CosmiKnot

  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...

A song created for Blakefest 2020 by David Devant and his Spirit Wife. Inspired directly by William Blake's vision of Albion:  Grass - green screen- green screen grass - analogue - virtual - virtual - actual - green green screen - grass - lawn - earth - pixel take everything and make it matter for expression and the virtual weaves with the actual in fiery visions. There’s something magical about grass as a green screen when one considers how William Blake found the virtual in the material. released for Blake's birthday on Corporate records

I’m glowing from my mid-June sea-swim God is in his cubby hole storage space A place usually concealed by slatted chubb-lock doors, which today he has flung open wide like his man spread,  as he sits performing a one-person show for the couple standing before him for all eternity. You are invited to partake in a round. This much I gather from the spread of score cards, balls and anti-bac spray with a motley selection of diecast putters  leaning invitingly against a laminate top catering table. The putting green shimmers with holy portent. Its eighteen solar systems each undulating around their dead suns, sucking soft dimpled moons into a comforting abyss. Announcing their demise with an edifying clonk, a down the drain rattle of an ending. A pastel draped couple stand ready Moon scythes in hand before God, discussing something beyond my perception. In this vacuum of Summer I feel my chest fill with an infinite optimism inf...