not in words. A lie may be told in silence,

by equivocation, by the accent on a syllable,

by the glance of the eye attaching a peculiar significance to a sentence.

baser by many degrees than a lie plainly worded.

"J .Ruskin".

They marched me in. Head first into a red room. Lined up against the wall were a number of homosexuals dressed only in blue nylon underpants. Their hands rested nervously at the sides of their bodies, they shuffled from one foot to the other.

I was marched in, and they shut the door. The guard,

who had accompanied me along the corridor and into the red room, pointed at the first homosexual and waited.

The man moved restlessly. He raised up his large hooked nose and asked me if I had eaten recently.

I said yes thank you, and he fell silent. The guard lifted his finger and directed it at the second homosexual.

The second homosexual uttered that there was a pizzeria not far from here, which in his opinion was rather cheap.

I repeated that I had eaten recently, and that I didn't feel like a pizza right now anyhow.

The guard sharply marked out a third homosexual, who was easily distinguished from the others by his beautiful coiffure of curly black hair.

He told me that they had all been standing around for hours dressed only in these blue nylon underpants, and that he could really do with a pee.

At this, the guard walked out and slammed the door. He returned five minutes later with a pair of blue nylon underpants.

He instructed me to put them on straight away.

I replied that I was not a homosexual, and that my favourite colour is red.

He informed me that none of these men were homosexuals, it had just been a ploy to make me scared.

The guard again left the room, and came back ten minutes later with eleven pairs of red nylon underpants.

All the ex-homosexuals groaned, took off their blue nylon underpants, and individually handed them to the guard.

The ten men put on fresh nylon underpants and looked at me.

Feeling embarrassed, I took off my clothes and donned the red pants. The guard took my things and left the room. I stood against the wall.

A girl is looking at me,

Air shuffles around and through us. .

A thousand lovers have collected postcards,

Like already perfect eggs pasted to the insides.

I can find it on the billboard,

I can waste it on the tube station

So incredibly black,

My lover,

Two lunatics, across lunch one fine day, in the epoch of twilight.

Yes, this could be another chance to survive, or just another rung on the inevitable moment before death.

These rungs of living, that we just keep on finding, is there no escape from them?

More than that my friend. It is essential that you try to see through all experience that is bought by the idealists, in a vapid attempt to spiritualise existence. You know it all starts and ends in caves, in the dirt and with a fairly large helping of disease in the middle.

The romance of death, and more specifically, death in life and the relation between the two, always captures my imagination.

I know your problem. It is a travesty of some previous delinquent phase of misunderstanding, that you have gratefully incorporated into the way you think. Stop chatting with yourself, and start to be. You almost certainly have some pre-intellectual religious cravings. You remember the book which fell into your grasp, and nearly gave you sense?

Yes my dear friend. But irrelevant. You see, these base lines of rejection cannot stop me from following the signs that come to me and lead into fantastic realms of the mind. That is to say my path is not a mission nor a providence. No moral discolouring infringes on my life, as you can quite clearly testify. I think how I am taken, and as such become regenerated with chaos and order so that no enemies or dear friends such as yourself, can ever finely guess which way I shall move next.

You are weaving the components of intellect through a very fine mesh. Distortion is as undetectable as sanity, but still there. There can be no denying the size and fortitude of your will, but more than that I worry dearly about the popularity of such an exercise. Just knuckle down to it child, you have not the space perhaps to be as noble, unremitting and gay as the clouds of light that blow you along are telling you. I tell you, you are following creation, and it is gone.

When shall we meet next?

Waiting, construction feelings.

Words to be caressed.

Work of muscular, terror .

I have a thought

Through a veil of tears.

Languid realisations abound,

In a starlight fantasy,

Thoughts are not enough.

Systems are insides themselves,

The instant way boy.

Circling in head time,

It's a sumptuous existence...

We can all see that

Salient people are quickly dead.

So chant with me,

"Touch, touch and dance tonight love"

Flesh that is incensed with shock,

Drives virulently homewards.

Water droplets and tin word rights.

Live in golden cages.

That form too many unreal worlds.

So we can express ourselves:

Demurely, with tiny meanings.

Decayed visions and the spit of the tongue.

We can skate around earth war scenes.

And bolts from the other side.

Laugh, laugh too much from the anal size excuse mechanism of:

The sadly intended animals.

Grandmother has deep eyes.

Prune-juice flavour.

They are ripe for picking.

Wavering in some kind of dream.

Hands caress silken moments

Before the big one speaks.

Black-lace ruffles define icons

A brushing movement resists a cross.

Nestle bed lovers and fingernails,

Forest resistance from an untold viewpoint.

Child truth questions.

Turn to it and knowledge dirt.

That hide grubby fingers, sticky with feelings

That stumble, to a pool filled eye.

Two lonely people, cross-eyed with pleasure.

And to have shadows of a younger day.

That dance.

And nothing is inside themselves.

Look up.

To see the inevitable ward of light.

To become.

A lying silent casualty of the castrate fold for tomorrow.

Pyre in the middle

Witness many dances,

Breathe something holy

And wait until the end.

Spirit resting distances

Touch my earth bound destiny

Relieve cravings anything

And slide these dreams away.

Thoughtless, relaxing every time

Remove my only heart sway

Burn many knowledge boughs

Resist the face of death.

Symbols deep within me

Pity to go outside here

Exist in reality, only

Believing that you fear.

Mind in the hearthrug

Wander shallow energies

Detach something greater

It's true to be as one.

Union of a melody

Prepare the charm today

Writhe former meanings

Entice perpetually.

Poet of the pen-speak

Scream your life away

Glory to become you

Must pictured soul believe.

Eternity above me

Trust this mortal sway

Its never found deliverance

Hypnotic and delayed.

Camel trains and iris

All the same to you

Extend this expression

And join my shadow tower.

And to such heat

All the insights

Of thousands following

Their own breed.

" The breed is the lie "

To rasp and interrupt

Novice victim of it

To picture

That infiltrate moment.

Now boy,

Today's intelligent

That lap up the gods

And they are repugnant

To today's conversation

That is experience

That is belief.

Are mixing me up,

And throwing me towards the right

Yes definitely right

In the lurched animal

In the organs

That winded up the hearth.

Those fox merchants

Are desirable

As brothers

If you burn their underclothes,

If you left their paper thoughts.

Silence begins us

As to touch you

Is to hate you

I cannot resist.

Swallow some of this pill

The large intelligent one

That shines like hemlock

And is the altered weird status.

Antlers, mischief to beget

You as just one meddler,

Or a beautiful soldier, right arm boy.

He can stir the circles

He can delve harder than that.

I do not understand,

As my imprint

W ill eulogise the memory

Mine and yours

Not to be corrupted.

But we have seen the dawn.

We have tested

The buds in our capsules.

We have licked Our mounds

Like new age disease worshippers.

Correction, baby

I need only to love you

For the mouse parsnips

Are scented with poison

And I can exist

As your human.

Toby, or the other, at our place

Why haven't you phoned?

Because the electric lights are out

Boy someway out

Into the shafts

That drift as brew mixtures

Should have been.

So long ago, an elder one

Who often had Weirds

Threads of Opal, the sugar ones

Dissolving of altogether too much excuse,

Crafted aboard the heather flowing

To nowhere from the stomach

Screaming like blackbirds again

To fill them, out, big one of calm.

Tireless exultation, hypnotised

As I have been,

As I would make of you.

Our street. Is a favourite hitch-hiking spot.

They are tied. And made up,

Sings at four in the morning. A plaintive tongue. If I am awake,

An only song, like a Heart transplant on a pedestal.

I was searching for something.

It was below the ground, in the most obvious place that it could be. I was searching beneath the

remains of a previous expedition. I was digging through sandy gravel to a deeper place where there could be

treasure.

Instead of treasure, I found cells. In each cell was a collection of bones too brittle to touch.

Ornaments were arranged there to form definite patterns of colour and line in each individual cell. I felt incredibly

excited, I was almost laughing.

The cells had an atmosphere like an English drawing room. A clock seemed to tick somewhere, a

rug barely covered exposed tiles. A large couch resided in the middle of the room, its luxury

compensating for the lack of conversation and the distasteful refreshments being served.

The cells were underground. I inspected one of them in more detail. It had a human skull placed

in the middle. It was brown with age, much of the cranium was decayed completely, there was enough room to put your hand into the area where the brain had been. To the left was a purple necklace, the beads were connected by copper which had gone green with time. To the right were five candles exactly set on a scroll of parchment paper, I could just make out tiny precise markings, the light was poor, I wish it was all a little clearer.

I crept closer into the cell, I stretched down my hand to attempt to prise out the paper from its paperweights. I

suddenly felt as if somebody had entered the room and was coming at me from behind the couch. I turned round, to

confront my assailant, but instead found myself looking into the wall I had just been digging. I turned round again

and the cell had vanished, I thought I must be dreaming, so I rubbed my eyes, only to fill them up with sand.

AMSTERDAM

This is not honest. I turned round to her and told myself without blinking that the emotion was all wrong. What of the woman? What of courage and the lady? There was an American at the bar. He wore a thick brown moustache and dangling striped pyjama bottoms. He was talking to the barmaid about his travellers cheques, or the currency changes involved with visiting various countries in short period of time. He was talking at the barmaid, she was an accomplice, but laughed timorously at his forced jesting about money. It was obvious he was rich, the barmaid, Dutch and shyer than she made out, was impressed by his ornament, but could see no progression. He left the room.

The dream of sailors. Sailing the wide open seas in their rickety

old boat. Sailors, good friends, with an understanding born off of the back of , working together under the pressure of keeping the vessel afloat.

Sailing out, and for the hell of it going to the ends of the incredible sea without turning back. Going backwards, forwards, bobbling up and down on the unpredictable waves of the Ocean.

French sailors, all dressed up, sitting at a bar in a cap-site just outside Amsterdam.

The pornographic imagination set free. The image of sex. Succulent, wanton and lewd. The sexual image dressed as the shop front. Adorned and full of the eyes of transgressors who are continually walking past. They go inside with their minds, they tread there behind the curtains that swish at the end of skirts. They wander with open wills at the crack in the wall that rain dwells in. They run their fingers over the uncovered flesh of paintings that are portraits of teenagers. They laugh at the suggestion of death in a violent manner coming from unforeseen attackers. They are dreamers who grasp the scent of masturbation.

Words like people and situations are cages. They form lines of dark and light that encircle and enclose the space within, which we mistakenly take to be reality or the truth. That which is true is in fact the cages that we laughingly dismiss as the vessels of our lives.

Time, the world and all within us, can only be understood in relation to, and out of respect for the seriousness and causality we attach to them. This placing hovers and revolves into the patterns of cages that come to us in consciousness, that are present in the movement of ideas, and are the juice of dreams.

Foecundi calices quem non fecere disertum ?

Whom has the flowing bowl not made eloquent?

Rabelais.

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