Emotional to the point of rationality
How is it then
to choose to live anew
and so severed must your world of now become?
I am no surgeon
but I stitch
pieces I know to be true
into the whole-new
(dripped in my own blood)
where harm is removed.
The whole-new
out through existence buzzing
becomes the surgeon –
the felt bestowed a tool which pulses
the harmonies of the heart.
How is it thus that worlds are severed
so that new ones may emerge.
This here rain drip
cleans the wounds of hearts so tender
damage-shattered
by words of illusion
– the one tender hearts are prone to believe.
Come back, then
pieces bleeding at the seams
to be replaced
and / or forgotten.
Sweet,
surrender then
to the wounds tender hearts yearn to believe in
the rain drip-dripping in vessels which carry
truthful devotion
the one tender hearts ought to believe in.
Fanned
at a thousands miles
cinders coated
in what
I smother them in –
beds
mornings
dancing
drinking
evenings
goals
dreams
people
dicks
glitz
and whispers
– all the things I do to forget
that ring you bore
(you hid)
in not choosing (really?), though
you leashed me
and leash me still.
As much I tug and gnaw
rip, rip, ripping
part
or free
the feral
stupid longing
for you alive in dreams
and not more.
For living inside
of a heart in life boiling
beyond where you left me
I hope to unbind
one day.
Heaven
sits by the side of a pool in the mountain
covered in Sun and sleeping the mind in facts of the body
lit
as passion or want sinks in the skins of those resurrected
out of sleep fruitless, soaked in rich vision
of waking to blessing
thought not to touch
now felt
surfaced
over
(self)
doubt
and the depths in which it drowns.
Down to the darkness we go
to surface again resurrected
as desire may rise and with it
ascension
choosing to linger where happiness lies.
Pass through, as ease to some it seems
and loss-release of lives lived hardly
in search instead of softness.
Forth from softness only love may spring
grounding tender darling dreams
where scars guard wounds from rupturing themselves
gushing inward, streams of being
stitching marks unhurt
and born of boundlessness and trust.
You touch my body
in court
my body
becomes no longer
my body
becomes the object on which
your wishes are drawn.
You touch my body
in court
my body
because a free
un-
birthing body
shakes your house
master
your house
we dismantle
with tools which are not your own.
You force my body
in court
my body
to fill the one place you see
for my body
but then, guess what
so many bodies
rumble the streets to get
my body
and swallow you
deep
utter(us), many
enraged, so many
which you and your load shall abort.
How many days
have drawn you past
without your tears
the set grid’s lapse.
How many days
have felt skin strained
and locked your spine
the mind’s reach pained.
How many days
till deep you lay
release the bones
let force decay.
I think
I know
but whether I know
I shall know
only when I know.
We die with nature
some of us cry with nature
others look away, frantic
achieving the useless
in the fact of death.
We die with nature
goodbye Mother
let me lay on you one last time
as we die together
forgive me
Mother
forgive me.
Pleasure I understood as theory
where now sensuous enjoyment lives.
Vital,
my body demands the one that shall drink it,
the one with whom energies bind in ecstasy known to consensual givers unhindered,
flowing in and through one another, as one delivered
to places only gods may recognise
and mortals who choose to break with earthly binds, fused
with the gods,
moulded into that which brings woman to understand her divinity
and man his rightful place beside her.
For she shakes the structures that must be shook
if we us humans are to move further.
This is what must be done,
what we are being asked to do –
to discover divinity within or perish
as the lowlives we aspire to be,
inferior to all that we thought ourselves superior to,
lost in the destruction of our own making
which shall regenerate, only without us.
Notes From Afar 