Tabula Smaragdina , Written Composition, 2016
I've probably recounted these internal telling’s,
More than any other.
The most complicating to me.
Nonsensical.
Deep slumber looms..
Cold sweats throughout nocturnal spell.
Woken with a fright, a sight, a plight.
It was as though I was seeing into my future. Or perhaps the fractures of desire..
She had created a standing machine.
I was outside of my body.
Full well able to watch myself.
Moving. Breathing. Apprehensive.
A white empty space, void.
Leading nowhere.
A band of familiar faces.
Bar one.
She had set up the boundaries, a formulaic approach to control.
Yet not well spoken.
Nervous. Anxious. Apprehensive.
Granting full reign to these faces. Facilitating a game; cranks.
A structured play.
One familiar face, missing. Fading from memory. Blurred.
Robert to Philemon.
Charging into the room, doing what was said could not be undone.
Pulling the trigger. The plunger. Plunging.
Chaos loomed.
Screams. Surprise. Apprehension.
The innards of my apparatus splattered
Dispersed to the farthest points and corners, wall to wall.
Still committed to the dream-paradox realm.
Nevertheless managing to cross over, finding means to scribe
the creations of she.
Scribbling many times each night.
Never to be clearer.
What it was that this table instrument was to be generated for.
Sunny days and finally;
An honest wake-filled morn.
Reflections on one fragmentary drawing – curiousness. Wandering eyes.
Hypotheses unrestrained.
Of a dream~land liberation
Alas, here we are. A sphere of quaint phenomenon.
Language seeking to spill breaching barrier.
But of what are their telling’s?
Symbols of symbiosis.
Synapses. Synonyms.
Synergism. Spaghetti. Samphire.
Shoelace. String cheese. Sicilian sea salt.
Sultanas.
Sorry.