A man who fancies a 300 year old
Grade One listed residence with 100 rooms
in the City of Westminster,
within easy reach of Buckingham Palace,
which he cannot himself afford.

To this end he attempts to find out
what his fellow citizens want
and promises to give it (anything) to them
if they will pay for a five year lease,
in his name, on the des.res.

Once safely inside the front door,
he explains that he cannot honour
his promises right away
because the previous tenant
(unless he himself happens
to be the previous tenant)
has left the place in such a mess.

His first priority must be to clear it up.
However, by way of compensation,
he tries to give them
as many of the things that they don’t want
as they can afford to pay for.

Here the matter rests (in comfort)
until his fellow citizens
can find a way of winkling him
out of his des.res.



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In the dark tabernacle,
a shaft of sunlight
illumines the heart
and shines through
a million years of dust.

Clouds and clouds of swirling
through the light
which spills in a golden pool
on damp, grey stone and iron rust.

When the light moves
it does not take the dust there to it.
When the dust slides into darkness,
the light does not pursue it.

Why then does the heart invent
heart bruising burdens to shoulder?
(Why does the heart consent
to the illusion of growing older?)


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In Buddha’s sunlit laboratory
(or Dhamma chamber),
experiments by laboratory assistants
(or monks)
that if you shine the light
of investigation
on form, feeling, perception,
thoughts and consciousness
and apply continuous mindfulness
at the very centre
of the rising and falling
of these phenomena,
all things are seen
to be without a permanent self
and a state of Peace
is found behind the suffering,
which fevers this loose aggregation of parts
we claim as our own self,
and replaces it.

“We rise on stepping stones
 of our dead selves
 to higher things.”

“It is excellent, good Gautama,”
says Prince Abhaya.
“It is as if one might set upright
what had been upset,
or might reveal
what had been covered
or show the way
to one who had gone astray
or bring an oil lamp into the darkness
so that one with vision might see…”



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We peer into the shadows
where yesterday’s sunlight glows,
trying to capture and hold
yesterday’s sunlit gold.

We peer into tomorrow
to predict and plot
where that sun will likely go
(but where, perhaps, it will not).

Today’s sunshine still blazes
its disc ever overhead.
Past and future are autumn hazes
that drift through the land of the Dead.

The land of the Dead.

Remember the Light;
the Light
that shines
in the darkness.


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The Cafe is famous.
The Coffee is expensive.

I sit
on the self-same red and padded seats,
the original brass rail behind my neck,
the two Magots, ancient Chinese statues, 
hanging above my head.
Here, just here,
two ancient post war Intellectual Magots,
Simone-Lucie-Ernestine-Marie Bertrand de Beauvoir
and Jean-Paul Sartre,
sat as part of their ritual
living together.

The Chinese Magots hang there still
above my head.
The Intellectual Magots
float in the mists of temps perdu
within my mind.

Jean-Paul says
“At the moment of orgasm
the illusion is ended
and we return to ourselves.”
He spent much time ensuring
(with as many of everyone
as he could get hold of)
that scientific experiment
would always confirm this theory of his.

Simone says
“One is not born a woman,
but becomes one.”
She then invented herself
to become someone
who spent much time
wanting sex with everyone
of every sex
especially children
(but without having children).

Together they reinvented Philosophy
(the love of Wisdom)
as Serial Orgasm;
complete with a philosophistical
The most famous of her beloved “everyones”,
Nelson Algren, says

“J-P and S were bigger users of others
than a prostitute and her pimp in their way.”

J-P and S say
“There is no meaning to be found in the world
beyond what meaning we give to it.”

The Chinese Magots
still hang
in an eternal present.

The Intellectual Magots
still fade
in the unconsummated past
they made.

Ghosts still seeking mutual consolation.

The Coffee is still expensive.



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The fisherman sees the fish
but not its pain
until as fish
he swims this way again.

The rich see not the poor
they have invented
and, not contented,
strive ceaselessly for more.

Abraham’s descendants
fight for their promised land,
and while they swarm and fight like ants
whose blood seeps into desert sand?

“My village against the world,
my family against the village,
my brother and I against my family.
Myself against my brother.”

“Nature red in tooth and claw”
contradicts Messiah’s Law.
Virus, germ
and parasitic worm
burrowing in blindness
do not respect the vegan’s kindness.

Breathing is the road to the breathless;
seeing the obvious is the path to the deathless.


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Matter is dead,
dead or dying.
And in it, craving
craves its dissolution,
rehearses dissolution.
Expense of energy
in voluntary death.

Do not keep it young
or leave a creaky scream unwrung,
a forbidden song unsung,
a sin unsunned.

A pleasure’s but a pleasure,
and on pleasure’s wings
a man gets high,
remembers that sirens sing
and dolphins sigh,
that matter
never matters.


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