how!

How was it that i could hear myself speak behind the words of another person?
How come all these little secrets of myself,keep appearing in the things that i read ?
How big is really this mind that i measure by the size of my walls,meters,minutes & hours ?
How come all these questions arise to be asked of & pondered upon for aeons within aeons of time?
Don`t answer.Just let me burn like red hot coals & hear me honour that wich goes bump in the night.


Picture an old train that puffs along  from here into forever-ever, & sometimes later , huffing all the way back again,just in time,or just in those small elfin books of rhyme.A familiar vessel,a humorous confinement  of that creative spectre,who`s memory ,remains a live cell in the cosmic-orgasmic sea, in wich nautilus reigns in splendours of wich no mortal man hath seen.(yet)

Who`s voice is it,that speaketh in the deep of my mind,knowing good from evil,but the one who`s name hath no letters,but yet unidentified symbols wich generate a state of craze or hypnosis upon anyone unfearful in the attempt  to decode them.

Who was it that wrote the words: i shall write the words,& the words shall write themselves?

It was I who wrote them,proclaimeth the voice of the one that is two & three.
It was I who wrote them,proclaimeth the voice of the one that is four,six,& nine.
It was I......& so it goes.The numbers shift,but the message remains all the same: I,the first noise of the egomaniac.I, the first sign of life upon the surface of time.

I came out of the dark,like I was made of it,but the dust of stars & the cobwebs, soon made I visible to the keen eye, who`s existence in the great void, inspired a fusion between this & that, & so I be-came a double one.Two of the same,but not entirely so.To the untrained in the arts,there would be nothing to speak of,but people, who`s eyes see beyond the seductive flatterings of the veil,a whole other dimension is revealed.
A dimension in wich wholesomeness plays in the background,leaving out all possibility for small mindedness.



I shalt rest my case
on its shelf
& hang my soaked hat
to dry above
the oven
& then i will reflect upon
the mirages
that emerges from
the sweetness
of the good
night