CosmiKnot

  Let’s call it the scene of empathy. Let’s call it the hesitant sociological scene. The scene of the incalculable rhythm. It is a scene neither of subjection nor objection. Looking with this hearing is a kind of building with or bearing. (Fred Moten 2017) Oh Lucky man   Whilst you were queuing The earth quaked Seth asked if you could bite down And you find yourself in the washrooms Wondering if you really should Wash your mouth out with soap and water Excited to finally have this opportunity  To enact a phrase hitherto only heard In the echoing hallway outside  the headmaster’s office Knock and come in said the Pharaoh A machine whines and whirs As you wait for it to deliver its verdict You will grow up to be a parent with a fine head of teeth Well, if that’s all there is to it? You think I’ll take my chances and sit here Lapping up the applause As you stand to acknowledge your victory In the district school sports sack race Your thumbs squelch into the clay You pas...

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                              

  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 just 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...

No one cares what you think.  Freudian analysis is the multi-storey  carpark of the human as mind.  We approach the child’s fort  where we hold the figures  ready for battle as if we know the truth.  I want to cry because I feel  there is no victory  because victory is failure  or rather submission.  Are you following this outline?  This sketch? Death  ah yes congratulations  you spotted it up ahead.  Here is the Kantian hearse  drawn by the feather-headed  black horses the glass glinting in the sun.  Here is the Lord of the flies  swallowing old ladies  who cannot shine his silver up to standard.  Here too is Plato spinning his way  back to his correct position.  Here is Zizek brum brumming his cars  down the ramps of a wooden multi-storey carpark  the  glossy  smell of the paint still lingering  years after his uncle built it for him.  I want to c...

We could evolve. This would need to be spontaneous And simultaneous of course. We all need to jump off the edge of the world. All at once We could instantly forgive Then turn to each other in our transfigured state laughing as we glance at our glowing attire. Laughing as we shake Our heads in dis-belief Gently breathing a sigh Of Collective relief Disbelieving the idea of civility We had held so tightly For so long To our chests Then slowly we could return Back to our homes And begin the process Of clearing up. We could evolve.

In the advert for a certain three sided chocolAte the idea of triangularisation of everyday objects is intended to suggest a better dreamily perfect world. My family and I are once more staying in such a place on a gently undulating hilltop by the sea. It seems, however,that the designer of this particular paradise stopped at the houses themselves. There are no triangular recycling bins for instance. There are some vaguely triangular trees but they were the work of a different altogether more elusive designer. This triangular village is how England could look in a Aldus Huxley post war idyll. This feeling is added to by the mysterious total absence of phone signal and a phone box painted a disconcertingly minimally more yellow shade of red stationed by the tennis court. This place takes an idea of the same but different way beyond what I have experienced at caravan parks. For a start a caravan park, I assume, has to be flat and this place undulates in typically english proportions. Wh...