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country

Dolly says Country makes life simple It simplifies it And we all need that Because life is complicated She's sort of right but It's not the Workers and the divorces And the suffering she says it is It's the feeling Because feeling is simple Intensity of feeling is simple Dolly feels But her brain tells her it's in charge So it's about simplicity Of subject Like the old lady in the vast night Who says the people in the sky Control us Make us do bad things Otherwise why would we do them We tell ourselves reasons When everything is feeling And we need Dolly's songs To help us feel But tell ourselves it's because She makes it simple Suffering Divorce Death Because the world is complicated the brain And it's reasoning Is complicated.  Feeling is simple Just ask Dolly No it's the subject  that's simple She'll reason. 

TO Say

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  To say: When we die we stop implies that when we live  we are going Like a wynd up toy What if we are more like  a leaf falling off a tree?  Does a pebble die when it's thrown  into the sea and disappears forever?     

Fugue for Beauty

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Beauty has no contrasts becoming always is No shadows over lawns cast such longing is not missed Emergence has no comparison Its arrival fills the air Always just beginning Outside and beyond compare So in the middle is the future, my past and present as well The cause and effect computer Can die and go to the hell.

More organism

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A bubble loose inside a prison Reflecting back courts of assize Take a few moments to open the eyes Could I be more organism?   The rainbow cut out refracts through prism Hands face space stay hypnotised Social structures organised But could I be more organism?   A future built on intellect’s frisson But building blocks are living drops Not components found in online shops Might I be more organism?   Cognitive opposites favouring schism And the mollusc back to home she slides No geo data her journey guides Could I be more organism?   And feel soul’s embodied vision Instead of trying to visualise sensations far beyond the eyes Let me be more organism   Emergence knows no plagiarism Deaf dumb and blind I feel my skin Taking cosmic vistas in As I become more organism                              

comedy of errands

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  Life is a comedy of errands So my cognitive behavioural therapist told me As she disinterestedly  scanned my homework  A gridded pre-printed timetable of my daily tasks Brushed teeth Got dressed Took sons to school Am I doing it right? Please remove your shoes Do you mean can my six year-old son Take his shoes off? Put the bins out Make a shopping list Spray air-freshener Plan some things I need to do Answer emails Go for a walk Write a poem Look out of the window Meditate Repeat to fade      

Backwards Causality

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 This is an article I wrote about writing songs about eleven years ago for a Magazine edited by Jonny Other: Using Passions As Beacons Leads to Instances of Backwards Causality  or How Not to Write a Pop Song and stay looking trendy            “You must always know what your song is about before commencing” this was the best advise I could get online when trying to work out how I write songs. never the less I remain convinced that there are certain persons who are able, almost without effort, to relax the muscles of the mind and slip from the shackles of habitual thought and let their ideas soar way beyond the seven feet of biosphere we habitually patrol.  I suppose despite my fear of giving away the end I should consider the idea that backwards causality is simply a manifestation of the ability of the subconscious mind to function more rapidly and dynamically than the rational mind- thus giving the everyday brain the feeling that the future has risen up to meet it and cried “Bonjour M

Inbetween days (a work in useless progress)

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  A bunch of stuff (a work in useless progress)   All the books the ceramic hooks They’re all a bunch of stuff And decks of cards without these shards Are all a bunch of stuff When down below you sip your tea before the fire side The radiator’s got my back And laptop wires and shelves of books await my eyes’ attack The titles and the memories of memory itself Are stacked like figments of a dream That once described the self The desk its grungy patina A map of my endeavours The saucer’s eyes are on me now The skylight sending weather From vistas far and far beyond my tiny brains snow globe A festive trope for everyone and everyone’s bath robe Pockets full of mystery and nameless empty fluff Because the flames nuzzle your knees It’s all a bunch of stuff   The boat is in the doldrums upon a glassy sea Expecting the horizon any day now One two three The poetry of Santa Will Satan’s wisdom be Once we have sailed over the line into a fantasy That we have all agreed is good and morally correc