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