and in a way that is not
be. one more of the beautiful and the
eager or too still and one must steady
oneself as one reaches up or out for still blistered, my hands drop from
them and pushes. pushing with my
arms heart bursting from vein, tol
will and not my will with my
emptiness and with not with my ache prove true there is nothing…but if a
and my hollow hand pushs for-ward.
throat that one is aching of lack then
with my weight of longing only and
rest as against a breast the comfort of the full will perhaps come into
the other… and they or it gives way
me…now…now gesturelate. tongue
to me and I enter with no name.
rattling. soaring…endless edge…)
fragment 55

enter/ the stepstone /leaves duty, (all.

virtues, all purity, divinity even the
all is stilled fever in me. the rush is
hand of charity behind. one’s back.
one leaves the veil the body the light hushing itself in a cradle cooing
the hope…all. the trouble and even
sweetly it mouths contentedly of the
goodly in oneself. till one is low of to
shadow but one is not lessened one is comforter
as wide as the fields swarming with
the deep(er) as seen.
swallows at eventide, one is as deep
as a well of water called sea, the lifting of the veil…requires one to
fantastic with life’s creatures that
open ones robes lift ones arms and
breath the sea itself and show
themselves to ride on beams canalled throw back ones head.
across an inner eyes.
the spaces between the known are as
looking sighs
vaults in a huge heart that pours
endlessly upwards ceaselessly
imploring…follow…do fall…do.)
fragment 56

tongues do enter the second through

the roots of men, with milk pouring
from buds…skimming sighing on the
edge of both worlds,… ...such
wordings... and the all then is so the
whole that it lifts with the geese as
they move out across the world in the
autumn and return in the spring is all
that they encompass, further than
imagined…that is how big I am
become when in step from shadows
from small lights…from the simple
sun it…it appears to see you and you
as blind like a solid denseness that
can not be pierced. all of it stone
asp of the holy encrusted there. a
swarm of the holies line up before
you showing who they are by their
gestures or their…

there is…
(as enter the…further this breaks
in my own entering
the roots of things pour out as skins
and fall about with tender aware

the meaning of journey was return…

now a ground. a dream. a step
bright undone
I cannot stand anywhere in the world
one brick
outside of myself: I stand
everywhere one hand
this precious
one word
more the so
with each breath it fades… away. at a time)
fragment 57

enter this third through the flayed

unworded skinned and fall about
apart, the emptiness stands still and it
flies fall away. the enter is fashioned
through a mud that lays deep in
tourched trenches of felt. each night.
each night of my day I forget…

and now within are all foundations.

and all floors and risen stone blocks
as all walls that are all cornices all
marked as all apprehend as
word…holding. and writing turns to
voice singing as more stones fly
flung next to each other a chorus
sung a chorus of granite
annunciating. and the walls become a
roar of singing. in ears. ears.

near…the thing that is fine…enough

is placed so together to gather up
light that pauses there
fleetingly...across the walls that are
textured snuff of stuff fine colored
that I am seeing the seen through…
no breath is gone from me for ever.
held. I am a pause between like the appearance of lamps
uptakes…I empty forever only.
adamant surfaces.
antiphonal arches swim
in the forecourt all treatise’s are
written simultaneous open. quills as
words appear like flocks of crows. you will go where I go and I and you
in throated beak. my footsteps ink.
go together
plato winces and aristotle looks
about him…the comedies… you remain me.
whore-horse detailing arguments
answer a frame that holds flimsy.
their muttering voices travel up
skirts…‘this or nothing will
work…stay here in the (said) most
radiant truth…’ they cry they cry
fragment 59

the ascending is disjunct…it is spoke

broke broken by
broken open
broken by a look harder underside
every together all gesture made
the sum of its maker…
the lief in belief meant me to wish
be wish…

all floors scriptulates forward as they

stands to still. I have no hold. the
uncobbles a multitude of codex.
aglow. me wetted of meaning…there
is Parmenides… Hesiod. they lay the (walk on )
place that has no top or bottom
except by way of my comfort…this
world-hoard in relation to my known.
(a feet fall) a small voice mouths
walking on. each foot fall feels what
has been written as a stabbing at the
dark. in me. if I stand still I am
swollen with a treatise. or here
another. some are sickening and are
full of smirks that grin up my legs
as I pass...when I look to them
squarely they drop away and other
layers replace them thoughts… … …
pauses for breath. but being is to (in curtains in films and forms as a
enter standing one has to walk to
shadow before all you see. see the
walk one has to stand one has to go
further in and one is in all the time world darkly…shadow falls most
one. one is full of the mistness and
easily from a body twisted this way
from ones eyes the skin that clings
must be removed it floats repeatedly and then the opposed other animated
back towards the known and one
by resistance to dissolve either
must keep shaking ones head which
looks to be a refusal or a paradox before or behind but in truth unless
riddle both game as to function but
seen clearly echoing inside…no
further it prevents the trysts from
forming again…the sheaths of fog thought or idea of kindness…has
inside must be ripped from one too.
room…has room…)
for about me and all things I precept
there are layers that float around the
density diminished
fragment 60

there is one room a vault formed here

in another round another there are
two. there is another in front of it or
over the face of it then there is
another where the doors slip into
each others frame though one be a
stone arch and the other a bower in a
line of trees…the door is perfume the
door is a small hand the door is an I

everything that is holding stretches

forward. folds. tilts as to flow into
shifted shifting …the spaceplace
door leaks…and the walls are
bleating a cinnamon cowl…about
me…I gesture to forward one foot
fall and the other appears from out of
a hem. my hands reach for ledges or
handles and I grasp first one then
another as everything multifoils…I
grasp. I hold of…an axe, a pen, a
stick burning with flame that does
not burn…I hollow a brass knocker
that is smooth with a cool firmness
of a hundred gestures that becomes
the stem of hollyhock hot in the sun.

all rooms are spheres separate as

rainbowed. differing color each. two
and more at once are the thin shell
that divides each itself full of light
and whispers and streams of thoughts
half spoken…break in waves. I move
forwards by a will softened like
sunned butter and find myself staring
at myself watching melting as
ground mustard in a brook.
fragment 61

wordwalls…move to up (tall stories collapse on the tongue

which become other floors for the
and ring hollow on passing
revolving sense of…ceiling-height
and low. across it all pours the jokes now that’s a good one unravel
biggest glow everywhere I place my
in their plot schemes
attention…the light which is
somewhere held swells the surface slurs slip under their consonants
with what it touches there and
fluency sticks behind the teeth
phrases and forms move out to me. I
place my hands over everything and double talk repeats its plie
smooth tears. every seen screams…
they talk over and over the same
more some moresome. the thing I
cannot say… a spit a slobber, bend thing said but backwards to the
myself in three. squat.
beginning again
squatting I lay my palms against a small one word messages are
volume, an open page that was once
scrawled on teacups
my comfort…script moves in waves
out and across off from the page are bitten into nails
across my eyeball and out and I see it
are sucked down with gin
flicker that wrote the origin reflected
back to me like the other side of a sighs are queried
deep pond…and there is the hand
honks are rubbed back to pinnacles
that holds it and there is the arm and
the shoulder and its face in formed in the walls between of the
consternation piercing the world with
larynx as sound and uttered
searching…attempts…and I can see
its worries about children and the aimlessly as a sword a tongue
though is as struck with the pause in
against a drum by the mouth
its stream and I move back and it
continues writing…dreaming the hearing a voice
writing writes itself a letter at a time.
has lost her voice
torch light plays on everything…its
face its hand its words…the inside of voice box
the letters.
the voice of god
voice opinion
especially common talking singing
shouting gossiping whispering,
joking, talk nonsense
rumor glossolalia)
fragment 62

the invisible is as sympathy (for what is said

a ground
is said being said…a lot has been
is being.
make as to move from solid to said…
openness. in a lap, is tender in tender
is said…
to hold, in open. to happen by
dissolve and to expanse of
space…by space. mosaics are the
this mine voice has a shadow a
ceiling swim in flame a multitude of
pause a bodied light. pointed. flatter emptiness hidden
peripheried…anyways now aways
my breasts fall from me.
my fingers grow so long they presence calls open the throat and
dissolve. burn wicks dry.
parts the lips and lifts the tongue and
smelling of wet aeons. pours breath from below up and over
and in small boxes mew dry lime.
the glossary spitting out myope’s
there. there. there. suddenly its
beautiful. if it is so round and round words are stuffed in to carapaces
and round I will stand here and here
inside the caverns of her cheek
and here and flat to all the dim
inside. close at once. so smooth of under the tongue remedies douse
softness it comes forward. all pink.
poison promises and…along the
all glass that dazzle drops of glow all
over floor stone. and in the sunlight rows of teeth carries of mistruth are
pour out deficits of sign,
thrust apples are not oranges…yet
inconsistencies between earth and
heaven. buried between the in the jaw lies ache hinged as the
foundations are the patrons on which
feet of petitioners in prayer or half
cocked wonder shuffling repeatedly
to and fro consistently regular.
all pink upright with all dazzle flung
stone of ages anchoring the whole
crypt to earth. and then there is the
rhythm of between benches and their
layers of bee’s wax singing the eyes open…shut it…give a little laugh)
and you stand or sit or kneel-except
one way.
fragment 63

the walls stretch one away and then

each to nother. next they fly in and
out. out as thin things shift aside as
everything is rushing at a great wail
and gathering in stalls that break
open and out rushes a pig or a shape
that was a pig but now it is a small
reason that has fled itself…

(everything bright glimpse gathered

a bruised light seen as seeing...
great excess a great flame I am an

the past lines up diminished. the

future lies flat and famished as
fortune or at the edge of it. great
gulps of pressure swim through the
arc of sigh to laugh to
cry out loud at the very edge I am the
very centre peripheried. I am
sounded circumferenced whole. one
skerrick is every whole holed. the
one then the other now then gone
great forces compressed. bliss. great
light rhythms a flood a field a field.

(dry dry fire)

fragment 64

…as one does lift ones eyes up, and

there seeing a light in the sky, solid
in its brilliance, a cause of warmth to
the body, flows, tenderness in
openness pauses, so…warm warmth
of the inner eye forms a fielded fay
correspondences. but in this lifting of
the inner eye…oblique to gentle…
the light in the walls of this mind
ones own warmth, of my own
tongue, my blood my own heart. just
as one lifts the arm to hold fast an
object or to flail in gesture, so too to
lift the arm in the mind is as a most
tender event. for the inner hand is
made of light, woven from particles
of wonder itself, participles of deep
caress. of infinite still eternally
erupting…that hold together
fleetingly to shape and flee as
unshape. this pitch, this pitch, to
touch to tongue in this light both the
strange and mundane one becomes
the container and the contained. it is
in itself figured here all things
possibly gentling one cannot hold
them still. but if one shapes there a
structure wide that contains all that is
probable…and holds it very very still
in its erupting on its walls there of
its own firmness and integrity
then…it can only be a gesturing
toward the very brightest

the great garden is blistered …

fragment 65

in the great smoked silence sophia

whimpers and thrashes held back by
the many handed… opening her
mouth her throat stiff as tunneled
stillness falls apart and cries out. …
there is, to reach in. over the
pounding of hoofs this way and then
that…and metal flashing closer there
is here cries for…(refuge) against the
locked all is closed except my fist as
a great yawn of brass and here before
us all a feast of horrors of terrors…

before me disjunct jubilas

the organum is flesh proudburning
bodies their limbs in candelingflame
comerun comerun
… one and one.
the steps dissolve go out out

…I will leave the house…

pushing at the wall of outside
the flame is a small wet face.
fragment 66

the meat of my mother the veil of (the falling fallen is apart

gristle a grille wetting my eyes… is sighed simple whimple me
the fascia against the ash-oak tendering tendering tend
forest…this body. against and within
entering inside it. it is inside a room -expected-
and there are instructions being read
out precise the chorus discant there is a structure. one makes.
dictates them…I cannot hear one though dismantling the structure
voice clear from another…they pile a pause a paradox cell…( )
up in great depth.. murmur tender. I
am aflamed fire fretted water is
break’n open I hear this mind pauses each build is/has structure-ing
on the colour red. one eye closes as a-doubt
off from me. leaving shale shadows each frame stain structure-ies
as filaments of nothing. gone further it further
from broke open…

the womb I came through alight

in your alchemies nothing bears fruit
…I am imploding sound a songsung without being more mor-ti-fi-ed
at a time
as light.

nocturne’s iris

…you take refuge from me and I am refuge

woman: here lie the unexamined certainties

girl: the house has many rooms

light: spool

woman: to build is to enter, the

girl: skin

light: …

woman: here

girl: on away

light: now


colours green, red, black, yellow, white…

fields earth, air, fire, water, ether/light…
flows winds, a river, tears, blood, words…
foundations stone, hope, love, sorrow, mud…
floors bones, marble, carpets, cries…
couches straw, wooden, moss…
objects a beast whelping her pups, a bear, a cup/golden, a bag of seeds…
lights oil lamp, candle flame, phosphorescence, the rainbow, a sun…
night ursis minor, black sapphires…
all blue


(multi faceted I fold the sky wide and the earth depth deepens.
this is no place for me on the ground of things
nor in any part of the poles of dark
no one fears
an exile
as cruel as mine
but I make made this earth brightstill with its shaped fears…eat this scroll Ezekiel)


(…or, moving from the abyss towards the image impressing through imaginal transfer
onto a panel does only half sooth and never does satisfy the load is too heavy to bear and
the burden is on the interlocutor to be supremely articulate as if we were ever able to
have one speak without others echoing in our ears…rhythms and rhymes between the
symbol and the word are simultaneously expressed in the gap seen as an abyss between
the two that we avoid in horror as horror of the unlit self is avoided in the pure wonder
and joy of the self seeing itself division as a luminating fulcrum of perpetual flickers
between content and the container in actually seeing the falling away of the image into
the screen that birthed and momentarily held the self, at the imaginal, as both daughter,
the mother, mothers life and the mothers mother. whilst not the self is the self it is
constructed as its contents from the infinities of possibilities and from the substance-
matter- fine enough to reflect and illuminate all ever possibiles, as is transfer this
substance is. the mother of itself, becomes the creative that was at first its other, mirrored
now as the container of its own opposition there is a release an epiphany and expression
of bliss self’s sympathetic joy…brightens.)

… blazing bright brighter and brighter as a field broader hums before words
spinning light rhymes that syncopate THAT particle and cleave…muma ma ma