Tag Archives: dream

Who carse?

Reading a most radical book, Perfect Brilliant Stillness by david carse. On the Understanding that “we” are all dream characters, that all there is is Consciousness operating through “mind/body things”. Of course “I” have heard it all before, but here it is ver succinctly put and really resonating with, well, something in “me”. And “he” takes the piss out of the whole spiritual “search”;-)

Perfect Brilliant Peace

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Not a Question

She shows her self                                    To those who will listen

She talks                                                       To those who will see

Photo1114 Photo1115 Photo1118 Photo1123

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The boulevards that are life


Without gazing further

than the next shop-window

walking down the street

along the boulevard that is life


Sobbing in restrooms

of cities without names

picking garments on sale

along the boulevards that are life


Hanging paper over holes

in the walls and

pounding on a nail for the hostage

driver of a hijacked bus

and the zebra crossings

are black and black only

and deep

between the boulevards that are life


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Mr Sliced-by-a-breadknife


He dropped

the breadknife

cut into

his leg


He dropped

all defences

and chose

never to speak again


They are just walls,

words,        pretence

can never explain


His only friend gave up too

crawled down

from the chopping board


Now they sit

in silence,

the two

still faces


on the dirty kitchen wall

turn and follow

every movement

stack post-it notes

on eachothers foreheads

that will one day

be published

and they’ll disturb

cut into you again

Mr Sliced-by-a-breadknife

and his friend


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A dead white dove


Bizarre silk-shimmering dream

to wake up and

reach out to turbulent

velvet-glowing happiness,

and paint a picture

upside down.


I don’t know anylonger


the spinning sunegg has got

a dead white dove

and a tree the same size



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Red thread from limitation to surrender

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The Devil Lived in a Doomed Mood


No body can strap body parts together as he can.

He is a reward-drawer who believes in smart-trams

and draws you spam-maps.


He fools you into straw-eating warts and when you scream

for more he is the one who brings you plate after plate of more

erecting with his left hand columns, castles.


He knits and stinks and peels sleep off you

when you need it the most. A pubic hair falls

off his finger and starts its fight with feathers.


He is a redivider, a petrifier and he speaks backwards.

But maybe one day we will see through and sum up:


The devil lived in a doomed mood

That we can do without. We fooled him

with sensuousnes(s) or stayed forever quiet.

Anger? ’tis safe never. Bar it! Use love

(or: Evoles ut ira breve nefas sit; regna

Which means more or less the same).


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49 Doors



under the surface listening

to compact water-silence


in the wake of a boat


up on a shore.


He wouldn’t have put it that way

it was put there for him:

49 Doors all made

for a persons particular shape

and mood

at the moment of death.


His head is the dot

of a questionmark,

a nest of dry grass

in the middle of wet souls

– a cage of glimmering light –

metallic shapes blow by,

a soft voice, rusty velvet.


Flowers standing along

roads: hot, steamy heatwaves and

dead animals (big dogs)

is what he sees

wherever he turns

big mistakes

were made

once, twice, …

he cannot even remember


but crisp suits

golden cars

and apricots with scars.


Now removed foreskins

hide under oaktrees

and smile with leaves

left in dirt, and men sit

behind stones, facing nothing.



was it, he thinks,

that I was running to go?


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You and I

heart fluttering

racing bubbles


naked tongues

in the mood

sweet, not crude

crumbling fractures one by one


liquid steaming

blowing bubbles


corners none

picking petals one by one


mouth watering

touching bubbles


creamy clouds

in the nude

sweet, not rude

breathing heavens one by one

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