The procession of

I enter a chthonic world, of asphalt heavens, doomed and bleak above. The black hearse is already parked, and the family in grand suits and veils and funerary lace, gather around. Their skin is the colour of midnight, just like the large coffin. All these generals and ladies of the gods below, white flowers pinned to their vestments, prepare for the departure of their kind. We’re in a Germanic, industrial sector of a mourning world. Somewhere, I know (or long to believe) there is soot and ash, the suspended animation of very old burnings. There’s something majestic about the haunting presence of these people. The dignified harbingers of death, larger than death itself, a dangerous and criminal communion of misunderstood souls. In their blessed hands, they carry the sickle, the nails, the axe, the rope, the dagger, the gun. They carry to the disturbing table, the cup of poison, the noxious drug, the terrible thorns of The Lord. Their duty, Order, is to bring obsessive hurting.

I am watching from afar.

They are the imprisoning ones. And many terrified lambs are trapped inside them. Full of fear and trepidation, but transforming in the putrefaction. These victims are made holy through suffering.

The world prays for them, yes. I too, pray for them, but I’ve also participated from the pits of my being. I have drunk from this baleful cup, worn this baneful crown. Suffered for it. Liberated by it. I have traversed into the halls and hearts of such monsters, derived pleasure by communing with the masked and divisive beings of night. Would I dare say I have eaten with the scorpions and serpents sent by the Hand of God? I do not partake in their actual rituals. I have not carried out the acts they are passioned to do. It is not my path. But I have basked in the fields of their carnal celebrations. I have been illuminated in their hidden (de)basements.

But that was a time before (and I do not know the shape or name, the time of twilight power that might return.) Death has made me fertile in a way where I neither reproach not await. I’m merely watching from afar now. The dark family is ready to enter the gothic church.

“for even the darkest shall pass away
and will leave their kin behind to mourn
and behold, the weeping by those who love them
for even medusas are mothers
monsters, still daughters
serpents, still sons
For Who else then
is God of Cain and Judas and Vlad and Bundy?
a heart born from hatred might still know grief”

I do not enter the church with them. Like a funeral arrangement long ago, from the time of the Loa, I am not permitted to witness such sanctification of shadows.

A woman appears before me. Like a sister from a different mother of night, a caring daughter that comes just before the dawn, a morning star in the form of a flower. “I am Daphne.”she says, and In her chaste presence, I am in love.

An exegesis on the stations of nacht

( VIII to XVI or the final forms)

a series of
or fragments from
experiences in that liminal, oneiric space
of dream debris, or signals rising from
‘periods of a sepulchral life’
that which followed the great conjunction.

“the two creatures that gave you life, I have taken from you.” – Baron Samedi, Loa of the dead

‘then the hermit will appear, marking your disappearance’


“And there were songs, spirited by rain,
that year end coldness, the way
nothing lasts forever.”

There’s a woman on the bus
carrying a dog
she’s a musician
the dog is like a wolf
light in its eyes
wet and loving and sentimental

I touch its face gently
stroke its white fur
Its head, tilted, gazing

The musician nods at me
The bus brings me through these stations
The dog curled in my spirit, she is my wolf medicine
She follows me where I have to be on the eighth night onwards


These are the grey worlds,
fog, glaucoma, a sifting through post-life places:
How many are meant to move through here?
I am perhaps a shadow, lit by an occluded sun
a wandering species
like the imps and Chinese boys and strangers, small in stature, that moved through these stations with me, hungry, giving me food, stealing offerings from the dead
they are servants perhaps
from a temporary premise
a ghost-time


The old room is drained of colour
where the children used to play
where the Japanese soldiers died

The priest prepares the white book for me
“Who are you?” He demands
he speaks to a shape behind me
a golem, a totem, fluid and faceless

The priest asks me
if I had come from one of the islands

I recall tanks and trucks stuck in mud
a colourless clay earth
aircraft and smoke overhead

a boy there spoke to me of oxygen
given to a woman
given to mother
we hurry to find her
there is too much wasteland to cover
tents and barracks and airfields far away
something had followed me back from that place
The priest would not open the white book until this wraith is gone

(Twice, the book had appeared
:part I, stanza 3:
:part 9, stanza 2:

Thrice, if one would count the extract of part X or the tenth dream)

“somewhere along vague lost corridors
a magazine like grimoire of torn images
dangle from my hand like shreds”

Editors note: The book(s) would eventually morph into screens, handheld or stored in back tech
Occult devices given to me throughout the stations from slender beings in skin tight suits

They appear as police figures. Disrupting times when I guarded places of death:

“of burial mound
of soil on concrete, beige torn fabric
stretched like a cross
as if growing from dried sand in funereal space”- part X, stanza 2

The way continues,
stations merge, de-form, reveal, re-condition themselves
into modes of narration involving accidents where:

“I’m waiting for an ambulance on darkened city streets
red alert and blackness
a storm like presence”


“The accident on the road
unearths the debris
buried beneath the seats
the old woman and young man are not harmed
upright again, the bus continues its journey” – part XIII stanza 1

(Editors note: This exegesis has become fragmented – disembodied from its original structure. A reassessments of its organs, its living quarters, becoming new orders. This genesis develops its own pattern, its own way of birthing meaning.

(I am a shadow, surely, of satellite lights cast across the statue of my death posture)


I follow the long and aged man
smoke emerging from our mouths
a cycle of offering and receiving
mind altered by transcendental air

I do not tend towards the crowd at supermarkets
I divert, but into the hands of Chinese boys
They corner me by the trash can
they lead me astray with false tech
palms open, lying
posing as false powers of justice

The elongated man (who is also a beggar, a man with no home)
“you don’t yet know your way around here”

i’m shown women with soft skirts
i’m sent to the place of food and lanterns

(Poet/Priest note: Perhaps through the stations I consume the food offerings meant for ancestors. Perhaps I am an ancestor. Taking what I need for my quest through this desert, this wilderness, this world of spirits. And I’m making The Way for the one who will come after me. Who was made before me, on that mountain where I entered future lifetimes.)


i’m chasing a place in the city untouched by death
my heart invited to corridors of freedom
I descend from high architecture
I’m given red meat from banquets
sweetness of sacrificial sauces

I remember objects for children from long ago
fields touched by day light and special weather


I stand on the balcony of a motel corridor
I cannot make out the scene (or city or village or field or sea) before me
a large man stands behind me
I make a gesture of surrender
he is authority or doctor
or one who may arrest me
but I am not taken away

there is a bonfire in the corridor
might be furniture, books,
unknown gordion artefacts burning
the whole mass is levitating

a voice nearly comes from the fire
a voice from another place wants to talk to me

but it doesn’t

( I am to be patient, The Holy Man said through the screen outside these station of Nacht. It is enough now, that you have written all these for the exiles.)

“You are on the outside looking in on me on the inside looking in on me”


I have no shoes
nothing to clothe my back
I bring no belongings
only a desire to seek her out on the streets
an urgent questing

It is night

I trod quickly but carefully
on grass and rocks and sand
I step over foliage, knowing somehow it hides the vipers pit
I reach black roads and (like that creature in Eden)
I begin to crawl on my belly

I find a long black nail
sticking out from tarmac
I remove it, I don’t think I keep it
I know It shall not puncture my flesh

the red numbers are counting down
the cars might come to crush me
I slither faster
I avoid another black nail
( the poisoned snares are about me O Lord but you are at my Right hand)

I climb into a house

Island boys help me through a window and my existence ends there

I do not go further into the house
I do not find the woman I seek
I am led elsewhere

There are disabled peoples in wheelchairs
led by men and volunteers into a building
I catch up to the front of the throng
I hold glass doors open

We enter cluttered rooms where there are tables with wires and metal and nuts and bolts
Other men emerge, with half eaten burnt bread melting with cheese
There’s chalk on the table and a man I once knew places his bread on the table
I dust off the chalk for him
(Or he does it himself but with my hand)
I’m holding on to what’s inside me
I am finding a way to let it go
I climb monuments on cold but sunlit lands
I climb structures and edifices of stone and granite and changeless time
There are remains of half eaten food in plastic containers
black cake and red meat
I’m nearing a state where
I’ll defecate on this ziggurat

I can see the far fields from here
Green and windy, an open horizon
fluid leaks from my body


It’s getting more pronounced
this searching for the woman, my mother

(I am a man in one realm trying to reach the other)

a girl is plucking pin point scabs from my hairless scalp
black dots removed by fingernails
she is with another man. They sell insurance or watches.
cheap goods sold at luxury prices. False values.

I’m talking with two gay men. The alpha reduces the beta, who goes quiet
the alpha drones on and I drone out, ultimately leaving them in their seats

water leaks from a pipe in the ceiling of a shop
water ruining papers and perishable goods
I’m buying a hot coffee but the man is taking too long
he is making coffee for the customer before me
there is an impatience as he keeps mixing milk into powder into boiling fluid
cakes are toppled over in plastic bags
these bags are not mine, these desserts are not mine
I take on the burden of delivering the lost food

I am diverted from my path to the woman, to mother
She is waiting in a clinic, in her wheel chair

I am burdened with seven to nine paper cups of coffee
It is not my duty to carry these packages, to deliver them
The bag goes missing. I abandon the obligation, I let go of that which is not relevant to my way
There is distress, I am late, the woman in the wheelchair is waiting
I reach the clinic but the pharmacy is on the fifth floor
I take a lift after moving through sections with glass walls
I know this place as the library
The lift is a glass sphere
It moves out of the building, along train tracks raised above the streets
It takes me in the wrong direction
I see an open van parked wrongly on the streets
its produce, spilled onto sidewalks, a woman huddles next to overturned boxes, she looks up at me
I see other people watching me in the sphere going by
I’m speeding along turns, moving forward in this future world (when I long to move upwards)
I’m anxious. mother is waiting. But also she is not.
She is where I want to be, but her journeys end is not yet my destination.
my vehicle is not suited for the world she is in

this is not yet my time

XVI the last station – The Tower

by mid nocturne
a dividing line has been bridged
(a stone in the heart removed by a man behind the rattan screen)
two women in tight black tactical suits prepare handheld stealth tech
devices from the future, from interstellar space

(They are programming someone, or something. They might be living pillars or a species of psyche. I am a stratagem room, they are my officers. Sister systems to my station.)

by mid daylight
I’m passing through the yellow halls of buddhic funeral tents
vacant, uncluttered, cleansed
a woman sits at the head of platform
a place to rest the body ( with no body)
(I am perhaps the body, moving through the last neighbourhood on this quest)
an interconnected tentage leads me to a larger ritual hall on a field.
And there, overhanging this world i’m in
is a great chandelier
like a planet orbiting from above
crystal light forms and diamond sutras
a complex presence, a metaphysical fruit or advanced temple satellite
hovering above me in its silence, its magnitude, its stillness
Its meaning and strangeness and mystery is lost to me
a place of waiting (or a place waiting for me)
yet to be revealed through future stations of night or
the eyes of days that shall see the unseen

Epilogue or editors end stake:

“I cannot be the compass to my own forays
the magnetism from beyond will have to be.”

There had been other instances in the mansions of dream
an outmoded lover carrying a box full of broken walls and ceilings and floors
kissing me with wet lips while I lean away, no longer seeking her hand. “Things have changed.”she said. I have become the bride herself, led to an other altar. My left hand had become black, but healed via ferocious sounds sold to me by a woman. Always a woman, populating, inhabiting, handmaids of creation. My postures in darkness had changed. Symbols and forms redacting. Unconscious gestures that cast away unknown attempts on my life. I wake before day break, and open my lips, emerging from secret tombs, uttering to the pre-dawn light.

stations of nacht – parts V, VI


the imps of night, visit
bringing gifts

the first brings me meat of fowl in styrofoam box
steaming grain, wheat, lost soup

he is late

giggling and shifty eyed
having returned from prison
‘for harassing a young one’

I know the traffic lights are confused around him
there is no hunger in me
he yabbers
he leaves
I sense a small pink dress on his person but he hides it well
I do not consume the offering


the second one enters Chinese mall of labyrinths
red lanterns, massage women, cheap pyjamas hung on plastic hangars
clothes rack wobbling under strain
women eating lunch out of styrofoam boxes
the second one stresses
the escalators are confused about him
he scurries about, to buy my airline ticket

he is delayed

but I will still depart, sitting in a spacious room
lit by projector screen
flight path animations on the wall
the cities below us
arteries of snake lights
black oceans
weaving, rippling
punctuated points, glittering

I’m in a night room in the sky
the repose of creatures around me
the softly breathing
the hum of movement, the transatlantic

dimensions and hours and genius loci changes

I’m at a ballroom wedding
luxury and feline and designer handbags, fabulous people engorged in wealth, bridesmaids, tuxedoes

blood clots on the bathroom floors
red streams on the walls

he washes
he washes
spraying down the scene

blood and water
water and blood

(what is this intimate relations, between grand hotels and restrooms?”)

maybe the year is ending here
marriage of heaven and earth

images of guests in drunk positions are sent to my phone
stances, celebration, dancers in mid turns
legs cocked, knees bent, night dresses akimbo,
feathers in ruffled hair, peacocks and strange birds, curved flesh bent waist, winged masks
pictures after pictures appearing on my screen

I do not know where the bride wants me
I am here to anoint women of sequins and glazes
glitter on powdered skin

they are not at their oblong tables
they are scattered from their numbered tables
a disruption of sequences
posts and spots abandoned

the second imp of night still has my ticket
I watch the whole ceremony on the screen
in the wooden room, the sleeping room
on a ship, in the upper echelons of sky
far above the cities
streetlights below like lost and glowing insects
converging, dispersing, crawling through the crevices of dream

stations of nacht – parts I – IV

“there will be a second primitive age
of flesh marked by the aftermath of fire
ships, built from deadwood,
dense with soot and sickness

It will take us from the dark of somewhere, to nowhere
escape routes mired in ancient ocean floors
risen like a sub terrestrial creature
a mystery, sanctified by darkness”


this is not like the merriment of a time before
where food was served to the elderly
laughter and harmony between tables

perhaps we thought we were safe in our wooden towers
high above the unnamed chaos
I stood before ladders that brought us to our peaks

but somewhere within me
there was no rest
I clutched a white book
a remedy still trapped between its pages

the weak could not ascend
there were people with dead limbs, waiting

we had left them alone
left them to the ruins of the land

no one else seemed to care

I felt helpless

while there were elevators
they could not work
steel doors sealed shut
machineries of hope, silenced

father then, called me from a place beyond
“mother has been friendly to me” he said
together, in their quiet, I knew they were safe


we are not safe here anymore
our commander, despite his militant stature
is wet from sweat and toxins
sunken in bed, clamouring in slow motion

this wooden shelter is not like before
the walls are now blackened with decay
soiled by septic rain
damned by fierce damp winds

I call up drones for oversight
where are our scientists? our doctors?
the admin woman demands departure
there are not enough survivors onboard

a man enters our doorless room
flustered and frustrated
”with all your tech you could not find us!?”
his frightened daughter in tow
they were last to arrive


we set sail
either by sea or air, I cannot say
the lands of our fathers are failing
our depleted passengers are weak
we may or may not be on a star ship

the admin woman
reads out a full name from a black book
is this my white book, transformed?
those with the same surname step forth
thin, lightless boys, waiting in line to suffer

something isn’t right

I intervene, calling out a longer name
belonging to a boy I knew from before
‘he who was killed on the roads’
and yet,
here he is, emerging and eager to be sacrificed again

he steps through the disappointed throng
they must return to their benches
the boy who is called must go to his nest
he climbs into a black box
his life, an echo, dropping into depths


at the end of journeys
In stillness, I am

time unravelling
ages pass

the ship shall become a monolith
a massive monument on uncertain seas
a great black casket of asteroid rock
bodies and forms of dead gods are chiseled from its sides
such an ancient mystery, a necromantic ark, mad not by human hands
an ancient ship from the star fields of death and destruction

from the foreign tomb
the boy will voice out as an old man
a distant calling, a muted thunder, a language unknown to the bloodlines of men

the ship shall grow with primitive dread
a mass, a complex, armour corroding,
old granite structures, sullen with soot

“this is our ark for a new olden age”

the ship shall sway on thick, lifeless waters
the sky, a blackened canopy of cremations
ashes of kings and newborns, geological entities choking the heavens
our progress reduced to tar and oil and blood of the earth
calling to shore where I stand

the corpse of the ark lolls into another
like the remains of worlds colliding


that which was below us
will be that which is before us

there will be only night

and the sea floor, our eternal deathbeds
Will be the only land in sight
wasted, writhing, the beginning of another time

ages pass
time unravels
in stillness, I am
at the end of journeys
the lighthouse keeper for a lost species