All poems are literary pilgrimages, consisting not of frustrated
moments one experiences in real life, but moments of pure augmenting
ecstasy. I make the distinction between real life and the life evoked by writing,
because in real life is where you are bombarded with capitalist slogans like
‘be yourself to free yourself’ when in fact you are expected to be stripped of your identity.

It’s such a shame about real life, isn’t it? that it has to be the upside down world
that it is, that we all need to be controlled and led in order for societies
to exist. Meanwhile within us, an unruly primordial thing we carry forth
since the first stages of evolution of man flashes through, turning us into
a psychopath or an internationally acclaimed celebrity artist.

As for me, if you do want your writers vulnerable and spilling the tea,
I try like everybody else to strike a balance, between the surface, where
I exist in society, and in the depths, where I exist as an artist. It matters to me
that I have not (yet?) become acknowledged and celebrated, but still I
insist on doing the work, on honing my craft, on improving upon the gift rendered

because what would I do, despair? I love a full head of hair.
Enough about me, see, we did not get where we wanted to be.
Where we want to be is safe place, the love of face, beyond race,
in a state of perpetual grace, and unspooling lace, guiding us out of the labyrinth
after where (obligatorily) we have murdered the Minotaur. The Minotaur is a perhaps

perfect symbol
of ‘real life’, since
it only sees half
the picture. But
we require the rest

Where have you been, here, I’ve been here, the whole time

We have had this conversation before
I suppose we needed to have it again
I have missed you
I haven’t gone anywhere, I’ve just been quiet, busy
The world needed you
The whole world needed me
Isn’t it funny that the pandemic was called crown
Isn’t it strange a new disease brought me back
Isn’t it unusual that we stood on the precipice of a new tomorrow only to end up in a bitter yesterday
Isn’t it frank that you drank the holy water

Love is love, isn’t it?
What else
would love be…
Not love?

I’ve missed you
I’ve been here the whole sublime

perhaps we have a vision
of love
before we even fall in love
before we even choose
the one
we love

often why we choose
partners who are terrible for us
so that we may have
the dramatic downfall
and sit in our living rooms
with our chandeliers
in our laps

I for one
am baffled by how
many have found partners
whether it was because
they needed green cards
or because you needed a maid
or because your mother was
emotionally unavailable

like Mariah carey
I had a vision of love
and this love would be all consuming
like joan of arc being burnt
at the stake

I never found this love
from a person

but I did find it
from God

God who pulls me
God who protects me
God who burns me
God who reborns me
God who calls me
God who word of Gods me
God who empties me of my cat-fishing demons
God who fills me with light

I’ve missed you:
We rhyme

My red address

Inside my heart
is another heart
I have been saving this
second heart
for you
If I ever do
find you
To be honest
I am hopeful
but I am not
holding my breath

And my heart is?
Inside a bigger heart
I can feel this third heart
enveloping mine
with more love than I
can handle
Love that would end me
if the two hearts were switched

This is why I can be a bitch
Because I can feel the presence
and power of this larger heart
And I measure everything to it
This is why I cannot
settle for little
Or even less
I may never find you
But I am familiar and safe
in this greater love

I live in it

I usually go underground or underwater to bring back your poems, but for this one I decided to extract from the crown, because you have to challenge yourself, as an artist, you cannot keep making the same artwork over and over, or you can, kazuo ishigiro has admitted to doing this recently, but even though he has a nobel prize you might wish to do it differently than kazuo ishigiro

Oh! The extravagance, and the glamour
So dazzling, and eye-opening
Such an iridescent and prevalent fall of jewels

It is a tree, see
Of sorts
For this? I wore shorts and a short-sleeved shirt

I wanted to climb the highest mountain
And so I climbed the highest mountain
I wanted to swim in the deepest sea

And so I swam in the deepest sea
I wanted to kiss the most beautiful man
And so I kissed the most beautiful man

You keep thinking, if I do this next thing, if
I save this much money, or achieve this next
impossible goal, I will find some sort of peace

You might, but only for a short while
The restlessness is a blessed bird
that perches on the branches of your soul

And if it does soar, it always returns
It is what gives you: life
So gather and collect all the jewels

who have been shaken by the crown
tonight. You cannot keep them,
so make the journey

back up the sky
to return them
to its sender

Surprisingly, its sender says, they are for you
You ask the sender if they are sure
They say yes

You go back home, richer,
for the first time,
in your poor, desolate life

You can afford things, for once
It takes you a while to get used to it
But like every other change, you adjust

You deserve some extravagance
You have had nothing for so long
Are you grateful? I am grateful, this does not feel wrong

NB I am actually a huge fan of the literature of Kazuo Ishigiro. Never Let Me Go and The Buried Giant are two of the most illuminating, oblique, restrained and beautiful books I have ever read

My paintings are the ashes of my art

Yves Klein
famously declared

the blue sky
to have been

the first art work
he had ever

created. He was
not being literal,

which is often the approach
by which,

artists are notoriously
and repeatedly,

he wanted

to instill
the infinite:

and the

into his art.
He was

a ‘religious’ painter
who, wanted

to go

than simply illustrating

from the Bible,
like Michelangelo

or Caravaggio,
or Fransesco del Cossa

he wanted to paint
the void

before it

He created

monochromatic paintings
as figurative

into the void,

the most famous of which
were painted

in his Yves Klein
international blue,

a hue
he invented

Later he presented

sealed off glass
rectangle boxes

as his art work
and empty galleries

which he painted

He got closer:

to empty space.
Yves Klein

did not
consider himself,
an abstract

he considered

a realist, a man,
in space, attempting

to paint space, or
radiance, which he

the essence of painting.  By

painting emptiness
in a realistic way

he seems to
me to be

to depict

the emptiness

Simone Weil
defined God to be

I have been thinking about

especially last night
when I started reading about

NFTs, which
are tokenized

of assets

that can be traded
on a block-chain

the digital ledger technology
behind cryptocurrencies

bitcoin and ethereum,

but unlike
bitcoin  and ethereum

the NFTs

be exchanged. In the
21st century

art will be intangible,
something which

Yves Klein
not only predicted

but was of the first
to have capitalized from.
Therefore God
will be understood

not as a man
in the sky

with his arms
open wide

but energy
and space

that may

and transformative,

and this will solve
the eternal question

whether or not

exists: God does
but God is like,

oxygen: he can help
your lungs breathe

but you have, to
keep them


My paintings are the ashes of my art
(title) is a quote, by Yves Klein

A very common dichotomy

I was born
on gold
being sold to the plastic

demons on a daily
basis. Spiritual
crisis was bound to follow. Needs

are mostly superficial, and monetary.
Ignorance is a vice of a virtue.
Every main entrance of every company

is decorated with bouquets of iniquity. What is
being done, to the
Goddess, Isis, sister of

Osiris? Aurum chipped,
on a daily basis,
with a pitchfork,

and being sold in shards
across the unanimous
races, their vacant faces:

You used to scare me,
and dare me

with nonsense.
What is my faith?
It is the certainty

that someone cares.
It is the conviction
that this someone/thing is

divine. It is what holds up
the two poles
in between which

the tightrope
I unprecariously balance on
I could

never see
at either
end. The world

snarls and barks
at you, attempting to push
you away. There is ‘nowhere to hide’

but there is no need to,
especially when the corresponding
cloisters are fragrant with frankincense

and alive with showering with
holy waterfalls, the necks of the believers
stretched up

quenching their
thirst. The only thing

better than money?

The conundrum, and the acknowledgement deep inside of us of the ability to undo the conundrum

The desire to put one’s head through a wall because the wall is an obstacle may be comical but deeplier it expresses the desire of the speaker to overcome that obstacle
We may never know what came first, & we cannot accept this
If a chicken is born of an egg, & an egg is born of a chicken, who was first
We cannot accept this or any other conundrum because we acknowledge inside of us the ability to undo the conundrum
It is also perhaps a conundrum how this perhaps godly ambition can find itself employed or not employed in the fragile body of a person sitting in a kitchen as the wind quietly shakes the branches of an olive tree planted – as far as the fragile person knows – 70 years ago

Every time I write about the olive tree in the garden, it has aged ten years
This is not a testimony about the carbon dating of the olive tree, if anything it is a testimony of how it feels between writing a text & then some time later another text about the olive tree in the garden
There is beauty in the garden, there is beauty in the tree, there is beauty in the swallows circling each other over the low terracotta tiles on the roof of the house in the garden, but there is also beauty in the thread you pass through the head of a needle to bring all these things together
You call yourself a writer but everything has already been written
all you are doing really is choosing specific objects, abstract or tangible & bracing them together: with your own sensibility & aestheticism
You remember especially & with vividness the incantatory statement of someone there is no need to bother saying Let the Lord use you
If that is the case then let the heavens open invisibly before a seeing eye & pass through my skull (like, yes, the head of a needle) all the way down to my toes, & I am fragiling
I want to write what no one has written before
Use words in a way that is new
This is the most important thing to me
Hit refresh

I am the aforementioned
Like everybody else
I am both fragile
& imbued with the

The conundrum I am trying to demystify is me
The humanity
& the divinity
& the threshold where they meet

With words used
In ways they have not been used

Make it new!

earth day 2021

what a writer ought to
write about
are the things
they don’t want to know, I got this
from reading deborah levy’s
pt i of her living autobiography
the other day, which i read
in one frankly glorious
afternoon. the things i don’t
want to know could be listed
by me at the cost of feeling
vulnerable, but fortunately
as a cancerean i am both
emotional and strong, so if i have to
deal with something
even if i don’t want to
deal with it i will
deal with it. in the past
i would complain, but now
that i am older (craw! craw!)
and having survived
certain hardships at large
i can do it – or i can at least try. i still
stare at trees sensing (the unseen) the love undulating
from them more so than
most animals or even people. but i don’t
want to be untrustworthy
of people anymore
just because they can be
petty or
messy or
worship drama, i want to be a living
breathing brave person
who loves life. because i  
do. and if i am
cautious, it is not because i fear life
but because i love it. i also love
the words that i can distill
the whole of my existence
at this point
in time into words. and i love
the fact that someone
somewhere who i do not know
might even read them. such assurances
assuage me. as i complete this
in the café i am writing
in the distance a crow
is crowing in a tree
because another crow is trying
to sit in the same
tree the former crow
is sitting in. but it isn’t
anyone’s tree

sense (the unseen)

you were touched by beauty
like a saluki
it is evident

sky slit and it seemed unruly
but it was truly
not unprovident

I cannot see you
but I can feel you
from a distance

when I am distracted
and this is protracted
your return, in an instant:

my inner saboteur wants me lonely
wants me homely
fuck him

we are connected
we are electric
we are poetic

in our worlds
within, and without

nb I ushered all my selves (see katherine mansfield) to write this

Ego is a prism, you need to step outside of it if you wish to experience the sacred

and inner worlds
meet at the courtesy of your lips
You inhale
and exhale
the synchronicity

So which is which
when the bare pomegranate tree
has bloomed leaves
it seems
and the swallows have returned?

Is it
early April
in both worlds? When

in the other
the drama of it
is much more
set against the

 of an epic production?

In outer world
you reach out your hand to the tree
to pick the pomegranate
and in the inner world
you walk away from the demon
you have just spent years
maybe even centuries
to destroy
a victory spread over
a multitude
of lives:

Beings of time
luminous and sacred
It takes time for the light to gather
In blue rooms you lather
your body
and subsequently
in white rooms
where you start
and complete
your compositions
bestowed to you
by the arrow holy
and from a great distance:

We need, we agree, a new word
for patience
Here it is: life