Either
it does,
or it doesn’t
What it says,
goes without question.
What it does -
now takes possession.
What it says, what it wants
what it knows,
this is all
it does.

Now
you know
I know you know.
You know
I know
you know I know.
I know you
now.

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

Astrophe was responsible for the end of the world -
A problem for Amaran who was sailing the globe.
Then there was Alogue who wrote it all down
And Hode of course, painting pictures for all.
Next came Holic, preaching holiness and peace
To Erpillar and Egory dividing lines from his book.
Kneeling below old Hedral’s cloistered beams
Harsis quietly waits for inspiration of heart
Behind quick witted Apult (the first to arrive)
And philosopher Ching, with Alyst in tow.
All purring vainly, that THEY were the ones
Who started it all.

Nothing here is real,
And nothing is revealed,
For the stirrings that you feel,
are just secrets you conceal.
And nothing here is true,
For the foibles that were you
Became the missing clues,
In the puzzle we both knew.
Nothing more is nothing less
than nothing said.

What goes on in Party Room #1?
Up the three-tiered powder coated stairs
Above the standard frippery
Young mums know of attended fun
And tight banister climb to high-window
Ledged behind the plastic green.
Just take your shoe code -
And present it at the door.

There’s a voice
amidst the noise of stars.
Feint, but distinctive.
Sawtoothed in wave
and cackle of ozone.

Sensed among the spark
and spin of planets through
the galaxy, like bats circling
flare-wicked candleflame.

The voice is calling.
Vague, repeating, passionate -
words that want me to understand.
Argh! I just can’t catch the drift:

“… all our youth … ill of you
… oil of hue … isle of yew …”

What is the sky trying to tell me?
Do you hear what it says?
Can YOU work this out?

Who is this ‘I’ of whom everybody speaks?
They do seem very self pre-occupied.
How they feel and what they do,
it means something to them, obviously.
But what is ‘I’ to me and you?

Who is yearning?
He says to me.
Is it you?
Asks I of he.
But who is you?
He questions I.
“You are learning”
is my reply.

Maybe it’s my filters,
codebase unknown.
Pattern undefined,
orbit squared,
lens misaligned.
These mouldings squeezed,
are elder signals lost.
Tune me in.

Paint the corners first,
Rubik mix, then shake the box.
You’re the one they’ll never solve,
Straight piece missing, broken edged.
Attractively packaged,
but no right way up,
not up nor down.
Self-build enigma.