Winged Thoughts in the Age of Air

Month: December, 2012

Friendship’s Hill


For Kieran Francis Clarke

There came a
time at last
a child sang
at dawn
a broken sleep
made sense
a weary ship
made fast.

The world of
joy went on
within the
present tense
and everything
was still
on friendship’s hill.

A weary ship
made fast
a rainbow crossed
the past
the sacrifice
was rejected.

The city
more forlorn
made each man
a pawn
yet everything
was still
on friendship’s hill.


On Dub

Here’s the thing about dub.

Dub is the highly-blessed contemporary vehicle for the one-world-one-love chant of our new revelation.

We’re going to the Golden Age, we’ll be there in 4,000 years. This is prophecy and Rimbaud saw it coming: “Love’s to be reinvented.” The next religion will be Rasta and it will bring about the resolution of stress in the Abrahamic family. It will mean One Love, direct, no problem.

Dylan is a greater poet than Bob Marley but he’s not a prophet; Dylan is fundamentally a stupendous poseur with a heart of gold underneath the glitz. But in Japan they sing reggae in Japanese with Jamaican accents because prophets transform the world. Bob Marley moved everyone with the revolutionary gospel of Christ re-expressed for our times. He spoke about partaking of wholemeal porridge as if it was the sacrament of Christ’s broken body being shared round a campfire in 4am Trenchtown. Dylan had his moment of prophecy when he made Slow Train Coming, still regarded by many as his best album. But he threw it away, the vibe was too judgmental.

Blessed are the peacemakers, we are going to transcend war on this planet. We can and shall evolve beyond a primitive collective reflex which has been described as the normalization of madness. ‘They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the LORD, as the waters cover the sea.’ Isaiah 11.9

Some maintain there is good in war and from a relativist position, yeah okay, that can be argued; you can demonstrate almost anything from dualistic angles. But only our vampiric banks and our military industrial complex benefit from war. War is beneficial to an insane elite but not to the rest of the one human fam. The evils of what Blake calls ‘corporeal war’ so outweigh any possible good that all scales of comparative measurement are completely destroyed.

Yet Blake speaks of the need for nonviolent ‘mental fight’, the struggle of righteous anger. Blake was the first UK Rasta, a true prophet.

So we make dubs because the form is more than equal to the challenge of singing God’s praises in the deserts of modernity. Heaven on the earth, right now, is what dub demands. Dub demands “Thy kingdom come”, human rights, an end to genocide. Dub says “Good and bad in all races.” Dub still carries the flag of peace and love while rock’n’roll’s forgotten the quiet revolution and muddles on under the washed-out rag of surrender.

Dub says: “The cool shall inherit the earth”. That’s dub, the foundation-stone of all modern electronica.

So humble down, Rasta children, make yr little dubs and offer them to peeps to d/load… like the sharing of bread and wine, yeah, like holy communion in the electronic age.

One Love in the new times, lift yrselves, big up!

Voice of Kings Cross

This vid shot in Israel, salaam, shalom, peace…


Dedicated to the legendary Kieran Francis Clarke, loved by many, missed by all; and to his widow, Amabel…


Sensations of other skies come now.
The deep past emerges from vivid clouds.

Out of the smoke of that winter you arrive,
Clearman, parallel traveller, god of language,

Enigmatic, inscrutable, detached, quixotic
presence in the autodidactic morning,

Now, as we first collide synchronistically,
as you come out of the snowstorm, I notice

That racehorsing eagerness as we run together
for the badlands of the Cross and the squat yards.

In the desert, vast striding of two machines of God,
we’re crossing the wasteland where everything is tested!

Look! Our nostrils widen! Your pebble blinkers
catch the polar blue of sunfilled heavens. Friendship!

The oxygen explodes in our airways on fire.
It’s neck-and-neck racing on the fast track to Albion.


Metal Ghosts

A good number of years ago I lived in the deep West Country for a spell and was foolish enough to drive a car. The Gloucestershire roads are haunted and night-driving can be a sobering experience, especially after a spliff or two. One night I composed this poem in my head whilst driving near Belas Knapp, an extraordinarily beautiful megalithic site near Cleeve Hill.



Know this! A line divides our world,
along it glide demons day and night.

Don’t go near that black vector, people,
listen for the hissing sound of a snake.

Here, we’re safe, over there we’re safe:
in-between a thousand devils exist!

I speak of a pathway of hurrying death.
(Listen for a sound like a torrent of wind.)

It’s the step of a new spirit ruling the land,
it’s the breath of a rapid wrathful deity.

In the dark you see his wild eyes on fire;
rays of his vision cut the night to shreds.

He leaves a trail of subterranean odours,
as if an underground forest had ignited,

Bitter and toxic. The four-legged people
avoid his spoor; to inhale him is unlucky.

Sometimes the swift metal ghosts attack
green trees to either side of the track.

They try to devour, usually at night,
victims standing there without choice.

Yet the trees kill them, hardly flinching.
(Do they ingest poison from the wood?)

Still they come, like leaves of the Fall,
more than a quick mind can number.

Not alive, yet they imitate sentience
with spark of life and four spinning legs.

A million tiny explosions move them,
raking the subtle sky with long streaks.

They hunt, but don’t stop to consume;
other sudden killings lie ahead.

Keep far from the black track, people:
it’s broken white lines mean certain death.



Wrong Element


One ugly black
triangle of leather
lifting slowly
to precede the other
where the scarred
film of late-summer
lawn is cartwheeled-
over by leaves:
it is the huge
ungainly swan-bird
stepping down to
the round pond
feet incongruous
on the ground as
fallen green to
the eye which follows:
painful geriatric
progress of a giant
towards a liquid
paradise beyond.

Cro-Magnon Man drank Coca Cola

When Homo Sapiens moved into a Europe dominated by Cro-Magnon man we were were up against a fella with a bigger brain, heftier physique, better tools, nastier weapons. We were outclassed but we had one unique advantage: we loved beautiful things. We networked and we intercommunicated and we exchanged works of art. We came together around a value-system based on our ability to share the fruits of self-analysis and self-reflection. Anthropologists believe this sharing made us strong.

Now we’re combating the New World Order, the dying beast of corporate greed which lashes out in its death-throes against the backdrop of the Shift of the Ages. (It was nearly magic-underwear-time in the White House.) To all outward appearances nothing changed at the solstice, and this morning we continue to network, network, network for a transformation which is ongoing. (‘Revolution’ is a word which doesn’t impress me).

That beautiful phrase ‘world without end’ comes in the Lord’s Prayer. And this little world didn’t come to an end last night. But, in Bolivia, on December 21st 2012, Coca Cola was declared an illegal substance…

Unholyland III


‘I was deeply moved by Unholyland – it has extraordinary energy, wit, knowledge, and beautifully marries the vernacular with rhyme. It reads beautifully and is like nothing else I’ve read.’ Tom Paulin

Unholyland II

Many of us don’t expect young Israeli DJs to fall in love with teenage Palestinian women-rappers, but it happens in Unholyland, as in real life! This verse-novel is driven by what’s currently taking place in the youth-culture of modern Palestine/Israel. The real Arab revolution is the explosion of politico-spiritual rap from subculture, a music which carries the nonviolent message: ‘Putting down the gun and pickin up the mic…’

“The time is right, O Rasta children…” (Israel Vibration, aka I Vibez.)

There’s nothing the Israeli government fears more than the nonviolent wave of angry, truthful, lyrical Arabic rap pouring out the West Bank and Gaza. Young Israelis, plugged into American culture, are very aware that Slingshot Hiphop is now in 2012 more hip than any rap coming out of NY or LA. These kids pack venues in Tel Aviv to hear their ‘enemies’ tell them the truth through the medium of a musical form which – to add to the irony – is often not very well-received by those in positions of authority in, say, Syria, Jordan, Egypt, where Slingshot Hiphop is despised as decadent western soul-poison.

At one crucial point in the process of writing Unholyland I saw a documentary called Syrian School which told the story of two beautiful young teenage girls from a Palestinian refugee-camp outside Damascus, both of them completely determined to rap in Arabic and tell the story of their painful exile. I saw their suffering as they struggled to become rappers. I heard the nonsense of their teachers – in total denial – facing down these courageous young women, blocking them from performing their raps in the school concert.

Putting this scenario together with the hopeful fact that Slingshot Hiphop is so big in Israel I had a sort of theophanic moment in which it seemed that Plato’s idea of the Golden Age returning through music was happening for real in the Middle East.

Anyways, that’s how Unholyland was born.

In the poem there’s lots of charge. Green burns in subterranean venues and raps blaze in smoke-filled vehicles travelling at supersonic speeds through The Galilee. Someone’s recently called Unholyland ‘Pushkin with a spliff’. Well, that was nice of them. ;-)) In fact the work shows both sides of what Baudelaire called Les Paradis Artificiels, the double-edged sword of ‘narcotics as substitute for enlightenment’.

The poem is constructed in 12 chapters, 264 sonnets in total, and the sonnet-form is actually the one Pushkin developed for Eugene Onegin – an amazing structure of fast-moving short lines with an elliptical, asymmetric rhyme-scheme which spins and dazzles. (This form can actually be traced right back to the Troubadours, so I believe.)

If Unholyland makes a few little waves for peace in Palestine I’ll be happy…

Golden Quatrain Dub

Visionary William Blake superimposed the symbolism and philosophy behind the Book of Ezekiel on the map of London, a psychogeographical prophet working ahead of his time. His elemental ‘Four Zoas’ are Ezekiel’s ‘Four Living Creatures’ and Blake amazingly places his Zoas over the four quarters of his sacred London in a masterstroke of alternative urban planning. The Golden Quatrain is the key to this fourfold attribution which demarcates a city of spiritual art and political freedom, now building…

Check the dub in your beads and meditate with me on the wonders of Blake’s London cosmology centred on Kings Cross.

Aidan Andrew Dun at The British Library: The Kings Cross Mysteries

Here’s a vid filmed at the British Library in 2012 in which I chat ‘bout hitting the squats of Kings Cross in the winter of 1972, not realizing – in a state of great inner turbulence at the time – that I was stumbling into the mythological treasure-house of Britain. In this clip I tell the true story of how I met Arthur Rimbaud in a snowstorm on the rooftop of a Georgian derelict in that now-famous city-within-a-city of 300 squats: legendary Charrington St. When Rimbaud appeared behind my shoulder – in a vision, if you must – I didn’t know that he’d written much of his greatest work a hundred years previously in Kings Cross, in his year of wonders, 1873. I didn’t understand why he was pointing to Pancras Church just over the way, the oldest church in the western hemisphere…

All’s revealed. Check it out, peeps…