And when the bombs fell

   I made this fervent prayer

   That if my mother die

   I be also killed.

   An infant whirld of fear

   I built. Spelling my mind

   To suffer useless impotence.

   I needed her to live for me

   And so I felt dependent to the core.

   Dependent on her inner war

   And under/mined because I could not be

   Her source of warmth. Together

   In the dark beneath the stairs

   We shared the waiting, waiting. waiting


 I'm rotten, wrong. No freshness steals my thought.

This self-made atmosphere has made me blind.

Can inspiration enter this stale mould

So that I'll feel life's brilliance light my mind?

 No, no,  I know the score I must not try

To turn confinement into thought serene;

I've painted on my walls a universe

And then I set about to sell my dreams.

I `ve ceased to feel the slavery I 'm still in.

My walls which formed my pleasure led to death;

Whilst safely insured with thought against their fall

I talked of freedom with a tortured breath.

And look!  I've still not learnt what my sad soul has taught

For writing this defends my wall of thought.  

 It wasn't hard for you to go.

But hard it was for me to be alone.

I knew you really had to go,

I could have told you long ago

But here it's very hard to be alone.

So this is what I feared.  The logs are burning.

The room is very quiet.  Mind is still.

Yes this is what I feared.  The wind is howling.

The stars are very quiet like our love.

Hardest was to see your warm brown eyes

Look at me with love, yet say goodbye.

It wasn't hard to feel and realise

That love abandons those afraid to die.

Now I'm glad I never told you not to go.

In this sadness of your absence hardness flows

Yes I'm grateful that you saw I'd soon unfold

When you left me by this mountain in the snow.

 Buttercups embroider the old gun-carriage.

I'm sorry it's so difficult.

Keeps us all so alone.

Each little con-text

Keeps the engine ticking...........

But aren't there healing gaps

                    revealed in your mirror?

Gaps through which your secret breath

Carries you through the suffocating trellis

Of cherished thought where you're pulled

By an ancient decision

To be dead but decorated

With images of glory

And ordinary insanity.

Eyes which guess can't see.

So the immense vast whirld you drown in

Is a wee bowl of putrid emotion.

Rotting fruit neatly labelled

In the laboratory of advanced compromise


                     It only opens when you're no longer     
                     afraid of being schizophrenic.

                                        Ed Gill

  Phazed I fell!

  The harsh truth

  Revealing the mesh.

  Then my chalk head

  Drawn from all sides


  Into the flickering blackboards

  Used by `The Force'

  To serve up their pus:-

  (With their phantom rap

  they'd patterned our brains

  and trained us to be

  Civilised killers

  Or scarecrows unable

  To think for ourselves).

  Graced I felt

  A warm soft light

  Eraze the mesh

  Dawning on all sides

  My soul broke

  Free from the fear of extinction;

  (Used by `The Force'

  To manipulate millions

  And thereby exploit

  The brain of the globe).

  Through Fear's calculating mesh

  I pirouette ......a whirling cross.

  Whilst their worm-eaten hands

  Crack as they clap,

  More energise hate

  With a sawdust laugh,

  Then mash up the earth

  Their voodoo doll

  A soft warm belly

  They've punctured with steel:

  Their victim the skull

  Of the unborn child

  They'll wire-up inside

  To lie and to kill.

  Graced I felt

  The warm soft light

  Transform my death.

  In Truth's bright light love pirouettes

  (Beyond the cross).

  Strengthened I feel

  Now's not too late:-

  (A fear which stalked

  My mesh-bound days).

  Awakened to the living web

  Love's silent empire grows.


  It all ways goes this way

  From raw energy
                   to neat form.

  And those who are tamed

  Lose all their real warmth.


  And those who are tamed

  Become cynics of warmth.


  And men who are tamed

  Stifle woman's real core.


  And those who are tamed

  Can't bear to be born.


  And those who are tamed

  Fear death's final storm.


  It all ways goes this way

  From fresh energy
                    to stale form.

  And those who are stale

  Talk a lot about storms.

  It keeps going this way

  From raw energy

                  to dead form

  And now that you're trapped

  You say you like warmth!

  Don't say it's the flower

  Of aspiration made workable.

                              The real life

  Was too direct for liars wasn't it?

  So you don't dare mention you're missing


  Since you've framed your cowardice

  In your stance


Now somewhere Pluto's policemen
                              are smashing someone's skull

Whilst archetypal cloud-gods
                              obscure the unborn sky.

          Fuck feed fight

          A baby cries

          To keep their God alive

          You must die.

Ego's manic racket
                    decorating rape and war.

Late-June-Mid-Wales-mire. Hay, cut. Smoke

Spilling from black roofed cottage chimney

Scrawls a vanishing elegy on original vision.

Glimpsed     disappearing   stooping hawk.

Withdrawn sky-a Western sneer. The greedy gob

Crammed with rasping aimless crow-blots

Identical couples reflecting the sepulchral atmosphere

In which love's song-birds die.

Pass-port! Pass-port!

Demands the manic cuckoo. `It's alright Luvy',

Reply the pigeon preachers, settled on a rotting Elm.

In Pluto's conned-senses whirld

No artistic duende
                    ever flares to life.

No open heart can sing
                    no loving soul can dance.

No un-biased listeners welcome.
                              No real friendship grows.
Only suffocation prospers
                         in this status-seeded war.
All are driven to obey
                         or driven to rebel.

Driven inside, by hidden orders
                              to manufacture hell.

De-humanizing orders

Hypnotizing spells

Which the singing heart sees through

And lights the distant hills.

Then crystal standing stones awake

Beneath the snowflake clouds.

The conned-senses whirlds
                         come and go

Eat like maggots
                 poetic souls

Who once shaped
               love's quiet
                          on moon-drenched shores

Weaving silver rhythms
                       through the filigree of care.


For you who feel

Ripped off by the fall

Of all your illusions

Be glad you can now see

The nature of Cain's crop

Who murder murder murder murder murder murder

Then lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie

I didn't do it I didn't do it I didn't do it

Cover up  cover up  cover up

Pretending to CARE
                    for other's LIVES!

Now you can be FREE

To be who you really are

And get out of that noxious fog of thinking

There's nothing else

But endless HELL.

Real-Ise you can retire

From the past


And can't be forced

To lie

To stomach lies

Or kill


For you who will not buy

ANY programme
               for the future

But know your soul
                    heart and mind

Must be kept fertile, vital

          By rooting out

Every damned demon of habit

Lurking in the karmic fog.

Keep moving

Not like rivers or winds

Or aimless gulls

But let life's inner quiet

Keep you clean

And free of all intellectual

Accounts of Being.

For you at the end
                    of your tether

Who imagine only death

Is left

To contemplate


I was a prisoner

In the fog

Of hierarchical language.

My "future" was designed

By blind demented screws......

Who didn't know there is a way


Not marked on their public maps


Find out what it's like to live

In your overlooked, indescribable



Everywhere I go
               the shit smells just the same.

That shit that's sprayed about
                                to numb the pain

Reeks even here
                  from every mind I meet.

The entire range
                   from enemies to friends

Camouflage their shit with verbal smiles.

Poor body. What cruel ventriloquists we are

Turning the growing crunch

Into a Punch and Judy racket

Forgetting that I am
                    not present in these fiending raps.

I am the one No Body can see

And this immortal gap
                     eats up the show

How can they miss it?

But begorra by death they do.

Begorra by death they do.

They polish their pride
                      and ache to strut

Into a whirld that's completely fucked

Requiring the body and brain to be shut

To the living eternal ecstatic mind

Which has no truck     
                    with all the games which churn their guts.....

Scheming to get
               place face fame

Safe shit!
               safe shit!

But I new-born on beauty, clear surprise

See life's not beautiful for many
                                 and so I'll try

To guide love's freshness
                           through the fear-trained grasping brain

Into that place I'll call
                         the here-now-heart.

O cursed! Cursed
               by fairy tale abstractions

Which bar me from
                    the nature-poet's life
or Taoist contemplation.

O how I yearn
               to shut the door

Blast them all
               and shout Bye! Bye!

But I have no choice
                    but heal the whole!
Baaa! Baaa!

O square whirld with tick-tock mind

Gobbling up the natural man

Why d'you avoid un-armed stillness?

Is it because you're afraid to feel

The hell your pride                           projects outside?

But now I feel like them embroiled in judgement

Which shows my mind's infested with the view

"I'm above it all
                  and know the Cosmic Truth!"

Bah! Bah! Bloody fool!
                    (And that's another Lord Muck hoot)

So what to do?   So what to do?

Two Shiva Babas make my mind confused.

One says "Work is worship" "Fight for Truth"

The other says that "all we need to do

Is wash and eat, then question "what IS Truth"?"

Herakhan says "Inaction's poison leads to death."

But Puri insists that "Thinking deep's the God-blest

Way to God."
                     So what to do?

"Group action" says one "is what's required."

Puri says "Thinking alone's the fire

Which inspires the mind to find the Truth!"

So what to do?  What to pursue?

Or stay still absorbing
                         the existential atmosphere?

'Cause who wants their major opus

Reviewed by Clever Dicks
                      then transported
                                                                         Into the commodity shit

When love's innocence and mystery have been forgot

Clever Dicks spout their anal-eyes-sin rot.

Then, every perception is checked

Against a packaged programme
                                held in yer cells....

O can you see the heart

Abused, confused, contracted, withdrawn

Form the mind-possessing fucking


O love, love, heal this emptiness.

Love not hopes
               (mere trinkets in the blare)....

          the broken heart
                          the cheap rain
The curdling dark. All

To cycles of passion for waste
                              or fear-filled inertia.

And it's so BIG        this MESS

This rampant mental cancer

Disguised as "PUBLIC ORDER"
                            and its dry

Verbal blood
               is our translated dreams

Projected through agreement's ghoul

We feed
          on introspecting.

Move the pivot
               change the pace

Play the flute
               feel the space

Hear the river roar in spate
                              past the house

All has been expressed
                       except the point  

Caught in the noun-based adjectival whirlds

Which camouflage the fear of waking up

To whirlds far worse.

Beauty is the point
                    cringing in sleep

From the dark force
                    of boredom

Blasted out all day
                    by every angled, heartless voice

                    by everyone concerned with face

By every governmental craze

Revolutionary or reactionary

The status number game remains the same.

And YOU feed this machine

To real-Ise these implications
                              to the core.....

The whirld's been all ways squared

'Gainst any person waking up

The children in fear's prison.

There are no Holy Wars. Only

Massacres and sanctioned murders.

The hip awakeners and their grateful friends

Never take up arms against the square

Fear-filled haters of love's heart-felt truth.

Nor are they respectable and NICE.

Awakening takes one far beyond that vice

Where shit is perfumed by the mind for gain.                                                                                                                                                              

 This is not the nine o'clock news.

This is the truth.  You people never fell

From a mythic state of grace.  Cain

Your father was a killer, who started off this race,

And his blood is thumping through your veins

A fact you can't escape.  Because

Your brain got bigger when with bones

You learnt to kill- first the animals on the plain

And then over the hill your neighbour tribes you laid

To waste, and so you've formed this state, which

Keeps the earth revolving inside a world of hate.

Yes, your world's a weapons factory

Thriving through the slump.  You people dull as metal

Cringing from the crunch.

If you wonder WHY you're shallow, and WHY you can not feel

This planet is ONE BEING, and humanity its fool

Who's split himself in two, as cell against cell,

It's 'cause you've overlooked

What's happening to your soul.

Off course, it's being eaten at the bottom of the fault.

Devoured by that dragon, fed on privilege of course.

That well spoken dragon; the image of brute force.

Yes deep inside the dragon who's proud of his dead mind,

You're turning out distractions to cover up the lie.

Ideals are distraction, if your life's gone down the drain.

`Public order' is distraction, to cover up the pain

Of being who you are --a killer to the core,

Territorially possessive

A junkie hooked on war.  But

I'm not saying you've no purpose

Since weapons are your LORD

Technological advancement

Of course, must be ensured. (Though robots are advancing

Across your weapons board).  So

If humanity's divided and still composed of tribes;

Disarmament's distraction, to fog the great divide

Between the man you say you are

And who you are inside;

A weapon wielding KILLER

Who never was man-KIND.

 Falling down the stairs

I see my flashes fade

Inside the old machine

Ignoring real Being

Your propaganda leads

Me round and round

Your sapless voice

Going round the bend

The night's quiet grace

Protects me from the inner robot

Like you I've left to die

 Rare taste exploded, the fire falling fell through the filming

Rare fragrance of knowing, as the hour fell into the horizon..

Leaving me to sail over the walls of anxious control.

Racing on unreasonable waves we exquisitely melted

In the unseen sun. Yes friends shone, but soon we saw

Those who would not burn, clutching the shadows

Of our warmth to give our movement shape.

O sparkling spirit of earth, bled.....

O river of life, poisoned with solutions.

O soothe the dead, the walking dead with your silver waves.

O dancing spirits of sun and air dissolve this nightmare.

O spirits come! Come! I call! I'll ride on the scoffers words.

O come, the earth needs warmth not answers.

O come, we are strangled by cynics.

O come, we are calling for soul-light.

O come take us into your astounding vision.

But many chose savagery,

Power trips and fear.

Many chose safety

Money and beer.

O depths of love, O deserts of betrayal.

How we suffer trying to tidy up the pain.

O pain pain. O frozen waves of warmth OPEN OPEN!

Let the pain flow and give birth

To your prayers for the dazzling serpent

To consume the Whirld.

      Something came over me.

     I started to notice

     What was going on.

     I'd been roped in

     To being an agent

     For the whirld of fear.

     The whirld of Clever Dick,

     Lord Muck and Doubting Thomas.

     The whirld of Cowardy Custard

     Bossy Boots Mum and Know-All

     Dad. Their pre-judicial

     Angles hammered home

     I used as eyes.


     Fear-full I built a box

     Around my bruised life.

     A strong room safe, and

     Inside this dark image

     Of my capacity, I

     Decorated the walls

     With conflicting advice

     And stayed trapped imagining

     That any picture which I enjoyed

     Could lead me to freedom.

     Whilst the ones which made me

     Feel imprisoned, I saw as lies.

             Then something came over me

     And I woke up and saw

     That these thoughts (pictures)

     Do not move. I move

     My attention round my prison walls

     Like a blind man feeling braille.

     And to each thought-picture

     I'd re-act and call that `a feeling'.

     The pictures which drew my attention

     To feeling imprisoned, claustrophobic

     In fact indicated accurately

     My self-restricted condition. The others

     Hypnotised me to believe I could eventually

     Feel happy within that isolation.

     So, Doubting Thomas, Pissed-off Pete

     And Wise Owl were spot on.

     I WAS imprisoned in my dark safe,

     And dwelling on decoration

     Will never bring anyone


     Freedom of imagination

     Freshness of feeling.

     And so, I let all the pictures

     Go. Fading, I ignored

     The sub-titles, feeling instead

     My stale atmosphere
     Which gave me enthusiasm

     To uncover my prison's structure

     And find the weak points.

     Gradually the light

     Within my box

     Grew warm and bright-her.

     Yes, this light is feminine

     Soft and like cosmic rays

     Can penetrate one's walls.

     That's what came over me

     And then passed through me

     When the social camouflage

     I'd worn dissolved.

     I could now hear

     In every word

     The self-committed prisoner's voice.

     My safe box

     Became a lightly drawn

     Chalk circle

     In which I waited.

     Yes, I waited. Waited.

     Not knowing for what?

     Then the light came into me

     And I saw I'd been waiting

     To arrive HERE

     NOW. Now I have eyes

     To see through
     What's not here.

     Then the real question arose

     And I admitted it was time

     To step out of conned-senses mind

     Into feeling freely

     Exactly what I feel.

     Meanwhile, committed prisoners guess

     There's nothing here

     Or name the gap

     I've left behind

     Selfish ego madness.

     The cultists dream of `space'

     Or `Truth', the young

     Of sex and `love'. The cynics

     Say my path's unreal.

     Whilst Eager Beavers leap and yell

     For all to see

     Life's prison

 The old life in my restless heart persists

In clouding over now with dreams of then.

Begging me to fly to here or there;

Telling me that life is all revenge.

This unlife is my afterbirth, the cord.

The panic of old flesh which seeps to death.

The ghost which tells me stop before I leap,

The waste which drains the light from every breath.

But death to death, so let it die from me.

Now heights, the sky is singing in the trees.

Each bird is pouring love, the rain stands tall.

In dying somehow now, I start to grow.

The anatomy of death is when and how?

The lasting kiss of life is here and now.

     Only on the bottom

     In the basement

     Of my self

     Have I begun being

     Who I am.

     In this fetid morgue

     Of my illusions

     I found my true life

     And understood

     Why it was cold and dark and lifeless.

     It was because I never lived here

     But always `above'

     On the upper floors of fantasy.

      A desert of disguised angles

     Pollutes the early morning sun.

     The right hand stabs the left hand.

     The sun is hammered to the cross.

     Sphinx Head bursts into flames

     Above her sea of riddles.

     I wake covered in ash,

     Which no-one seems to notice.

     I tack through the squall

     Of your bitter judgements

     Awake as you feint

     With the bayonet of your tongue.

     Peel off your words

     From the back of my mind

     And watch your octopus

     Drown in my mirror.

     The Radiant Orient has left the quay.

     The army shatters the door of belief.

     The tinkling bell of light

     Sails through the soft blue;

     The real man has found his release

              I want you to know

     I still feel  that stillness

     Through which the world's madness


     You wanted my mind to honour

     Love.  I honour you.  Linked

     By that silver thread

     We grew.

     No geometry of convenience

     Entertains my view.  Beneath

     The angles of the false I's speech

     The real soul


     Weeps to stay in tune

     With what is true.  


     musing on the train after a legally arranged visit
               to my four year old daughter

Being one of the bucks
                         I naturally swerved

Into your sensuous reputation

A buck gets so browned off with being

Turned over again and again

On the spit of a chick's indifference;

He'll not try to keep her

From eating obvious lies.  So

Bitter, fearful, looking `ill'

Mum sucked you back, (you had no will);

And there our `private life' was grilled

Under her radio

Active spite.

But who can blame a trojan horse?

A P.R. front (your body) hid

A massive blight
                 which split our bed. (Mind parasites

On fear are fed).  Your mum's an agent

For this alien force!

Being a buck, I was shot of course

Out of my cockpit. Whilst hurtling down

She snatched our child.     

So I made Miss Takes
                      in the class struggle blues.

A miss married to mother
                         who knew what to do!

Medication and plans
                      she served with your food,

With her tongue in your mouth
                              you could hardly refuse

To swallow her yuk
                    you were deep in the blues.

Now you're back in your place
                              in her neck of the woods

And our child thinks she's KIND, and pretends to be good.

     no geometry of convenience pacifies

My view.  You always hankered for my mind

To honour this.......without you.  The old train shaking

Retreats through the late July evening.  Yachts

Dream on the crimson river.  The carriage

Carries blood that's mostly blue.

      I followed Clever Dick

     Who led me to believe poetry

     Could lead me to enlightenment.

     Then suggested I choose the abandoned wild hill

     Life.  A remote highland harbour

     Where he taught me how to practise

     Hard to get.  An obscure ruse which produced

     Squalls of conflicting views

     Engendering my controversial name.

     Ah yes, armadas of hungry hulks came

     But left, unawakened, full of blame.


     It's not hard to see

     The root of decay.  Internal characters

     Can never be alive.  Here in that relentless rain

     Which makes everywhere the same, it's hard to see

     The painfully disguised (but chosen) sorrow

     And not retreat into feeling hopeless

     Whilst flotillas of haranguing bitter cripples

     Demand better crutches.


     When you really question

     Compulsion, the urge to arrive,

     To achieve, to gain recognition;

     You understand why

     Friends become public

     Can't stay inside

     In the real personal

     But lust to become


     For gossip.

     Driven to find out

     Where they lie

     In the public eye

     Endeavouring to gauge

     What gains they've made

     For the price of their suicide?


     Yes you carry the weight

     Of their name


     What they wanted you to be.

     Wrote you out          baby.

     A public tool

     And no attitude

     Can dismantle this machine.


     Thinking your own thinking

     Is the pass out from all whirdly pressure

     To an unsuspected peace

     Which feeds the real person.


     The lodgers inside aren't keen to leave;

     But once I'd discovered ecstasy in aloneness

     The vast night's mysterious stillness began

     Stripping me of all Dick's strategies

     Leaving me alone

     To leave all concepts




     Who is free of future arrangements?

     Who is able to be

     still          unfocussed

     Though illusions of fulfilment

     Rage on like Highland storms?

     Once you're tied up

     All you seem to do is focus

     On distractions

     Enforced focus being

     The way they control




     To have no plans!

     To not HAVE TO DO anything

     On time


     Those who are liberated

     From that accepted soul-virus

     Are very rare ..... or they're adepts

            At hiding or I'm dead

     Drunk on self-discovery

     Deep aloneness is life's price

     Not knowing


     Neither caught in clocked focus

     Or past performance variations

     The clockers and shadow merchants

     Seem quite indifferent

     To their servitude

     Drowning their spirit-less souls

     In conned-senses noise