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They are playing a game. They are playing at not playing a game. If I show them I see they are, I shall break the rules and they will punish me. I must play their game, of not seeing I see the game.
R.D. Laing
The Ideal looks down
on Beckley Foundation
flora in calyx light against rain
decanted socially conscious
capital against the fen,
the people as the largest gravity fountain
in the world its annular nozzle
emerges as a ring, not a column
Holy Lady parterres to wild neuralink
the outside bored to protocode
& a tower was another way
of naming heaven done in the home
ritual entheogenic stones
that evil air may breath out
internal disorders of the head
cant get the beauty inside
polyethylened brainblood
cored to the volume of no music
& pain is what the person says hurts.
Every moment in business happens only once.
Air fielding holier then the rift of poetry
corollas dimflow of rheum
disappearing The Common Sense Group
killing stars over-flying birds
in Rachmaneqsue Major
as light was coming in
to bleach everything again
the glass & venous valves
'I can hire one half of the poets to kill the other half'
but this is not enough
beauty inside obsidian breath
cavity barriers bringing forth dead Child
the seeing stones on Baby Rock
unlocks Regeneration Hole TMO
in the MotherHead psychic light
ether people of nowhere
maliciously compèred brios
underwriting themselves
neuropeptides stereoed the most silent
political voice in battleship grey
after secession, exodus
after orchards gates gardenia-scented
100 vials a heartbeat in the brain
& the songs out of datasets
as gentle euphoriants
Helion & Oklo
glasshearted zero to one
it hurts like the Arctic Circle, like a sacred fire
& I love to shut my eyes in Civet rooms
at the HQs of luxury brands
with extra-thick doors
preventing it from seeping out
below the hedonic zero
words have no smell
their souls aseptic in entrails
on the pedosphere ambrettes
minimising pain
smothering voices
go back to the start
the cruelty-free beach
once mined lasts forever
