Bare wires touching

makes for unpredictable

(hot) consequences.

There are workarounds:

insulation breaks down flow

blown out of control.

Magnetism’s nice;

I’d rather it not blow out.

My heart’s inside this.

The perfect circuit

may be one that’s incomplete -

more like a spiral.

—NS

Objects of desire does not cut it, what this red rock of time can buy

the one blessed to bear it, momentarily sun-king for love and forever

held in the flame of reclaiming that burns away all but divine knights.

— NS

Heavy elemental magic; bone on rock. A poem:

…

The poetry of my body is written in the metre of space between.

It follows not the clean or ragged rhythms of outward extension

but erupts from a volcanic groan always churning in deep matter,

placing new threads that link points in secret knots,

finely worked on the loom of many hidden miracles.

The captive pulse of desire is my seat of being;

the emergency of that, a masterclass in my craft.

Patterns appear with the photonic cry of an Icelandic winter

- raw material, deep mater

on a rock polarised like Earth’s wet mind when they I say,

offhand, that I learned to come by listening to Homogenic.

-NS