deranged in distance

Here was I
cooking a feast
my mind it wandered
to a niche
within my heart
a tumbled soul
to thoughts, I thought;
would not unfold.
Of you a distant heartache
a lover not to hold
except inside a headache
of pictures new & old
& cornered was my guardian
who tried for my defence
& fear it crept inside me
& scattered all the sense
& forth came all the lonesome things
& felt at such close range
the creatures all inside of me
quickly became deranged
& fell all over in the dust
& wrinkled up their shoes
until the tears crept out at dusk
and left the feelings used
A hand shoved forth a history
of stories dark & light
to send some thinking to New York
on a sleepy Sunday night.

buses vs bikes

The things i miss about that burning rubber

the packed in trips all solitary

these laden creatures with their loads

and burning full with stories

the open windows where musty air

can sneak into our lungs

the crowded summer sticky heat

& ever wagging tongues

but to be inside my head and so

observing all that is

to drink up whats surrounding me 

an open heart to give

& paper perched upon my lap

empty and exciting

was to record this heart with pen

to chisel it in writing

& a good old bike is such a gift

this freedom flies inside

to pedal hard, to sweat, & swerve

my metal friend to drive

but there will never be a space

for book & bike combined

& so i'll love the crowded bus

for all I've left behind. 

Road Trippin'

these hillsides with golden stubble.

gums with twisted limbs,

skies which beckon, bruised & clouded

cockatoos hang out their wings

flashing eyes which watch the road

raindrops at our tail

fishes for the high-away

silvered metal scales

A belly begs for chips to chew

and feet to beat the earth

eyes drink in a happy view

the asphalt for our girth.

The Garden Alive

the paper wet on my tounge
this strange ritual. Wheels turning
and 4.
then how to move? and laugh?
this birth of thought and senses
and rules?
questions?
the openness. the vast simplicity and then
detail.
the Huge and the Small.
the dark and light.
and why. everything as if it was real life
but then what difference?
these childs eyes, this new skin and this animal
who can smell the essence of the earth
who can hear each and every burst
of new life, in the audience of existence
perspective. like a great blooming galaxy
shifted.
and oxygen flowed
difference infiltrated
languid and carefree
these roots of nature and history
entwined
alive in mind
fear distracted
and I am human infinitely... and every second.

R.I.P.
    
ashambles

flight await

Laying in the thick warm night air, watching the hours tick from night to day, one land to another, & the thought of returning to an old world.
So much to think of.
Eric Satie wrote The Gymnopedies in Paris, in 1888, & here I am, in the depth of night, listening to them, with tears edging forward, their salty touch inside eyelashes, & the sensation of water droplets rolling over these warm sad cheeks, till I taste them & they drip onto the glass below.
I think it could be the most heavenly song I have heard, & even so, it is a music of sadness.
There is so much pain & beauty in this world. I do not understand it.

i think i finally know what i want, i want to be two places at once - keepaway

In hard times.

I am Malting. My feathers are falling. I am alone in a tree house. And all the Trees are breathing.  And the colour rushes in. Sometimes a twig or two scratches me. But mostly, Life is good. 


And earth is more wonderful, than any dream in a head.

humans half in dark

.

these lies we tell ourselves

I wish to be animal
with no responsibilities
no love
no hate
surviving and wild
with sleep
and eat
and mate

I wish to be animal
with appetite
with instinct and danger
to murder and ravage
indulge in emotion
present and pulsing
sedate or savage

I wish to be animal
with teeth
and claw
and ear
to roam with these tools at my whim

no collections of refuse 

and rubbish

with which humans are brimmed

I wish to be animal

with simplicity

simple need

simple happiness

simple thought

to wander warmly till death is the gift i am bought

Packing for Unknown Adventures

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

 

Fleshy Leftovers