Below are several excerpts from my work:

Lavish young strength onto age and experience!
Ravish strong length in our rage and expedience!
Demolish wrong zenith, each page an irreverence!
Foreign soil, gold winning!
Forewarned! Oil! Mould thinning!
Sovereign royal, told, spinning!
Are the faithful not blazoned in gold?
Far, the wraith-pull clot, reasons untold!
Awe, the wakeful hot seasons enfold!

Old heart’s prophecies beat ragged doom!
Cold heart’s fallacies bleed jagged womb!
Scold harsh the ferris wheels, bleat rugged bloom!
Runners bring rumours!
Fanfaron us, Montezumas!
Stunners sing bloomers!
But where is the rider to tell of his King?
But whence is the river to quell reckoning?
But WAR is the riddler to swell scaffolding?

Ancient stones rally to barricade ships!
Unguent bones folly to bear the milkmaid’s horsewhips!
Trenchant tones doolally send Damascus blade kips!
Sing! Heard, our offences!
Bring word to defences!
Sling turd over fences!
But our shoulders, too meagre to begin the pavane?
There to moulder, misdemeanour’s thin cryptogram?
The soul, older, thistle, leaner, - harlequin-puritan!

Chilling horse breakers gleam in your harness!
Willing Norse berserkers, teeming with hardness!
Fulfilling coarse achings to chime with lost farness!
Soul battles endurance!
Foal scuttles from monstrance!
Toll rattles caged esperance!
But who shall tame the bow as it hurls?
And how shall, defamed, the bough tend to unfurl?
And who’ll call, aflame, the slough rending to pearl?

Shining, hot stallions grace the outpouring Nile!
Intertwining, bought battalions face the heart-scoring smile!
Undermining, squat rapscallions lace a semaphore vile!
Fertile and god belov’d!
Versatile and odd betroth’d!
Erstwhile and clod becloth’d!
And who shall not relish the sun-darkened man?
And shall we not, impoverished, find the heart’s courtesan?
And when will our anguish cede to acts artisan?

And following throng, swampskippers in their thousands!
Skull hollowing gong, trance scuppers mind-grip, - to wonderland!
Full bellowing song, trans strippers in lotusland!
Oars dipping to silence!
Boars dripping with violence!
Horse-whipping to higher sense!
But who shall outnumber both dangerous and valiant?
And how calls our slumber, wide-ranging and foliant?
But who shall unencumber us toward an angel-like salience?

Number the creak-clanging wheels on the chariots!
Humbled, the croak-mangling weals of iscariots!
Fumbled, the crack-spangling squeals of love’s laughter-flesh!
Three horses, gold-laden!
Threefold forces, old mother maiden!
Three courses, mould-leaden!
See how the fear’s breeding in our live, godswept eyes!
We’ll know the tear’s seeding, strive to god-leap these thighs!
Sea cow, the ear’s heeding, dive to be god-kept, uprise!

Vow lance-breaking peaks to the gold-proud in slavery!
Plough dance-quaking cheeks, bold, loud in blest knavery!
Sew chance-peaking breaks, a threshold’s clouded in bravery!
Rage! Trust in the ship’s bench!
Courage! Thrust harder, rose-lipped boy-wench!
Age? Lust, worship as cheeks clench!
But how to uncrowd the steep, surging horizon?
And when to unshroud the deep limb-merged baptizing?
Watch how we’ll uncloud our heart’s sleep, purged for rising?

Obey the pressed flower’s bowtugging earth groan!
Away the stressed hour’s soul-struggling heart to bone!
Roundelay the breast’s shower’s suckling mirth takes the throne!
Time’s aflame with young yearning!
Sublime shame at tongue’s turning!
Prime! Proclaim unsung burning!
But who’ll count the days, - wait, shiver and root?
Leap, catamount in praise! – waif, sliver, no prude!
He’ll dismount you, dazed, - wraith’s silvery brood!

To bed sweep the army, spent spouses a-lying!
To bleed, swift and barmy, spurned posies a-dying!
To breed, sweat Gethsemane, spear me roses a-crying!
Stretched, breaking, - the honour!
Retched, reeking, - a goner!
Fetched, leaking, - a donor!
And cross now heart’s binding, strait-clamped, godsped bolt!
Omphalos now in parts sing, austerity-stumped, god-spirit’s jolt!
Pentecost now starts blinding, clarity-stamped, god’s word’s blood!

Yoke hard the flock’s teeming, gold-showered and goat-shepherded!
Folk scarred by yak’s steaming, gelding powered and throat-leoparded!
Bombard! The cock’s streaming, foal-flowered to float, never dead!
God’s light cast a trust gleam!
Clod’s bright grassed, august dream!
Plods right past the daydream!
Who, headstrong, shall darken the death-dealing hand?
Why, dingdong will hearken to deaf-feeling glans!
What dugong calls kraken to breath-healing land?

Countless, the chariot sings eye-taut, unstoppable!
Transgressed, the babe’s carrycot flings cries caught, inaudible!
Dauntless, Iscariot brings I-thought, inextinguishable!
Stream ceaseless in flood joy!
Dreams, fleeceless in cuckooed Troy!
Cantatrice us in blood, boy!
Build holy the bow-ships, crest fate’s power, resistless!
Filled solely with cowslips, nest’s bower freight, pessimistless!
Guild! Wholly the brow skips, somnambulate towers, egotistless!

God’s horse split the sea-shrine, entrust life to gale-winds!
Wood’s force bit the sunshine, thrust strife to travail blind!
Should divorce hit, free intertwine, lust rife to grail humankind!
Lash long the sons, slender!
Splash strong the dunce, tender!
Smash song, the sun’s blender!
But when shall we stride beyond outleaping tower?
Though how will she guide the wand, beweeping its power?
And with what Whitsuntide will he, sleeping, deflower?

Blind, crafty, - the gestures of folly and kindness!
Kind grafter, such blessing! lest your jolly proves unmanifest!
Lined, lofty investiture, melancholy and blindness!
Net hope and unhurt!
Wet the dope with his spurt!
Let the Pope hoop his skirt!
And who, as mere human, feigns sudden escape?
And see! The sheared gnomon stains sodden seascape!
For when the feared bowman rains, - blooded landscape!

Grip, wailing! The raw fear, heart bled loose, unshaken!
Ships whaling, the war sphere ark, dread choose, unslaken!
Whips flailing, the core spear, hark bed blues unspoken!
Wide-ranging, the thought thatch!
Pride arranging taut arrow fletch!
Collide, changing overwrought match!
And what word is empty, howl pummelling swarm?
And how sword devotee scowls, rumbling storm!
Let concord of jubilee owls untrammel all scorn!

Yoke elegance to tear croak, a headstrong wife, gentle!
Spoke militants to fear folk, a dead-throng half-mental!
Joke dalliance, a flower-oak, a bed-song fundamental!
Breasts stinging in love rush!
Zest’s winging above rush!
Jest’s singing in dove blush!
Yet two shores to spear spend, the death thump behind!
Threat threw scores to fear send, the wraith bumps and grinds!
Whet three swords to clear, rend the breath plump of mind!

 

(Taken from Baize Bound Beauty)

 

However – high up – in the body of the wall – you now see a window – without glass – with 3 bars – in the shape of a diamond. At the window is the face of a youth – or is it that of an older man? – his name is NEGATION-self-WIT – he is dirty and emaciated – his tunic is torn – and he is holding his two arms out through the bars of the window – where – perched on his forearms – are – until one of them falls – the two red footed falcons from the cathedral.
In his cell – in the centre of the space – there is a chest – secured with 13 small padlocks – named after the 13 designers of each lock – ANGLEPHISH – ANTHRODIVARICATE – CELERITY – FELICITY – GREAT ENOCH LUDDENDEN – HAECCEITY – PERPETUITY – PERSPICACITY – QUIDDITY – RESURGITE – SERENDIPITY – SHAMANECCLESIA and TRIFORIA.
Some of his misshapen teeth – you now notice as he smiles into the eyes of the birds – are made of brass.
NEGATION-self-WIT has opened the chest 52 times a day since it came into his possession – several months ago – on the nearby seashore at the end of a protracted session of prayer – during which he had been asking the higher beings to send him an answer to the question –
‘____ __ __ ____ _____ __ _____ _____?'

He had been led to this inquiry by his daily observances of the coming and going of a Clipper to the nearby harbour.
He had not been expecting an actual object to appear out of his petition as a reply – but there it was – a fairly ordinary chest with its 13 padlocks.
As there were no keys – NEGATION-self-WIT spent the next few weeks studying the vacuity in each lock’s keyhole – finding – after much trial and error – that a gentle – daily breathing in and out of the empty space provided – cumulatively – his mind’s eye with the necessary form of the key that would open each lock.
With the aid of an ante-nonnunc-post mirror – a reflective – bifurcated glass that reflects the moments immediately prior and subsequent to a particular point in time but not the present instant – NEGATION-self-WIT set to work refashioning his brass teeth as keys for the 13 padlocks – one of the benefits of this being that he could – at any time of the day – through the action of passing his tongue over his teeth – recollect not only certain aspects of the mind and intention of the individual locksmith in question – but also portions of his or her heart and memory – a practice that would – he hoped – enable him to discern the – as it turned out – highly inscrutable contents of the chest more successfully.
As for those contents – it might be said that NEGATION-self-WIT had never fully recovered from his first encounter with them – though this lack of recovery was one of the key defining and refulgent experiences of his life – more akin to a falling in love or a kind of beneficent seizure than an affliction – which it also was.
He had carried the – almost lighter than air – chest to his – at one time monastic – cell – and – one evening – had at last managed to manipulate his mouth around the various locks so that the chest was now ready to open.
On lifting the lid – heavy out of all proportion to the chest’s weight – NEGATION-self-WIT did not so much see as become faintly aware of a kind of whirring within the chest – a sense of incredible velocity and silent industry. He was prevented from placing his hands in the chest by a kind of reverence for whatever it was that was in motion within it – though – over time – NEGATION-self-WIT realized that – if he closed his eyes – he was left with fleeting – suspended impressions of the activity he had just witnessed which he sometimes would attempt to draw. Unfortunately – these images did not remain long enough to form anything approaching a clear sense of the chest’s occupancy – though NEGATION-self-WIT knew that certain words would not be inappropriate if applied to his experience – flap – flutter – fleet – concoct – assemble.
He was never sure if the overwhelmingly tantalizing sensation of the chest was one that was almost too intensely pleasurable or painful to be borne – though his spiritual life became immeasurably richer for it.
What he would eventually come to know – at a time that was mere moments away from being too late – was that within the chest was a pair of dis-embodied hands in the process of constantly – at tremendous speed – constructing and disassembling a ship-in-a-bottle.

 

(Taken from By Unseen Hands)

 

Now – I – as parish priest – going by the name of Father Simon – (here The Reverend Lution looks at his shoes) – happened to harbour two passions – weird – perhaps even nefarious in their own right – but – when brought into combination – downright heinous.
Since my novitiate days – I had been intrigued by the world of religious unica – that is – objects with a connection to spiritual matters of which there were only one – or that were part of a discrete group – the stone – that Jesus refused to cast – the lots – cast by the soldiers – for Jesus’ garments – the door – of the ark – that held the hope of a new beginning – the rope – that tethered the donkey that brought Jesus to Jerusalem – one of the nets the disciples left – to follow Jesus – the skull – of the largest boar that was part of the herd of swine sent to its doom by Jesus as a result of its possession by demons – the cockscomb – of the cock that crew to Peter the memory of the prophecy of his denial – light – in a lead bottle – once exuded from the star of Bethlehem – the intended capstone – unlaid – of the tower of Babel – the baleine – of the whale that swallowed Jonah – the rope – with which Judas assuaged his – questionable – guilt – the penny – hub of the exchange between Jesus and the high priests – emblazoned with the image and superscription of Cæsar – the garment – with which Shem and Japheth covered their father’s nakedness – a phial of blood – once part of a river – from which the Egyptians were loath to drink - a portion of the wall – the writing on which Daniel interpreted – bearing the word – TEKEL – the manger – wherein Jesus was lain – the linen cloth – still bearing his scent – left behind by the young man who – after holding onto Jesus – fled naked – the caul – in which John the Baptist was born – the coals – miraculously still warm – over which were cooked the fish shared by Jesus and his disciples on the shores of the sea of Tiberias – a wing-bone – of one of the turtledoves sacrificed at Jesus’ presentation at the temple – the basin – used by Jesus for the washing of his disciples’ feet – the page – from the book of the prophet Isaiah – from which Jesus read on the Sabbath – the sweet spices – unused – that Mary Magdalene – Mary the mother of James and Salome brought to the sepulchre – an hourglass – containing sand – upon which Jesus partly doodled – the veil – rent at the moment of Jesus’ expiration – the boat – from which Jesus helped the disciples to catch 153 fish after his resurrection – an ear – of Sabbath corn – plucked by a disciple – the long – white garment – worn by the young man sitting in the sepulchre – the remainder of honeycomb – of which Jesus partly ate after his resurrection – the skeleton – of one of the two fishes – from which Jesus produced a feast for the multitude – a fragment – of the inscribed wood – placed above Jesus’ cross – faintly bearing the letter ‘I’ – the hook – that caught the fish – caught by Peter – that bore the coin to be used as tribute money by Jesus – the silver cup – later the grail – put into Benjamin’s sack – the writing table – on which Zacharias wrote – ‘His name is John’ – a fragment of the stone tablet – on which was written the 2nd commandment – now bearing only the word – ‘image’ – a thorn – from the first rose to have bloomed in the potter’s field – after it was renamed – ‘the field of blood’ – the cloth – with which Pilate dried his hands – one of the two mites – that the widow gave as an offering – the leathern girdle – still bearing his scent – of John the Baptist – the bed – that was taken up and walked with – one of the stones – on which Jacob slept – dreaming of ladders and angels – the alabaster jar – from which Mary anointed the feet of Jesus – a phial of the adrenalin – brought forth by the first of the shepherds on witnessing the angel – the sword – that severed Malchus’ ear – the pitcher – borne by the man the two disciples followed – a hair – from the tail of the colt whereon no man sat before Jesus’ riding of it into Jerusalem – the chains – plucked asunder by the Gadarene – one of the stones – itself part of the pillow of Jacob – that Jesus refused to turn to bread in the wilderness – the seventh veil – still bearing her scent – of Herodias – a seed – from the last fruit of the fig tree before its withering – one of the pieces of silver – which have their place in our redemption – the sponge – that enabled Jesus’ ultimate cry – but none of these things were what drove my insatiability.
We know – from the gospels – about the blood – spit – sweat and tears of Jesus – but what is not mentioned – not even apocryphally – is another issue – one that occurred – in adolescence – between Jesus and the disciple whom he loved.

 

(Taken from Seeing is Beveiling)

 

To teach is to will that knowledge of the apparent impossibility of adulthood opens onto the possibility of possibility.
If the world had no children, then whether an adult had sense would depend on whether another adult was still, in some sense, a child.
To teach is to invest in such dependence.
In that world – a childless one – it may be that we could not sing any song of the child (silent or sounding).
To teach is to sing, regardless (sounding or silent).
It is obvious that the thinking child, however different she may be from the feeling one, must have something – her body – in common with her.
To teach is to become aware, in the body of the teacher, of the ideal beating of the thinking heart as a pulse for the child to sing to.
To daily immerse the child in song, poetry, art and movement (bodily and mental) is what constitutes a form of unalterable hope.
To teach is to continue to have faith in the possibility of such hope.
The woe and wealth of the world can only determine the potential adult within the child and not any actual humanity. For it is only by means of the child that the adult is represented – only by the conflagration of the adult is the forgotten child brought forth.
To teach is to prepare the pyre.
In a manner of speaking, children are colourless.
To teach is to posit possible tone, hue and saturation until such qualities chime with the child’s indwelling heart of potential.
If twins have the same essential form, the only distinction between them, apart from their external naming, is that they are different.
To teach is to seek out sameness as remarkable.
Either a child has properties that no-one else has, in which case we use a teaching to both distinguish and resemble her from and to the others, thus helping to further her by such gestures – or, on the other hand, there may be several children that have had the whole (of what was once) their unique, living architecture set in common stone, in which case it is quite impossible to educate any one of them in isolation. For if there is nothing to disentangle a child from more or less enforced social tethering, I cannot unbind his knotted-ness unless I first become the knot.
To teach is to therefore render the scaffolding of the child heart-filled as it matures to a unique, interlaced architecture of her feeling mind.
Learning is what subsists independently of what is teaching.
To teach is to subsist independently of an authority.
Learning is both patience and content.
To teach is to wait, contentedly.

 

(Taken from the upcoming To A Teaching)