In the face of oncoming traffic

If you truly had any respect
for that goddamn elusory aspect,
Higher self or whatever you meant,
you’d follow such things without dissent,
you’d thank yourself and not act too late,
instead of why, who, how, what…? WAIT!

It doesn’t matter about efficacy
and what can be proven,
what matters is leaving this place quickly
it’s time to get moving.

Frilly

Frill-necked lizard, Image: Jannico Kelk

don’t know how many times I have to keep repeating this:
stop fixing yourself

frilly and me hiding behind trees
so beautiful when he’s scared
I could learn a thing or two

always day and night
spinning on the spot
orbiting one centre

as if it was a fixed point in the universe
as though there was only one face that anyone could abide
as if there is only one way to be

made up of a trillion carefully selected special pearlescent moments
fashioned into the most intricately woven, stunningly-presented choker

I’ve been shown in countless ways
I don’t belong anywhere I have already been
these rituals for the old gods don’t belong either

it’s too much work: adornment
I am glad I got the wild hair that reaches it’s peak in movement
frilly would starve to death trying to be like me
his body knows things mine cannot
from another time

Keeping still

I’m going to call this the truth for now…
what you said
I know the truth changes in the moment before each breath
but for now it’s the truth
with every exhalation I see entire realities birthed
and eradicated
so many truths and gods live and die on the breath
since time eternal

Oh how the world (in fire, my soul) reignites when every utterance
wrung forth or received
is considered to be the truth in this moment
to reduce conflict
or to survive peacefully (the still mountain)
that I might hope to experience yet another truth
a new combination of feelings
before the next breath

and perhaps there will be another exhalation
after that
we don’t know

…the suspense is killing me

externally
I imagine there is no response from me at all

A little rat-a-tat-tap

Group-think tanks
splashing ink like
ASCII with hyperlinks
I’m done with identity
Political expediency
Eugenic entitlement to
Hegemonic enlightenment
I’m losing the need
To plead my reality
Or what I might need
What I will or won’t be
In the service of greed
I leave it all to you
Sisters and brothers
From a billion other mothers
Cos I’m hopeful and hopeless
And no part of me believes
We can group-think our dreams…

…a-rat-a-tat-tap

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.

!

Infinite loop

(i)
I’m not the only one who has thought this
yet I’m the only one I know who is locked
in an endless, mindless, cyclical
conversation with myself over the
contradiction of struggling for recognition
and usefulness-proving-my-worthiness
in the hope that a few crumbs will fall
from the robber’s table

May we live one more day

To partake in the veritable feast
of appropriated resources
cleaved from appropriated lands by
squishing cultures like flies between
nerve-deadened fingers
and people —
like flies
flies breeding in corpses
the sucked out husks of the eternal
commodified and sold back to us
for the small price of your soul
and a lifetime of fruitless toil

Let it burn, brother

(ii)
what is left
what remains
after the sun
passes through

could this be
pre-dawn light
secrets whispered
something new?

wheels of time
whorls of life
breathing hope while
dreaming blue

one’s too close
two’s too far
finite realms crushed ‘neath
trembling shoe

march onwards
love will not
break lock-step with
what holds true

*