Self of the World

The self of the world incarnates held by her flautist charms, gripped by the heels, slapped on the feet wrapped in a mother’s arms ; now ‘ other ‘d , non existential - never a moment’s doubt, weaned on a past and future tense, always the moment’s rout, always the outward focus here reigning down from the top, turning us round and round again until our pennies drop ! What need then, for magic mushrooms under our mother sun ? The flute plays on into the whole 'til the millions are one.