Space

The centre is the centre is the centre of the invisible ‘I’. The looker and the unlooked looking at generalities of looking at the solipsistic centre where a glowing eye beams radial lines out past retinas, past nostrils, past grass, moles, ants and trees, past birds, beanstalks, pylon conductors, nuclear reactors, uranium bunkers, the worlds tallest buildings and seven out of ten wonders of the world, past cycloning interstellar debris, orbiting satellites and cycloning Moon, Sun, Mercury, Venus and Mars and uniquely benefic Jupiter, past the malefic maleific Saturn, past anti-bargaining Uranus, past shape-shifting Neptune, past the cyclonic spin of Pluto, all the way past the Milky Way and Pleiades, cornering infinity, intersecting with some end, the avoidance of Death is the in-perpetuity circle circling cycling cycloning inside an inverted vortex that mistakes spin for motion and motion for advancement and advancements as a flat concentric thing, the art of looking is the warding off the inevitable eating of  the centre, the snuffing of the centre, the centre, the centre of looking out.

Little dot A looking out calculating backwards the location of the centre, who, what, why, I, I, I, I, I, looking out from a comfortably saddled swamp worm, uncoiled, the penis E in the vulva and vice versa, D, a circle on an intersecting stick, the impregnated circle-dot becoming EYE. I begets ‘I’ in four gaits; the open, the closed, the preparing to open, the preparing to close. The W.A.F.E.s in their four; Water, Air, Fire, Earth, a single snaffle bit between their four heads, bridled by a child crying out ‘HYAAA!’ The eye eye eye in the head, heart and navel, lower your eyes when you think of babies, think bottom up, three eyes are better than two half-truth makers conflating singularity where singularity does not exist.

Aristotle’s irreducible elements concur, Water, Air, Fire, Water; coconuts in action splitting hairs, drawing milk, fatting nations, stabilising explosives. Aristotle’s reason in the sidereal lakes, blanketing tiny white light volcanoes, brain; planted cabbage on a long stalk jammed in spinal-juice, sucking electricity from pink digit whorls, in every finger face is a map of the stars and all their relations and inter-relations. From the tapestry of the palms, the head and heart lines, the fraying fate line spit and sprayed by a spitting Mound of Venus severing the Triangle of Mars, finger-limbs one, two, three, four, five, one a head, two a torso, three a heart, four a set of hands and feet, five a conscience to compare. In palms and feet all that is round is straight, igloos laid horizontal to reflect the Moon. Shake hands, clap thunder, grind brimstone, whet the areola. Flaked skin falls scattering ancestors’ tracks traced by star scouts wearing finely strung chicken feathers. 

What is conscience? What is fact? The fingers, the toes, the eye in the forehead, the eye looking, the looking eye seeing past the future, the seeing and seen treading the same thought-rippled desert path. 

Listen. Listen. Listen. Sanity is regulated velocity. Happiness is regulated sanity. Velocity is turning of Yeats’s gyre. Happiness stops starts stops. Spins.