On Shakespeare

The pen is a weapon and 
the best writing hits all meridians, 
animal migrations, plant anemophily and
subterranean root connections, species human's senses and faculties,
the totality of codings metaphysical and pre-codings systemic and subversive.
The embodiment of all that and every page turned is a feast. all kings die,
the grave diggers laugh. His pen quivers like many arrows of desire. a

warlord on horseback, the masked imposter entering the

master's chamber with crown or sylvan knife.
that quill is legion and its totality both asphyxiates and allows full breath of 
stars as we eat them like grain and

drink from poisoned cups.
His quill is the movement of every beating of the wings of every hummingbird 

that has and will ever live. I think.
From those wings spread deltae from meditation to ecopoiesis to meditation 
again. William, no virgin birth

your home's first bed squirming with adultery. William, the bastard, your ink is a rolling magnetic field, your compass centre is a constellation all in that hand. I never want to meet you unarmed in a dark alleyway
in Marrickville or Easter Island - may your
unbroken words wreak havoc on all
ships of state, all witches and
this animal of industry.