space cow

a frosty romance
a night time dance
one of us is human
the other a mask

crying tears of blood
speaking words of flesh
a lover from the flood
a pearl born in the sea

eating rusty children
spitting out flaming pips
quantum time is leaping past
the word puckers her lips

now would you nuke your Mamma
you know how she hates the cold
just you watch your grammar
your muscles are my hold

you breath my pelvic thrusts
you sleep within my darkness
I’ll eat you if I must
and pass you in my waters

my poor old nipples are glowing
you kick me in disgust
I’m teeming with life and meaning
astronomers dismiss me as fat

I’ve slept with famous poets
posed for painters nude
I’ve got It and I show It
I’m blamed for being a prude

I am your sewerage system
the machinery of your dreams
your life is a living stem
my magic makes things seem

I am a boat in a harbour
I am the consuming storm
I am the tree –  the door
the clothes your spirit forms

knitting jungles and forests
a veil to bring me warmth
the body of the flower
the womb of the source

so shape me — break me
I’m as wet as raw clay
I emerge as a spiders web.
as dew crystallizes the day

words are cut away now
the snake has shot down his hole
we’re left with a pantomime cow
which Jack has foolishly sold.

The Limits Of Magic

Is the cell aware of the bigger picture?
Would you know if you were a cell in a larger being that also called itself I?
Imagine that the planet is a living being. It has grown a electro magnet skin we think of as nature. We are distributed components in a super computer. Our serial numbers, properties and capabilities are encoded in our dna. As we sleep we plug into the mainframe through the interface of dreams.

Day long romance

I don’t have many romantic memories from my teen years. I wish I had more.

Had one romance that was very sweet, even though it only lasted a day.

He was sixteen, I was thirteen. We had got to know each other in the school play. Although there was an age gap, I was treated as an equal and thought of as funny. I suppose at some level we knew we liked each other, but that only became apparent when the play was over.

In the school playing fields we did the impossible, left our age groups and started talking. We agreed to meet again at lunch. We spent two hours wandering around the school grounds. He told me everything, who he was, what he liked, what he hated, who he was going to be.

There was no hint or rumor of sex. At one point he put his arm round me, and I naively thought I had a proper boyfriend at last.

I assumed we would carry on like that forever. Walking, talking, swapping dreams. But at some point during that day some other boys noticed our friendship and…well I am sure you can guess.

The next day he cut me cold as if he did not know me. The invisible division between the age groups was restored. The bromance was over.

Hidden in the Eyes

Going through the family photo albums is one of the more awkward events of a new relationship. By comparison, the first night of passion is a breeze.

It is especially awkward for victims of childhood trauma as you get to see the before and after pictures. You see the damage carved into expressions and posture. You see what was lost. So normally I prefer to leave the albums closed. But now I was ready to face the triggers, indeed eager to find missing jigsaw pieces.

As I had not looked at the albums since childhood there were a few surprises. First I was reminded of something I had always known, but Christopher Isherwood, in Lions and Shadows, had given words for, “some people have soul in their eyes”. Most people don’t, but those of us who do, recognise it in others. I remember as a young child seeing it in my eyes, in photos, recognising it as something awesome, but not knowing what it was. I would extend this to animals, some but not all, have something fairly wonderful going on in the eyes.

So when I opened the album the first thing I remembered, oh yes, I appear to have a soul. (I have no idea what this really means, but am skeptical of religious interpretations.)

This I had already known, but I was also confronted by a me I hardly recognised. On each page, even those of me looking very small, there were pictures that could be used in TV campaigns to raise awareness about child abuse. I look haunted, or awkward and clearly ill at ease. Shadows seem to move accross the pictures as storm clouds gather above and discordant minor chords are felt as background music.

However, my biggest surprise was that in the vast majority of pictures I appear as an outrageous little poseur. Often languidly reclined, precociously provocative and sexually aware. I look as if I am in on a secret that nobody around me got. I have no recollection of ever feeling like that.

Then in other pictures I am just a normal boy.

Edward Heath and how to handle a scandal

I have heard enough evidence to be fairly sure that there have been a series of Paedophile conspiracies run by people in power at the heart of the establishment. The first case I heard of was in a Welsh care home. I soon became convinced that a certain high ranking policeman would stop at nothing to evade justice. In one family I know, two murdered brothers, both victims, were for the most of their lives treated as criminals. Their crime, seeking justice.

I was so moved by this that I fictionalised their accounts and put them in my series of novels, The Quantum Twins. In it I imagined how such a conspiracy might operate. While some aspects may be far off target, I genuinely believe the most disturbing aspects are true and are probably still happening now. 

So how does the Establishment manage such a scandal? A conservative friend once told me if but some of the allegations are proved true he could see the collapse of democracy. This may seem too awful to be allowed to happen. Thus some relatively innocent people in power may also seek to keep a lid on all of this in the interests of stability. They may indeed sympathise with victims plight, regret that any of it happened, but see the victims need for justice as secondary to the needs of stable government. So like the paedophiles themselves they too may have an agenda to stifle the shock waves. Then there are those like Chief Whips and those in the Intelligence services, who knew about members tastes for little boys but saw this as a means of control rather than a crime.

There is some fairly strong evidence against Leon Brittan, amongst others. It is not just losing awkward documents, there are surviving witnesses who can name where and when the incidents happened. One of them is a friend on Twitter. 

So why have we not seen a high ranking policeman outside his house asking for more witnesses to come forward?

I believe the establishment hope that the evidence against Heath is weak. He always was the subject of rumours and innuendo, suggesting he liked young men. But some of the evidence I have seen is not as substantial as that against others. Therefore by seeming open now they can later close all the doors again and apologise for an hysterical witch hunt and tarnishing the reputation of a great man.

Unless of course the General, the Prime Minister and the Home Secratary (the top of the pyramid) are proven guilty.

Then at least the establishment will have been seen by history to do the right thing.

But they are betting and hoping it will all soon seem like a post Saville hysterical witch hunt. Thus Heath’s reputation is jeopardised. Rather than living criminals who could implicate others here and now.

I fear this tactic might work. The victims will be labelled as hysterical and deluded. The abuse will continue. But no one will dare try to stop it.

Paranoid, me?

Don’t believe in yourself

Being of the mildly lunatic persuasion, visions, epiphanies, revelations and mystical awakenings come fairly regularly to me, as might be expected. It seems to be a bi-polar thing. Sometimes the jigsaw falls in place, you step out of time and it all makes sense. Luckily, I am mostly given good advice and have never been tempted to proclaim myself the messiah, streak or commit mass murder.
Despite my loony leanings, I am disturbingly sane (it’s you, dear readers, I worry about). There is always a rational, but boring, perspective that will step in and say, well that was interesting, however… and then explain it in a less poetic manor. The inner bullshit detector is as merciless on my beliefs as it is on yours.
But nevertheless there are some consistencies to these experiences with traditional practices that make me still pursue the mystical.
As an example, let me cite my first mind control exercise, concentration. I was learning to still the mind. I picked my favourite stone from the garden, washed and polished it, relaxed, gained control of my breathing then attempted to focus all my awareness on the stone. Of course, most of the time the mind wandered, any trivia was more interesting than the exercise. But gently the mind was prodded back until after many days of practice, all I was aware of was the stone. Then something strange happened, the stone darkened until it turned entirely black and then vanished. It simply was no longer there. As I shook myself out of my trance like state, the stone materialised back in front of me.
Each time I repeated the exercise, the same thing happened, it darkened and vanished. And indeed the same principle has applied with other objects and even subjects. Once, looking in the mirror, it even happened to me, as if I was invisible.
This is suspiciously close to descriptions of samhadi, of which there are many. It is the fusion of observer and observed into a unity (yoga).
But to me it remains little more than a curiosity of consciousness. And it may signify nothing.