The Sun King, Setting

There goes the Sun King, setting.

For much of my life the Old Man refusing to die

The great I Am that I Am, that I’m not.

The Age of Ego passing over.


The maleness, physicality birthing insubstantiality,

Bedding down, drifting to dream,

Succumbing to Spirit:

The breath that’s in everything


Ghosting into understanding.


Where all meets nothing and both are the same;

The Pleroma game, hide-and-seek in full view.




So here are some words for where we are now-

The Differentiated here/there

In parallel with Oneness.

The Mystery’s breath is Everywhere



A harpoon, slung.

A fully extended arm

wrenched, wrung.


A torn muscle ripped.


blood flood.


Blubber and bible thumper,

rubber, wood and rust.





Thought and deed

carry my future.

Religion maddened by nature.


I am his downfall.

I am him.

Blowhole cry

ignites the icy sky.

Something 59

It’s something fifty-nine again. I look at my phone. It’s 3:59 a.m.. I’ve somehow trained myself to do this. No watch or clock in the house, just the time from my mobile phone, and invariably it’s a minute to some hour or other. I feel the need to look at the time and resist. I wait. Ten, twelve minutes. And eventually I go ahead and check. Something fifty-nine.
This useless skill crept up on me over the period of a few days, about eighteen months ago. It was roughly the third or fourth time I’d checked the time and it had read 10:59, 13:59, 20:59. And I thought about the chances of it. So I started trying to look only at something fifty-nine and after a fortnight of this found I could do it pretty much automatically, even if I’d been sleeping for a few hours.
Now you’d think that being able to do this It would follow that I have therefore mastered the art of always knowing instinctively what the actual time is, but no.
For instance I could feel that in five minutes it will be one minute to the hour, but despite my repeated consistently accurate guesswork, predictions etc. I need the confirmation of the mobile phone’s clock to give me certainty, and so the feeling of having so long to wait until I can check gives me no authority to tell others what I think the time might be at any given minute.
The best I can say is “My best guess, right now, is that in twenty-four minutes it will be 2:59 p.m. but I won’t be able to confirm that for you for twenty-four minutes.”
Now for those that know me well, they have come to use me instead of their own watches: so much so that the sight of a fellow villager wearing a watch is virtually unheard of. Strangers passing through and enquiringly of the time are referred to me and I give them my best guess. The more trusting sort are happy with my answer and don’t feel compromised by a lack of corroboration. Others, however, more suspicious in nature, press on me to check my phone, or to let them do so, but unfortunately for them things have progressed here in that I now no longer carry my phone/timepiece with me any more. I never used the thing as a phone and now no longer need it as a watch.
As things stand now, the situation has little advantages. I find myself, desirous of more time in the company of my sweetheart, telling her it is forty-five minutes until 21:59 when she gets the last train to our neighbouring village when in fact it is I feel just twelve minutes until that time. Fortunately the railway timetable at our station relies on me too now, and the four trains per day which leave, leave according to my say so.
This of course works in the opposite direction. I can curtail the time of onerous tasks. Sometimes by a couple of hours. It can shrink the working week by ten hours. It can increase the opening hours of a cafe until I’m ready to leave at night. It took me a matter of only a few weeks to catch on to the fact that, within certain parameters, the time would be exactly what I said it was.
Does this disconcert me? No. For I feel I have only done on a small, local scale what humanity has been doing for centuries. The time is what we say it is.

The Cot

The collective machinery nightly hummed and bombed
your sooty town, pillowed it in dust: the bombs plummeting
like desperate women hitting the Clyde.

The sirens brought you huddles and cuddles
amongst the cacophony sent to kill you.
The tumbling walls of next doors houses
dropping like drunks on the stairs;
and you’d scream in the noise to drown it.

And two tiny feet would trot to your cot
where a safe silence sat in the middle of midnight.
But next year, at three, your ma and da found
you had escaped a war unscathed but unsaved,
only to succumb in silence to the licking of a shoe.

Washday Blues

The washing: wet,
windless on the line-

dragged back to jail.

Sullen, dejected, damp.
Torsos pinned
by a rainbow of pegs.

Handless, footless,
weary gravity sucking earthwards,

and, seen from the window,
too late to save.

How It Was, Then

With men away
at war
the women worked.
The women cooked.
They held up the ceilings.
They chased trams in ill-fitting shoes.
They dreamed of chocolate.
They dreamed in cinema dark.
They smiled frozen in old photos,
in frocks and pencilled calves.
They stank of babies.
You got new uncles.
They got friendly with butchers.
They whispered in kitchens.
They beat the fuck out of carpets.
They let the kids run riot,
form gangs, fight feral foes,
tucked them in come bedtime.
They’d laugh from their bellies.
They’d look fifty when they were thirty.
They were hugs dispensers.
But they kept it all in.

Child’s Play

The beauty of solitary play
and being
my unpressured self.

Of submerging
in the repetitions of ritual.

Arranging toys
and over.

Two armies,
the dissatisfaction
of one side winning.

Divots, half bricks in the backyard-
crumbling war landscapes.

Fights, I knew nothing
and felt everything of.

Breaking News of Dead Fathers

Breaking news of dead fathers

came by overheard gossip
came by telephone
came by quivering-jawed policemen who needed comforted by the bereaved
came by a mothers voice beckoning her child to long-distance grief
came by the news of another dead pop star
came by a quiet word in a dream

came like now finally arriving
came like a shaky fourth leg on an old wooden table
came like an icy wind slicing through a downpour
came like a meaningless sentence
came like a thief with a removal van
came like a plague for a houseguest

came nothing like the imagining
came with its bags packed

it will be here for a while

Just a Blue Dress Dream (part 2)

She stood off to the right in White impersonal gloves

and a dress of blue bri-nylon motherhood.

In my peripheral vision

she flickered and multiplied

a very sixties Queen.

I knew she had been dead

because live folk don’t do that.


There were four of us to start with

In a furnitureless house.

Me and two men. At an open window

A fellow worker I wasn’t keen on ,

The me of the dream and an unknown third guy.

Her, off to the side.


I’d been tapping the fellow worker with a white plastic hook

He got irritated asked me to stop. I said all you had to do was ask.


I pick up this third unknown guy in a fireman’s lift and am carrying him towards a picture of a funeral parlour. As I get closer to it the picture becomes more and more real.


The queen/mother figure is overseeing this seemingly impassively but I feel she approves.




This dream, I had two years ago. I had figured the bit about tapping the irritated worker was about me considering retirement and “all I had to do was ask”, give myself permission to do so.


The unknown faceless character puzzled me, but now, retired and two years on,I have a really strong feeling he is an unknown part of me, perhaps a Shadow being actively taken towards this picture on the wall of a funeral parlour. As I carry him there, the picture turns to a living moving, real three dimensional scene. This feeling I now have is the dream was telling me, but I didn’t see then, you will retire, you will open up aspects of your feminine nature which are many and still unclear, you will bring Unknown parts of you to the surface(the Unknown guy) and as your understanding from reading improves (the painting) that understanding will become real as opposed to just two-dimensional.

It seems and strongly feels like a message of encouragement for inner work.