Proleptic they leave you
somewhat diagonalised by 
omnijective interface of
random access co-imagination

like building an on and off
at once and every second
second bigger than colour 
blogger than space deeper

than memes and faster
than drum n bass multi-media
of mutually assured semi-
masturbation and one 

is not to trust them. Science 
says they are not carbonated
electrons fired down from 
a Timeless superconscious 

as such, but come from 
folds in the psyche, which 
derives, in its etymology, from 
Ancient Greek for ghost, kopsiche.

It can seem like the mind's ear
has gone polyphonic, when 
you live in a word-world
gone polysemic with the 

multifarious possibilities
of hermeneutic autonomy, 
and it can just seem like 
in Hell the air is talking...

of course, the notion of voices
only pathologises what by 
another name might be
the property of wonder, 

or music, or even neo-
shamanism. Back when I used 
to hear them more regularly
than I do right now, I always

knew when a voice was
a voice, but not always if 
another person could hear 
the voice I was hearing. 

Now I seem to have cured 
myself by deleting 814
files of poems, but this
anachronistic throwback 

in order to bulk out my new
look volume, is threatening
to tip me over the edge and
back into that deep listening.

To show off one's vocabulary
is no good reason for writing
a poem, but to destigmatise
mental illnes, to help 

someone else going through
what you have suffered,
seems a reasonable enough
efficacy, so don't attack me

you crazy people perched
on your invisible telephone
wire. I am a reasonable man, 
and in fact rather nice as well. 




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