The Master Poem

The Master Poem is a text compiled of the writing of all the people who submitted work to the KAIROS project. It was painted onto the KAIROS wheel and Stefanie’s body during the live performance over the course of 3.5hrs by Loren.


I offer my words and my wits and my worth,

Reclined amongst ruins before the Abyss

A token of life, this stoic vibration

The key to the Revelation that we resist.

Brace yourself child, the centre you witness,

Imperfect creation with mind still sleek.

Memory pours ink in a secret location,

Each rupture a map, the arrow we seek.

Icy winds are looming, the land is not growing,

The monotone drone starts to lengthen each hour

Hurtling through space in a broken down kingdom,

Ripped free on a giant rock scorched by our power.

Tethered and tilting each contour calls

Four walls collapse, its a conscious choice.

Time all at once as the energy flows,

Moving in cycles, defining your voice.

The Great Eye of Ice, bedeviling the blind,

And the bound looked up at the sky and saw black.

With Seven veils for Seven heavens,

Beckoning the bold as the ghosts retreat back.

I wonder which way I would like to face

Hands grasp, wings beat, my breathing slows.

All my knowledge is that of a moth

On the edge of wakefulness, the memory grows.

Forceful in its stride, the blushing of nature,

‘Come’ she said, ‘We have work to do’.

Great power flows through her, hidden within me,

‘Magician be quick or you will die too’.

Viciously circular are the echoes of the future,

Resist frozen moments, the suffocating cycles,

Dreaming of magic is the truth of human nature,

Ascending and descending, all riding time’s spiral.

Channels appear and spheres surge through years,

Light floods the cells as a wild dance spins,

Through root and branch we swim in silver

Endless seas now under our skin.

Facing the sun between snow topped goliaths,

Clan Chief stands on the speaking stone.

‘Summon the Goddess, your gods grow tired

Of fighting the knowledge with knives of bone.

Worship her slowly, with the dance, the drum,

The writing in her temple of shells and debris

The darkness is leaving, soon we’ll light the fires.

Do not wait for death to set you free.’

Written in red, shapes glimpsed through destruction

A lithe lupine creature of sun-spun gold.

She gleams once again when twilight dawns

A vision of the future, a sight to behold.

Submission #20 Laura McGee & Paul Stranger

Tethered and Tilting

In the garden
honesty and fate dance.
A wild dance,
a dance of thieves.
Viciously circular
the pair spiral round a stolen heart,
dance to its beat.
Slave they are to it.

At the edge of the garden
beyond the gate,
sin watches.
Empty chest. Laboured breath.
Towards the dance
Towards the circle

There are no angles of escape here.

And so

At the end of the garden,
inside a circle of blood danced footprints,
a stolen heart beats.


Leaking. Loosing.
But at this time choosing.

Submission #19 Patrick Holmes

What we accept gives us peace, but strips us of power. Life cycle, spiral the tunnel of time from nothing to everything and back again, moving forward stripped of all that is here and was there, but the cycle remains the same, those were close now are far, to come back again, or to remain. A faith betrayed seven by seven times over, but in this spiral moving forward to repeat the same, without remorse, we are who we are and in fighting it we only become that what we resist.

7 stripped of innocence as deemed that forever, Diagnosis disorder medicated to pacify the different into subdued normality. Stand on the step with the door closed, to fit in with those who do not. Surely this environment will shape this jigsaw to be a proud piece in the wall. There is no innocence in a sinful child, thus they may not contaminate those around them, a hidden truth of human nature, inconvenient to accept. A raging fire that must be extinguished, may it light not a flame in the eyes of the deserved.

14 to know the implications, the death that would not come, to many who tried to enter its depths, unsuccessful, or uncommitted. Return to the blackness for you are a wound in the eyes of the father, an imperfect creation, shamed, and cast out. You created the scar I carry, so shall you carry the same, for you created yourself imperfectly, said the father, now I shall sacrifice my blood, to punish you. Let these wounds speak for your sin and shall you remain unforgiven. Only the Shepard can save only the deserved.

21 to know the depths of depravity in this world you are condemned; extinguish the brightest light, for it is imperfect. May you see the darkness that surrounds you, the fire that lights you up is sin, condemned again, for you shall not return, this spiral is too wide to feel the centre again. This centre shall you witness as you orbit around never again in the same space and time. In the centre innocence you will never witness. Tainted and estranged this world you are condemned to, you chose by your imperfect creation. Suffer for forgiveness, a long wait for a train that never comes, treat unto those more deserved, for they deserve it. Intention is a matter for those deserved, but sin is of those who don’t.

28 a circle so wide offset from the deserved. Faith is for the condemned, for only they feel the cold. Wander the earth in isolation the only inclusion of this world; for many lost souls will pass by. For one with mother earth you should respect the deserved, their fear of the depths, and restrict themselves from sin. It takes the strong to do good and the strong to do evil. But the strong must suffer for they can handle the burden, but the deserved must not, for they are the flock and he is truly the Shepard, he is the farmer, for their products they are of value, but for their humanity they are of inconvenience. To keep the wolves from the door, you must be the deserved, but choose no flock, born a puppy dog, to become a wolf or a Shepard, and take the fruits of thy labour, for the flock are given grass, and create wool and meat, deserved victims of their own acceptance, what we accept gives us peace, but strips us of power.

Submission # 18 David Chu


Time. A meal you devour one bite at a time, a meal you devour one bite at a time, meal you devour one bite at a time, meal you devour one bite at a time…

If we experienced time all at once, if I lived my entire life in a single frozen moment. I would be like a millipede, each moment in time, segment, limbs one in front of the other, slithering my way around my own perceivable reality seeking the path but already having walked it. For all of eternity. Or until the path stops and the millipede is beheaded.

When an event occurs, a violent event, whether physical or emotional, energy is released as force, light, sound, heat, cold and others unperceivable to the human senses, perhaps it is when these energies travel along the millipede like an electric signal along the nervous system that allow the few to hear ghosts of the past or echoes of the future.

Of course, the millipede is not alone in his endevour, I will cross paths with others, intertwining with theirs. Often momentarily, sometimes intrinsically. The writhing colony of millipedes, walking with or over each other creates a network of connections like neurons in the brain.

Only through that connection can we even begin to see ourselves as a single consciousness, a single mind. And only then we learn to work as one, to dream as one, to move forward as one. Maybe even meet one other. And perhaps go for a coffee.

Submission #17 Amanda Vaughan

away with you
bloody windowpane;
free the blinds that
half way each night to
half way each morning
there are far too many windows to this house
light shines thin through shafts
shot             like marbles from branches
of sun spun gold
it seems so far and unfamiliar
the buds of little kids in woods
stars that guide their souls
a token of life
where midges fly
they dote in lingering light
stagnant pit ball dash
stares back
back to back
brick on top in tow
with yesterday’s sorrow
sympathy is an evil thing
it slithers tracking the throat
drooling all thought          out
open the sun shines through  out
all gone green reverse
lingers inn
a homely name
a path.
with a picket fence and
no direction of whither next
a section. time
sequel unrefined

Long shot

long drive away from home
exercise my rights
I’m a woman    just like you
stretch each cartridge pin
seagull strings
along the shoreline
posted for the glide
to breath in salt is to thin the trachea
dispels the glue
commuting thoughts
their distance tells of time
skin the kill
gut the race
brace yourself to
taste the sweetness
wonder waiting time
“I’m vision introspection”
so out of the blue
dispensing sound
a clearing heard by you
story warning
wary reels a fraction moment longer
striking resemblance
strikes me down
hinged onto the courtyard that clasps
each rusty padlock
keys only wind awake eyes
flints reflect introspection
thick slices of time
flicked from the lips
sweet powdery
glisten out for jealousy
spelling its misty tale
separating each consonant
with those gestured speech marks
cheeks inverted to commas
a thousand line lashes
the memory pours black ink
got ladders and yet to climb
each post wrapped fist
confirms a fall
a wall away from goodbye
high on wintery heights
the lofty polishing kneading moment
calls through course over course
of an evening
balancing every knife
spinning thin
and sieving through short
a vision a future sighted
fails         forms a stream of  think
molecule sentence draws further

Ra (by the power of 100)

eyes all even
lock  intertwined
left fluidity             reason
for all a vision of future
failing forming
culture reclined
each bearing
her blasphemous heat
it trails a thousand years
“tell me daughter
            why d’you do it?”
each contour calls
the eye
compliance dies
at the hands of her equal
(prequel to destruction)
map each rupture
guided by skies
territories to the mine
their circular
claws those curious eyes
embracing locks show her
in define
onlooker non compliance
fists bear the couriers crust
pride braces for justice
courting elopes a hop spirit taste
for horus pouring amulet

Submission #16 David Driver

Homeless People

Human beings. Human beings are very strange creatures indeed. They are born, grow up, have children, have grandchildren and then die. But the strangest aspect about them is the things they get up to, to make themselves feel better.

Charities and churches are probably two of the best examples of daily cycles which relax and give a sense of well-being to the humans. The daily monotony of collecting unwanted coinage lazily lurking inside deep pockets, whilst gold and platinum plastic cards take pride of place in designer wallets, continues through the night as gimmick, plastic pots sit on the counters of takeaways across the UK.

Celebrities, millionaire business people and entrepreneurs all self-indulge when they “launch” their new projects that will put an end to poverty and make all equal. Badges, stickers, flyers and pamphlets explaining ways to pay, flood the cities from Scotland to Cornwall.

The middle classes abandon their semis in the suburbs in order to hand out leaflets to the homeless, telling of The Lord. “There`s always room in his house,” they say. “There`s never an empty church or stomach,” they joyously recite. “So come and eat with us, come and pray, come and sing to The Almighty. Let your voice be heard.”

Let your voice be heard? I wish my voice had been heard. But you wouldn`t listen, you wouldn`t listen in the church. You greeted with your false smiles, talked amongst yourselves, believed that you were doing good as you buttered the 17pence a loaf and served up a chipped bowl filled with soup from a massive can of soup bought from a second division supermarket. The wooden seats were cold and hard on my arse, just like the concrete slabs I had to sit on. But if the sun shone, I could hold my hand up to the stained glass and watch it change colour as I moved it from side to side whilst the gathering got over excited about dancing wherever you may be.

I didn`t feel like dancing whether I was here or out on the street, or in a box, or in a park and I was certainly never heard. You see, I was one of the homeless. I lived the everyday cycle of the homeless. But I looked on the bright side of life, at least I wasn`t one of the missing. They have the worst of all life`s cycles. They end up with their faces on lampposts and telegraph poles. They end up with the words “Missing Person” spread under their mug shot along with a “special” number to call. Some get a little airing on TV and then there`s always another who`ll post something on Facebook about them.

They’re plenty of us homeless people in every city or town up and down the country. How do we “arrive”? Who knows? We just are. A cardboard box, a doorway, a park bench for a bed; odd size shoes or boots and an oversized army coat to keep you warm.

Everyday people go about their everyday lives, carrying out their everyday routines; young, old, black, white, it doesn`t matter. Nattering away on their expensive mobiles phones, slurping coffees from brand name cups costing more than a jar itself, they have no spare change. A few may have a 1p, 2p or 5p, some may be daring and throw in a 10p or 20p, a well dressed man, who works out at the gym, might throw in a whole 50p to impress his new, doll like girl friend. But few, if any, throw in the gold nugget, the big one, the £1 coin.

This is special to the human beings daily routine, as it brings comfort and security. The obvious notes are tucked away safely of course, along with the plastic. But when it comes to change, there`s a pecking order.

You can add your meaningless, worthless coins to a £1 coin and buy something nice, or hop onto public transport and again make up the difference of fare to travel the short distance to a friend`s flat in the city.

But the real “magic” of the £1 coin is the fact that you can walk into Poundland and buy things for a pound! You`re not “breaking into” a note, or spending on the plastic, you can actually buy food, drink, books, car and garden gadgets or just that something you thought you`d never be able to buy for a pound.

I normally received a whole £1 coin at least twice a week; normally from human beings who had that look which said, “Don`t spend it all at once” or, “I`ve given you quite a lot of money and I think you owe me now.” What a lovely treat! And for this, I could indulge in the wonderful cycle of the homeless. I too could purchase something from Poundland. I normally bought a big jar of coffee. The young girl in the record store let me have endless hot water, so I could fill up my cup all day.

I made my cup from one of those gimmick, plastic collection pots. It used to sit on the counter in the local Indian, but someone nicked it, stole the money and left the pot in the road. I managed to chop of its head and seal of the bottom with a bit of super glue I found.

On Wednesdays, I didn`t get any hot water because it was the girl in the record shop day off and the guy in the bookies didn`t like me. He thought I put off his customers. That`s a joke coming from a man that would take money from anyone ranging from a solicitor to debt ridden potential suicide.

All those lovely people marching in with bravado and storming out with the weight of the world on their shoulders when they`d lost; eyes quickly glanced and looked away as the ticket was discarded into the gutter. They didn`t engage with words, not with me. But inside they said “Yes, what do you want? Money no doubt. No chance mate, do you know how much I`ve just lost on that dead cert? Got to get back to the wife and kids. Anyway, Christmas is coming up, do you know how much that costs?”

Christmas time, how much does it cost? I knew the cost of Christmas along with the rest of the homeless people. Christmas costs lives. It was the worst time of year within our cycle. It was when the cold came a calling and claiming. You tended to huddle up somewhere as warm as you could get and hold out. We tended to go into hibernation if you like and come out in the Spring; a quick head count soon told who`d made it or not.

Christmas was also when the middle classes were at their most active; dishing out their “good books” and words of “He died for me and you,” or “He suffered for me and you.” I suffered on a daily basis.

Anyway, I received two “good books” one particular year and they both served me well. One filled the holes in my shoes when I divided it down the middle and the other assisted with a more personal function.

I had to smile as I thought of Moses parting the sea just as I parted the cheeks of my arse and quickly turned one out into a carrier bag. The pages were my very own Andrex; but the only dog in the scene was a large oily German shepherd, whose owner looked like Freddie Kruger`s lovechild. He muttered something and walked off with his carrier bag of wine.

The New Year called once more to end another year for the homeless and when the fireworks started and the celebrations erupted, another new cycle began; but it was my last year in the homeless cycle.

I went out in style though and with a little bang of my own. They came blowing towards me like two angles some might say and I laughed insanely as I snatched them up from the frosty tarmac; two £50 notes.

Now the chances of this happening were a million to one, even for a non homeless person. I guessed they came from one of those super rich, cool people who`d been in the city all night celebrating. They hadn`t a clue what they were doing, what they were spending or what they were spending it on; but I guess it was just their cycle to spend endlessly the money they hadn`t earned, only been given by their parents.

I enjoyed three cheeseburgers from McDonalds, bought a bottle of merlot from Tesco and enjoyed it along with a cigar from the Tobacconist on the corner. I bought a small box of fireworks and let them off in the park.

Now you probably think you`ve guessed the end to my homeless cycle. You`re thinking he jumped into the boating lake or fell into the river. He got stabbed or was run over by a drunk driver. It`s obvious! He overdosed on drugs; surely every homeless person takes drugs or knows a druggie. The poor man just couldn`t take anymore and he gave the rest of his cash to a horrible bloke outside a pub, took himself away with his New Year candy and did the deed in a lonely place only he knew. No, you`re all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

You see, I`m still alive, I`m just not a human being anymore. Humans have faith, belief, “good books”, stories of miracles at Christmas and gods; and gods really do exist, I have seen them and they have performed miracles.

He came to me on the very edge of the park where no one else could see and at first I thought it must be the wine. I watched his shadow dance across the sky. Clouds slowly parted, leaving a full moon to illuminate his magnificent frame. Wings beat effortlessly, bringing him inches above the ground. His eyes locked with mine. Intelligence, kindness and anger burnt within them. His face was that of an eagle, a falcon, a hawk; all the mighty birds of prey lived within him. As his feet touched the ground, his face became more human in appearance and powerful talons took the form of strong hands.

These hands reached out and gently touched my face as he stood in front of me. His voice was commanding, but loving. “This will be your last night of pain,” he said. “When the sun rises, a new cycle of life will begin and you will neither beg nor go hungry no more.”

Trembling, I could not reply. But all the suffering and pain left my body and I began to cry. He placed a finger upon my lips and smiled. This god of the creatures of flight turned his head to the left as he heard a noise from the woods in the distance to which my ears had not registered.

A lithe, beautiful vulpine creature appeared between two of the oaks. Intoxicating green eyes stared at both of us and it was plain to see that my god knew exactly who this guest was. He smiled and I watched as this newcomer stood on its back legs and grew in height.

A female form was taken. She was beautiful, mesmerising, perfect; able to hypnotise any mortal man and bend him to do her will. Great power, along with forgiveness flowed throughout her. “Come,” she said, “We have work to do.”

He cast me one last glance and then took flight. Once more he was a god and she ran beneath him through the woods a goddess herself.

As the dawn broke, I began a new cycle. Taking flight, I flew over the park and wood, over the streets and buildings below. Looking down, I could see people scurrying about. Cars were driven here and there and the world certainly looked a different place.

I came to rest with the others and was instantly accepted. People, both young and old, pointed at me and smiled. Food was thrown and I ate until my belly was full. At night we all huddled together, safe and warm high up on the rooftops.


It`s exactly a year ago today since I stopped my daily routine as a homeless person and I`ve no complaints at all. I`m more than well fed every day, warm and safe at night and I`m also a father of four. Humans actually want to sit and watch me, they actually pay over £2 for a small bag of food and feed me.

I`ve become a bit of a celebrity and my picture is all over the social media sites. You see, twice a day I “do a little dance” along the wall by the fountains. The humans love it, they can`t get enough of it.

I`ve also made some new friends from France and been there twice myself. My best friend though is a falcon, who often visits and tells some really wild stories.

He`s been around for centuries and was one of the first to start a new cycle of life when our god visited him. “Those were the glory days,” he often tells me, “When you became a King yourself.”

But just as the cycle of time never ends, the human population continues to grow, towns and cities become more and therefore the number of homeless people multiplies. I suppose as this happens even the gods and goddesses have to offer a package deal.

“The gang” gets together once a month. We meet at a secret location. I suppose humans would think it very strange if they saw a falcon, two barn owls, a starling, three woodpeckers, a magpie and me all chatting away `till the early hours; talking about our old, daily routines as homeless humans. We laugh at the fact that we still have the human voice. Some of the “egg born” don`t mix with the “god made”; we laugh at that too as we consider it a human quality.

Submission #15 Miranda White


I first emerged into the moors and woodland.

It is there that I found words and uses for my limbs, among rolling hills and patchwork fields,

Lush, beneath a somewhat dingy grey.

My feet grow. They tread further.

Soaking, they stand beneath turbulent skies, waves crashing against rocky shorelines.

Cobbled streets become familiar beneath their soles.

Drenched socks cling and chafe.

Forlornly, footsteps retreat back.

Back to hedgerows of buzzing and darting

Occasional rays of bright, dazzling sun over bucolic horizons.

But feet must walk.

Into the cold they go, losing themselves beneath heavy snow falls.

Gliding across ice that has never felt the warmth of the sun’s rays.

They tingle back to life in front of crackling fires each evening,

Only to be numbed again when twilight dawns.

Frost-bitten but alive, footsteps retreat back.

Back to pinked skies as night descends,

Rocky outcrops littered with the leaves of autumn, blustering in the wind.

But feet must walk.

Scorched land turned to dust, oranges their soles.

Far beneath, water flows shyly.

It’s secret only revealed by the hummingbird and spider.

Sand gives too easily beneath each footfall.

Tracking waterways, they trail into a sticky heat,

To the scent of thick, damp life.

Mud parts uneasily between toes and lingers longer.

Spattered and scarred, footsteps retreat back.

Back to bubbling brooks dashing through shaded forests,

Wild garlic permeating the fresh, spring air.

But feet must walk.

Hot tarmac sizzles under noisy, choked skies

Howls and hoots torment, confusing direction.

Roots miss the earth, even as they tread along ancient stonework.

Released, footsteps retreat back.

Back to lazy rivers passing through tired hillsides.

Grazing sheep and walls that hold themselves.

But feet must walk.

And now they stand, chilled, between snow-topped goliaths.

Awed and delighted to challenge them,

Ripped free and embracing the sky.

But when they tire, the grassy stretches of Yorkshire will beckon,

And footsteps will retreat back.