Emotional to the point of rationality
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
surprise
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.
Heaven is
the gifts of friends who see our mind prosper
who nurture our dreams
setting us free
unblocking our hearts and our throats
where gifts of our own lie dormant unseen
awaiting permission
– bound –
in fears manufactured by the poisoned intention of extractivist times
domineering the soft and the gentle
the human within us deformed
into hardened expressions of a broken,
twisted masculine
push
that seeks validation by attempting to force
all that’s around it
to service and serve self-anointed masters
embodied in women and men.
Heaven is
learning to set the self free
fearless
in expressions of gentleness
in allowing the tears and the hurt
of destruction by pushing
demanding forever
more
until no more is there to be given
demanding that Earth, non-human and human
surrender
more than there is to give.
Heaven is
open to subtle pulls, softness
the pull and the gravity of those who
refuse
to be pushed
who refuse to be hardened by a world
that was never built or intended for them,
never intended for them to prosper
or even exist.
Heaven is
refusal
to be bent and deformed into shapes
demanded by those failing to hesitate
in enforcing the structures
built to self-aggrandise
(those self-appointed masters)
built as towers of phallic significance
in which to elevate themselves from the lowly,
the rest,
the soft ones who permitted themselves to be pushed
ensnared by the narratives, fearful
of those oh-so-few masters of extractivist times.
Heaven is
finding strength in your softness
the slow gentle process of constructing a spine
which bends
but is never pushed over
at first merely holding
later reclaiming
ground from the extractivist push
poison transmuting
as push turns to pull
through integrity,
knowing
there is no more to give
pushers
because our home is depleted
and so are we.
To those who nurture me:
my mother, my sister, my grandmothers,
Valerie, Harriet, Rebekka, Rosi,
Annie, Andrea, Abi, Gaby, Lucy,
Anya, Tanya, Yana,
my ancestors and the Earth we tread on.
Breathing,
stop.
Breaking
in waves in the space we call life in-between
the abyss and the vastness it meets
splitting the darkness
of wholeness, beyond-human nothingness
nothing only to those blinded by forces demanding
surrender and worship
– divinity’s reign.
Deliver me, darkness
deliver me peaceful in this space in-between
limitless cradling a home on the earthly
weaving through bending
what lies threaded now, past and past the beyond.
Deliver me, resting
to magic and spaces run through the domains
in resonance with this here hard Earth whose waters I worship
bound to this body and the reigns in-between
the darkness dark only
to spiritless eyes of fires un-burning
who never see visions through searing thoughts felt.
Deliver me, mother
to spaces un-fearful
where I burn surrounded by others aflame
fire fire un-harming,
fire feeding fire in futures moulding.
Fuel me, mother
a flame to another aflame
two there to bend this here world into futures unseeing
futures in life felt, the life in-between
mending what’s shattered to wholeness, beyond-human nothingness
pulsing the seared blood in the flesh of two bound.
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.
I remember the day I realised my body
– what luck to find it attached to my head.
Nobody bothered to teach me to live in a body
– only that using the head would help.
I seek now the absolute from within this here body
(human experience from dualism saved)
as mind cannot dwell without body
neither is body truly separable from its mind.
How futile to seek hypothetical vacuums
where rational reason is said to exist.
Abandoning vacuum for the human lowlife:
body to mind
as mind is to feeling
and feeling back to the body and mind;
circular schemata a center connecting
penetrate through to link each one up.
No separateness in totality, and no isolation
only varied dimensions indissolubly linked
where as soon as we deem one more than the rest
we are lost on pursuits of confusion, at best.
The absolute inseparable
as thoughts from the body and feeling rising the thoughts
learning sensation to create sense therefrom,
that absolute center where futures still grow.
My heart throbs with wisdom
of a thousand moons weaving
past into future
, now ,
moment deceiving
, holding totality ,
, holding all being ,
being through feeling alone
(is it pulsing?)
love-grief, and all that’s between
the self-reaffirming
surfaces gleaming
(grief cannot be where love was not prior
and I’d rather grieve love
than neither at all)
Love-grief fills us with being
pulsing cells feeling consumed
drunken with bliss, formidable after
arriving through all which one sense
and so heavenly drawn.
Speak out to me lovers, the language of grief
through hearts broken throbbing
, holding together ,
held together by light
of all the stars in the heavens above
together to shine
in love-grief’s might
boundless in depth
as the height we may rise
together in bliss and sorrow combined
embraced by this vastness
and by it brought back to life.
Waiting.
For what?
Hanging like spiders
blown by the winds,
the waves
against which we plan precarious futures,
spinning out webs in the ebbs and the flows,
spinning out webs,
spinning out.
First Wave
Second Wave
Third Wave
How many Waves?
Still hanging, the spider
blown by the Waves, the gusts,
sharper, becoming
sharper still as our loneliness echoes
louder and louder with each passing month.
How many months has it been again?
The texture of time at this point so foreign,
priorities different
from the momentum of lives we once had,
the forces disturbed, seeking new balance
negotiations at play
between what was there, now impossible
and the possible not yet there.
Not yet.
Individualists in insular cities full to the brim,
crowded, spaced out, further still
by the vastness of this solitude
grappling with our totality,
grappling with it more than before.
Is the spider still there?
Is she alive?
Is her thin string still holding her,
rocking along
with the
First Wave
Second Wave
Third Wave
How many Waves?
Notes From Afar 