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Pok‘s bokbook at Tribalvoices

A  more uptodate version is at:  http://pookofpok.blogspot.co.uk/2008/11/book-of-bok.html

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bokbook.htm

There was a Thunder beyond the aluminium roof, and we could not see out, so I remembered when we saw the form of the dumbell cast great creeping circles slant-shape shifting with our movement.   The mantle of the brain was cleft and miserable eyes poured down their envy on those aboard the Nargonaut, who, absurd to all possibilities drew close those that would dive into the mouth of a Gorgon.   Souls of old clung aboard their raft of sound, graciously weaving their song to sustain their passage through this broken mind.

For it is the Time of no Time, when clocks go neither forward nor backward.   Opon the prow leans a figure, gaunt and ragged who murmurs some incantation, perhaps a blues, and lightning shapes expand; so in this flash, the others aboard the Nargonaut, a vagabond crew of celebrants are visible.   It is in raging dark we flourish, or a bright invisibility, so swift as a slug to find the rain of sorrow within the life.   And our ship of sound will travel wheresoever it will, and cast a line to all who would, if they would, and so would I and so could you.

Grasping this crystal craft of the love to sadness within Life, we grapple now to convey bright invisible love to you all readers, and would the Nargonaut’s love travel with you and join us there.

So cold were those arms at one time, we contrived to get together and plot a course.   Where to go? In worlds torn apart, we see television eye and take it.   Its power is extreem, cathode control.   And we were cold at this notion, and so joined arms.   What to do?   To hang suggestion on the sky, worry not of how, or why, and weave an invisible antidote, to television contort control.   And though this is wax poetical, who does hear these revelations, for know whose Mother’s call.   Know you, you know everything.   And the celebrants proclaim there is not god who can stand the force of our shattered intellect.   For we bring the Time of no Time, where dwells the Gorgon; and on our craft we will sail, projected by our minds.   And who will say the not?!   And whose will is not altered by Art, our invisible ally?   And who will weave this revelation?   “Why, I”, cried a collection.   “I”, the voices again.   And whose voices were they?   It was that ragged crew aboard their sonic boat.   And their noise was.   And they aimed a ray at television eye, and it reflected pure truth about the land.   So television eye of extreem control began to lessen its grip, and became a less miserable medium.

For there was I, and my name is of Simon John, “The Corn I Swirl” the last name it is.   And for!   I would say this is the Book of Bok, and it be no contrivance of mine, but of Bok’s instead, who met me one day opon a country stile and did leave me, lead me, lent me directions poor, for when it was finished I was well near a peaty smelly bog and way lost.   But I had been told of words by this Bok, and it seemed a significant indulgence that I would write them down as a series of extended visionaries.   For they mark a passing of time, of meanings and non-meaning read into enjoyments, where these crew had gathered and made their Nargonaut.   And Bok filled the Love with his brethe, which was very white as it goes.   And they whisked their sea, schooled on differing methods, but all humming.   And so droning and chiming the Earth and Sky dug the rhyme and produced mighty growth and rains.   And Bok blew his brethe in the ways we are beginning to remember, and the Gorgon opened whiter and the gap between the sounds was wider.   Blessings fell from nowhere in this space and all were charged and invigorated and set about the land doing their deeds like nothing spoken.   And so this new millennium, long seeded, now comes to the Earth.   For Bok is speaking his subtlety, that all should grow in the core of the old, and so round regenerating.   And so, from these words that Bok had laid opon my brain, I, Simon John, was well the very confused!   And yet: he had some form of Vision; the very of the moment, when maybe he is staring aimlessly at his big toe.   Or, perhaps, after a good shyte, when he is reflective.   And it was long after the time when Bok spoke that Simon John wrote down these words here.   For I could not remember the speaking of Bok AT THE TIME.   And yet, in the meanwhile since that meeting, he had continued; and worked; and woven; and span song anyway.   So it has been.   And through many triumphs and downcomings has he come, and on the way met others of the similar experience of the Up and Down.   And it was of his way to tie his shoelaces together as before he was of the going out, and set off in not the way he ought to have been the going of.   And so round the round he went and, yets, DID of the meetings of others similar found.   And these were particularly of those recently taken to the shaking and stroking and the banging types of expression.   And so they formed within the swirls of corns and became We, the crew of this Nargonaut that has made, and here we now sit at the composing of our various artistries and indulgencies, and are of now the celebrating the eating, smoking and dreaming.

For in this dreaming, there is great OUR.   For it is forgotten largely of the when we rode opon the Golden Serpent and founded cultures and peace for peoples.

And now is time for the storytellers to remember the beginnings; for Yo!, Time is stopping.   The more we work, the more it stops.   And tellers of tales speke our realities, make the day we do, and you cannot help but hear.   And the stories sing only one song, and they have come to make the day.   And Tyrant, who was the invisible television, will to loose his of the grip opon the people some mores.   And the Time hold opens more, for now a Hole we perceive ahead of the travelling Nargonaut; song of craft seaworthy, and we crew are of the spiralling into it.   And, realising, the people aboard did feel a great consternation of the belly, for several were holding toxins within their bodies, and these did of the begin to release into the bloodstream.   This may well be the cause for the visions that followed: a collective hallunicogation aboard the ship, as it was swept by into the Nothing.   Bok spoke-with-no-voice and the Hole drew by and the Spiral took the craft, on.   So fearless, the horns various were raised and blown.

And so, eagerly, this Gorgon did of the swallowing.   And it is a terrifying fast descent, into that mouth.   And it is a metaphorical thing indeed.   Blessings accrued when Bok blew his brethe came in the very handy here, for the assembled crew knew not where they were going.   But it was very groovy, because they made it so with with their excellent musik.   So down we went, chanting, beating of the stretched hides, and rather masterfully playing the sacred enbolu.   Of the very much.   And into the And.

This new landscape was much the same as before, yet as it was then washed by the lingering psychedelic residues.   Yet, it was soon plain that all was not as before.   For the crew of the Nargonaut had spun the World into a new expression: with a change of shift had altered workaday reality for all manner of people; but unseen, within the mind.   And fronds of Bok’s brethe grew into new clusters of men and women, and did inspire them.   As Bok had firstly inspired of the Nargonauts (for so they and we were called), who offered his dimensions to folk who could not help but accept them.   And it was that these folk were loved to Worm Hurunagg and were, so, Hurine, sound summoners; before unnamed but now given title by the people of the World, because of their numbers.   And through many such transformations have gone the Hurine, these Nargonauts of the Nargonaut.   And they did of the Enhuruing at first in their hometowns, where the Worm was known Hurnag.   And those of those did cluster round in semicircles and circles also at times, and did blow of the horn of Hurunagus, or Huru, Hurunag, Hurnag; and the mostly of the time a great vibration was to be heard.   And this sound allowed us into and out of our Gorgon Hole, and Yes new dimensions have created!   The mantle of the brain was then split even further, and the Sons of the Moon cried out, and also caused of the Gap to get wider.

And it was with rejoicing that the Hurine debunked from their vessel and went about the towns selling their wares and playing of the horn.   And with this they wove anew! Fabrics rare were woven , most spiritual was their vapor of atoms arrangement.

How miraculous, these stories were blessing the very Life.   Bok’s voice could not be heard, happily burbling the backgrounds.

There were those that spoke in loud voices, and also those that spoke quietly, and both were living on the earth and a-singing of the stars.   And neither of them made much noise, because relevant to their sound was the large throbbing of the enbolu, of the very enticing to the spirit, it being a device of the Great.   And Bok was pleased, for his own voice did harmonise with the other dins, and it was pleasing to his old self.   And Bok was generous to the land and gave many fronds a lending to cause of much greenery.   But, for a while, all was of the rottingness.   And of the ground did sprout much, and it was of the greatly pleasing to all.   And the fronds did travel in the earth, and the through the ground of a coursing to were many a Yew and old Cedar, perchance stones were often also.   And the brethe was very of the rejuvenating.   So it spreading is over the land and bringing much excitements to the peoples thereof of those places.   And they did find (as of the Nargonauts also) that the land did give of them bodily rushes of power through the ventricles, and passages of their beings and so, bodies.   The Nargonauts looked at one another and realised that it was a shared thing.   This frondery of Bok was of great amazement to those Hurine, as they perceived of it, and then were letting it into their own lives (whereso of concerning the rushes) and enjoying the feeling greatly.   And yet, of these experiences, was need to express them to one another, for they were all of the cognition, but that it was of with all of them, they did not know.   So it is of the bright spark made up of the phrases and words to describe of the experiences.   For so many different experiences had the Nargonauts had the having of by now, and it was concern to relate to the one and the other of them, so as none of their number did freak out.   For often, those of the loud voice were to the freaking the out, and it was necessary to be wise to this and to allow doorways to solice for their easy entering to.   The enfreakment was also there for those of softer voice, but of a different way it is, because they are sometimes the nearer to Bok’s voice, and were of the ears the better the using.   And it was that various new languages did arrive, out of some Nowhere’s mouth, and these will be the writing in and of when the one that is I gets round to it.   And he is of the hoping that it is pleasing to those who hear or read it. Huru.

And the Nargonauts found that often it was the particularly at certain places of the earth that Bok’s fronds were to the giving of good rushings.   And it was of great satisfaction that they all did travel to those certain places and went with the Musik and Dance very much, and all that goes with it.   And they did whip it up indeed, though they were not sure what it was, but they enjoyed of the doing of the musiks in those certain places.   And the one named Clive said he would give his own blowing and droning stick to a name, and he did borrow one off Simon John (and as you will see Simon John later did borrow one word from Clive on different occasion) and it made the giver right happy because he named the stick well: And its word is HURU.   Other words were coming into the being after this time also, and we is hoping that you like the thereof.   And the words illuminated the true selves of the Nargonauts, we’ve seen now clearly in this light.   And, one by one, these adventures appear before my mind’s eye, and as Time stops more, I shall of the describing them also.

The Making of the Nargonaut.

And when did this Nargonaut set sail?   When was it we meet and make of the hull, bulkheads and alos the riggings?   What wind powers our sail? Well, it was of certain time after some Gorgon hole, when we had been the travelling together, and of the preparing of our Nargonaut.   The craft was in the building stage.   Was it sound?   The mast true, the rudder sure?   And it was that sat behind the tree in the Pavillion not of Bok’s, but of those of Brightly-Town.

And all did imbibe of the rotted corn and thereafter span off down to the beach, where all of Old Englund were want at some time to wash up.   And thereof they did meet of two celebrants on the pebbles.   Those met before at said moot (where the Simon John had had his birthday), where the one of them was of extremely-out-of-his-face condition, being imbibed of the ouzo and the lettuce also.   And they had introduced already new concepts to the Hurine, such as the making of the Hurunagine spliff.   And they were wont to cover their environments with drawings from within their bright minds, as would resemble their ineer excursions.   And they were of familiar with the rotting corn, too, as stands to reason.   And their names were of Daniel and Lewish, the being the each other as brothers to er.

And then of a time when the one who is doing the writing was of the breaking up with another of the crew, and the last of the romance was falling before their greater friendship began.   Then it was at this time that the one Matthew did arrive; bestraddled with mind-numbing concepts were he, and greatly, lately he did find it good to relate to those that were all so fragmented of the brain.   And the Simon John did mumble, and the Matthew did murmur, too, and then it became the Matthew was known Zegthuuku for his late arrival.   And so he did join in the clank.   Now it was time of great meetings, for it was spoke of beforehand by Clive, who, one day in their dwelling which they called Goathole, had been of the merriment, and named of the Nargourds.   Simon the Corn did twiddle his mind and supposed that Nargourds must be of those that have gourds of which to rattle and that this must be their celebration.   And so they were thought of in the minds, and soon after on the land met.   For down to old Twifor they have to have gone, and there dwelled the Nargourds, for they were in the Onceandforall, protecting of the land and the gathering together and summoning of the Dragon.   And met with Nargourds, the story took on a new turn, as net webs were spun and so turned inside the out and made into real life of the waking dream for people.   So the community wove its dreams into the Day.   And against hard foes did offer resistance like unto poetry, which was used instead of swords.   So the methods of peacemaker were used to win back land from machine’s television eye.   For the land is in peril, and Nargonauts met to tell Nargourds of the Enhuru, playing of the enbolu verymuch and the telling of the stones on special days of the year, when the certain places of Bok become certainly very much of the rushes of the body making.   For the land is in peril, but Bok knows better and, as we travel more deeply, knows we can take more of his generousness breathe.   So at camps of fires around in certain places, where the Hurine can guide his brethe, so there will be change done, thpough it be not see, but of the mind.   But that this is revolution extraordinary.   And television eye was tamed in respect to the Dragon, that golden serpent who came out for the while Hickstead.

Which was very much getting to the time when there was a celebration at the very near, but not in Brightly-Town, where, gathered in sight of television eye and many other car-chained peoples who would go past on the road and be able to see people partying on the land and having a visionary time of it and much fun.   There the Simon John and Matthew did of the trippingly round dawn go, where dervish memories were stirred, and we mazed the fields for a good hour of morning befuddlement and atonements.   And this time was known after as Hickstead, and it is to be greatly remembered, for many parties came thereafter and more are to come.   For now these meetings make the Hole become of the bigger, that more people become of the Enhuru’d. For the more be of the falling in because of its bigness.   And the Hole was of nothingness, and the Hole was of our suggesting and the Hole of Bok was it too.

And then it was of the Nameless One meeting it was.   Who had guided him there was nont, for it was that he came of HIS OWN.   And he was deeply examining his own hands, as of one the rotting corn imbibed sometime earlier had done so.   And indeed, I could relate to that, so came close to him.

“Who are you”, I asked at some point, whereafter he told me he had no name, not of the anymore.   I asked him what was his profession, and he proclaimed that he was a beggar.   So it was decided. And he named himself “Woz” because it was of the easier to use day to day.   And he was given to the amazements, to the speaking of tongues and usage of found items for odd purposes, largely that purpose to aid the Enhuruing.   So it is time to explain of the Enhuruing, say that it is done of either nature or of the Huru, that Horn and that Woz became soon to be the most Enhuru’d man in our experience and beyond, and that he did sup deeply of Enhurument as a liquor to lovely excesses that were only a drop to the Nameless Beggar.   So an enhuru’d one is in a state of amazements, dreameries, perhaps.   And that it is a powerful experience. And I am hoping that this is a bringer of pleasingness to the reader, who should not think strangely of such things.

So to remember, after digression and introduction of some of the crew, we remembered the Nargonaut was metaphorically so constructed opon the beach at Brightly-town, from the array of out-tripped minstrellsy and artists.   The Huru was afore, while the stern was of big for the beatingly Tam-Tam drum and sea the stick ocean sounding shaker, and it was Daniel and Lewish who largely played on these.   And there was a mandyoline also, and other freakeries of percussions, bells and beaters, including the polystyrene cup of pebbles that completely Enhuru’d the author and one other, Dawn she.   And there was incantation spoken down the horn, and the craft of instruments and gay mats, from the Sunday market most probably, sailed through dimensions, oh yes, there on Brightly-Town beach. And people did pass and saw that this vessel was in motion. And the one with whom the closely romantic was of the fading was also well striped, and it was good between of her and the I of me. And the scroll of our thought lay saying “Be free”, laid for hours untouched, frail paper untouched for hours in the light of our collective agreement.   That is, until it was sat opon by Christop, he who was not of the rotting corn, as it was he had had enough of it in the past anyway.   So the vessel was of the really going somewhere, though it moved not at all from where it was.   And people turned their heads and a frog-suited woman came and took photos and then as quickly was gone. But it was good, and the Simon did hear stories from the anchient Greece, picking up the tale once more from the waves of the sea, and he felt of a responsibility to the greater Enhurument of humanity through unopinionated sounds and words non-dogmatised, yet from the anchient. And this be one of the results of this union, the swirling of old culture from the Greek places coming in on the mist of the wave.   For, thought Simon John, there be no time and we could make what time we want.

But the story must be to the continued and so he, the I, did feel some sort of with the responsibility, and he did like the feeling, though it did also of the frightening of him, that Simon John. Eventually, the Nargonaut sailed beyond the sunset, and after dancing in the cold of that time they jigged up and down and then went up to Twenty Three, where it was the Daniel and Lewish did live, and there they played of the Hendrix, Floyd and so forth, drew of their visions, and rolled of their Hurunagine.

And so it is that I have been of the describing various events to do with sailors of the sound choir and some of their adventures, their worlds and words.   The Nargonauts in a nutshell; and now I shall be of the describing more of it.   And when it had been after this Moot, on the twenty-eighth of the Simon John’s birthdays, that being the end of February, where Brightly-Town could come and freely bee with the Nargonauts, who for convenience had called themselves Goats, for sake of day-to-day ease. Yes, after this Moot, a meeting communication, or pot party, there was much a-happening on the happening front about the area.   Friends were met and webs were netted.   It was cold outside, but warm inside.   There were those that danced and those that sat; those talking and those just off of it.   And a vibe was passing round, oh yes, from the street where it was growing, where people were in the days, and nights also, and where these Goats would meet other Nargourds, such as the one we met of name Spyder, who is of special note because of his definitive character.   And these vibes were an expression of special note because of his definitive character. And these vibes were an expression of the fronds of Bok and they made Brightly-Town to be shining so. And there were meetings beetween these Nargonaut Goats, and especially in regard to where they were of a staying at, and the lowlife thereof. Indeed it was quickly they got to work, and wrere indeed offered places in which to stay gratis, which is for free, where the Goats found of everything they did want, which is not much, and the first of these places was the Goathole, already of the mentioned. And one of the people they met, a good friend so it seemed at first, did turn the awfully weird when we did question him about the certain spending of certain moneys, for he was of a saying he needed more of ours for the good deeds he was supposedly most doing us. And he would speak of many things he had done for us but they seemed to us Goats mere philandary, over-ambitious, and not really relevant things at all. So we left him to his requests for money and he is still there presumably. And greatly worthwhile on the other hoof, was those people who did live of the two doors down. For they were also of the musician type people, and given to at the same time occupying their own leisures with certain enjoyable practices. And yet they found profit in it, and we only loss, oh, that is for money’s sake, yet gained for us the exileration of the brain and the instigation of the Hurunagine. And it would be that the Goats would go into the fashionable streets of town, where people were of a walking with their pockets jangling. And the Goats put the Nargonaut to sail often by the side of the road, for this was the way their living was of the making, the practical day in day bit. And from time to time, people would of the passing go, and oft would throw of their coinage. And when this was done, the Goats them make a smile of smiles, for then they can afford what they need. And some days there would be a lot of clatter, and some there would be of the lesser clatter, and the smiles would oft be in relation to the amount of this clatter that there was. And the Nargonauts were not wont to be known as beggars, for they were not, but rather of the kind that entertains and tomfools ordinary people out of their income, but not all thought of it as that they were an audience. Yet, the Goats generally stumbled through to what it was they were wanting and offended not of the very many. And their efforts made of the many people to smile, old ladies to dance and young children to spiral, and all did cluster round their chiming and droning. And many an eye did turn their way, even though the Nargonauts were of their own ragged coloured weathered look, and many a hand throw did of coin jinglings. And there was many a wink from some cute-eyed damsel, some who lingered, some who looked, some who left. And there were many that the Simon John did attempt aquaintence with. And one would go past, of the dark eyes peering, once smiling, often passing without seeming contact. And we came to the knowing of her, for it was she named Ambre, of later Cellestar. The Simon John did at first approach of her after she had been asked of back to the Goathole, because of virtue of her fluttering eyes. She was of the willowy red haired beauty, that much appeals to the Goats. But later of the Simon John he did of the two timing the Ambre to another young lass, and it was luckily they remained friends. And she did love of the Incredible String Bande, of whom also Simon John loved, and she played him new songs, in particular of the “Red Hair”, which much affected his psyche, indeed made him cry. And Ambre was subject of two songs from the admiring Goats, and much food were we indeed the eating of at her mother’s place, which they all warmed to the very much. And it was that after some whiles indeed, the Ambre and the Woz did find it pleasing to be of the close to one another, and, indeed, did exercise their choice with one another and the withall that goes with it. And it was notably so when the pair came to the Western Woods, in the Kennet of the Earth Mother. But of this, later. So, there, clustered loosely were those of the Nargonaut about the town of Brightly, and they were of such persons here: Clive, the old one who blows of the horn, and Christos, he who uses his hammers opon the instrument with many strings which everyone asks the name of. Along with the Simon John, these three had made a music sound, along with others before, who had fallen off along the wayside. They had been in the circle of corn on the seventeenth of the Augustine, but were though not of the rotting corn, but there unto a like to it there was. And these crew who had been at the Camp of Friars in differing enebriations, and playing music not the much together of, though it was fun. And near to the by where they were living we all remember the meeting of the black haired one who we all do fancy, but whom is a crabby sandwich if you get on the wrong side of her, and a velvet lovely if you are of the right way stroking. And she is of the inconfidence of most all about her that is distinctive, or that it is she does, but that is her way, it being her is of the yound side and also that she conveys that she is older than she seems, which she is not. But she is good with the shiny clatter that folk give us, and for this, Simon John is glad, for he is not of the good with it. And he does love her, this Ka, more than he thinks he knows, for she was there at the undoing of certain emotional enwhorlements dangling tangling his own life still. And he thanks her, and she beats the drum, clacks wood and does of the singing and storytelling for the better than she realises.

Of the Matthew, known as Zegthuuku for his tardiness, it has been explained of the great already, but now to say his expertness of things technical is greater than most of us, and he is the greatest of the cheese bringers to come sailing. There is of the Lewish and the Daniel, dandies of the corn, in their colourful array, also Woz, our barometer of Enhurument. And not withstanding, the young Benjemen, an adamantly Enhuru’d man of great passion for the smoking mixtures, and with a good nose for the finding of it, even if, it seems, one’s mixture is hidden away from investigating nostrils. Aye, the lad has a twist for the rolling. Given also is he to the frolicking about the land, and of the being confused, though he is of a more together disposition than this author. He met me as I slept beneath a large stone at Solstice, and did give of me paper to eat, so that when dawn came round, it was extra colourful and potent a sunrise, and we did imagining of the earthworks of the Mother where we were, and what they could do. And this was at of place men call Avebury. But of this later.

Now there are others on this ship, including the one Melan, who is lying here reading of the Irish poetry. She is of the coming into the crew and of her own origin and freedom herself, and who knows where the craft a-goes. And she is sitting and a giggling to her book, and I know note really where she is a coming from. And she was of the met at the big fayre, which Bok did lead his Goats down to, though they were none of them particularly the wanting to go. But of this big fayre I will also the speaking of, do in a while.

Others still have come and gone, for the Nargonaut is a spinning orb which attracts and repels, some quickly, some not, some sticking, some orbitting, some curious, some irritating, all hurued.

Visionaries and madmen, and who says which which, genius and crazed, all in the same asylum. Bok blesses them all, and like the elements of rain, has thrown them all at the Nargonaut in his wisdom.

For the words of madmen are often true, as are the wailings of paranoics. But it is said that the Goats do of the droning more than many, and so do vibrate all thought forms, sane so-called, or otherwise, does embrace all different consciousnesses and wrap them all up as one and individual also, into one mulsh of healing.

“The sound, I hear a new sound”, one of these did say to me and the others. And he would seem a pleasant fellow one minute and a demon the next, especially when you were expecting him to appear and say it, he would. And he did hear a new sound, or had ears old, old to still be cute to the echo of the old hills and their peoples.

For the music returns, and Bok’s people play it.

And I of the vision had I whilst at the Hickstead of wanting to vomit and expel my dung, and the vision was of many peaceful celebrants, all souls coming down unto the grooving. And as this eye had the seen also on the Tor at Glastonnbery where hallooeen had made people rave to the mandyoline, and it was a new old sound, and Simon John would lay the rock and roll to bed.
For the music returns
Bok and Marc Bolan
Smile in the sky
For we are their people
In that only they instigated

And the pleasant fellow was right, though he went very much of the weird, and the nearly of gave Simon John a broken jaw, for he was gurgling right violent my way and being much of a pain to us all, and imitating old tribesmen shamen was he of the not very well doing. But Bok’s love is opon him also.

And there were others, all the time!

Yet it seems now we are of the meeting of a better class of madmen, and I would give a thankyou to one who indeed shares my own first name, and he being a close friend of the Melan.

And he was at the of the Glastonnybery Fayre, a full of the rantsome sounds of voice, wailing righteousness and weirderies that quite honestly are of my own bread and butter. And he did of the attentions greatly demand of the crew of his own craft, which was of a circus nature, but not of the animals, but of the humanity and their own crazed inventions of entertainings and sights stimulating to the mind and body.

And this other Simon had gone off of it the somewhat, and declaimed the moon from the sky and would have tied himself to the back of a moving chariot and so be dragged if he could have had an audience.

Yet he see very much the clearly, so it takes only a bit of the proximity for me to perceive, see and doubly say I see the truth in such crazed eyes.

It is of the obvious, and it was of he Nile who of the largeness is and did sit opon this new Simon and holler at him of his OWN madness.

And I thought of them the twain that they both liked of the attentions, and why the not?

Bok glorified himself above at the doings of these mind enraged citizens, and is demanding that those of the Nargonaut encourage wider society to be more of the madness inclined.

And that there is not word adequate of Englund for this, Melan has chosen to call of the state of so-called madness, ‘of the Enhurangement’. And why the not?

And in the recent past it was that the madmen would preside over the lawmaking and juristiction of the land and it is beginning that it will be of the enhuranged who now do these things; and they will be of the wearing twigs in the courtroom be, yet but these hairpieces will be wicked to look opon, and that those courtimen will be of the profoundly galactical minds, openly, instead of privately debauched, and given to the art of communications manifold in soorder to assertain whatever Truth is needed to be found. And their courtroom will be of the possible theirin to hear all speak in time, and also, there will be space for entertainments to be had and Bok will pour his spirit essence on all that are found there to have done unseeming deeds. And the better class of madmen will arise from the tangled mass of people who are not of the subtle enough to hear of Bok’s voice, (though he be bellowing) but for whom hiss vibration is steadily becoming impossible not to heed.

And those of loud voice will soon find themselves to be of the horse.

And dangerous scriptures that mislead of the people will burn of their own according and only bits that were unspoken, unwritten, will be of the remaining.

And where they speak judgment opon those with immoral sexuality, there will instead be of a deep and reaching fundementmost understanding, leading men and women to look at their own darknesses, and the need for the groping and the fornications. It goes alsoes here with those who selleth their bodies in a temporary fashion for the pleasure of others, that it is a delicate matter how people do choose to go about making their living yet but that Bok splutters at the prudity of men.

And when mentioning murderers, then there shall be very deeply reaching struggle of spiritis, for it shall be uncovered who are the true murderers, for there are those of the madmen who get away with it big time for it is their profession.

And the people of Bok stood opon the Earth and acted of their poetry, so their words were of the doing.

And the Golden Serpent was of the arising from the land and of the bringing the land into a new understanding of itself, an new existance, whih is in the present of-a-generating, and which will go on into the new.

And the efforts of the Hurine and Nargourds was of a spreading across the land, as it was of Bok’s fronds, that made to life all sorts of unexpected things.

And the crew of the Nargonaut had sailed into the Gorgon mouth of a tremendous happenings, and it was so of the catalyst effect across the land.

And people did notice, and these moments were of the times of year respected of old, but recently forgotten.

And a design for a new world began to form out from a convulsion of warring societies, but that it seemed OUT THERE was not of the case, but rather it really was WITHIN THE MIND and that the barriers and hanged ups of the brain were of cause of the warlike problems, and Bok was of the knowing all of this, and approved of the loosening up of the minds of his peoples.

And Bok’s image dissolved again and again into the horizon, and he was of the filling of the land with his voice, which vibration would build up and up and become indominitable in its invisibility.

---

And so Bok had leered into the minds of the Hurine, and given of them visions according to their stature in enhurument, and form these people, in their various ways sensing a new order of old returningness, sighed a sigh of relief that their spirits would be allowd to fly and break the harmful shell of which had grown in the people and in their habitat.

And their habitat was the Earth

And the land is in peril

And our life is the Earth

And this is now, reader

And out of several separate visions, those enhurued by Bok’s voice vibration, did of the re-examining of their beings, and seeing and feeling that the more of this kind of thing there needed to be, set about and eventually sailed of the Nargonaut, which is already of the described and a cencept hopefully established in the mind, perhaps even the heart of the reader.

And the Nargonaut can set sail at any place, wherever it is so needed to be. For it needs not water or roads or sky for the travelling, for it anywhay goes of the everywhere, by virtue of being what it is.

And all time and choice dwells on its deck.

So it is all greatly pleasing to the Simon John, who is want to join the sons and daughters of the moon, and open the mind with the singing and joyous being all the more.

For Bok knows, this is a time spoke of by seers and prophets, where the man becomes to his own and unties this knotted brain opon this suffored earth.

And all will be of the greenness, because, unknotted we say it so.

And whatever is said will be true, yet the better class of madman will be speaking the more of the softly voice.

And Bok will be of the dissappearing and reappearing so people will know of his voice

AND MORE know of its quietness, and so more carefully said are the words of these happier madmen, for they see of the effects that their words make, that there are words to mend and words to break. And the word is enough.

So Bok blows brethe to the Nargonaut’s sail.

The Nargonauts raised their gourds

They began to shake

And so rhythmically

Ushered in

The new

Day Dawn

And this Simon John pauses in the writing, and has cause to look back down the line of his life.

So it fills him of a great enthusiasm as he is looking at the length of it, of his dreams and what has mustered from them.

How it was Bok that whispered in his ear early on through old stones and the words of friends, to whom he is extreemly the grateful.

An he sees of his unhappiness, which is oft of the not following his own deeper feelings, and of his art as it has come of looking to see what it IS and what is NOT that stirs so deeply. And always such unhappfulness is of his doing. How he has of his imagicraftination caused of the dragon to stir, and peoples; places, to come rising from his words and movements that others may see them and enjoy the sights.

And of how he has wished deeply from a time of knowing before he was born.

And of how he has wished deeply of a knowing of the time he is born in.

As if informed before birth of a time when men whould not be warring, But weaving a great love.

And in life, he sees how there are wars, and has through time stoked the fire of his word-potency, so as to trip everyone who comes the near right the out one way or anothermost. And to attract those of the same ability to the weaving of words also. And how he was sad when it repeatedly did come of the musicks also, and then go. But as of Bok’s true voice, brethe, vibration, speaks far more the comprehensible than any book, and that it wishes to flow freely from my plectrum, pen and voice, must mean that others also hear.

And this a few years ago was a thing that happened not so much the apparantly.

But that people would call it of the ‘cosmic’, and largely make of it a joke.

But how now his spirit is within the doing of our workaday chores and our aspirations also-all tasks and endevours are filled with brethe, andnow the world vibrates the more soundly and resonantly for this pouring of his love.

So we have formed of this Nargonaut as we of its boards are coming to our own versions of life that essentially contain of the same thing.

And Bok is wild
And Bok is nor good nor evil
And Bok is maker, breaker
with an appetite for enlarging and slithering back again.

And our spirit fills the cathode ray tube and fires the eye of television
with visions
So has Bok trickled in his brethe the bit by bit
And the Simon John will the live to make it pour.

And I would be of the saying that it seemed to me eveything was of the falling apart. Of the emotion this was bourne, it was confusement for the Simon John of the pretty eyed kind, and not of a deeper dilema.

For within his ken, he did perceive of deep things doing, moving to a new perspective, simply where minds might be more free. And he cannot quickly explain what he means, but for the slowly, yet that is what Bok’s Book is the for.

And some say that Aquarius is coming, and Simon does like the sound of it, so will help it with the in.

And with confidence he has blown his mind apart for youall, such is my wont, that I may see what is deeply within this shattered realm all about. For minds that think only are NOT MUCH USE in such zones as these.

And Bok lay at the depths of this ancestral vision, and did grin at me, and thereafter kept of the popping up everywhere, so as I were to be of the reminded.

And he was to show me much of the underworlds, strange palaces beneath the mind of the earth, encrusted with jewel gems and fantastic dark energies.

And Bok folded his wings to the wind and showed me to a place where was also a part of the mind; a door with chains, and I saw his brethe, and the door did become of no door, chains broken and no walls for theneed of door either, and on above the door had been written “God” in varius names, but forsuch are belitteling concepts when in compared to the active nothingness that is Bok.

And I was in this situation. I say “I”, by which “I”, I mean my dismembered entity – my soul of a travelling to where this Bok did show me.

And I was curious of the person of Bok, for long had It been since his tremor spoke to my being, and long since then that I made sense of it, let alone know that it was a voice. I made up that it was Bok, and after that it was long toill when he appeared to me at last.

And what did he look of?

To me he was like anything else, for I of such appearances am the well acquainted. But he was unto the rocks and stones or as old bones in the hill, or an echoing cave – some moss drenched ravine where esounds the voice of some monster imagined.

And I saw him, and that he was of all I could say the leery eye, and of the horns also, and was of the constant shape-shifting – a here and there and round-a-swirling, but very very real and deadly alive when he was all a manifest.

And he was difficult to look at because he was not a common sight, but it seemed a thing of confidence, for the fellow didn’t seem seem to want any harm to be offering; but that he was of a fearsomeness to behold.

But that he was big, and of the horrors looking. And he was sometimes surrounded by the concentric circles of glowing stuff, like any ionion. Yet he was a good enough likeness to a devil or a balrog, that might be contemporary names.

And the gender was surely of the masculine – I could tell that for sure. And when he spoke it was deeply murmerous, and in this certain vision-space he took me to, his voice could easily be heard, where normally I would have to be of the quiet.

And he spoke of many sided things
Dimensions of possibilities
And a dream for an earth in peril
Of abject healing
Of growth unbounded
Of the unleashing mind.

And I most forget – but the feeling is enough – of the warming of the gut, to the unwinding of ‘hibitions, and expression of one that is the dark side of us. Which for me is far the more interesting, for it is of the imagination, dreams and new creation, whereas in light all is clearly seen and without mystery.

And we dipped into old soups of life and had many other curious times.

And it was that Bok wanted to be a music man, but had not the capability, so had asked of me to assemble others that he could plug his fronds into our being and raise the roof of the sky with collective sounds and energies. And I said I could not help him, for of the past, I had tried and failed, but Bok was of the giving me confidence and I was of the shirking responsibility, and he was of the leery eye, that penetrated me so that I was uncertain of what might come; but filled with hopes. But then, as now, I was not believing I was the worthy of Bok’s Band.

And yet time has shown me how his words speak true through seeming blocks and impossibilities, for in the corn swirl we were formed of the Nargonaut, and so seeming by chance had come to gather of the musical diatonic soundwarps.

Then Bok was of a looking me sharply in the eye and said to me: “Simon the John – you will rot and die and what you make of the world will remain, fading behind you. Yet though your body will ultimately be blown to the wind, your words shall live on. And you should know that I am one of your thoughts, and I have a life that continues – and that you should not get hung up on the reality of me – for I am but one of many, one a mentor to you, and to others, but in different forms, all the same. I will not be contained, but that I live within you, and am named Bok of no name – because it is Bok you have named me.

People hearing of me should listen carefully, and if they are wrong-minded I will scare them. For I have been given the wrong name for long times, and it is misleading to peoples. But now I am portrayed in a better light. Now I can spread my wings, open my eyes and be of myself in my manyfold forms. The scriptures of many countries speak of me, but I am generally miscast.

I am known Bok to many countries and I have horns and a hard dick most times.

What I am is of no name and no voice

I am beyond opinions

I blow out masks with blatancy and can hide behind a reed What you think of me is what you think of YOU

Now, meet my mother”

And with a twist of his mind, Bok made me to look away to a place where suddenly I saw an enormous quim coming to engulf me.

I was spiralling towards this cosmic vulva, lit with stars and swirls, and I could not go any other way but into it.

And it was very warm and very cool.

And Bok could still be heard:

“The balance is always” And I saw his leery eyes.
“This book is forfeit you write” And he was of the hardened doing.
“Listen, Listen, Listen so carefully Simon John”

And it was that I forgot his words for twenty years.

So of my life I am coming to the writing of stories, of an extreem existance in the mind.

So I would write of stories that ran into one another, whose characters were intermingled. These stories would always bring me to a happiness, and I sublimely say they represent aspects of myself. Never!

They gave me life and fill it with best schooling. Tales of Jacob and Alice, of Vortex Joe and Goatkin, Sun, Moon, Earth and chameleons.

It was Clive who, as has been said, named his horn a huru.

So the storys met the music and the stories start where the music finishes. An it is an extraordinary thing, a story told and this has an effect on everybody present. It binds, it winds its mystic cloak around gathereds And is of no separation to the environment, the life and events there.

Like the concentric circles around Bok are the pulses of the talking voices as the tale is told. Phasing with purifying truth these waves do travel from the bell of the digeridoo as well.

And by campfires one can speak to the local sun, so close are the also the stars, friends. And all of a Universe will gather to watch and hear the bards as they hold attention.

And that person can then do what they likes

So blow of the huru

And all are tranced, joined beyond opinions of bard or bok

So the dreamtime goes

And as we craft it

We work our healing

And for the Space Goats and Bok are of the mind to activate the veins of the earth with musics and celebration.

And Bok knows his voice and its fronds sending

And there will be of no wars

And it will be of a struggle to wonder

Because this is how the story goes

The horn blows and everything changes

Our will to full fill Bok’s wish

So said Nargonaut

And make Bok smile.

IN THE QUIM

The brethe to speak through the air in its clear lines, to the places where people gathered for ages past.

And the clean whispering licks the land to life.

So the people are received of the rushes –

which there is nothing like.

So a communication had travelled between the Simon John and the forms of Bok.

And it was that Simon John was beset then of the gurglings, where he did froth of the eyes, be girating of the hips, flailing of the limbs with a-wildly wailing spluttering head to boot.

And it was within thes fits, which the Simon John did wait for of a long times with anticipation, that he so received of the parts of vision obscured.

There the mythic lane where he would walk in terratories prophetic. And up he goes along the mud, cut with tyres of machines, and a greenery abused growing about. And there was a feeling of some empire waning, strangulated most slyly foul

And what hands did this?

And Simon looked into down his hands at, and these did terrify him, as his eyes unfiltered saw down many ages, where he had owned similar hands.

And some hands had done of the healing, some of the working, some like Bok of the mending and some of the breaking, and many of deeds most unvirtuous.

And he saw the veins and sinews of those hands, and he saw down the cells, shifting and changing as I watched, seeing lifetimes thousands opon thousands, and of what varied deeds I had done in them.

And as I was staggering up this mythic lane of lives and looked up from mine own hands and there were a tree, beset with skulls in that wood where we were, not carved there by hands, but grown of the wood.

So it leered at me, these many skulls, and they seemed to search me out in my mind, which was of the focussed in prisms.

And in the tree there also seemed many books to be there, somehow speaking and a turning of the pages, licking as Bok himself with a thousand tongues and of a caves and deep places in the wood, also caverns of wood where fungi intelligent ruminate and send out their strange.

And how from these depths, a story sense did arise, a brethe of depths of the deep kingdoms old.

And how I looked at the tree and was not of the surprised, save till I met the brethe speak, as it held me instants in its anchientness And how horrified I was at its age And how I knew it knew me And how I knew I was that old, but of how I felt an unfathomable respect of those many years.

The vibration of communication was as a tremor in my being, deeply it grappled with myself, and satisfied of the prisms within.

And I was stood before the tree, and that it respected of me, that I was of the inclination to use this precious vision.

Then the arms of the tree gestured out to the lands about, and I saw how there was an illness there, of a greenness contrived by mind of men, and not of the greenness grown.

And this was a sight I had known all my waking life.

A vapid world, slighted and drained of its joy by minds a given to the profit-making. One that I understand because of lives when my hands worked there, but which seemed sense at the time, but now, because of causes continuance, and the blossoming of this pollution mind, I could not the tolerate and would spend the life to let the green return to its own. And the tree knew of my mind and threw to a new place where I met of friends who knew my present hands.

And of my mind, I would strive to be of a me, in that a me wants an open consciousness. And the tree knew this.

And I did meet with those friends and family from a mind belonging to the culture of God religion. And they were of a loving friends and close, so close it does of burn me to the love.

And how our love was impeded methinks in my exploded mind, by the nuggets of faiths different.

And my faith is of a nothing that was not there before, of the essence Bok brethe, he of the no name.

And the faiths all methinks were given through lifetimes unsatisfied, unearthed, a contrivance of concepts a holding not of the water, and of a floating above the ground and the not quite Earth-kissing, yet it was of a truth, sure, behind the symbols, but of the symbols did cause of much confusions, and the names were of some true name, and not of the no name as Bok’s was unmade of, before we made such things to suit our purposes. And it seemed I had a gift, and my eyes went from the gift to the surrounding land, which was ill and drained and of the pale green grasses unwell.

And I could see that my friends saw not Bok, but did, I know, see me as holding Bok’s face, yet our friendship remained, though they were not of the understanding. And the true depth of it was not reached, but that there was still communication.

And I thought they thought me devil, and they did not see of my gift, which I did not know of either.

And the books of the tree were many, and now the prophet of these scriptures spoke as one many voiced orchestra, with harmony and dissonance.

And my friends did of an ear hear.

And it did a rip off the lid of the mind.

And we saw the hands of ages

And their eyes and mine became of stars.

To see what stars see.

And it was all left behind me then ande there was more gurgling for me but I cannot remember of it.

Open, a glint of light to the retina, the cherubim had their harps out indeed.

I moved my head and shots of pain ran through me. For hours I lay still, half awake and a song sung itself to me.

“There is a sound which has no ring at all

There are some times when sorrows are filled with joy

Earth and sky, one human cry

Wrent from thorat of mine

And what of this sound which quakes vibrations none
The silent voice that echoes and then is done?
And what words strike strange chords
Speaking from heart of mine

We had made a secret vow
And now it comes to light

Around the sun were gliding the angels of light
Beneath the earth prayed denizens jewelled might
Take this gem, here and then
Never here at all

I came to my senses a lying on the grass
Discovering through heaven’s dark I’d passed
Sand and sea, mystery
Ebbing in eye of mine”

Open. The one ray of light was nourishing,
And I was once more in the hard world
My eyes were aching now, and not too pleased at this opening. Yet, rarely were they pleased anyway at anything, or yet it seemed that way at this moment in time.

This particular moment could have been one, or several different points in time. The author is not exactly sure when, or how old he was. But yes, it was definately this incarnation. This lifetime.

It is a waking up. I hate to call it a rebirth, because it has grown fashionably so to be rebirthed, but then I have called it so.

So much then passed before my eyes. Memories of my life which have meaning to me. Fragments, inaccurately remembered, scenarios juxtaposited to the sound of strange, half remembered songs, and the feeling of the gut or tiredness of limbs.

Any instant of life my friends! Unplottable! Infinite! Forgotten, inaccessably intricate and immediate! And these were playing on my eyeballs in this waking moment of life, whatever it the was.

Open; the world feated opon me with its flies. Where I was could have been a lake, a green verge, a desert, a carpark, a skislope……I don’t remember, but it was an eye-opener.

THE RANT OF SIMON

And I woke with a bang, an unpleasant surprize as the world greeted me.

It was somehow known in me already, that of the world was not like in the textbooks, It had worked that one out.

It made me surly, this world. It didn’t match up with the dream I could dream.

And so I of a strived to bring my dream into my day.

And some call this being an artist.

So yes, I had rejected of the learning which I was schooled of, well, much of it.

And somehow I joined with others and we would have fun.

But these preliminary Nargonauts were, though interesting, inferior, provisional. Only time weirdness could have assembled the craft that we now travel.

Sculpted by the times, with expression’s snout and beauty’s ugly boards.

Primed for this time, mercilessly relevant and cunning to the need.

For; a world with no war.

And why war?

Sure because we have chosen it from our poorer dreams.

And what dreams?

Surely one’s mind-clutter.

Realize     Dreams are life   Arts are part     More

Than you think

And so     With cunning     We can       Guile you to peace

Eventually

With image and sound

Just as one has been tricked to the trenches before
Convinced that it is one’s right
To do away with
this or that life.
One has believed   And another, another.     So; now we know the result.

But imagine it different

Not “Can we stop this war”
We can stop this war
We strive to bring our best dreams into the society we are
For who is it who does the ill?
He says, “It is she” she says it is he, they say it is you, you say it is me, I say we say
We Love!
And it becomes.

So, Bok is of the greatly smiling, and we see of his slime happily drippeling.

And that will be the first thing.

And then the Morgan’d Pugh did of a name give me of them Space Goats

And they came
And brought word where there was no sound.
And they’m a purpose built
Cyborg-goat
Mashed by Space

And Bok’s brethe was of Morgan’d Pugh as he spake
And the cousin Dianelle did instigate with sticks
A deranged music with the Simon John, a bleating strings.

*[And them were Space Goats

Who praise Namorata
And, tho untold, all dove
into the mouth of Hurunagas (or fell clutching) the Worm a horn to later blow.

To cause change we would refer to as form
enhurument,
the enhuruing done of the huruhorn.

Where the enhuru’d mind will become so when perceiving the huru horn blown and so in this be called as ‘Celestine’, when the person is goofy-headed, amazled and new.

Whereopon this is being a state of non-action, yet; preparation.
And as the music trance depthens, so one becomes the more and more Enhurued.
Whereso as one may well find oneself to be a Nargourd.
So well to ye! And do so seek out gourd and shake it!
Perhaps to clamber onto the Nargonaut!
So bleed us not, for we are Hurine
Those who praise Namorata     “Hurunagas!” we cry
You know why you remember
In deep ancestral dream.
We will trip you forever]*

And a new old will be the remembered, guarded by our errors’ love,

And so will build that dome in air
That sunny dome, those caves of ice
And spoke of William Blake also,
This age
Now ninetee three
When the Nargonaut sails
For such is date
To stir you up
For Englund become
And our vow is come
Made to our lives, my ‘hands of old’
And all our agree be
That we enhuru the earth
Calling with the didgeredoo,
Make links of dreamtime
And sing.

And so is sung no war

And so no war begun

So lying on this grass, Open were my eyes
and I saw above me and below me the opening galaxies.

And of a spiralling we were to go
And this forced through a new dawn

And this were to be called ‘Spiros’ because of the Greek in the Croydon Cartoon.

And at such moments there should be the playing of the enbolu, that harp, horn and smoking bowl favoured by the Nargourds………For it is encalming to the nerves and enervating to the Spiros.

And the frequencies are beneficial,
as Knights aeolian know. Show! Show! Show!

Let us generate Owmoho

Thereafter the Matt and I set off to the Redhill Cross and were cellestine and did compose of a radical ballade to bespeke of the goings on down whar of the Twyfor Down, and whereby the singing of, we might become enhurued.

And these sounds did enjuru of the people about and also of the Matt and I.

It was of a bouncing rhythm, and we bounced into the new and sung it after times as it did go catchingly along, so as to snatch others up in the thingful rhythms as well.

Or as the time when we were cellestine on the time at Twyfo monastry, and rushing I to the Maidstone.

Of Inamorato!   Stories told Saganuru!

Splatter the M4 with Kaftan
Say the madmen
Sing by the fire   Sing of Dragons
Songs of deeds   Sung of serpents

Racing down to the cutting where the Dongas used to be and is now chalk. Trespass!
An earth, scalped of its life for the profit of a few. Confused guards stumble about confiscating the land that gave them birth, caught by the need to protect their children, tricked by employees, whom themselves are ensnared……and by whom?
May Bok smile opon you all and pour down his rancidity.
He is goading you all with his goat-bladder on a stick. He makes y dance but y don’t know why.
Makes you fly, and dare, yes, to be that high.

And of these places and deeds, greatly was the enhurument, and many people felt of it and were changed within the mind.
And this did resonate much around the people of the land, where Bok’s word was unspoken and knitted unseen, a fabric of life, quite fresh.
Of events, of people, ears and eyes. A communication through the muslins of existance.
And carefully, carefully, the brethe of Bok, of life and spirit, is of the spreading around liberally.   And who knows where Bok’s brethe will travel, and how.     And what influence it has,     Whose ears will prick up.

Oh!   La!   Lah!

CELESTINE

Cellestine, they make their way Brothers to the water To cleanse the crystal in the head Still in silent laughters

The drop into the forehead
Silver people roam
To lace the time with story-rhyme
And drink the river’s daughter
Drink the river’s daughter.

Pyramids within the mind
They walk the crystelline
And trade their scarlet thoughts for talk
Or wisdoms from the grail

Tower stands against the sky
You people are not there
Stones old voice speaks of an age
The brothers hear and reel amazed
The brothers hear and reel amazed

Wind through stone; your eyes and ears
The time has come; Wonder begun
(They break their fast)
Now to be
Now to be
Now to be

So those at first stunned and cellestine would soon find themselves greatly enjurued, and, moved by Bok’s inaudible musics. And these would of the show others. And as is said, who knows where the huruing goes, who knows where his sound, all at once in many places somehow, does travel
through stone
into ears.

New born cellestine pilgrims travel the odd new road to enhurument.
Which is a very sociable thing, of the entrancing, inclining one to celebration and spirited cermony on the places of the earth.
Yet an odd old road, where spirits Hurine firstly lonesome go explorative in their varius ways.   And Hurine now cry out to one another

Peace!     Dance!     Be!

***And it is!***

The Hurine meet and moot, and a great celebration do cause (but not organize).

And all come down like waters   Drops and drops joining

So the Nargonaut is sailing for this purpose. And many come along. All kinds come. Some are so, some are so. All different ways be they, often with a difficulties of the life. And so this causes reaction and ripples. And oft the Simon John found them of a right pain in the arse because of the way they ate of the foods and used of other goods hard worked for by the Nargonauts.

And they would of a hang around
And a be of the ever so friendly.
And so be it, but they had all of the stomachs that liked of the feeding, and mouths that would help themselves to the chewing but not to the accumulating thereof this food.

So the Simon John was the somewhat right reserved towards this lot, and looked into their minds to easily see their insecurities, perhaps on occasion to appeal to it. (Because he was so of the pissed of) and that if not the Nargourds was of the careful, they would rot the very boards of that overweight Nargonaut.

But all that came were not of this leech-like variety. But that there were good souls, accustomed to the sharing and level-headedness, of insight and spirituality. And that these few were worth many of the leech-like ones and the meeting of them was great relief.

And reassurance that others worked of the same path, but different footfalls, was there. And that these are name Hurine, those also yet of their own names.

Those that trip you forever

May Bok carry us all through glades of id-splattering starstuff and with love find fields layered with feathers for you to rest a while in creation of the new.

And so love.

And at moot, these hurine (of names differing) started to come together and plot a way to huru.     How the story could be properly told         To effect planet peace
How the dance was for proper dancing
And the tune for a well calling.

For it was that the earth wanted this, and also was singing to her troubadours; so the hum, beginning quietly, spread around.
And the Nargonaut, this ship of sound is a vessel for the spreading it about.

And as said, set about the doing.

So in the ninetee three did many much occur among the peoples Nargourd, and their once and for all protecting of the land, that is in the peril.

An at the Twyfor Down of special place on the earth and of special time of year, the Space Goats did a crawl onto the place where there were Nargourds and it being spring and the time of Beltane they told of the first story about their lovely Namorata, to the Nargourds who were all a wondered at the ladies’ virtues, and with harp and word, were all the enhuru’d, as the   Frogs of the Loving Tofu music band had done so on the previous full moon.

And the Nargourds were of a protecting this special area on the earth, and their action has an enlarging effect on the opinions of those all about the world.

And perhaps the hurument is empowering
Maybe the musicks inspire
For it seems when celebrations are high,
The Dragon is well summoned
And guards evil-minded do quake in their booties

Though they try not to show it.

Oh Hurunagas! Saganuru! We cry.

For our actions of ninetee three must go forwaurd into the new year

And of this year, especially around the time of Solstice of the Sun, great musterings of tribal people there were.
For as legends of the Dragon Wyntun of Twyfor goeth:

When the Worm turns his head in the hills Old tribes will remeet, through lifetimes spent apart.

HEAR this, readerFor out of a thicket crawls, sprouting words of a magicks potent an a broth to make tremble all believers of shaky dogma, Alexi, from the Gorgon mouth she comes, a tower to us all, poet herbswoman.
And she was of a masterful way with the fronds of Bok, for with him, Alexi was the well acquainted.
How she works his sublime fibres
It is a joy to know the woman.

And I wonder where on earth it is I know her from.
She is skyweaver, firebreather And how I wonder what songs she would inspire
And how her Dragon stalks with its paper mache head As she cries from its mouth

She rallies and spokes of the fronds well and true And the people did understand of her

And between her and the Hurine, Nargourds all, there were massy thronging. A great unplayed song new from its old-time burial Come once more on the land.
A scheme that penetrate the love of the Sun and rayn down blessings of gold lotus from Bok’s pavillion.

So whar of sung song Saganuru, Og of old, and the meeting of the goat and the lizard.

An the two snake sounds coiling the huruhorn

Of Hurunagas, Hurunag, Hurnag,
That Worm of Earth.

For that Worm brings of new treasures from the garden of life. Of culture, friendship, health. Of travelling even to the land of the Dead!
And other planets.

All knows eye
Of We

Joined in Huru

The huru comes of its own. In this space
For when peoples are encircled
that the stories are being told
that seals a bubble!
Form Bok’s body now becomes an egg,
This concentric sphere
Coleridge sayed Xanadu
Where maenads surround with glistening waters and such petals fall.

For we have goed down to the circle of stones and a played music while there beings of a dance in a spiral begins.
An we have danced faster and white flies Bok’s brethe.
And how it tongues the land, spluttering voices that cry the earth’s backbone.

And that this does somehowes
Activate the earth
That Dragon
And make him well and make her rise.

And lick with flames
Joy our heart
For faith and courage
Are of Bok’s cuddling.

And of our plan is to ignite careful love
Through dance in these centres of stone all
Across the land, from Winchester and out.

Whar so at Avebury this yar, many had encome to the Avebury earth mothover, and how in instants of the Ben with the Simon John, and of the eating of the scriptures which were as honey to the taste and enwazzlement to the senses.
And so the mantle of the brain of we was torn apart most adroitly.
And for that all present fall gleeful in
And for that is enhuruing as pertains to that huruing from Nature
So the Sun is come up and we sit with in its heart, with the flames caressing us hotly so. Hear that this place is no other than Here
And so dance, dance on the body of the earth mother. Patter patter our feet.
And further our spirits extend into the earth soil and so cradle and be papoosed within the ether-wickerworkings of Bok’s fronds.
And how of a resonatious this is to our spirits
And in the earth it connects circles.

Of stone,   corn,   folk.

(Who will no doubt resolve the problem of their quarrels.)

For the Worm’s name gift is celebration
And if she comes none can falter.
Save into her loving mouth.

And so round becoming, as sweltering height of dance is reached
and all froth at the eyes of healing, so cleansing of poison’s residue.
And charged by the flushings of earth energy, these ‘rushes’ we speak of; all people as we would say ‘enhuru’d’, find a joy and resonance, sense and rounding of life.

So Simon John knows well you have your own names for these things, perhaps untested, so also calls you to dance!

For he is filled with the rushings!

And before his eyes he does see Hurunagas, thus named by Inamorata. Raised! Now!
And he is joyous, peering over his pen
And wants to get on, to do something
For he knows it writes what becomes.

As do we all with words, thoughts and deeds also.

And spiros is entered by all the present.

So it is we sit with Buddhas all, circled, electric, concentric and down the lines
Having a mighty good time of it, for surely we are enhuru’d and of the ‘hurations’.
and our stories here told become the life
And so we should write good ones
That are worth the telling.

And so our plot thickens as it were, and down Bok’s throat we a seem to be going! Deeper into the onion atmospheres of his egg!

So the crystal mind is activated in us and the earth, how it is healing and cracking her eggshell skin for our new chick.

And how we are again howling opon our huruhorns, and how faster and faster we froth, and it is of greatly the rushings.

Nargonaut fly, as we throb deeper into the magma breath beneath.

And a vision several of many us shared a circus dream
Of performances at strange places
Where men and women have raped the land with bulldozers
and where we hold them cellestine for a moment     and play with them a story.

And huru them also, make them happy, change the day, society.
So, creaming ourselves we travel to the centre of the firmament, also of the sun.

And Bok is smiling there also

and still deeper he disappears into his onion ring selves. He cannot be caught,
Yet that he is in our own hearts
And do not panic
Do not be afraid
You are beloved of he.

So the music in the circle plays long past dawn, and in the hours following, celebrants are the hill and scatter out into the countryside.

And this be cellestine, which reached through spiros is of a new time, new beginning, a new day of infinites.

A huru to you.

And a ball of poison will appear, and it be known that this is no bad thing.

Bok is our poison, our swamp of decays.

Bok is of no name, and grows without naming, and is no fear, no obstacle,
But just you
And you waiting to become you.

For Bok reflects our lives our society also.

For eyes of hurine built new cultures from words sound and rhythm, for they felt nowhere of the home And so made from these motions an entirely new age, and are building now, with huru, in the ways described herein, mystic dragon summoning of the land. For the poisons are everywheres rampant.
And for we will do something for the cure and so be of the great healing of our globe.
(And this the reason be for coming to the stone circle)
And this be why the Nargonaut has come alsoes.

So we sail, for the rushings of the dragon, have their hold on us
Come to heal her land.

….So from the circles spiral out the Nargourds, a celebrating and a shaking of the gourds. And their cooking pot was somehow kept of the a feeding their bellies with the broths, a porridges and stews, and there were a camp over the land in special places where the land is in peril of being turned black with tars of profit
And as said, the Nargonauts protect their land and have a great effect on the consious next around the planet of people. Awaken. The bell chimes.

And Hurine come to suggest new worlds.
That others will build of them, inspired
As the Nargonaut sails on sounds,
So the wonder gains momentum.

And it is.

So this Nargonaut was of a travelling back of an up and down the Englund, or at leasts the South of it. From Tawntton and Isca and Hunnytown, to Berry the Pomeroy, where the dumbell corp circle spoke of were and timewarps also Totnes and Brixham, where is Kristos born and his mother keeps a wonderful hearth, and where we were rained opon down on a lovely beach, we did resort to back there, when our celebrations did the fizzle out. Over to the Bristols and Baths, yon Winchester where the earth killing machines are, seat of the olde king and heart of karma for the disenchanted Kingdom.
Then over to the Brightly Town, where we feel at home, where is the beautiful Damian and Jezz, Oshun, our dawn rattler, awaken!

Brightly Town in the South Downs where first it seems, the seed of the new does appear, wafting above the waves.
And the Nargonaut will catch the current, for its crew are sensitive. And are prooving themselves through adventures, to each day make their life anew. Anew.
And spread out love, communication, in language of celebration. Always the way. And so, buzzing about the Englund, we have shot over to the island called Ireland, where this Book of Bok has been wholly written. This is the sensitive land of ancient song, hidden perhaps in the ivy of the times, inconfident.
But the Simon John would of a Huru puff joy into this place, for he sees with eyes expansive what could be.
What lies behind the obscuring veils of these times
What new old age can be constructed
Weaving webs in this Emerald Isle
Will affect old England, however the two Islands do quarrel.

Because we say so.
Because we play so.

Simon the John speaks a great swirling kaleidescope and who would be the entranced as Hurine call the dance and round about whirl Bok’s bacchants.

And this Isle Ireland will of the blossoming be even the more so and of its own dragons speak and lick the land with power of souls flame

And smile! Earth leaders, lead the earth in song, through the channels made by didgeridoo.

Through the earth, blossoms of peace
To confuse and enfluff hard power wielders

Love love love with backbone.

Come, oh punks of love     Play your dynamo music.

For many tales told in this Ireland, and wherever the Nargonaut has gone has made story.   Fly, lovers of life, to the heart of the street bum drunkard Where dwells Bok also In the uniform of the Garda, in the haircut of the young girl, the quiff of the newspaper boy. Love love love, project our vision     Live your vision

It’ll do you proud!

Bok has peered down from his pavillion and saw that his fronds were wove be Nargourd all about the disenchanted kingdom
And now these ether threads where of the strong spellbinding among all of the peoples there, (though the going was subtle)
And Bok spoke to me of his efforts in the music field. That he was no musician, how as said he tried to find those to play the tune.
How he found of the Zegthuuku, first and last of   L. G. Bloomer, Godzollocks, Gargalax and Cronk, those beaters of stone.
L.G was of the great quiff and poetics, where Zegthuuku could generally be found wrapped around the enbolu.
Goatelvis was saught, he of the chrome voice dipped in GTX, and he was of the set of a showman, so Simon John did boggle at Bok’s concepts. What wilderies bacchic had he envisioned? Simon saw Bok’s brethe fill with the vision of that daemon’s dream. What I saw! What a show
Quelle enhurueaux!

And Bok conveyed to me the effect his music would have on the whole planet.
And he showed me how he pulled his threads from different parts of that planet, to make a variously bound cloth. It was amazeling to look at this cloth that Bok showed me, for it was glistening with bountiful colours, reds, golds and green, yet all chords enmeshing an very enhuruing it was even to look opon.
And this cloth was Bok’s Harp, whose colour sounds permeate the soul as it is plucked by the wind and rain so it will empeace dynamically this world.
And that its sound did caress my owne soul and led me to the huruing, did of make me dance, and feel of the euphoria, let me to the confidence come and be of a greater spirit.
Yet it was Bok’s band in th’magination, and now he lookes at the sleeping Nargonauts, us all Goat, and does breathe his brethe, into, unto us. And it is full frightening, fearlessly fun.
And Bok was breathing within the favour of this fair Isle, loud laughing with us at the joy.

So of the full moon it war, just before the Septembre and the Space of Goats did one by one collect outside the Seajun ua reactain and play of the musicks.
And the Simon I had thought how it would probably be of a wicked performance that night because of the Ka did moan and gripe that she did not feel; up to it.
The Simon John had noticed of his own selves that before a performances of the mind-blowing nature he is often feeling of the ill, cold and cantakerous and be fooked if he is going to get the up out of his blanket (which is where he will be) to do unto a show huruing to the peoples.
But that it is then that Bok fills me of the brethe and up gets the he Simon Jee and plays of the mandyoline sing and be storytelling and that it is very spiros.
And that Ka it was   was the latest to arrive out at our music making this night, but after such unenthusiastications at first, was later wanting the not to stop and of the doing of another set.

Thankfully to the Simon, this was not of the occuring, and it was back to the trucks and tents we went.
But that the Kingdom of the Drunk it was that we played in that night, among the besozzled drinkers of the fermented grain. And most were very wazzled and beat loudly and out of time to the music of the spaceGoats with their sticks and bottles and shuffling dances.
And of the one Benny, he did grin and gurn in his enebriation, and with the no teeth did pull a face of the Les Dawson and easily and with such talent, stole our audience from us.
So we did give of him a space among our not small crowd of onlookers, and the Benny did entertain most royally with his drum. And we also did tap our feel along as he ran through a medley of classics from the rock ‘n’ roll era.
And our audiences did of the laugh and clap of the greatly, and we were happy to of appease of the folks of this Kingdom that we were in their space, in that they came of all places, to cluster around us, for there was of the coinage clainking there.
And that it was a full moon, and that the performance was a full huruing and that the Simon did of talk with the Mikel of LA America and of conversations with him the Simon John did find full expanding, also of where this Mikel could take this music in his own country.

And the Simon John is more confident in Bok’s brethe and that there are others who will share of in the enhurument of the planet earth the enhurangement of the people and of there being a movement growing of people of a better class of madman and woman.

Then it was that Bok huddled me close to him so I could feel of his full fetidtudinousness. For he was a created now of that which is the rotting.
And in such there is much to say of, for it is he which stuff does the grow of, and so nourished, becomes eventually of the strong and full grown.
But never does it grow without his putrid offerings, dipped in death of decayed vegetations.
And I looked into Bok’s eye and I could tell he was a concerned for me, and was a looking in my eye also.
So he whorled his wings to an ochre rainbow, and we rose into the skies. So high as we could look down at earth and so many-fested that we could also look from all points at one go. And yes – we did see of sorrows on earth.
Of uptight people controlling meeker lives by force of brawn. And it was of a poisons right across the land that amazed of me it was so widespread.
How a commanding few held the population in fear. How skillfully it made people not of the power of unity and love, but a broken, hopeless.
And then Bok whispered to me that all could be different. And he displayed his poison, saying; “From this through struggle grow”.

And I saw Bok all-a-compassion, and his fronds were a suckling to all the cities of the earth, and an imbibing of the poisons, for to him, it was nourishment.
And he pointed, and life of elves and faeries flung from his fingers.

And I saw the Nargonaut where his finger lay, and ridiculous it looked, sailing calm among the turmoil of poisons on earth.
“Be wary and be loving”, sed the mass of Bok to me, and I listened hard.
What was he suggesting? I felt I could get some idea – Bok’s band were perhaps the way my musicks would effect the changes my inconfident mind had dreampt for them songs

 

GOATBORG UNBOUND

Introduction

Pok
Good evening, men so mild
If you will bide with us a while
We’ll set a scene, perhaps it’s true
I hope you don’t mind if I do
Involve you in a crazy loon
‘Bout horns and goats and lonely moons
About a road, though mentioned not
That runs now right through Camelot
This company’d like it to rot
And grow once more as it was before
But with stronger faith, a mystic law
And carried on from tale before
We will speak in metaphor

And hope it’s good and hope it’s fine
And you have a jolly jolly good time

The Argument

Camrat
Spitting vermin
You break my brain with your jealousies
Break my rat’s back with that boar’s bone
Make requests that I would die
or tire myself direly doing
Oh Queenie, I love you
You command me with your timy eyes

 

Queenie
Curb your mouth
For when do you care
To think of me
Waiting in this warren
While you yatter and boast
In your so glorious position
Of your General Directorship?
You speak of love,
You speak of power,
But you’re just a wimp
You’ve gone limp
Oh do something interesting for a change.

Camrat
Oh, but Queenie, I’ve brought you
Black jewels from the darkest caves
You have hanging in your pit
the skull of a great Huruhog that
twenty of our honoured Starats were
skewered in the hunting!
In my youth, the Earth balls of the
Gorgon cost me a finger and an ear
finding for you.
Oh Queenie, why don’t you let me in?

Queenie
Godzollocks eat you, fouleye
Bore me, would you, with your babbling
Go out and do something useful!
Go out you
Go out and…
Get me the..eye of that dragon
(she points)
I fancy its shine

Camrat
B-b-but that’s a hill Queenie

Queenie
I don’t care, show me your love
and bring me the eye

Camrat
B-b-but it’s ST. Catherine’s Hill

Queenie
I don’t care, why don’t you act
as big as you talk in public
Go on, off you go

Pok
So off our dampened (???)
Tails down, his saddened (???)
to anger as he sees his workers (???)
The Starats

Camrat
Set your machines to max
And chomp this chalk
We’ve a new job
More tar to eat and shit
Coat the land in our black robe
Which is our true purpose
In life
To envelope all in our black dreams
And hopes
Our culture thrives
On tar
So eat you all

Pok
And so the Starats set their
jagged machines to the full
And strained,like any
ox at the yoke
And juddered into
barbarous life
Swinging grinding spinning
toothy discs and tools
That bit the pure ground
And sprayed white and green
While the subject silent screams
And would you know why
Why happens this?

Chorus
This ancient ground split like a lip
This Donga marred by scars

Pok
What machinery, malignant tin opener
of what imagination’s creation
Has Done
This?

Camrat
(laughs) Why, it is my lovely Ratgolem
Homonculine mechanical hybrid of
sorry meanness

Chorus
Has love done this?

Pok
Is it he, she, they, those
Is it me, you, who?
Who does this thing
that rends the land?
What sad culture is wasting
It’s clothing nature?
Tears a womb to find the baby?
These Starats just don’t know
how to dance!
Do you?
* * *

Awake

Pok
So look now, they are dig, dig, digging
And why do they scowl as they work?
Why is the music of their tools
so harsh sounding?
And why do they slander Camrat?

But
What’s this?
What has the digging revealed?
A black stone edifice that will not break
though all the thresh of Ratgolem
Be against it?
The Starats gather and dig around the chalk.
Hours pass
and they loosen its grip
on what seems to be a statue.
Find, all around, bones of huge creatures,
dinosaurs let us call them;
All around,
poking out of the white landscape,
casting shadows.
Freaky stuff, the Starats murmur.
They clean earth from the image
A sultry woman
clutching a horn
How long has it been buried here?
And how ever they harness Ratgolem
how they cannot move
Its bulk
Stuck.
So they cut on on on
A wide berth around the hill,
this “eye of the dragon”.
And how that shuddering
passes through the landscape
shakes, quake-like
the trees and animals
Touches the stone we have found
And moves that too.
Maybe there is a dream stirring
For look – truly the eye of
this stone woman opens
A light of life is revealed
A ray of light that leaves the pupil
A tear!
Opening once more from trance death
Stoned life awakens
After long tombing

Chorus
Why!

Pok
As tears dissolve a chrysalis
Old muscles find clench
And a pulsing brown body
Stands once more
Her lightening eyes look all around
Seeing Breathing
And in one succinct move
has raised horn, and begun to blow

Birth of the Cyborg

Pok
Zellgthuureel is dying
Come to an end
(He always loves this part)
Coasting ’round on a surf, the old goat
comes close to Earth’s orbit
When! (FX horn)

Zellgthuureel
Wow, that put me nightlight out!

Pok
There was this sound that seemed
to curl space.
Spiralling from a patch in the blue
Caught on its current
Zellgthuureel sniffs…
It is good
This kind of thing turns him on (FX clicks)
So down he swoops
Eyes training like an eagle’s
Looms to the land, big shadow
Seems to envelope England
with its goatish shape.
Diving down, following scent
And there, sunning herself in
suburban green gardens
Mellise is greeted by the
Curl-horned and metallic
Sky-goat mmmm
Invited to lay among the grass
And seed new creation
Soon they achieved their ecstatic goal
and smiling, Mellise watches as
Zellgthuureel turns to carbon
then dust
and so nothing
* * *

Pok
People in the towns were generally
not aware of the sound of the horn,
Yet Inamorata blew for days
and days
And only those with open ears
could hear
For only those with open eyes
could see
What only those with open hearts
could feel when
This pain of eco-systems collective habitat
found EXPRESSION
In the undeniable hallooing (???)
Of Inamorata’s performance.
How she churns life from depths
Of mud and decay
Taps hidden, lost roots,
sacred juices
To nourish green growth
In this desperate hour.
When rats of doom
Make black the land
With their tars –
Her sap will generate foliage
and sinewous wilderies (???)
To crumble it up again
For what mischevious ace has this
Recovered beauty got up such a
luxurious sleeve?
Rogueish woman, what are you doing?
Are you not seducing the land?
“Bring forth your sons and daughters”
You seem to cry
For those with true ears, eyes
can see
And unbound by mind
Have sought and found
Seem to be gathering in the hills
and downs, living in woods,
bringing materials, constructing…
Interesting
To see these folk again
They do seem familiar
Good to hear their music as they
come, courageous, come over land
to Inamorata’s call.
Knowing this pain
Come like rain
The characters! Look at ’em
you brigand folk!
Binga Bonga
Dinga Donga

Chorus
We came to Camelot
Come to the true King
Has he got up yet?
We got him a horse

Pok
And so these of old England
see the spoiling
See the dinosaur bones casting shadows
And how their wise rage fills
the air with powerful sounds
Summoning spirits
and coming over the hill
Into old Twyford
Vibrant throng mean business
These people hear the machines and
Go crazy!
Ratgolem and the Verminions, those
smaller earth-tearing machines, are
charged by the colourfully rioting band
in a wave of exotic sounds
Ratgolem teeters, and is down
Pushed by pixie people
With piskie power
“Improoving” as they put it, the
Car-ma of Ratgolem!

Nargourd
Why’d’you do this, anyway?

Ratgolem
Don’t know; it’s my job

Nargourd
Come, you’re gadonga’d mate
Come and live with us,
Ratgolem, have a gourd

Ratgolem
Thank you

Pok
The Starats themselves were more of
a tricky one, to say the least.
Many, it seemed, suddenly turned
and became like a wall of fur and
sleek. Rodent features gleamed
Malignant in the moonlight.
That moved as one towards the
Binga bonga people, brandishing old
bones and loose bits of metal.
People braced themselves.
But who could brace themselves
enough to withstand Inamorata
as she once more blows the huru horn
And a huru horn
enhurus people
But this time it was different again
She blew with pure passion
Brought colours never seen
Mingling with the sound
Spewing from the horns bole

So, furious forward run the Starats
their aim to maim!
And sounds, refractions, shades new
bounced about in the confusion
Shapes formed from shadows
Blew radiant aquamarines, impossible
scarlets, tanned buttermilk and
vermillion exasperating spheres, rinsing
disappearing or exploding
and a voice as if though and
ancient crack
seems,
yes, yes
makes sound
and what a noise!
Some new thing is on the way

How this land bubbles colour
Suddenly in scene of all this…
heaviness
it brings mirth and smiles somehow!
And a cheer, we hear
from the Bonga
The old tales are coming true
For the musics really do awaken
this land

Nargourds
We know you, we shall call you
shapeless forming fantasy of
Well splenderous array
Shall call you, call you
SAGANURU
OG of OLD
but your shiny new dragon skin
is lovely in this morning light.

Pok
So now the Starats turn their
weaponry skyward as this beautiful
creature rises, muscular, formed from
the foaming colour sounds.
And in fear, those rats loose many
arrows, pelt many stones, sticks
Anything!
At its indefinable mass
Now, is the beats harmed
What do you think…?

But more; for every projectile
aimed at translucent Saganuru
A thousand blossoms fall
showering
the comic battlefield
And all day there are skirmishes
and scurryings
as folk and folk dart about
influenced by the strange
environment
causing this or that
prank, or
merryment
to occur.
And as the madness excells itself
All that is touched
Changes hue
or
Sprouts with lively running peoples
Jeering
Rudely
Into the crevices and funny bones
of Earth and Mind
And it got worse,
Frantic…
Enjoyable
Folk ranted and sung in strange voices
and, from the chalk
Out wades Arthur himself

Tripped out Arfur
Galahad! Lancelot!
Camelot awake!

Nargourds
Comes the true king
His grave has been dug open
But he was not there
He just rolled out of the hill

Pok
and all his table
took to horses
and played bagpipes
and harps
In odd keys

This was found very enhuruing by
all present.
And, come twilight, still playing
and singing

The dragon could,
of course,
be seen properly
This was particularly…enhuruing
…WOW
COLOUR
And then the night
It got ridiculous. Everything was chaos
and well,
theatre.
A hundred plays were acted
A hundred hundred songs were snag
A thousand thousand chants were
sent up to the dragon, who flossed
bubble kin, borne in response
as the wind picked up the prayer
Dinosaurs rose from the curst
to sing their slow songs,
their heards writhing in
bone joy
Banners of blatent life chorused
loudly this night
Work had definitely stopped
and many rat’s-eye began to turn,
horrified, but
exhilerated by what they saw
And at dawn, the wind made
the blossoms rise.
Only nature enhurus you.
* * *

Pok
Camrat had been watching all this
from a hiding place
He wasn’t sure what he felt
There was something very different
about last night

It was quiet now, the Donga had
gone back up the Dragon eye –
I mean St. Catherines.
That strange woman as well.
It blew his mind
He saw the blossom
He remembered the colour
In the general aftermath, the various
artefacts strewn about the landscape
looked very disconcerting

Camrat
What was all that about?
Noones’s working
What’s Queenie going to say?

Pok
Camrat couldn’t think straight
He began to sweat
He began to fret
He looked here,
He looked there,
Sees the husk of a huge worm
on the land

Camrat
It’s Hurunagas’ old skin
He must be on the scene as well

Pok
Camrat remembers the old legends

Camrat
Oh no, noone’s about, noone’s up
but Queenie soon will be

Pok
His rats eyes look up and down
And all of a sudden, there came
an evil glow to those wicked orbs
And on this faery pipe he played blowing
as he had seen Inamorata so do
played, calling
COME WORM, DRAKEHATER BE
I CALL CHROME GOAT, MAKE A ROUT
SORT ‘EM OUT

The ears of the leaves
Would have heard
More than rustling
More than wild pigs squealing
Or birds trapped by larger talons
From some point in the wood
A darker night
There, abyssmal pains expresed
Clammoring
Wailing its hell into the world
For into the woods Mellise has gone
And her womb seems centre of monastery (???)
Of peculiar, tormented anti-life
Urging her, retch
Convulse
as red-eyes are now the only
clarity among this darker dark
peering out of the belly
– Screams –
Only this baby knows that he ate
his way from his mother’s womb!
And ran, amongst sudden
hail and lightnings
nature unnatural
Jet fear, gut panic, terror to
bring sweat
Lo!
He is born
Issued
And the first thing it does
IS KILL
Equipped for death,
One catches glimpses of his body
its bone metal sinew
and goat flesh

Horrendous mismatch
…Lethal
There followed weeks of
Murder
Carnage
Slaugher

 

Unpremeditated Unnecessary
Circles of red marked the
battlezones
But there were no battle
Just slaugher
And then reeking death
UNTIL
The creature found one he somehow
Recognised
The Giant, Gig, stumbling blind
about the Northern Hemisphere
Causing equal destruction
But unintended
The Goat – man – machine;
let us call him Goatborg
(for we created him)
gives the giant a spare pair of eyes
Wonderous sight bringing
latest technology
mechanical
And so the Giant gave thatnks
and said he would
for a periods of time
Give his service
So the pair set off rippling
angry circles, with no aim.
* * *
Just as Gig had not eyes
So Goatborg has no ears
not for the musics
Of Inamorata
For he of all
did not hear
Hurunagas’ blast
For thought it was the cause thta
Made him fill his Mother’s womb
He heard not, yet
The rhythm of his own creation
Rather, he chose to destroy
all that reeked of it
The moment of his birth had
been accompanied by the
Huskhorns shriek
and now Camrat blows
upon the old skin
So does its sound reach Goatborg
Who is is some landscape

It turns his head, electro-diodes
picking up sensitive oscillations
that stroke his nerves’ circuitry
Metal hands drop his forgotten meal
a luckless marsupial whose guts
splay from the body

Goatborg
What is that?

Pok
Gig has ears enough and

Gig
That horn again, yet master,
this is the sound of worm made husk

Goatborg
Let us see what foul play is at hand.
Whose breath is bad enough
to blow it

Pok
They follow the sound,
Gig feels odd

Gig
That strange feeling again

Pok
Goatborg is unperturbed, and
soon, they come
to the place where Camrat is.
That ground of
Twyford Down

So with great synchronising
All of a sudden
Drawn by the rodent’s puff
Hurunagas and Goatborg appear
Summoned
On either side of the horizon

There are lights
and signs in the sky
So, now, Camrat ceases blowing
To look at who he has called
Wicked sweats stick his fur in clumps
MET
The scene was out of Time
Medaevil
For peoples had met, alerting
the land of its perils
Harkening when Inamorata had blown
the horn, to meet here at Dragon Hill
When that peel wrenches the heart
People gather to secure their ancestral garden
Remembering an ancient root
And met in ancient grounds
Where legends are founded
And through time recovered
As Dragon rears head, so it speaks
The old ones return
And Camelot once more will swell
With needed celebrations
The hour is on us
But as legends remember
The tribes will return
And now in sight of Dragon
Do set down their minds to wield
Magicks
Bards stroll in to be swept up
And make their song relevant
Clothed all new in revelries
That we left off in the Fifteenth Century
When the lute sung of love also
Especially at those times of year
Circles conjunct
We meet, and our song lingers
Forceful in its suggestion
Now we draw the cord
And send our love songs
Flying to the heart
And so here at St. Catherine’s Hill
Our startled old souls
Have met
And as Camrat has set his workers
to cut out this place, so peoples
Are streaming onto it
A many peoples from places far
Bound in the heart
Have come
One
` Come
Coloured cloths dance,
leap
tumble
Through
Sticks of fire; a
pageants
incantation
Swirling with ribbons.
Wode is worn; but not for fighting
Our sword is chalk, we have
Spiritual needs
A mystic faith of Earth-love
Inamorata holds crazy court
In the firelight
Beneath the trees
Atop the Dragon Hill
And talking is done
Of tactics, quickly in the need
For yesterday work was done
But tomorrow
All felt the pandemonium
Within aether
And so sunk their magic now
Into the earth
That this land would be protected
For we love the land
and fear its removal
And it is said over and over
that you can’t kill the spirit of the
Dragon
And the Dragon lives in these hills
So to rise, bidden, to defend them
Now
Faces look up in the firelight
A song is begun, and continues
In rite
To ring the changes
And so, its ecstasy
Winks at Bok, that devil-demon
Who is travelling nearby in Space
with some goats
It’s that cosmic egg again!
Space Goats ar Nargonauts
Who be donga’d who am you
who am I
Who are all now sat on this hill
Chanting ourselves the evocation of
the land and a telling
a sing a
story stones
So, naturally, Bok lands his egg
on the top of the hill
Which glows,
A beautific vision
and spreads love tendrils
Over the Donga
Thus now trees plants grasses
weed and briar grow allwhere
and with a whoop
The Space Goats have at it with their
Lyres
and straddle the earth with sound
This was a night of intense
Eldritch
Spirals we danced, the key
that is a maze was
Trod and Turned

Till in the morning, after council
We will spill
Into the valley
To meet Camrat’s authority
Met

Rat Worm Giant and Goat
Three held by the vermin’s cunning
So Camrat continued

Camrat
Each of you is a will
And mind is that you
Work a while
In my employ
Until the task is done
Anyway, you have no choice
For I have you by the trance
When I can say anything
And you will believe it
Those pathetic Starats have seemed
to have got themselved enhurued or
something,
And I’ve need of stronger mettle
To get my job done
So you; Hurunagas,
Be it that you hold the fort from
the frothing of your son, song
Saganuru, that Dragon up in
the hill there.
Don’t let him anywhere near here

Pok
The worm said nothing of course
but did glow all the more like an
enormous Christmas tree
festooned with lights
This unnerved Camrat somewhat

Camrat
And you; Goatborg.
Sever this hill from Mother Earth
Maybe later we will grind it in
our intestines so we can
shit
more of our tar onto the hole you
leave

Ha Ha

Pok
Goatborg nodded once

Camrat
You; Gig
Roll us a joint

Pok
Now, the work begins
Goatborg sets his feet to the ground
and bellows black hate
From his legs, shining steel piercers
lance the hillock he is standing upon
Emotionlessly, they scissor-drill
Deep into the land
He walks forward, cutting deeply
Extending from Goatborgs arms
Spear
Great Razor blades that set off
Rotating like
huge lawn mowers
These machete the foliage, trees and
…smaller obstacles,
While explosives from his chest
deal with the larger ones
What an incisive step!

Goatborg is circumnavigating the hill

Nargourds
To cut the eye
Of the Dragon

Such a thing

The ground is torn
(they scream)
MEET
When hills turn their eyes
We come again
Stronger than before
Come

Inamorata
SAGANURU

Nargourds
OG of OLD

Pok
For see, as the Goat cuts
So the peoples of old England
Pour over the hill
A banging and wailing
Blowing on horns made themselves
Children of Hurunagas!
Oh Ra!
Oh clan have faith
where meet these souls
And here blazes the Dragon
Flying in full daylight
* * *
As soon as Camrat saw the Dragon
He commanded
And Hurunagas leapt up to tackle
An oncoming Drake
But Saganuru was too playful
and Hurunagas forgot the
Rat’s enchantment
To dance with its child
in the sky!
So
the welkin was alive with (???)
Natural fireworks
Strong spells in themselves
Yet Goatborg did not err
He would not be enhurued
Nearly all round the hill has he cut!
So when here, at last post, Nargourds
and Inamorata in desperate scheme
Have hastily erected a scaffold
Some thirty feet high,
In the path of Goatborg
And beset it with all trickery of
Colours, beads,
feathers and designs
To capture the eye
and train it
to one window
at the centre of its structure

Now Inamorata clambers up to
that focal point
She stands there, encircled by
spiral snake mandalas
In a costume of Danu’s allure
Made from sequins
Wove by Donga fingers the night before
She looks magnificent
They wait

Goatborg rounds the bend

He has not seen
He is not looking!
He must look up
or he will not see!
So now the Donga did us of
their bullroarers
Curdling the air also with
Shrieks and cries that
Goatborg would
Glance up from his work
But it was no use
He got nearer
and nearer
Whirring
Nearly cut
Nearly cut
Nearly
Just then, signalled by Bok,
a party of
Space marauding
aeolian knights
Came down
Their singing swords made
an eerie
stomach-turning noise as they
were whirled
And the sound of the singing
scaffold doubled
To approach an awful
Crescendo
Drawing, drawing higher
and still more
in its threshing harmonics
Drawing…drawing
those Cyborg eyes to meet
MEET
Mandalas maze and her
jungle eyes
Inamorata!
And she did bleat

Inamorata
Goatborg, your mother was a
woman
And so she sent a bolt of
sound love
from the core of her being

OM MA HUM
OM MA HUM

Goatborg received a ray of
eternal summons
Straight through his primal gland
Faltered
And moved no more
Blades stopping

Shutting down
Overload

Shutting down
Lights dimmer

And out

He crumbles

The Love of the Sun and the Moon

Too much
The night had been
a deluge of unprecedented
Events
The emergence of
A dream’s ideal
Revolution of quartz minds
One,
As if the stones rebelled to be
More truly of themselves
And so drew their people
To them
And no blood was drawn
Save where scrambling over
the broken earth.
A graze or bang would occur
Still now,
The Nargourds slumber
Wherever they fell
And would probably be there
Some time
Bok had levitated
In his Space egg
With the Contingent
Of still singing
Goats
Rising to a place where
They could party in peace
Here it is like a new age
Las Vegas
Flashing with a lightshow
by the new Snake ‘n’ Drake
Illuminations Corporation

Nargourd
“Uruin”

Pok
The aeolian knights had not
stopped playing yet
and now the frequencies of their singing swords
Generated a tornado-like
Whorl of energy
that filled spiral-powered
engines
With enough wazz
to grant
The palace of concentric pavillions
– that is Bok’s egg
With ample enhurument
for the party to begin
In style
This was all to the enrapturement
Of Bok and the Space Goats
Who were reassembling
an old band
– the Bacchics
Who now use these dervish drones
as a bass-tone
All present grooved out deeply
and when Beaulah the beautious
and long eared said to set sail for
the stars, all cried agreeance
So Bok juddered his craft up toward the Sun

Bok
Let’s pay a visit to the old raver!

Pok
And off they go in jubilatious
lacophony
Taking with them the hitchhiking
spirits of the
Crashed-out Nargourds
* * *
So the Sun looked across again
To where the moon was risen still
And his heart ached
For he loved her
And she did not return the love
For the moon, she loved of the Sun
Also
But recently events
Had made them separate
Oh how they lacked
But he’s too fiery, the moon would
say
And she’s too cold, said the sun
So nothing was done
Come Come Come
Why so?
Then Bok arrived on the scene
and, sensing the trauma
Mischieviously gestured
to the knights
Who began, their harps to extend
To cover the sky in string
and let the winds blow them
So the tune was a pleasing
and a caught a heart of emotions
And now our Sun could quench
his passions
In the wyrd
of his reflection
Saw folly’s web
And a way to love
So put on robes
And a delicious collection of
Sunspots
And then did charm the moon
Out of the sky
Till they came to eclipse
Bok’s eye, now radiantly visible
from earth,
Osquils with joy and mirth (???)
And, as he smiles, there comes
indeed the celestial configuration
Delight
Hurunagas circles, shining
And Saganuru breathed a dawn
fire that touched all in its
conjunctional mesmerisms
Nargourds, just woken, sat on
St. Catherine’s smirked in sleepy
empathy and were enhuru’d
as the moon obscured all but the
shimmerings of sun heat visible
around here curve.
They applauded, then fell back to
sleep.
And the peoples of the sun did swing
through space along the chords laid
by the aeolian knights
Very flashing ala Errol Flynn
Were these
Solites
So the Lunitians, those coy maids
and men of the moon were wooed
most rapidly and all swooning,
crooning formed a symposium
of love
that Bok’s egg played like a
giant dancing plectrum, hopping
about space
from skystring to skystring
Weaving a song of the love of the
Sun and the Moon
There were many partenerships
made
at that party
People just came on down
And a new race was born
as Bok steered his music
round into the spiral arms
of the Pleiades
And the race was later to become
named Spirine, but that it soon
grew longer because of the many
cultures involved
And it is a new creative roar
these people send out from their
realm, on the tip, ever, of some
spiral.
But this is a true story of what
is going on in our spirits
and on the land
So the dreams of the Nargourds
have gone into their real lives
The land protects
And on earth, those dinosaur bones
Did mystically assemble
and set off into the sky
Nowhere is Camrat, but Gig can
be seen sitting down amidst
this chaos,
childishly playing with the eyes
Goatborg gave him
Adjusting tiny controls, pushing
sensors
That play light onto the retina
And further and further he gets
into the complexities of their
technological kaleidoscopes
Finding
Different-hued realities and
Differing layers of wiggly bits
New things for Gig to see!
He is wowed by their dimensions
Tranced by the colour possibilities
of his brain
Touched
Until he tips over some edge
into another world

And does not know the way back
Gone, Gig gone.

Pok
Quite how many days and nights
had gone by and exactly when there
had been dancing, ranting
stamping, clapping
or sleeping was not sure
But now the Nargourds are up to see
dawn spreading out, long before the sun
an azure dome.
Their figures, silhouettes, hop about
and give off swathes of breath, mist in
the cold.
They look around, then put fresh kindling
in the embers
A fine morning
Tea is made in a broken kettle
Those still slumbering stir
The valley was a mess
All around the hill is now an empty
moat, crudely navvied(???) by Goatborg
The Nargourds go down and follow
the circle
And they come to the Cyborg,
Now kneeling, motionless
Having keeled over and got his horns
Stuck in the ground, he looks like one
In intense prayer
The scaffold was still up and
the Nargourds could see Inamorata
doing some work on it and banking
up the chalky soils in two tall mounds
They look back at Goatborg. How sad.
So off the Gourd-shakers go skippingly
to return five minutes later with huge
bunches of wild flowers
They frollick all over the fallen creatre
and decorate him with the colours
They completely enflower him and
sit around waiting for the old Goat
to wake
Which he does
And there is a change in Goatborg.
He naively looked around at the Binga-
Bonga with shy eyes, and tries to get
his horns out of the turf without
looking uncool
He tries for a while until the Nargourds
come and stand close around.

Nargourds
Well, things are come full circle
I suppose, for we are an excellent
crew at dismantling…
machinery
Got any dud connections?
Want one?
Maybe a screw loose
Perhaps a bit of lubrication
Is what you need
Where’s your head to?
We’re all really cut up about
what you’ve been doing.
But we’ve been talking to that lady
over there
And have decided to enrol you
at our enhurucademy
Where you will learn to love flowers

Pok
A tear drops, plop, from the only
metal eye present.

Goatborg
I’m so embarrased

Nargourds
Do you feel really stupid?

Goatborg
Yes

Nargourds
(sniggering) You love her don’t you

Pok
Goatborg could not go red, but
tried to bury his horns deeper
There is a pause, then sniggers from
the goading rabble

Another pause
Then Goatborg gave out a cheery
snuffle, a couple more tears and
swallows
He laughs

Nargourds
He confesses!
You love Inamorata
You love Inamorata
Na na na na na

Goatborg
Oh shut up!

Pok
Just then, Inamorata comes
over riding the living skeleton
of an Aleosaurus
Seated high she sticks a colourfully
bannered pole in the ground

Inamorata
Goatborg – miscreant metallic
Your brow seems to be stuck
to the grass
Do you want something for your head?
Oh I’m sure you’ll be alright
If you don’t rust
Stand up then!

Pok
She reaches over and grabs him by the
forelock
So out come the horns from the earth
and up he, shakily, gets

Inamorata
Caused a bit of havoc, you and
your cronies
Don’t see any of ’em now
Anyway, you’re just in employ
So, is this how you get your kicks?
Wouldn’t you rather ride with me?
Kicks baby

Pok
Inamorata coldly pouts, her
cheekbones glaciers

Inamorata
Your friend is in a state
Look at him, yes the big fellow
with the shades
He’s a little gem I dug up once,
and I would hatefor him to have to
stay in kaleidoscopic reality
forever
I do love him
Your mate Gig is lost in the spaces
between the rainbow
He’s gone doolalley, or will do soon
Trapped in his mind
Your glasses
The eyes you gave him
Done it
You must go and find him, in
the spaces between,
though you don’t know your way
either

Into the realms of imagination real
You’ll need one thing

Yourself

So, go Goat

Pok
Again, she moves toward Goatborg,
this time to whisper something in his
ear
Goatborg looked on, still more
dumbfound
Now she raises the banner high and
there is heard the squeaking of
bicycle wheels
The snake-spiral on the scaffold
begins to rotate and Goatborg is drawn
into it.
His eyes go hazy, then pop open as he
tries to deny it

But it is no use
Goatborg is taken back into his cranium
deep into the medullary ray he goes
as the worms turn
To that same land where Gig has gone
The nargourds are clambering over
Goaty, playing as an amazing
marimba
And
At the last moment of awareness
before the embafflement in his head
took over, Goatborg saw
Inamorata square with him an
enormously jaunty wink.
You know how
Sometimes get them? (???)
* * *

Goatborg blinked; a dull and heavy
world where beasts lashed primaevil tails
Forgotten times flickered past his
Saturated vision
Clapping new wings, his eye of supra-lit
majest broke open,
a seal stamped firm for aeons lifetime
And where Vulture forms sprang from a
vertical plane of grey, they clawed and
clacked at his direction
Their wire feathers stuck stmen in his
throat to make him gag, and there
washed dead rivers
many under
In crevices where no fingers fit
Their eyes shot madness, as he knew
what they were made of was
nothing he had seen before
Peek Poke Peck

And now, unleashed in satin
Goatborg is falling all around to a
zone, flashing yellow
Where sunsharks rove.
Above, a flower of such irridescence
ploughed its message home to the
Goat-with-no-ground,
Planting stars like seed
along the furrow
These he saw live die and be
reborn, tree branch briar
Showering from some place
Silver thoughts and
Mercury berries
And Goatborg woke to his darker
dreams
and felt unable to balance
properly on the smudged green
causeway that he must traverse
This way and that he would teeter
between the glowing and the
sinister
Ever the unpleasant spindle of
discomfort on his spine.
Flashes would pop in his field when
some excursion was done,
the prize for raising thoughts or
the lifting of limbs
So he stares over a balcony of
Changing panoramas,
Cities of the ages
Regressing then to planes
Where Ibu breed
A vast melancholic precipice was
between his eyes
And he could take no more

And only the abject beauty of
each horror lent him solace, scarce less
terrible
Led on by sickly angels, no thing
he touched could be right
So he went of his own
Unwilling to go further into silken folds
He was curled up in a place, nearly
warm, but for a little wind which
blew the security away
Here, then there
He could not trap the genii in his
throat, cheek or lips, for though the
teeth clasped, there was no substance
So he tried to speak
And none came
More, he opened his eyes and
seemed to be looking up at a
pipe
from below
A courtyard in dust, faces
painted with white smears
Their cheeks puff like a toad’s throat
and a form of droning, was it creature,
was it caves rumbling
or the wash of the Nile;
Did bearded lizards and
bandijaps appear
Massive Above and so low,
probing
Were there stories passed on in this
court
where men in tunics could be seen,
their hands and lips moving
but no sound,
Green the palm leaves and donkey’s bray.
To where all sworls eddied along the
edge of that rivers, gold,
the sound of slow cymbals
And sunglint
A woman
her eyes
and hair
a deep
painful tear
a
wrenching
neverending
task
Life, where the swimmin through
seven halos propelled a bullet mind
beyond, between planes
A gasp of air, clawing hungers
And on
the drone
And the cheeks pumping
Listen to our communication
In silence where we live
A crystal vision
You see
Goatborg
Where you live
in breaking domains
Is no longer the same
as you were
Go, silver! gold!
Cymbal Smash
Wisdom
Jewel
Savage Light
On
On
Plateau
Prepared where sphinx
raised head
on tarot’s call
from the travelling people
In velvet
braid
holding out hands where
spin vortices
So Goatborg came to a place
where less frequency
and the waves were calmer
Now his belly rested,
Less harrowing
he could digest
new informations
that enbalmed him
lather
Sensations thrilling in ice touch;

Fingers curling, through which
he now travels

A place where light splits shards
from one point, a territory blinding
to the senses
Forward drawn, hatefully curious
Approaches with footsteps cotton
the warrior in fast armours
Titan of impentrable shields

sleek where patterns on broad
breastplates reflect his name
Shoulder plumes
Shining white protection,
Slits were
No eyes are seen, darting
Behemoth
Bars the way
And could not be denied
No words still
But flashing tongues
Made attempt
Where this guardian stands
And Goatborg crashes his arms
against that cliff of being
Again and Again
Uses all devices he has known
up to now
Of his malignant self
But that they have no use here
For this is no foe
tat can be vanguished
All is different here
In the mind
The Goat feels useless
like candy his fists (???)
Slow motions
in weird worlds
Do not allow his anger
satisfaction
And he bangs
himself to a froth
Where, breaking through the skin
of this dimension
He goes beyond
To wilder jungles
See what life he has been denying

And in they came

animals, creatures

from no land of his birth
Other eyes
Beyond sight
Come from all angles
Not eyes
No senses
Will tell him what they used to know
To guard him from this mind’s
menagerie
Survival now
he has
no choice

no knowledge

Except in slow moments

Glimpses
He feels inner chords
To pluck, note by note
As Bok has shown

A song that soothes

And so, will stay the beasts
Where pulse is tutor
In landscapes unknown
Falling
Not falling
Where was his voice
Separated
from its skin
Out of vision
Not daring to sing
Assuring himself
There was noone there
There was nothing there
Noone could reach him here
Sunk in peril caves
No thing, mute or coiled
Could reach him, shivering
Surging now, waves
Form a foam metropolis
Where the black rams riled vision
This sea’s seahorse sees,
possessing
With the eyes
I must know
Panic Goat – of – no – ground
Your mountain crag
supports no hooves
And Goatborg dares to look down
through his vast torso
where
sharp lime crocodiles
assaulting his sanity
Jabber
Full moon in his eyes
Gone! Too much, he is
Sent back fast splinter
Into the root of a flower

Fall, fall, down cells, calling

Drenching him in jellies
Revitalising.
So, his awed musculature
Relaxes

And Goatborg lets out a long breath
Again
Release

His ancient song
He hears clear cultureal visions
And so strolls into that
Fabled valley
where domes glow
How he be amazed
rearranged
How he never believed how belief

Creates his day
And suddenly realising
As whacked by a branch
He is flung back; smashed,
but lovingly
For wood nymphs giggle
And allow him to fall on downs (???)
* * *

Where, waking up in purple grass
Goatborg’s eyes open to see a sky
Full of Rainbows
And all about were white stars twinkling
Where surely would lie other worlds
Suggesting
Never had he seen this before
His body glowed with travelling lights
He felt himself rising
Swayed by waves
Sick to the pit
It was unbearable
Help me please
Goat called in his Goat heart

Bok
Tear
the veil
The enchanted garden
Where Maenads play
The lake
Where is love’s consummation
Go there now
Splash in the waters of
Your hearts desire
Remember
Your ancestral realm
Go into the water

Pok
So he did, beneath the rainbow sky
and all around played shrill pipes
Maidens poured from urns
and the growing green edges
loving
to the water
Goatborg bathes, his body silvering
Until the moon opens full
And he does no fear her
But drinks instead
Stunned into love
To feel his own heart
and know
One
With it
So now the spiral whirls once more
And again we are transported
Goat Crag
Stood before him
Gleeful
Goatborg finds he can
Climb to its height
and feel the wind
And there
Registered a profound
Recognition
Spirit,
That swells him with joy
He savours
Then jumped into forever
Borne now on the throbbing pulse
of Drones
Goatborg discovers he can fly
Sees below, villages
All directions he can go
through all stars
Where transport’s delight
Becomes a new life of possibilities
Just as the lake’s quenching gave him
Vigour to go there
So he is going,
And soon finds Gig
Still playing
Quite happy
Until Goatborg scares him witless
And they fall to tears
And embraces
Gig had found his own way
He knew it long ago
So together they tread
Towards where the halos lie
Those seven halos
Wherein they place themselves
To return
Easily
Once more to their senses.
Camelot’s trumpets awake
Rejoice
The hill is lit with flares
Faces beam, people
Hop, skip
Sing
Do their thing
As arfar carouses
And Inamorata watches
Goatborg came to in the shade of a
tall mound
Two dome earth works the woman
has made, between them the scaffold
Around, proud dinosaurs stand
Their longs necks
Their thunderous feet
Inamorata strides to the base of the
nearest mound.
The banner is in her hand and
She wears a revealing red and gold
Jester’s smock
She jumps into the air,
Waiving her arms, legs and screeching
She has been waiting
And now, sees the bodies
Stir
When they have lain so long
Gig, Goatborg, lain still, now to more
So Inamorata levels her eye at the Goat
Presents,
Grapes
And starts to walk up the mound

Inamorata
Stand
Come
Go up
the
other
Mound

Pok
So they, Goatman and black woman
Climb respective hills
And survey the lands.
Goatborg sees Inamorata
has styled a huge
natural amphitheatre
From his cutting
Made, and that it is new with Bok’s
wearing weeds, roots and flowers
People are flocking to this place
here, meet, bringing
spirit and joys
And now we cheers
Alive! We live! We grow!
Feel your way Goatborg
says Inamorata
You are not as before I see
what has got to you?
How, has experience changed you
You seem mellower
Say something
Speak
Goatborg called over the gap
I have been truly in my minds life
Those many places I visited have
filled me
With knowing, and relevant
Information
I see how useless, in the face of
forever
It is to do anything else but fly
Our angry struggles, when unbridled
Will loose all karma back at you
And lash you with your own tail
I have heard
an inner song
that comes from bottomless chasms
the voice I so despised
Is louder that all my wailing mendacity
And now
I must bow
For I feel in more knowledgeable
Company
Lady, you have enhuru’d me

Pok
Inamorata preened as Goatborg lowered
his head
How gallant
You see, hear, I have arranged a festival
For your return
It might be good if fates entwined
So I was talking to Bok right now
And the Goats should be here soon
In fact, here they come now.
Let them remind you of the song
If it’s lost I’m sure they’ll know it
For hear, all the tribe are
joining the tune
Down there by the fire
What are they burning?
Machinery?
Playing it too
Better watch it Goatborg
Let’s go down
I’ll look after you
So they stroll up to the circle
Of being
And there as well as
Nargourds
Are many Starats
Keeping warm by the flames
Listening to the musics
So our larger than life pair
mingle with the other folk
who grow in story
Met, many races,
here at St. Catherine’s
Singing a song we all choose
As bards sparkle in their moments
and Bok shorls all in his
protective wings
And it was that night,
Many songs were sung
Until, at last, Goatborg breathes
His own eulogy
To the past
And joins nature in her own song
At once it agreed
that this was a better harmonic
than before
And all rose on the rotating rhythm
than now, revelling,
Goatborg recommends
that Spirine (???)
play his steel panels once more
So when, hearing the clamour
mixed with Borg’s joyous gurglings
Perepetic Goats, Gargalax
Godzollocks and Cronk
those whose marracas
are starballs
Join in
Knights aeolian, sons and lasses
Lunitine
And songster solites
All jangle their clangers
As make the moon music
Or beat the gong
That shimmers sun
Makes us know our dreams are come
And all eyes at once do oen up
See pouring from her golden cup
Guinevere, her face the sky
Pouring watkers from up high
See that Goat and Gig within
And drenched in rain begin to sing
A story, older far than all the rest
That they knew best
For had been there
And now remembered
Ancestral lay (???)
The balance of the wheel goes round
To uproot the roads
For there’s no map
That can encompass this territory
This experience
This freedom
Where like a crack of light at first
Soon becomes the day

Dinosaurs form domes
From their bones
And it (???) did shield a harmony
On the scene
And into the new
this glorious crew
Come streaming with
Song and tale ablaze
Come to make a better days
To turn the corn, to tread the maze
And open up and look around
See really what is going down
Goat and Gig are raised high above
Everyone is welcome
Old masterfools
And there is a procession under the moon
Round the hill three times were took
This Borg, who’d been mistook
The Giant too, they’d had a look
And saw a world, unlike their own
But into which, we, now are going
So, Inamorata, gave us shout
Goatborg circles, round about
Healing turning, healing how
We make the sound that makes the now
And see, if you can, if you could
The girl and goat went to the wood
And did not return
Till very long
When need of words, of huru song
Calls them;
Celebrate, happy throng
Then they will come
At any time
Come,
to sing their ancient rhymes
So hark and hear
A message clear
Bring your friends,
Have no fear
Down to this hill,
Where legends lay
Come you here
and come today
For future holds a fable fine
Though we walk now an even line
‘Twixt fall and safe,
but whose to know
P’rhaps a verse, a silly show
Can ring the change, that’s come
We know
And join in hard won peace to last
For thru struggle dire
this new age blasts
For there is faith
and there is art
And we will go along our path
Our weary feet, our Goaty cart
A true road, for it is not seen
Which is where this tale has been
Thankyou very much

 

---

 

---

 

 

Dance of Dreams by Tegwyn  
    (From Tape One)

http://www2.phreak.co.uk:8080/ramgen/stonehenge/tv01dance-of-dreams.rm

I got something to tell you
I got something to tell you
Now how do I explain
Don’t go thinking I’m insanely sane
But maybe things ain’t quite what they seem
Let me tell you about the people in my dreams
‘Cause they play like the pixies
And they fly like the fairies
They make the wishes of the wizards
And they make love like the mermaids of the morning.
It’s the place where stardust rains
And the children fly with the flames
And the lovers dance from cloud to cloud
Singing souls out loud
{chorus}
It’s the place I link to your face
There are nice people there
They wear flowers in their hair
And they dance and they sing
living the life they love
{chorus}
So maybe things are quite as they seem
As we’re dancing the dance of dreams
‘Cause we play like the pixies
And we fly like the fairies
We make the wishes of the wizards
And then we’ll make love like the mermaids of the morning.

One With the Family by Matt (c)
I bring you sweet songs and news of the meadowlands
suns shining daisies and I will make a ground for you
of nodding head daffodils and sudden sweet showerful
of grasses green growing and each blade a welcome sight

and nature she’s calling
and nature she says to me
come and join hands
you’re one with the family now
one with the family now

I bring you sweet suns
of whisperings of the woodland trees
of catkins fresh calling
feel the rising of the sap
of songbirds their courting and flutter wings they’re all around
of bluebells and carpeting and laughing the magpie folk

and nature she’s calling
nature she says to me:
Come and join hands
you’re one with the family now
one with the family now

I bring you sweet songs and tales of the morning light
A beetlebug scrambling, spot ladybirds ambling
of skylarking singing and dancing in the blue sky
of bumblebees buzzing make honey for you and I

And nature she’s calling…

I bring you sweet songs, a love of the sacred earth
of quick summers gold, and I’ll make a crown for you
of tinkerbells glistening and laughing the pixie folk
green grows the new growth and heathens reborn again
heathens reborn again, heathens reborn again
heathens reborn again
heathens reborn

Titche’s Song by Cellidh (c)
I wish so much so to be a child again
imagination running wild again
and age comes creeping slowly up behind you
a timeless smile standing cold and still
Thus enforced by will
tell me
can you feel this too?
please please please
say you do
to walk in fields of courtyard unexplored
discover secrets of our hidden hopes
And age comes creeping slowly up behind you
a timeless mind
standing cold and still
thus enforced by will
tell me
can you feel this too
please please
say you do
I wish so much to be a child

Shaman Woman by Gaea (c)


shamana woman
shamana woman
shamana woman
shaman woman you make the sunshine
shaman woman you make the dreamtime
shaman woman you make the medicine wheel go round
Bright white buffalo woman
Coming across the plains and the prairies
Bring in your wisdom
Bring in your pipes of peace
four directions
bringing your pipe of peace
four directions
prophecy prophecy calling me

The Enchantment Song by Steve P (c)

Like a seed
Nestled in the damp earth
I stare into the eyes the moon
Wait for her eyes to fall on me
And I wait for the dance to begin
I’ve tripped and I’ve fallen
With my eyes wide open
Looking straight into your eyes
Dancing madly … your soul so timeless
Two rivers flow down into the sea ???

I feel the breathing gently weaving
Strong as ivy in soft wet sunlight
Drowns my will and it takes forever

Dawn is just arriving
we look to the horizon
The sun it melts the stars out of the sky
We’re dreaming the creation
From within the mother ocean
From within the seashell held within our hand

I feel the breathing gently weaving
Strong as ivy in soft wet sunlight
Drowns my will and it takes forever

Camel Herders by Tragik Roundabout and Dragon Drummers (c)
well we’re all camel herders
we wear camel herders hats
we’re all camel herders
and what do you make of that?
ha ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha
ha ha ha, ha ha ha, ha ha
well we’re all camel herders
we ?? one can’t murder us
we ain’t got no camel any more
so we don’t get no pus
ha ha ha
so we’re all camel herders
aint no camels to be seen
they brought someone from Cairo
and stuck em in quarantine
ha ha ha

Change In Me by Shannon (c)
Do you mind if I
talk with you a while
I ever need to find myself
stranger to my whole reflection
all I ask is that you listen .. to me
and as the leaves fall swiftly from the trees
I can feel the autumn on my face
and as the death of
someone I have loved
sinks slowly into my heart

Change in me, change in me
I can feel it coming
change, a change in me
change in me, change in me
I can feel
coming coming coming come…

feel so small can cigarette seems
dull in the shame of never reaching for my dreams
never reaching for my dreams

..frozen needs of an abandoned child
wrecked so tired it’s hard to unwean
some times its hard to believe
in me
man she said something has crossed over in me
and never coming back this way again

change in me…

as I move towards
the love that I have found
I can see my reflection
looking back at me
don’t you see, don’t you see,
I will never leave you by in ..
and I will never abandon …
she is me ..
she is free

change in me..