Sundays

In between aeons

In between styles

In between tram tracks and horse-drawn carriages

In between intercontinental flights and airport terminals

In between gas tanks and world wars

In between the pages of an Elven fantasy

and

The stage coach industrial propriety of this 

someplace other than here unreachable, unatttainable Then There

In between the repeatlessness of this eternal moment

and

The cogs of the clock that invented the internal combustion engine

In between the scream of a live birth

and

the laugh of a death’s exhalation

In between short skirts and long dresses

In between lazy flip-flops and fascist high heels

In between dimensions and the right to be woman, animal, Black

In between the leaves of trees of old world forests

In between the fashions and remixes and boredoms and ecstatic exhilarations

In between socialists and republicans, 

In between Christians and Moors

Where are we

Where are we

In between the wings of a butterfly causing an effect

In between repression and free love

In between the moaning, cracking continents slowly slamming together

In between the silken sticky strands of a spider’s web

In between the crew cuts of brain washed bullet resistant helmets

And 

the letting of hair to grow long with questioning and revolt

In between the way the animals seek out our warm, loving hands with their bodies

And

the way they run from us, fear us, hide from us

In between the theoretical atoms that make up 

That which moves in and out of what, theoretically, matters

Where are we

Where are we

Zoom in, zoom out

Fast forward, backtrack

And breath is the vehicle upon which we move into the next moment

In between the Gates of Eden, mystery, adventure and self-governance

and 

the Hell of suffering and unknowing, slavery

In between allowing the forgiveness, the go-letting, the gratitude, the blessing,

the knowing that there is something truly remarkable happening here that is 

more majestic and curious than the madness and sadness we get 

from being alive

and

feeling the misery of that miserly, slimy, heavy pointless 

meaninglessness

In between the safe, motherly arms of a creative caretaker

and

the cold, wet fingers of chilling loneliness, doubt and despair

In between the pages of History: safe and sealed Fake News Whatever!

Who Cares? We won! Hand us another Bud there, Sparky

In between the wizardry of pyramids and slowly built stone structures

and

the forced mechanical violations of sky: Scrapers

Where are we

Where are we

In between the desperate, starving, groping, clinging, hoarding lean times, 

the avarice and suspicion and cruelty of self-preservation

and

the gargantuan understanding, care, consideration, and compassion 

of sharing,

fearlessness, trust, surrender, abandon.

In between the heavy iron heaving smoke spewing cloud altering jet propulsion

of sardines packed tightly to save on expensive, diminishing, 

contracting space

and

mind-controlled levitation, song-fuelled golden crystal flying disks 

silently whisking along ley lines in 

the earth’s natural energy pathways; free minds, space expanding,

bountiful, abundant.

In between the myriad, countless nameless expressions of the Everything and Always,

Now and Forever, here and there and everywhere, 

in this reality and all the others

and

the dualism of the cut & dry, the chalk & cheese of polar opposites, 

you’re hot or you’re not, you’re in or you’re out, 

if you’re not with us you’re against us.

In between the 99 names for God

and

the mind that seeks to enforce one cross, one language,

one queen of English, Spanish, Dutch

In between this dream, this consensual reality, this so-called waking world

and

all the others, before me, after

me, on a Sunday.

Where are we

Where are we

Zoom in, zoom out

Fast forward, backtrack

And breath is the key that unlocks all doors

In between closing our eyes and travelling through darkness until

a voyage through the inner cosmos is revealed 

in light and swirling tryptamine beings, tripping bass loops, 

seeing and experiencing, learning and processing,

Knowing and understanding deeper and deeper one’s self, Alone

and

living with the silent acceptance that no one will ever read this story;

no one will ever see what or how I see, 

This: will go with me.

In between the arrogance of a mere man standing on a mega mountain

with his flag phallus neatly parked in, shoved in, the earth, his mother,

motherfucker, 

claiming her soil, 

claiming he can slingshot some wretched chimp beyond her life-embracing atmosphere

cracking bottles of some expensive sparkling abomination of the sacred grape 

While growing spare ears on the backs of damned mice, 

splicing stem cells from the aborted foetuses of abducted underage sex slaves 

to conjure vaccines and antibiotics and youth elixirs, 

claiming that your problem is that you’ve got cancer and they can cure it for you

OOps! No sorry, they can’t.  But here’s the bill anyway and it includes 

the cancer they sold you from the beginning

and

The giant unrolling, unfurling hidden Universe inside and outside,

Luminously involuting with its symmetries and imperfections,

its chaos and synchronicities, singing, dancing, witness only to 

Itself

HAAW-HAAW-HAAW-HAAAW  HAAAAAWW

Ancient Guffaws

Where are we

Where are we

In between the dream we have of our lives

and

The greatest disappointment,

-Breathing,

breathing.

In between the way we bow down in fawning, give our worship and praise to those

We know own money and property, even though it’s all delusion and debt,

As though this were a bonafide measure of the true weight and value of a being,

Give away the thousands of years of our accumulated knowledge into one huge collective selfie

and

The way we are blind to the humble beggar, wild ocean washed hair,

Barefoot enlightened, spiritually liberated, mind freed, sitting there on the sidewalk

Under the big tree where dogs piss and people spit and park their cars up on top of the old roots,

Just letting the music of God move through her head, her heart, her hands

On a Sunday.

Where are we

Haikus - Pure & Daughter of Christ

PURE

The warmth of welcoming

And walking into oneself

Waves made of flames

______________________________________________

DAUGHTER OF CHRIST

Fucking fickle

I forgive and love thee

All the more for spurning me

A building called 'Inventory' (after a theme in 'Heaven's Mirror' by Graham Hancock)

A soup made of ash

A Burn of recyclable papers and cardboards

Down at the bottom of the garden

The embers stirred reveal the sign, the answer:

A labyrinth

A ritual in the suburbs

Dog barkings in the suburbs

The flicker of television incandescence through curtains

Ritual summer insect pissings and fuck juices dripping out of trees

I dodge their puddles on this night walk down to beach

To see the sky of stars uninterrupted

Every ritual needs be marked with the meaningless sucking 

Upon cigarette 

And so I threw my pride and my envy

Into the waves - those two twitching,

Fake silver rings that never fit me -

To make room for Grace and Fierce Kindness

And I didn’t take any hostages,

No mementoes witness to this.

I’m probably wearing the jersey of a dead woman

Here in this everlasting ancient moment of cacafonic,

Globalised, gifted-on potlatch ceremony.  

Everything’s falling apart in order to come together again.

Everything:

I am in absolute, astonished awe of you.

The dance of machines, the sentimentality of meat bodies,

And all these other abstract things to hold on to inside

The cult of the beautiful;

Spiritual ideas, chicken - and - egg conundrums and debates

That urge us on upstream against all the odds;

The tools we seek, ask for, and find,

Like Grace.

Like Akashic records of you held in the code of the blood of you,

Everything, Us;

And those tools:

The enigma code breakers to guide us in 

The deciphering of your languages

As though we could know you from 

within our world, Your Machine,

With a certainty that your mysteries could be apprehended -

Art, music, poetry and prayer,

Then 

Grace.

To sleep, then!

And dream.

The only true reality

This peopled world is threaded through

With those who’d tell you what to do

And what not to,

Push-me-pull-you’s

Trying to be owls of noble wisdom,

Flaunting opinions as though 

They were pieces of sacred knowledge,

As though this were the only true reality

And its furthest lengths and depths 

Had been explored and plowed for information

And fully understood,

As though humans were the only Lifeform

Of any consequence

Here

And, by extension,

The entire universe.

As though it had always been this way.

Haiku | for change

In order for the New to take hold

Space needs be made.

So: out, the Old!

Haiku - Song for dune and forest

Please: What is it

To be Warden, to be Wyrd,

A stewardship to steer?

Haiku - Astonishment

Taking a moment

To sit and feel

Just how ancient everything is

People of the mind

People of the Mind:

The rivers of the Gut

and the givers of the hurt

Say:

Free yourself from 

Karmic bind!

A reel of His story

What you got in your DNA, Jaguar?

I got the blood of poets,

Magicians and musicians!

There’s been a film sliding between me

And the stone of reality

Since I was young,

The film of culture 

And a whole family line 

Of ingrained self-destructive thought programming

That seem to be married into a rather unhealthy

Long term arrrangement.

Now it seems the reel is at its end,

Tugging off the spool and about to snap,

Tearing off its attachment clips,

Even as the spool is connected to 

A wheel that wants to keep spinning:

Half the problem was getting to the end of the script,

Emerging here, at the end of His Story.

But a new challenge arises:

What story do I write next?

What? In place of

Nothing I ever do is right or good enough.

What? In the aftermath of

No one sees me or cares about my existence.

What? To fill the space in the derangement of

I don’t know what love feels like, so

I can’t give or receive it.

End

Haiku - Arcane

The creature

The placement of stones

The concept of truth in history

Made of memory

Made of memory

We are being and

Becoming

and not what language tells us

hardly literate or articulate

We are not language

We are long term learning

And yet

We leave the camera on

To record history

And hold the moment

As though we prefer the suffering

The short term antidote of identification

With pain

For centuries we’ve been afraid

Of questioning

Seeking inner truths

And so, teaching has gone silent

Trees are waking up now

Holding us in their long ancient branches

Comforting us as we shed the last tears of trauma

That we self inflicted

And counselling us as we recount the stories

Of where we come from and how

We were made to be slaves

Helping us to be free if we should choose to be

Bitter salty sweet

Photograph:

A captured live moment made of light

Caught forever,

Tumbling, bumbling along in an imagined continuum -

A simulation or experiment, a video game

Of some thing other’s creation mind

And the word ‘consciousness’ births itself

First through thought,

Earthbloodlegskneeshipsstomach

Heartlungsthroatmouthsound,

Then through human.

An idea presents itself for ejection or injection

Out of or into flimsy fluid of melt plasma space

And quickens

Metaphysical

But poetry is an aeons-aged substance

And has always been there as journalist,

Anthropologist, therapist, artist,

In service to the documentation of all awkward grasps

At a certainty of knowing,

Holding, owning, understanding

No thing:

Itself,

Succeeding in cosmic nano gaps of particle,

For which a human second is a lifetime,

To be the being caught in between:

The Moment before the movement,

Everything else,

Eternal

God's spell

The sound of gospel singing out live

Down through the valley:

That we have voices to sing

That the person who gets to look 

Through my backpack when I die,

Sorting through my things to make sense of 

A Me for a moment,

Before sharing those pieces of That Me

Amongst friends,

Has the best smiles, laughs and confused,

Surprised, bewildered eye askews.

That we have this thing named Time

Into which we can sort those Things:

Objects

And our unpracticed sense of The Whole

Agonisingly anchored and weighed in 

Only through a deftly positioned, tightly adjusted Lens

Aiming at linearity reality,

Misdirected, perhaps.

That, among those Things,

We have alliteration and assonance,

Rhyming things, beer inspired poetry

With beckoning idea entities seeking physical form

Whispering into our ears

To escort them into our Imagination - 

An imagination of a One, apparently.

That we have voices. That we sensate

Sound and image,

Immerse nightly in dreams 

Dictated by our own DMT release in sleep, 

Willingly - most of us, without fear.

That we dream.

That we find reason for celebration 

And a stretching up into the light,

And look for cause to wallow sordidly

In darkness and morbidity

And always catch ourselves either

Breathing or not breathing.

That we sometimes need to remember to breathe

In between.

That we remember

And feel grateful.

That we know what it feels like,

That grateful feeling.

Being full of greatness,

That we can gather in these Group Things,

Salute and praise and raise each other,

Embrace and put heart to heart,

Go crazy with a latest craze.

That we can share a prayer

Or be still

And alone.

That we can share.

That we can sing out loud into the night.

That we are never ever alone

In that

We can share this Planet Place

With beings not ourselves: wolves, birds and serpents,

Ancient cats and tamed burden beasts,

Fern forests, aching mountains, moody rivers,

Incessant seas, mellow meadows and perpetual bone-dry,

Day-hollowed, indifferent deserts, 

Gentle giant clouds,

And cruelly unfair high-voltage electrical sub-celestial storm churnings;

Epic and tumultuous stories, myths and legends of gods and alien visitors,

Their space wars and their decisive acceptance or denial of us,

Desperate and yearning for meaning, searching, unwittingly,

To be better, more, apply learning,

To grow, awaken, re-call, 

To actualise, energize, amplify

That we are always, essentially, wild and with it.

And that sleep

- That at the end of a Day

Or the End of our days

- is really so sweet,

That.

Majestic

That which is most marvellous,

Magical, mysterious, miraculous -

This is worth living for

and placing absolute faith in

Refusal of The Call

Living in the spectre of 

“There’s something wrong with her!” whispers

Lift spirit:

Check posture, breathing, face muscles…

Who am I surrounded by

What place am I in?

Refusal of The Call

The Wound, the Pain, holy

Sacred spaces fill me

Multisensory, always switched on

Learning the languages to interpret

Nature

You are so patient, so gentle with me

Ancestral anger

It is we who are angry now

It is we who wake up into an agony of now

For it is a nightmare we awake into

A system of derision that has been

Programmed by you.

You who have burned the stories

Lost the knowledge

You lost the maps, the keys

Where is our treasure? Where is our gold?

You did not teach us the ways

You did not leave the tools for living

You ate everything and left nothing for us

We, the descendants of your future.

We are here now, angry and hungry

We will go inside

Forgive

Give thanks

Seek our own permission

For we are you and you are us

We are here now

We will plant again and restore with what we have.

You destroyed nearly everything.

But we are here now to stop

We are here now to begin anew.

We will speak free

We will seek fun

We will no longer be silent for fear of

Your disapproval, or for fear of 

Your cutting the supply lines.

You are dying stubbornly

You don’t want to let go

You still want everything

You are deranged and psychotic

With a lust for the wrong kind of power

A power that kills and will not share

A power that excludes and expects

Lauding and praising from itself

And all outside itself

You will soon be extinct

Will you learn grace?

Will you slow down and rethink?

Yes, you will

We are here now to help you

We will right the wrong

Dream of Me

I am me

Exactly where I want to be

I woke up into a dream

I woke up Me

Exactly where I wanted to be

I woke up into a dream