Here is my tale of the morning, which you shall see me wag with my chin as I hope to draw you in and out again. I, Martin Newell, son of Milton, of Campsie, of Lipton and the pink French Fancies, king under the influence of what I wot not but the biting cold and the messy mass amassed inside my vestments, and in this case I rest my head on.

I awoke from pissing dreams in time to save myself from drowning in my own densely packed mind imagery. Could it be some aspect of me, suggesting, a subterranean setting somehow representing, my own sewage facilities? Yet more like a cavernous niterie, I suppose. Heaven knows how long since I was in one of those, a turn at the club, now I’m an outdoor night lifer. All of which in my dream, the thoughts of a wet brain, made the spraying from the ceiling and the constant filling, like a submarine holed, but the crowds reeling still, loving the fiesta, the ecstatic abandon, much harder to decipher. We paddled about, dancing.

How and ever. Figuratively rising then and now rising actually I find myself once more realising, oh, I crave some exaltation. I must emerge from beneath the station.

Once more I would fain weep, to realise once more for all my spiritual intention that of which I speak once more is almost certainly self invention. Tussle with my circs. But where, where o would the spark arrive from once more? And whereof the whence and the unknown come-hither? When I find myself lifting above it… then what? I mutter, distracted, and unplug the dowp from my mouth corner and cough out an involuntary reveille.

One must always, I summarise, marshalling my coppers and cup and tapping my pocket for the knife snuggly in there and, yes, my walking stick behind, agin the wall for when clamberment will follow, realise again the need for rite and acknowledgement of passage. In this labyrinth through which we move – now, actually, a network of bins and subterranean closes neath the railway, here, RIGHT NOW, I wheeze half aloud to myself, reminding myself here be, that I continue the Newell lines, under the influence, under the rooves, under the hulk of the North Bridge o’er which gallop happy the iron horses with their dancing hooves and ecstatic abandon, and follow a thread through a maze of confusion of the head, constantly bumping against walls, or more likely one’s own face in a mirror. Oh, the fun we had.

Sniff, spit. What I have in mind, deep within, flitting bat like, is a clearly mapped discipline of unbonding: the walking in loops and the walking it back again, to get out of it. A revolt by and against the body or mind, as you like it; macrocosmic mandalae, immensity cloistered, the corona refers to the ecliptic and I view my body with distaste as I hobble up the tunnel, because it’s holding me back, as I emerge from behind the bins and the ancient mossy brickwork, it’s holding me back, limp through the long green stalks and little purple priests, the groves of foxgloves, in to dapply green filtered light of the sun through the trees that weep even so unto the river. Tightly knitted paradox, fits like a hat I can’t get out of its box.

I leave behind, cast off and shuffle on, along the river to the church of St Peter.

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