Rising

It’s all about the sun rising
the earth spinning it’s face to the sun
once — every day,
a little bit different each time,
a little bit of a skew.

I like to call myself the master of the skew
– in truth or reckoning
I haven’t come close to anything
resembling that particular symphony

or any other. Profoundly ordinary,
I’m just here for the show, which
suffice to say, is better at
5am than 5pm in these parts.

And the point I wanted to stick you with?
Nada. Life is cyclical,
let you and the cycles continue.

I can’t give you the words
I only have language
if you wake with the birds, before 5am,
then you already know

the life I have fallen in love with
despite everything that is society –
civilisation and commodification
be damned, we still get a sunrise.

In the time of small changes
no decree, governmental or otherwise,
can change what is fundamental
to living.

And while we’re on the subject,
I am yet to meet a single person
who has fallen in love with
the society that’s been built here.

I’m not attached to it. As though
a deep grief cannot be reconciled,
5am is not always joy, always truth,
not always vanilla, No. God!

Two days ago it was this simple.
“Where is our song?”
Our songs have been lost.
Not all of them for every nation
but enough for me to feel it like a ghost limb.

We are scattered to the twenty-seven realms
calling, no white man can ever cognise what he has done.
And we’ve still got the jump — we keep existing.
Sunrise and all that.

So the sorry business keeps repeating
and we are exasperated at your inability
to learn from experience.
I don’t relish the task of writing new songs.

It doesn’t even fall to me. I know a
poofteenth of a hair’s breadth of a percentage
of what could be known about this land
yet it is more than any book might ever convey.

Walk it. Start with the birds
who like to tell me when the sun will rise,
and the heavy between state, when I discover
how I am without categorisation.

In one world, I am broken
for crying about lost songs
instead of being alone.

In another, those lost songs
are the history of our people.

And in yet another world, my skin
is too light from all that raping
and breeding out that was done here.
For that sin, I lose an entire continent of relations.

In the only way that matters to me
I show my face to the rising sun and
it has no problem with any of how I came to be
or what you might think of me.
So it’s OK to look up

When it’s just me and the sun rising.

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Sticky

all I have
all is life making shapes
dash, crash, smash
the rocky shore is no more real
than the pain of feeling
tossed about
dressed in rags
of glorious shades

“I will” is lost
e x  p   l    o     d       e        d
into components
constituent distinctions
fractured
lightning-quick reactions
to oh, oh, oh
life just let me go

…but you know
no-one is listening to this
so stop it or I’ll slap you.
I’ll come over there
and SLAP you!

I wish you would

now you’re soothed
and I can’t find the glue

Immediate access code

I don’t know all the names
by which you are summoned.
Sensing the many-layered resonances
in the stillness between
this heart-beat and that nerve-pulse,
where the breath lies empty,
time is even weaker than gravity.

Wading through the torrential
outpouring of carefully cultivated
bits of data, coalescing into
a category we might call news,
I am becoming as one attuned –
the seer of mysteries and
the oracle of plutocratic expediency.

The keystone for every good joke
is misdirection, like that time
they drained the oceans and provided
desalination-in-a-box kits for arid lands,
quiescing the climate protectors
with seven generations of indenture
for the privilege of a drop of clean water.

The drunkard, drowning in a deluge
of his own illusions will do anything
to extract one last drink, ad nauseum,
spewing out slack-jawed solutions to
supply chain problems – fracks himself
some lubricant for the road to annihilation.
Mate, we’d better hide his bloody car keys
before he kills us all.

I don’t know all the names
by which you are summoned.
In this bottomless cycle of avarice,
the accretion of our histories is forged
in the bodies of children and tattooed
inside our eyelids. No matter how we’re
chained up, we have always been free.

Our immediate access code,
the soul-memory of our ancestors,
is written in the blood of love.

!

In colony

the dream is eons long
we have been entwined
you and I
since forever

on certain days
I ache to withhold my truth
to show you how it feels
to listen to endless lies

on other days
I tumble to the floor and bounce
to show you how it looks
to act from the real and present

no bargains can be struck
in the market for shadows

that mind’s light is so full
it throws it’s own shade
to all that might detract
from it’s righteous narrative

your hand-me-down economy
avoids all mention of entropy

the dream is eons long
you know
the one where I play
the swiss-army-knife version
of a scapegoat
and you deny everything

on certain days
we see you hurling platitudes
while dismantling ecosystems
and poking holes in rainbows
again

on other days
we see you acting out our own shadow-selves
and then we fall about laughing
at your feeble attempts
to direct the wind

*

It begins and ends with awe

The earth people keep calling me
The sky responds with my voice
Water passes everything along

The sun people are blinding me
The stars look through my eyes
Fire is making everything dance

The wind is refashioning reality
Seeds, cells and leaves go on a world tour
Weather is transforming everything

Too many ways to enumerate –
Existences, vistas, vibrations, echoes
Cracking and snapping weary worldviews

Impossible to remain connected to one idea
When every particle of life is radiating
Infinite waves of mystery in it’s wake

It begins and ends with awe.

Suddenly I’m doubled over with laughter
Clearly nothing of any value
Can ever be taken to the bank.

Sucker punch

Staring at this thing
Shocked by what is going on
Each new wave of understanding
Brings forth a greater passion

Falling in love over and over
At the very sight of you
At the thought of all the moments
We’ve shared, we will share

A deliciousness ascending
Straight into delight
Savouring all these sensations
Of such overwhelming intensity

Abandoning all sense of self
To the sensations of life
Thoughts reaching out to possibilities
Endless escalation of emotions

No. Feel the powerlessness
Frozen rabbit in the headlights
Staring at this society –
The antipodes of civility

Reality might crush every dream
Between forefinger and thumb
There is no escaping
The dearth of human kindness

Some of us are not passionless
When faced with oppression
Some of us don’t get on with things
As they might have been

For every new episode, event or extreme
Whether we survived it
Or heard it on the grapevine
– Becomes more intense

More devastating
More challenging
More unreal
Than falling in love

I’m talking about those times
When only one coherent thought
Slithers out from the mud
– Something’s gotta give

*

Cue: the wind

The wild weather
And the wild woman
Have boarded the same train

I am spirit
I am here, deal with it
I’ve kept things gentle for too long now

Everything rests
Everything is supported
Everything continues, each to it’s own nature

The whispering sounds
The roar and rhythm
The drawing of breath, embodiment of truth

I know, it can be a bit too much
A bit too powerful
A bit too chunky, bless their hearts

The forgivers
The aligners
The deniers. Let them flounder.

The sun shines
Water is wet
I am here, be with it.