Tagged: automatic writing

Outside is all noise. Luibs caravan, Kilmartin, Scotland. 27th July 1997.

“Outside is all noise.
The dripping roar of rain on leaves and the top of the tin -top caravan. The flick and buzz of flies as they hit the windows panes luring, bright light.
It’s past midnight and my head hurts from premonition and the lack of ability to define.

“In this life so much magik weaving…….?
Oh muse, where have you been?”

REAL TIME……are we arriving there?

Losing the Ego……what happens if ALL people begin to evolve in this direction?

The return of Merlin to Avalon…..(recognition of our true heros/leaders that loose the ego)
Shapeshifting. Animist. Fertility.
(the Felindyrch shape-shifter that murdered the seven sons of Merlin……?)
Merlin vs Pan?
These synchronicities why are they so important and how do they fit together!?”

What I should. 1997.

Dense, sensitive, slow hum,
Hum humming of life.
Flutter of butterfly wings
and chirrup of buzzing things.
The trickle chuckle river and the
warm, ticklish air.
I should throw myself down in the long, itchy grass.
I should walk, feel free and strong….
But I just will lay here, feeling good
for not doing.
What I should.

(If I cannot focus my energy into something soon I shall……..?)

No where, but here. 1997.

Chipping off the old block
Tick tock, what rot,
Laid to rest, now he’s gone.
Gone to stray away.
Stay away.
Flip out again. Go crazy. Stuck on flowers
Reflect the glare.
Gasp for air.

A butterfly existence.
A fragile broken hair hits the breeze.
Teetering on the edge of time.
No where, but here.
I miss the running, but feel
like I’ve finished the race.
Arrived at a place.
Elastic emotions twang and snap
Every moment comes back to
Individuality is unfathomable.
We are all alone.

Bared. Fragment of pure automatic writing.(unedited) Braevallich Cottage, Scotland. 1996.

Total absolution.

Flimsy in timeless, gruesome heat.

Auburn textured tunes of other times.

Marching on weary calloused feet.

Crawling now on hands and knees.

Please, please, please, please.

A great swan, like a star, flies into a blackened gap, like a void.

A glowing, auric asteroid and screaming the song,

Willowed fancy bent her neck with grace.

Flow into the pen-song, sing if you like, sing along.

Allow the voices to creep up beside you

Muscle sing and sinew.

Breathe the universe and smile.

Sit a while.

It is a privelidge, to many misunderstood,

That to burble like a stream unconscious can be good.

Our downfall lay in our endless control.

Towelling. Dry them all away.

Put on your clothes and pack away our bare defensless nudity.

Not good to see where we are from.

Cover it up-hide it away.

My God what would the neighbours say.

Not good to examine the pore and sweat

A living body is more than that.

We should live only for soul and hide away.

The body that carries us day after day.

Let it be tangled with lust and sin.

After all it’s only a bag we keep our egos in.

But lust and sin, lust and sin, the pinnacle point of our marketing.

Selling the sack that we keep our souls in.

Moulding and crafting, perfection the key.

Only the perfect retain free nudity.

For the soul must show shame for its wrinkles and bulges

Cry in its prison and hide from the vultures.

Skin and love.

Comfort and sweaty love-making begin.

Nudity a barefaced crime.

Imperfection in mirror eyes

A sin.

The next door. Nivensknowe Caravan Park, Loanhead, Edinburgh. 1996.

I met my nextdoor neighbour today.

This day.

This day began as any other.

Shutting my soul, tight, to change,

Hurt by the loss of carefree joy,

And the twisted appeals of my mother.

Pulling the end closer.

Its ghouls and shadows,

Preyed on me.

With ghosts like these was I still ‘free’?

Alone with ‘only I know’

I cursed myself to solitude.

And in meeting every stranger,

I brought only, selfish, tales of woe

But my nextdoor neighbour

Told me which way to go.

The sad old men could nothing say

To relieve the pain I felt this day.

This day like any other.

I needed the words of one who knew,

an older woman, a compasisonate mother.


She offered no escape in drink,

No comforting joint was passed to me.

She simply said , repeatedly,


“Head for the light and you’ll be free.”


She’d been where I was now.

But taken the “good with the bad.”

And I could see in her older face

That she’s having the best time she’s ever had.

She’s going to America, to be with her son and family,

It made me think that maybe, one day, that could still be me.

I’m glad to have met this stranger,

Who’s grown older, gracefully.


“Hold your toungue and you will find some, greater, peace of mind.” she said.

It strikes some deeper chord, inside.

I must learn to laugh again and ride

all these undulating changes, that are brought on the tide.

Hold my tongue. Learn not to say.



So I am heading for the light.

I wave goobye to nursing pain.

I’m taking the reins of my life

Into my hands again.

The same “dumb insolence” will aid me

And I hope I will become

As kind and as real as my nextdooor neighbour

And one day help someone.

“Head for the Light”

“Dumb insolence”


Here is the crossroads.


Stop running into despair.

So when younger ‘changlings’ come

They’ll find an older woman there

Who reminds them only to take care and

“Head toward the light.”

Whatever it may be.

“We all go through changes.

Like a sapling to a tree.”


Sometimes over comforting red Nescafe mugs

Full of Nescafe.

Starry Pants. Nivensknowe Caravan Park, Loanhead, Edinburgh. 1996.

Hiding. Residing. Sliding. On the siding.

Towing behind.

Catch the key.

Set loose in synchronicity.

The talent that saves is out to sea.

Floating. Floating.

The beat hits me between the lungs.

Tight from defensive lies.

I am lonley.

I am unable.

I am depressed.


Grab it.

Let the tension go.

Go. Go.

Go-go dancing.

Tick Out. ‘Knave of Clubs’, London. 1995.

Sir ‘reality’ in uniform saluted the motor that instructed us all to sit down.

Sit Down.

Tick Out.

Resume the unmentionable, whatever whatever.

The weather is steel shards and mercury.

Slipping and sliding, tyre wheel in tyre splash.

Lashing at the pavement outside.

Hiding in the candle light haloed by a blue field of white curtain daisies on the table.

The blackness looms about and tickles my spine.

Scratching and shuffling in this ancient, no electric house.

A mouse in mini-motion, a rat-a-tatter in a corner scarping.

The dirt on every plate and china mould

Stacked behind the drip,





Needing less. London.1995.

Trickling lack of air.

Hours to wrap away.

In my bike, around the town.

It seems, in London, there are two ways to be.

Foot Loose and Fancy Free,


Flag flying. Tied to fast commerciality.

So…they are sweating to sell to those,

who are naturally evolving to need less?

What will happen when no-one needs anymore?

Will it ever get that far?

Can there always be a market?

When food and faith are sorted.

If everyone behaved with each other..

Ramble tongue over coffee.

Tired of looking at wares.

Thought I could spend a day shopping in the city

But only fighting temptation…..

I’ve bought some cheap artificial butterflies to brighten up this time.