The Perpetual Motion Machine


Curling cogs and spindly spindles in circular circulation
Meshing, ferrying psychical energies here and thither
Gathering perceptions that give rise to considerations
Kindling in their turn beliefs and these, unchallenged
Influencing and unwittingly sculpting the fuel for perceptions
And on and on, entrancing the onlooking Anon. (Et tu …?)
Scat singing it, winging it, making it, waking it up as we go along

Twas truth to tell ourselves pro-formed this state of unbeing
Over the span of time, of space, of manifold crass experience
While desired placidity might recur in a flash of blinding sight
– A brisk Damascene eviscerating – a fatal Vesuvian obliteration
Or else, favouring a more regal swanlike grace, we may choose
Experiencing it as a process taking aeons; a free choice after all
As epitaph: “Great patience transforming into profound realisation”

Our conviction our own awareness our own our only possession
Veracity and delusion in intimate embrace; sophisticated sophism
For in this very moment, this moment, this moment we hold the key
Untold power herein? Cryptic messages ease us into understanding
While love (the key) and light (eternal) ungrease dread machinations
Apparent opposites melding on the axis of one primal act of divine will
Plots lost, opposed, recovered while overall attention never wavered

An Introduction to The Book Of Guff

In the beginning there was guff.

And how was it made sense of? Apparently thus …

There was eye thinking eye a loan. But eye was ear too.
And eye beheld ear. And ear hearkened unto eye’s view.

And eye found it ear to eye’s taste, just as eye’s taste too mutually, and so eye to eye
agreed without ever asking should we be moved by this?

Of a certainty we could be moved; there was choice it seemed.

So there was time, but why bother travel? We come across one another all the time,
for it is but a smell world is it not, and fragrant,
not to say flagrant at times in its excess?

Or so eye feel it. And eye feel eye am ear continually.
And behold eye mainly feel good. At least on days when eye feel good.

And it feels there is sense, though whether sense makes sense itself who can say?
Or does any sense only co-merge with eye?

Eye sense of course that eye may make sense, but how does sense make eye?

Despite this uncertaincy, and that the likelihood of choice’s actuality remaining
questionable, in quest of some comfort eye hold in mind two fundamental rubrics
[in addition to adopting the conventional illusion of (I)dentity]:

1. I shall dwell in the house of guff forever;


2. I shall try never to underestimate the power of guff.