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 by 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 sun rose from his back 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?