Conscience

It was as simple as water,
as easy as abc, it will be; first like that,
initiates in the supple threes,
with the conscience stuff, the spinning stuff,
the throwing off and on of energies -

It was simple like spit,
a wound that held a scar over all that was good,
all that was furious about its work.
The crust was nothing but death and more death.
To touch is pain there.

All that old blood is slipping away,
perhaps I brushed against something.
Maybe it was the truth.

Nothing is so simple.
The magic in my mouth, the beauty
in its fashioning, its very thoughts -
all toungue and tooth.
Life is soaking in - via the mouth.
And there I am thinking it the other way round -

	in paper soaked in
	in song most everything
	a complexity - human necessity - 
	yesterday is still hanging around somewhere.

Up early, bathe in a Sun
as yet untreated. That sludge infusion,
wee whirlpools of confusion, that spin-stuff,
all hap-happening, is cooly absent.

Focused minds are one-by-one wakening,
Their tall thoughts swoon
like fine engineering, all Yellow beyond Yellow -
Sun beyond Sun. Makes my belly moan

for simple nutririon -
for the all-over feeling -
an open-pore that lets light in.
I bathe quick and calm.

And if I must distil,
your desires and mine,
then sobeit. 

Complexicate.
I'll be like Jesus.
And you know it.


Cor, 23rd June, 2000