Stride Magazine -


The growth of human knowledge
can be moulded into different shapes,
information and movement fitted
into maps, diagrams and tables.

The proof of this is similar
to what we saw earlier today:
ideas moving with enormous speed
from one side of the mountain to the other.

Nothing is ever destroyed in combustion,
matter is simply transformed.
Oil and air turn into living substance
which we breathe in whenever we inhale.

In a world where actuality is spacious,
and prospects outshine the real,
poetic form remains obscure,
continental drift the same.

At closing time, or after,
we'll experiment for hours,
try and disturb the imagination;
experience helps us to grow.

Truth lives just over the horizon.


Allowing puddles to shine
involves an ability to discard
unease and primitive desire.

It is obvious that light
is an outdated metaphor
expressing a desire for God.

He's supposed to be there,
dangling in the moment,
overseeing the eternal.

What does holiness obscure?
The full and final take. So what?
The tape stops then restarts again,

catches one last moment of invention:
our attempt to divide the atom
and find the breaking point.

The book is never opened.


I have a new vocation as a hostage,
am trying to encourage strange encounters
but resources seem inadequate.

Floundering through inbetween,
asking for clearer directions,
time itself is in reverse.

Wouldn't it be strange if
we could remember the future
and decipher a portion of our lives?

We'd understand everything then:
transformation and perception,
the inscribed surface of the self.

Resistance is quizzical; the scratch
and flicker of belief turns out to be
only another exotic wonderland.

Admit it: we create the world
then allow it to contain us.
This is variable evolution:

dreams receding behind cardboard.


When you came back everything was different
and you seemed prepared for constant change.
What interested me was the urge to keep moving
through the beep and chime of everyday,
finding answers in the swirl of neon and pixel.

I tried to place you in another story, one where
life is conceived as a number of feedback loops
and distorted sounds, a number of feedback loops
and distorted sounds, infinite doubts and dreams;
endless memories, strong associations of self.

My life threads through itself, distorting time,
diffusing or ignoring all my dreams, desires.
Faith is a rain-flushed stream overflowing into doubt,
wish fulfilment is impossible: the future is still there.
Imagined possibilities are present in every question.

I prefer not to take fading pictures off the wall:
the visible is stranger than what we think we see.
Rituals are an attempt to share unacknowledged guilt;
the tape stops the skid, we are learning how to fall.
All I want is a thin head and the occasional word of praise.


The eskimo in the net,
the elephant by the tower,
the entomologist at work:

imagined possibilities
present in our questions,
show the stranger's spirit.

Their eyes are usually brown,
nose most unusually broad.
Type of hair is unimportant.

Their way of life is simple,
with no time for the arts.
They hatch into tiny grubs.

Their rituals, which resists corrosion,
are most unpleasant to watch;
they have special music for the dance.

The formula for understanding this?
a pat on the head and a word of praise.
Truth is confirmed and established.

Table A is for precision jumping,
B shows the emission of gas.
Experience will help us to live:

whenever we breathe we inhale.

            Rupert M Loydell 2003