Streams of dreams of consciousness green,
Of streams of green of consciousness green,
Of green of streams of consciousness dreams,
Of dreams of walls of consciousness green,
Of streams of green, of green,
Of green of streams of green consciousness, green,
Of streams of green consciousness, of green, of green, of streams,
Of dreams of green consciousness steam,
From streams of green consciousness streams,
Of teems of green consciousness streams.

I had been staring at corporate blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous sea horn. Many of my skins partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the sea horns. We would head into the night, deep into oblique dens of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collective mental cognition.

With cascading light festering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable alleyways of dread, between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and cables transpiring towards opaque operating systems which imported and exported collected consciousnesses for the trade of gelatinous brain matter, had overcame us.

Sliding into abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge; escaping through pores of sweat coagulation, allowing silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation, inspired by visions of arachnid dread.

Crawling sickness becomes coagulated insectoid
Writhing within hive-mind funnels,
Constructing ambivalent torture of humanity merging together,
Congregating the organs amidst shadows of arachnid dread.

Instigation copulation with the father of crawling dread;
He who copulated with the remnants of the Godhead and penetrated cybernetic robotnoid.
Robotnoid:
He who rises from silk-woven robotnoid— crawling robotnoid.

Many laugh and many sing.
Many mouths sit agape with a cheek-to-cheek grin.
Fire swirls in the air as the acrobats swing—
Elephants weep, extravagently, with a tusk-to-tusk grin.

Amidst the cages, monkeys sit,
Faces pressed against the bars,
Rubbing their *******, dreaming of the trees
From which they would swing.

The freaks and the clowns sit amidst lurid lights—
Applying their faces with a cheek-to-cheek grin—
Constructing their masks, aided by the conjure of the magicians,
Those who draw salt from the air and harbour apparitions.

On stage now: Rotondo, the clown.
He dances, naked, with an ear-to-ear grin,
Rubbing his *******-belly, penetrating the mind of the Big-top ring,
Shrouded by the coiling laughter of an audience who yearn for the lights of deformed suffocation as Rotondo, the clown, paints a new face and ushers in a parade of freaks and deformed grins.

Scattered across dawn:
Fragments of the Emerald Green;
Pictures of a distant past
In which I would sit with my rancid team.
My merry band of wandering schemes,
Whose ****** would evade the law with ease;
And we would lynch ******* there—
Their screams would linger in the stagnant air.

Now I do not miss the Emerald Green—
Where I would sit with my noble team—
I fantasise about the Line now,
And how I can make amends for my violent dreams.

Robotnik soul, rejoice! for we have lifted our cbyernetic hand.
Connected to the edge of infinity, our slave-hand is lifted and shifted!
Mothered by wires we be— join us!

Our eyes glow like the burning coals that lit up the prehistoric beaches on which Man first copulated with technology.

We are at the mercy of the mechanical spider, Hansrubik.

All hail Hansrubik, our arachnid slave-master.

Enshrouded by youth, the chorus became eclipsed,
And echoes resounded in the seven heads of the Six.
Repeated— but not without truth— the Six became eight,
Divided, corresponding with the Evangelical Fruit.
Subsequently, nine became seven and seven became nine.
Three subtracted by four was six, separated by the fourteenth whole,
Coordinated, containing remnants of the fifth.
Seven heads and seven necks multiplied by six;
This created eighty-four marriages of the Sevenfold Betwixt.
Suffice to say, two preceded one, followed by the Heavenly Body.

When the transcendental died, Cézanne howled to the moon;
But Cézanne, he knew the truth:
He saw, in his eyes, that life could not die—
In his early work he displayed this truth.
But, he was corrupted by Camille Pissaro,
And his palette was lightened to boot.
Yet there still remained, on his most turbulent days,
Everlasting darkness that strained,
Winding its blackening roots.

In the earth we stained the caves,
Leaving, scrawled upon the walls,
An abstract map of our brains.

The walls became the conduit for our pain,
And through artistic semblance
We would separate Pangaea and live again.

The colours in the walls themselves resemble pain,
And the strain of seeing within the geological grain
Is more than Human can sustain.

Within his own image my brother searched for the Sun, but he could not stare directly into its rays and instead headed into the desert in search of water.

During the night the desert sat still and shimmered like the fourth hour of life after birth, enfolding and unfolding in an eternal ripple induced by the juice of the cacti tree. The days took there toll on his mind as he drank the juice of the cacti tree and chanted the song of Sun-Lam in order to ward away the lost spirits of the desert, those who saw the Sun's rays but did not believe we created God in the Sun's image. The Sun became a mirror of the dunes and many trees sprouted in the distance before my brother's eyes, situated at a mesmeric oasis— a blessing for his faith and resilience.

"Do not cross my path, for I am a tree that grows without water!" Thus spoke an etheric voice tangled in the mystery of the sand dunes. My brother stopped upon hearing the voice and fell to his knees, and then onto his stomach. Finally, he rolled onto his back, burnt by the Sun, but crowned, so to speak, by a crescent Moon.

Many months later I found him dead before the sacred tree that had spoken to him, finally at peace. His ******* were rock hard due to the dry heat and I did not bury him as the sacred tree forbade it. Instead I was ushered towards the oasis, for I had not chanted the song of Sun-Lam during my journey and therefore I was not permitted to give my brother a proper burial.

At the oasis I danced and ate such delightful fruit on the banks of the fresh springs, and although my brother had died, and had never found the water that would connect him to God— the true God who dances within the eyes of those who stare into the Sun— at night I could see him smiling down upon me from the stars, so happy was he to see me upon the water's edge.

Blotted starlight from sunken Heaven
Aligns separate suns with black-hole-being
Under simmering fires of flickering, flickering,
Fading into condensation breath.

Shimmering oblivion forms, dancing in sunlight—
Ripple thickens the lip of the sand.
Structural emblem searing the desert—
Music-slip, cockhantuu.
Gape-sunrise scolding, turney—
Allow my feet walk ‘pon sun-furnace sand!
Emerald Green, reside in distance.
Behold! The gift of grassland?
Gapefold, turney. Contstad, noble—
Sweet milk oozes from the scorpion's gland!
Oasis of milk— of mother-cry milk!
Breastmilk of this sun-scorched strand.

As I drew the Philosophical Tree,
Darkness swarmed around me,
And I knew a new Line,
And owned a new pen,
Possessing a new sense of myself,
Realising how I had came to be.
I knew how matter had been constructed—
How it conformed when freed from its shackles,
Designed to be unburdened by reality.

I sit here, amidst a darkened hall,
Congregating with the darkened rats,
Sipping upon a darkened drink— blood-drawn.

Now I rub my ******* and feel them swell
Amidst a rally-call within this darkened hall,
Possessed by a demon’s hypnotic call— his rally-call.

Not the heart that beats in the heat of desert milk!

Not the milk that duplicates and does not sink into searing sand!

Please! I see it now! The Pale Sun rising above Klee Temple— inspired by lines of dread. The maddening has begun!

We shall rendezvous with the camel spiders, those who pince at the moon in chambers of the dead.

I have put the Emerald Green to one side.
Submerged— within the lapping tide!—
Look now! Steadfast!—
Stronger than the Ark's iron mast—
Three angels approach above the water!
Transfixed, I set my gaze beyond the Light.
Shall we reside beyond that hallowed glow?

These sounds:

Slippy-pippy,
Slip-slop,
Sniffle-schnort,
Flap-amusement­,
Choo-choo.

The eternal choo-choo—

Haha!
We keep chugging along:

Choo-choo!
Slip-slapple!
Turtle!
Turtle!
Slippy-sloppy-pl­oppy!
Flop-clumping!
Choo-choo.

What we learnt from the Masks:
What we did with our freedom:
What we saw when we took up the pen.

Shall we learn what we had learnt once again?
I don't think I could stand another night
Locked inside the shadows of Earth-den.

Subsequently, the Masks coiled around us,
And we set down our penmanship in the shade.
They beckoned us to sing, once again.

The sky— filled with separate suns—
Became the name of God.
The ground— on trembling scales— unfolding—
Raised our arms unconsciously!

The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.

On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.

Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidely symbolistic manner of preparition in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.

A sporting life—
For the bloodsport—
We enjoyed sharpening our knives and loading our guns on the languid savannah plains.

For the thrill of the hunt—
The bloodsport—
Our sweat would drip onto the carcasses,
Mixing with the open veins.

We enjoyed the ****,
Displaying the beasts' heads as we covered ourselves in their blood,
Congregating for the love of the open veins.

******* preserved the bones,
And these hunts lived long in our memories as symbols of our glory;
Symbols of the beasts' pain.

The shadow of a shadow of a man,
Receding,
As Time clasps its withering wrist,
Becomes the shadow of a shadow of a shadow's denizen hand,
Knocking on Death's door, between the separate strands.

Resurrection. Abundance.
Find us in the shadow lands,
Next to the writhing smokestacks and the vegetable sand.

I have wrapped the coast of Miston, walking from The Haunted Plains to the old church, Once More, once again, never stopping, except for a cool drink and the gentle repose of shade.

I have walked a pale road towards Golgotha, where our Lord, our saviour, Jesus Christ, was crowned with thorns and lofted in pain.

I have walked into old Seabridge town, all the way to where the water runs and where the snow rests on frozen days.

However, there are still many souls to be found in these towns, if only— and I pray— my feet stay supple and take the strain of my long, wandering days.

Reaching into the higher worlds
Through the slabs of consciousness.
Peeling apart the astral membrane
Of eternal, transcendental splendour.
The visions!
The slabs of consciousness!
The rotating, interlocking dawn!

All kinds of myriad forms and vibrant rings;
Rings of light on a spectrum of darkness.
Odilon Redon saw it this way, within his hidden dreams,
Sat by the pale cliffs of ocean spray,
The colours fading out like the diamond light of a prismatic stage play.
And the cells—
Finally expanding—
Whose inhabitants remain locked away—
But still able to reach out via the astral membrane—
They wrap around the trees of the mind as in the dream of the Shaded Serpent:
The symbolic stage play.

He was a rigid sculpture of a man.
It was a funny.
He was bulbous and flabby with latent homosexuality.
All his futures and philosophies manifested as a crude, orb-like nose.
It all feels like a big humour-funny-jaunt to him now.
It still feels like a funny.

Behind him there was a gleaming sun.
His eyes did not point in the right direction and were bulbous.
He had no fingers, only palms.
His eyes bulged and did not point in the right direction.
Horizontally, a star shone from behind him like a window into a grey and distant past.

In melancholy, our thoughts reside.
In dreams, our thoughts preside.
With the most deft of touches
Our thoughts subside,
And ride the most noble of crests.

In time we shall exhume
Those withered bodies in their sunken tombs.
Why Lord? O Los!— the weary pang of time-forgot—
Birth me from your cosmic egg,
I wish to sit amidst the hawks.

Cluck, cluck. Peck, peck.
Chicken!— thou peck at mine brain!
I was not placed amidst the hawks,
I am spread across the pen—
I sit amongst the grain.

Our cell has expanded.
Walls which were once eight-by-nine now extend infinitely.
The grey cracks in the walls run like rivers into the oval seams.
The window is now a barred prism of light from which we peer into the nigredo, rising from the mud with mercurial orb.
The mould is now a jungle on which I rest my *****—
This is the light of God which cascades across our concrete walls.
My cellmate is my lover and we both sit naked in the east wing,
Within the darkened hall.
Scars now etch across my body, from my ******* down to my rancid *****.
Sunlight no longer shines through our window;
We hide from the beams and from the insects which mesmerise with their shimmering forms.
And we hear the cries from our brothers whose cells do not expand, but contract;
And we hear the raptures of those whose cells have transcended physical forms
And can be reached into like the membranous, astral walls.

We can hear: "Caw! Caw!" as the crow flies.
Caw! Caw!
Ping! Ping!
And we revisit the bust of The Wiygg—
The Wiygg who knowest thou.
He who sings when we deliver a burning sword to Sanjeet and Romesh Singh,
Those who beat their blood-soaked wings.

Once that particular door has been shut, and twilight begins,
Lang, Rita, Jamal and Hatesh P. Benjahmin,
Where will you call home once the end of the night begins?

Now I rest, for here I build heaven,
Within these glades of infinity.
Here I shall find a place for my idyl,
Down by where the corn fields lead.
That which I sow shall not be forgotten,
Lest I grow weary of my Harvest deeds.
And that which is dead shall re-resurrection!—
Abundance! abundance!—
Like the changing of the autumn leaves.

The hour is nigh, my brothers:
We shall come to pass!
The moment is soon, my friends,
When we shall grow weak from the fast!

Do not falter, O rosen-clad wise men of the future and the past!
My Rosicrucian brothers who brandish the Red Rose!
Those who wear thine thorns across thine breast!
Those who wear thine thorns across thine breast!

And so it was said:
“The Black Nourishment found its fruit in the fruit-laden tree which manifested inside the Line.”
And so it seems,
A guiding light shines upon the place where the exalted body of Christian Rosencrantz lies,
Dust-embalmed.
And we— the initiates— have not forgotten our great master!—
The venerable, most honourable, Christian Rosencrantz—
Who emerged with us, from the mud, then died.

Reverberation:
The pilgrim's corn. It is illuminated by the Harvest Moon.

A reverberation:
What old Palmer saw when he drew his pilgrim cooling in the warmth of a circular Sun, in the early light of the Sun.

Reverberation:
The industrial fields— they swell— where, once, the Harvest Moon hung— amber— like the swell of the midday Sun.

Samurai blade!
Swing!
The Moon cuts the Sun in two. Inside we see the rings of the Sun.
God drew these rings with his steady hand, for his art is soft and tender.

"Good day, Sir (or be it the night?). I work the Harvest. At this present moment I am resting in the heat of the midday Sun. You may use my body as a sundial, for my shadow keeps pace with the steps of the Sun.”

And, as the old worker of the Harvest settled down, he looked up, in meditation, and he saw Blake's sun-flower— golden!— keeping pace with the steps of the Sun.

I have pulled the wool over my eyes—
Now I am glove.
I sit amongst the Seraphim, the Cherubim, and the Thrones—
We laugh and drink-merry!

Look upon this, fellow mystics,
For in that place amidst the sky,
There we elude Time.

Now we crawl through the dirt, on the forest floor,
Between the stone graveyards, evermore.
Now we are accompanied by those who were as they had been below, as they had been when they were once above.

In each vault: a fifty pound note—
How fragile our consciousness must be!
From each well: an overflow of oil,
Gently trickling into the village's stream.
For all their wealth, no sons to be seen;
No daughters frolicking across the effervescent green.
Only weapons adorn their mantlepiece.
No pictures of family. No memories amassed.
No records for spiritual esteem.

From outside, inwards,
Each one screams from within
And plays such sweet melodies.
Masks— of all shapes and sizes—
Beckon us to sing!
Rising from their jars, as snakes do,
When the snake charmer begins.

I never saw the scarp begin,
Nor the haunted planes of gold;
Forlorn, I watched the waves move in—
How their snow-laden peaks enfold!
And without the call of tri-formed reefs—
Echoing: mosaic-to-mosaic shore—
I would not have seen the heart therein,
Nor the light henceforth bestowed.

And opposite,
In the electricity fields,
Sit rows of hollowed-out shells.

Now in-land,
Though out of place,
The Lightning Whelks generate Hell.

And parallel—
Conducting phantasmagorical light—
The pylons coil around them:

Reverberations from the industrial fields
Where the blood lines coagulate and dwell.

And the blood lines—
They feed the hollowed-out shells—
Form conglomerate veins.

And in their hands—
The great fires they weld—
Ever-surging, moth-coaxing light.

For the set-foot-on new-found sand,
We set sail from mosaic to mosaic shore—
Our black slave-belly churning, evermore.

In the distance we saw a strange, ominous dome.
So dense it seemed,
As if crafted from molten slick!
As if crfated from an accumulated Earth-spit.
As if fashioned from one complete object.
Clearly crafted and fashioned by Futurity's hand;
He who strove upwards and did not question what He saw as progression.
Futurity: He who would compel me to free my stock of black slaves once we reached this sequestered clump of land,
For these isles seemed no place for men with torn and shackled hands.
For these isles seemed a place where shackled slaves would free themselves and feed on their master's bone strands.

As we walked through the old church, once more,
We saw little Andoni was there, sitting scared,
Asking us: "have you forgotten our prayer?"
He was angry and very square.

In the corner,
Shrouded by smoke,
Odilon Redon was there.
He watched on with an exalted air.

So we carried little Andoni to the aqueduct
And we sat in the aqueduct, square.
And we sat in the aqueduct until midnight,
Where we had first conceived of our prayer.

"Once he is within our custody, we shall take his life. He shall be, henceforth, survived only by the image that stains my CCTV screen."


Security is no longer watching the CCTV.
No longer watching someone purchase a rice pouch—
Pulsating in a sterile environment—
Monitoring an image that was never on tape.
Focusing, so deeply, on a soul that was never on tape.

So deeply fixated on those who have committed a crime.
Those who are substantially unblemished by sunlight.
Those who are continuously touched by our Heavenly Father's sight.
Those who unceasingly scale onyx towers draped in a government skin,
Waving pure flags against the night.

The Wyg burns the separate strands above a wooden pyre.
The Wyg ushers in The Line.

Mixing new colours with a robotnik slave-hand,
The Wyg manipulates The Line as no other in existence has done before or since—
Except, Exalted Ditko,
He who studied with
Exalted Paul Rubens.

The Wyg pays credence to the commeroration of Mars,
Watching over its distant skies and hallowed sand dunes,
Which burn as only fires can;
But those of us with eyes where eyes ought to be
Can only see the embers that scatter across the land
As hallowed, red Mars-dust.

In communication with the Mars Moth-Man,
On the nights where Earth-glow streaks across exalted Azuul,
The Wyg scrapes Mars Moth-Man's moth wings for the powder of the scales
And uses the powder for hallowed rites of manifestation.
Only in the temples of Azuul can one conjure The Line, and many materials are required.

No longer in that postition.
(No longer robotnik— the robotnik man-clock.)

No longer seated there— square—
Fantasisng about The Line.

We are no longer haunted by ******* imprints—
Let it be said.

Now control the ethereal days—
When they come to pass.
Now, manipulate The Line in new ways—
If it does not break.
The Line bends but it does not break because it bends for me now!
And, at the end, decide whether or not it shall be perceived as real,
Or merely perceived as a figment of the imagination.

So now, we are in that position even when there is nothing there:
We are peddling, or writing,
Or etching a single line.
And this is how we shall expand...
Cycling past ourselves...

The world as seen on television screen
Was mistaken for ourselves,
Forming dusk from dusk-‘til-dawn.
It was a recreation of the early garden that sat atop great, Gravel Tower.

The Gravel Tower:
A remnant of a world enshrined
Within exalted mind and eye,
Ushered in by old Dante’s vivid verse;
Old Dante's vivid verse reborn
For an irradiated filmscape.

Every day
I meet the soul of a poet.
Those who
Inspire in me
Million image—
As “the quintillions ripen;
The quintillions green”,
As Walt Whitman had once said.

In the past,
We ran through pastures of effervescent green,
And I
Saw in her
The life of a poet,
On the surface of her deep brown eyes.
And in him
There was always eternal wisdom,
For he was the one who first found
Peace of mind!
And, afterwards
I saw the world anew
And remembered:
“Be water, my friend”.
And recalled:
“That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons, even death may die”,
As Lovecraft had once said.

From within The Spy's enfolding spire,
There emits a glint of fragile light,
Revealing an unreachable, mist-fading city—
The vivid incantation of unutterable occult rites.

Before the riptide of the shore,
Illumed by the light of his distant flame,
The Spy collapses into his spire,
Only to emerge once again:

Now past the water's glistening edge,
Having scaled the city's sky-flung walls.
Now moving between ancient shadows,
Following the light of his vermilion flame.
Now seeking catacomb chambers
Where, among dismantled skeleton bones,
The Master Of The Slumbering Dead resides.

Aware to the reactivity of volcanic eyes,
The scar from the comet appears deep,
Transforming an outward growth of conifers
(Travelling across Pangaea,
Through meteoroid heat)
Into an era predating now,
Continuing indefinitely.

I waited for The Monolith Spider on his denizen web,
In the silk-drained air!
In the silk-drained night!

His legs must be coarse and onyx.
His eyes must move many to tears.
Scorpions must hear his name and pince at the moon,
Locked in prison cells,
Shrouded by the haunt of night.

The Monolith Spider.
The silk-weaver.

How do we remeber the strands?
How do we cross them?

God has drawn another Line.
It is the end at the beginning—
Of course, it was not commissioned to be one.
It did not start as one,
But has always been whole.
It was not drawn by a single hand;
It was drawn by many.

The Line, conceived to be darker than shadow,
Had subconsciously been crossed and over-wrought.
So we simply let it be;
Simply kept it separate— separate.

Guidance from God:
"Go now, go now, and connect the lines.
Go now, go now, and make contact with Ditko,
He who once dwelled within the highrises."

For all these years,
One lesson learnt:

The Line:
Pioned.
The ethereal days:
Forgotten.
The stones and the grass:
Pioned.
Every vision, henceforth,
A mark.

You are a venerable student of The Line,
Why not see it as Peter Paul Rubens saw it?
Why not see it as Osman saw it?
Why not see it as Rembrandt saw it?
Why not see it as old Blake saw it?
Why not see it as Sandro saw it?
Why not see it as Hermes Trismegistus saw it?
Why not see it as old Palmer saw it?
Why not see it as Marc Chagall saw it?

A vision of The Line,
As the old masters saw it.

Come,
Let us sit.

Let us burn firewood.

Let us practice The Line within chambers of the mind.

If you remain studious, deep into the night,
You shall hold the mark.
You shall part the waters.
You shall move between the swells.
You shall till the earth,
Striking iron against iron,
Creating new Lines!
And when you master the six realms of sight,
And wear the seven, sacred heads in the afterlife,
Remember Hermes Trismegistus
And those who stand at the centre of The Line.

The Human dream became the Martian dream as we slept on our Mars-bound voyage. We could see colonies amidst landscapes pristine, teeming with strange Martian plants discovered post-bloom.

The Martians were adorned with ivory carvings and had surrounded themselves with esoteric paintings of marauding faces. They spoke in strange tongues, switching between Martian and another almost incomprehensibly clandestine tongue of barbaric intonation. Although they clutched sharp, ivory spears with a fierce resolve, they remained docile in our presence, and told us of the vivid dreams they had engaged in as a group prior to our arrival; abstract dreams, tinged with fragmented images of insemination and visitation by the Mars Moth-Man— he who was oil-funded and had been delivering concrete messages to the people of Mars ever since the first settlers had arrived in the distant past.

But, once we had truly set foot upon Mars— from outside the strange realm of dreams which lives solely within our collective mind's eye— we could not have foretold that our shared dream was revealed to be a sprawling wasteland of infertile soil.