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The Last Gyzym of Conciousness is an occasional journal of poetry and writing, distributed by >> FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE >> The Last Gyzym Of Conciousness Volume 2 Autumn 2002 Prayer I've done so much amazing stuff - Been off my tits at warehouse raves, Lived through the craziest foreign places, Had such experiences, Learnt so much, Walked so far. This is a prayer for guidance. I am beginning to understand. Be there when I doubt myself, Be there when I know. Critique Speak in complete sentences or die. People who splutter out half-formed criticisms anger me. Critics who dissect well-meaning life disgust me. Words have no power - Only concepts, and the ties that bind, aggregates of emotion, the piling up of concepts, one atop another, to provoke action, or report it. Fear of Flying I love to fly. I love the sight of sunshine on cloud banks and the sense of space you only get from Fifteen Thousand Feet. I once saw ice floes at midnight beneath the stars from an intercontinental jet - I saw the Northern Lights through two brittle sheets of factory-installed plastic - on such illusions Icarus was wrecked. I've heard that, from certain planes which fly across this world, it's possible to see the very curvature of Earth, sweep of the Maker's hand. Excuse me, please, but I long only to return to Earth. Is it too much, I ask, to be in touch with my own shadow? Euston, 20/9/02 A woman on the platform performs pirouettes, and endlessly retraces the same arcs in air with foot, and hand, and head, drawing dance-steps in atmosphere, warming the station with her bows, curtseys, and back-steps - lying, to herself and us, replaying other days, aligning herself with another time, as, quickstep, one-two, she lets herself be drawn through cavernous ballrooms of her imaginings. Archeology I knew from the start it was A bad idea, but an uncertain Sickening drew me near. I placed my kisses on your Face, your chest, your cock, your mind... I don't regret it, but I am Nostalgic for the memories that Never happened: My dreams of you, of us, that hang, forever without form, Over our heads. Dream I had a dream where I took out my black heart from my chest and buried it in a box in the damp earth. A year wasted - a year gone. The years ahead are full of possibilities. "Brother, you have your moments." "Aye, we call them London minutes." Those brief seconds when epiphany falls, and strange night-flashes illuminate the contours of the All. Swallow Song We are as swallows - hook-tailed, flightfull, dipping into pools of revelation, and just as quick, flying up again. Great Music that you Love Nothing warms your life like great music that you love. Nothing is better for the heart than music that wells up from corners of the soul as yet uncharted. I want music from the edge of dreams, soundtracks of dawn (sunset's an all day process), the notes I hear when I sit bolt upright in bed, at three, sweating, cracking in my ears, sounds that I've never heard before, coming on in waves. Imprinted emotion flows direct from air to soul - visible as text in clouds, and "at the end it only begins again, and everything you learn's remembering." Open your third ear, great music samples God, angelic choirs, skipping, note from note, that gentle rain. J'ADORE LE REGGAE. EST-CE QUE TU ADORE LA MUSIQUE AUSSI? Greek Night, Summer 2002 Sunk in night's warm cloth, with light that jumps, soundlessly, from cloud to cloud, such that little hairs stand up on end, and motes of dust, soot and earth, strange winged beasts, make passage through the air. The stars that earlier blinked are gone, replaced by cloud, celestial machinery obscured by fog as God's first midnight forks and staves fall from the sky and ships, becalmed by still will and wind, await a storm. Unable to write speech, they read instead the immanent Godhead's throwaway remarks upon the firmament, bales of cloudstuff, flashes of fire. Storm-watchers, weathermen, augurs, lightning-charmers, are pinned down by thunderbolts, chained to the flat land by a creator who can make no claim to skyclad interactions, cosmic uplifted forces, atomic play of one particle upon another - friction, upheaval, motion across miles, thousand-league equations, tumbling accounts, expressions Divine and Mathematical on filmy, condensating vellum - inks mixed from pure Energy, monochrome fire, shifting, windblown pyrotechnics - a canvas, vast, unspeakable, framed only by horizons. 911 That fateful plunge - over, long and outwards. Bodies like rain with the sea glittering, rushing up towards their feet. Sunshine on waves and splashes, impacts of lives, fracturing reflection, piercing holes through life with little deaths, light falling through the air, shards of it, all at once. Resist the temptation to write it now - the signature fragments of the All come slowly, as revelations. Each act is magical, a journey, and the ground covered shall be the end of it. Run on, along, and roll your bones. Take sunlight, look up, and hold yourself against the sky. James Bridle >> FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE >> >> jamesbridle@hotmail.com >> |