The Surgeon

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


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.


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.

The Leash


at a thousands miles

cinders coated

in what

I smother them in –

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


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.

Linger where happiness lies


sits by the side of a pool in the mountain

covered in Sun and sleeping the mind in facts of the body


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





and the depths in which it drowns.

Down to the darkness we go

to surface again resurrected

as desire may rise and with it


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.

My body

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


birthing body

shakes your house


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


utter(us), many

enraged, so many

which you and your load shall abort.


Pleasure I understood as theory

where now sensuous enjoyment lives.


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.