The unreality of reality,
of its material world
and its flickering immaterial repercussions,
tear and pull
at any urge for stability
and long-lasting lasts

I recall a pop song from 1966
with The Yardbirds
(At that time Jeff Beck, Chris Dreja,
Paul Samwell-Smith and Jim McCarty)
called Shapes Of Things

Living becomes a work of art,
executed with time and space
and the marten hair brushes of the senses,
and as I get older
the artistry becomes more intense
and more relaxed,
surprising me every day
with its matter-of-fact ease
and intuitive expressivity,
at the bottom of which
lies nothing,
while the end result never ends,
being a never-ending end nothingness;
a bardo cracking jokes like you and me,
Karlheinz Stockhausen, Bob Dylan
and the man on the street,
sundowns and electric light,
offices and staircases
- and surely living is a kind of lucid dreaming,
in which you can do what you want,
and refrain from anything