Spectare’s  Pensées

 .... only insight I  ....  incomplete we .... live to that aching lack, that betrays, collapses .... into the longings of a novellette,  for a blue helmet, maybe, or the firmness of an oak, or an army’s thousand-headed roar, anything, to make us feel more .... 

                                     the marmoset or the oil-bellied snake
                                     lives to itself, untouched by our ache

of all things I can hate .... the bloodlessness of adverbs - curiously, rarely, marvellously, richly, exhume-ed-defecated-murderous-solipsistic-anti-social-lah-curmudgeonly I stamp on them - & the rickety joints of that’s & of’s & which meets because ....

Our Early Fathers, without the mapping muzzle of the Neanderthal, nor the big cats’ silent articulation, nor the pheromone-disciplined many-one-ness of the sweet-tasting termite, nor the dreamt-of reach of the tiny-brained feathered kind...

                                       like a fungoid growing in the skull

... weak-sighted, scent-unclued, softbellied; to a dog, to a cat, something almost deaf ...

 but possessed with a need, with a having-not, driven thus to extend, to add-on, to incorporate:

 my house is a mansion of warring tenants, of decayed mantic systems like astrology or the Changes of Chou, neo-Marxist materialism and derelict Matthean Christology, its nights punctuated by sudden, lyric cries; or the barked commands of wine-damaged anger, its ohs & ahs & its bastards & fuck yous

personal space - guarantee-me for my own narrative, anchor me in that ancient swaying metaphor, athwart the emporium, the confectionery box of the five senses, on the alpha rhythms of the sleeping pool, home-harbour-heart’s-port

                     a lean and empty belly, wolf
                                                             to the fat lands of the mind

.... take away speech, the ultimate deprivation of sense .... without articulation, in the (interview) chair, strapped (for words) rigid, hands stilted, still, no shaping the air for your maps, led by the boss-words, the imperatives of contra/control, resolve you into: em, er, um, I

on the shit-house wall reading about the Great Bowel Shift, when the Englisc language couldn’t  tell the difference between what was coming out of its mouth and what was coming out of its ....

information = power = food supply control

                            the fed pride sleeps on the sun-glutted plain,
                                     while forest shadows watch, a gain a gain

[The Cabinet of Dr Spectare] [His Inheritance] [His Certificitude] [Unknown Unmade Untitled] [His Descent] [His Pensées] [Spectare Herculeans] [His Gnomes] [His Chanson] [His Millenium] [His Triumph] [Amor Brevis] [His Incognito] [His Third Torment] [His Humours] [The Dig] [Fire Sermon] [Third Eye]