Amongst the things that humanity has lost, or lost touch with, is its potential. Potential, where it exists, has become a national impetus – a nationalistic charging of competitiveness in some international race toward nowhere. Human potential, however, if we ever knew what it was, has long been forgotten. After millennia of segregations and separations the human has been reduced to the most abstract of concepts, without substance: so much so that any ideas of making the human a meaningful concept now sound revolutionary. In fact, such an achievement would be revolutionary.

Humanity, as Sapiens, is here to perceive and know the Universe and guarantee its Being through representation. Human technology exists in order to make perception and knowledge of the Universe possible and permanent. Learning how to preserve ourselves may be the first step toward learning how to preserve the dying Universe. Only the undying Being makes any real sense.


Let there be light! –

But without any eyes to see

what good is my radiance?

Let there be eyes!

But eyes need a screen as well,

something on which to project

the illuminated image,

and a way to represent

the projection as something


Let there be consciousness!

What is humanity but a conscious mirror!




Where is humanity now? Once we unveil the pessimism inherent in power we find ourselves immersed in an ocean of false necessity. We are dog-paddling in a lie-full sea of false-reality generated by the power ideologies of the Moloch system who have given us floaties for our arms and waist, allowing us to keep our heads above water.  The realization is disheartening: what can we do to escape an ocean? Even if we swim properly, dry land is so far away, we would just exhaust ourselves and sink. Yes, we need a raft or a boat, but even if we were to find one, what we still lack is a compass showing which way to go in this mundane landscape of the seemingly eternal sea.

Of course we have learned navigation from the System. We know the rules: how to estimate our position from the sun and guide ourselves at night by following certain stars. But the star-system navigating methodology seems to always bring us back to the same place. We are swimming in circles, we realise.

The first key to getting out of this ocean is to recognise where we are. Remember, this is the ocean of false-necessity. To get out of here we need to inspire our efforts with an enthusiasm for real necessity again, an enthusiasm that will bring us back to reality again. An enthusiasm which will stop our hopeless imagining that we are treading water and feel the solid ground that is actually beneath our feet again.

Of course to find such an enthusiasm is by no means an easy task. Many who search become lost in pessimistic religions driven by the cynicism of power.  Others immerse themselves in ideologies: a vain task, because all ideology hides the truth from itself. If one is in-ideology the truth is imperceptible – but how does one get out of ideology?

Or perhaps it is not imperceptible: after all we have millennia of artists who have dedicated their lives to the unveiling truth and dragging it out from the drains into which it gets dumped.


The return to reality must be an artistic process:  the process of unveiling that which is obscured by the false reality. The first thing the artist does is take off his or her floaties in order to discover what it is like to really swim. The artist knows that the false-necessity ocean is full of floating jetsam that can easily be used to carry us forward. To where? The artist has an intuitive drive and an internal map: the artist’s love of the symbolic. Like aboriginal dreamtime paintings, the way forward can be found through poetry and song. Now it’s time for us listen to ourselves: not to our discourses but to our songs; look into ourselves and let the music out.




Where is the freedom

Between birth and death

In the illumination between birth and death

Where is the freedom?


Open your eyes into the light

Close them and blackness fills


Our prisons are walls, or bars, or desert island insulations

Cells can be cages, or boxes, or bags, or homes

We are trapped in tunnels, or caves, on roads or rivers

Prisons can be of flesh

Or they can be of families

The tyrant gaoler father mother sister brother teacher boss

Ruler or friend, lover or foe

Prison is an isolation or a multitude

Retard movement in a restricting suit

With rope or chains or behind a steel locked door

Prisons impede

Impede your progress

Your ability to leave

Only mentally can you escape


Homo Sapiens: I think therefore I know

I know therefore I’m free


But the multitude is a different prison

A lobotomising gaol that dresses you

In the way it wants you to be dressed

That nourishes you

With the junk it wants you to have


The multitude is a prison of thinkers that do not know

Ostrich-head minds that do not want to see

Anti-sensory sapiens that refuse wisdom


Our boots are heavy with the mud of life

As we wade through the stress filled swamp of an imaginary illumination

There is no freedom there


Prisoners to the techno monsters that master us

We struggle so hard to buy our way in to the gaol


There is no freedom there

Unless you find the door


Everyone has a door to open

Hidden from them by the multitude

Under its thick curtain of economy

And the culture of money

But the exit is there if you are capable of uncovering it


You are Homo Sapiens: You think therefore you know

You know therefore you’re free


Imagine Rodin’s statuesque Thinker

Sitting on a backdoor key

That will unlock the exit and free him from the trap that

Is this ridiculous anti-human space

Between birth and death


Exist or not exist: that is OUR question:

Whether to ignore the logical and enjoy

The fruits of a culture of outrageous fortune,

Or to stand against its wave of self-consummation,

And, by calming the surge, end it. To die, to sleep –

But to dream no more. No minds of men, no women’s

Hope. No matter at all if by our endless

Propagation we have consumed it all.

The Universe needs us. Without us it is but

Object unknown. Object without knowing-subject

Does not exist.

We need the world and yet we beat it, punish

It as if we loathed it. Like a de Sade

With his sluts, so are we to the world.

To be or not to be, it is time to face the question

In an adult way, responsibly, for the other

Option, our only other option, is our complete


Thales of Miletus (3) – the Magnet and Me


(III)          The Magnet and Me

The pulling soul of the magnet groans in absolute silence,

revolted by its own kind like an ocean tide

All is water

the moon is water, is a magnet confused

The hard psyche of the magnet moves iron

All that moves…

(that moves)

… that has the power to put in motion

all of it that moves

has psyche


Empsychos :

the animated; the alive –


the inanimate; the dead

“You are either alive or dead”

Blood pumps through veins, gurgling gushes, we are alive, but

what makes us live?

’Tis the psyche of men

The psyche of magnets

–          man is a magnet ! –

Translated by such an iron association you protest

“What is life?!?”

The answer struggles simply through its complexity

to a five-fold conclusion:

–     perception with understanding

–        change with permanence

–        development with decadence

–        ability to perceive

–        ability to change itself, change the rest

“And you?

Tell me about yourself…”

Not alive, yet not dead

mine is a half-life

revolted by its own kind

attracted only by opposites

without realisation

the dumbest life of all

void of orexis

of desire

an anorexic stone void of will…

The movement of magnets is theirs

only magnets move as magnets

north goes to south

south to north

the most primitive perception

My will, my desires, are mine

but am I really more fortunate than the rock under my foot

…because of desire and will?

Magnets have their tastes

preference for forks, steel forks

(no appetite at all for plastic)

totally indifferent to cloth, wood, or glass

only iron and steel will do

Hard forged tastes…

“I do not complicate my life as you

My desires are for exclusive things

I may only be a stone

but I’m a discerning one”

Magnet ! If you are  alive

then leave that iron be –

yet you are incapable

you have gone to it and now you are stuck

You are not free

You are not alive

Yet how hard you suck and stick and cling



Thales of Miletus

(I)                The Prognosticator


Wandering over a dry land

naked toes streaked red black,

dry blood of stubbed digits,

feet that ache

the hot-plate earth,


his throat parched as the scorched dust,

stumbles on the hollow shell of a scorpion once-no-more and

crumbling when touched

Death is a hollow-flaking thing from this perspective

which is not Thales’ perspective, who,

a genius in his barbarian descent,

deduced, from considering the apparent absence of it,

that all

was water



is the same as


if the angle of A

is the same as

the angle of a

and the angle of B

is the same as

the angle of b”

he mumble-murmured

whilst navigating the high and wine-coloured seas

perturbed by nauseating nautical perspectives

There was salt on the lashes of his eyes

smarting vision when he rubbed



with the Lidians and Persians

still preparing their b-bloody ritual


Thales of Miletus

calculated the flow of water in the cosmic whirlpool

combining it with

the magnetic qualities of sun and moon

themselves water

and predicted that the morning battle

would become a night fight



squelched a grape

“All is water”

crunched a pip


he did not doubt

not for one instant

There can only be one

a priori

“All is water”

he reaffirmed


There were Seven Wise Men

Thales was one

– mathematical, astronomical –

who knew where and when men would tremble beneath the shrouded sun

which made men tremble

that he knew

where and when

The prophet,

who had used science and calculation to foresee,

could foresee abundance, and so


the large olive crop that no-one else imagined

Such success made ordinary men tremble

That a wise man could become rich

made men tremble


The wise man

staring at the stars

fell into a well,

and a serving-girl,

witty and attractive,