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.


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


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


in expressions of gentleness

in allowing the tears and the hurt

of destruction by pushing

demanding forever


until no more is there to be given

demanding that Earth, non-human and human


more than there is to give.

Heaven is

open to subtle pulls, softness

the pull and the gravity of those who


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


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,


there is no more to give


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.

Life in-between




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.


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.

The Absolute Inseparable

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.

The Spider


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?