a slow vibration

my lust is like the moon. its waxing and waning reflects the light thrown on it. i stand torch in hand. my heart speaks in morse codes. sober dots and mad dashes.

as the afternoon cools, heat rises. i mimic physics, float helium ballons. is all that we are chemicals colliding, a construction of universal laws?

these things elude me.

i am low dulcet tones. i am reverberating at a speed slower than sound. in these idle moments i can see my palpatations glistening in the afternoon sun.

scatter guns

my heart is a shotgun fired into the clear night air. a scatter gunned reach for the stars. i am blowing into infinite peices. i am spinning the ball of string that will tie up the moon.

i make passes at rationality. all my mantras are sensible. there is no longing in the short spaces between baited breaths and traps snapping shut.

i greet the storm as i do all things.
with clenched fists and open mouth.

un-stacked

piece by piece i dismantle the pyramid.

i've had my back turned for a month. now the monkey is grinding his organ. this time i refuse to dance.

the looming shadow grows smaller. i am stripping back in slow motion. there are boxes on either side of me. one is for keeping and one will be left behind.

the anxiety is no longer electrifying. i am wrapping my crown in satins to pass on. fingers carefully tie knots in loose ends.

i can see the way ahead is clearer.

seared

I'm in retreat.

The day brightens, soaring with the temperature, I am catching glances of the ranges every which way I turn. I mimic rodents, scurrying,scurrying from shade to shade to shade.

Time becomes a languid beast. Lolling the hours away in coffee shops, swapping stories from other cities. Some of us have become isolationist, some of us are still sinking in.

The sun surges to the centre of the sky. My heart rises to greet it. Sparkling with reds and greens.

Run

the clouds emerged from the greyscale. the morning light could pass through the eye of the needle. I am dreaming of caterpillars and red rock.

Involuntarily my hand writes run. I am astounded at what my subconcious projects. I am changing plans and shifting the status quo.

It is time I got off this merry-go-round.

rest less

i get no sleep on these humid evenings.

sweat finds what sleep passes over. body contorted, woven between sheets. stacatto breathing and arched fingers. pared back i am all but foresaken by absence. my movements grow heavy. my eyes flutter constantly.

i wear my longing like a second skin. slide it over my hips, stretch it out along my spine, wrap it round ribs.

my desire is elastic. as the light is impaled on the blinds i test it's tension. snap myself back into reality.

nocturnal interruption

during daylight i dance with distraction. these nocturnal interceptions leave me confused. sandwiched between mattresses, eyes fluttering, mind racing. i am suspended in the hours before dawn.

peace is a ciggerette under an empty streetlight. a slow steady conversation with the stars. all aspects merge into an urgent indifference. anticipation is a hungry beast. i keep it on a tight leash. feed it with scraps.

the nightscape is drained of colour.
until illuminated i will be
greyscales masking yellow
and blue.

arafura

the temperature has risen and is caught in my shoulders. clouds catch my head in fog and phlegm.
the depth of the air is finite. beyond that is the sea.

last night perched on painted rocks, i watched the arafura lick my heels. all my manifestations have stalked this beach, sought clarity in these silted seas.

i am every inhalation of the tide.
i am draining each month with the moon

from languid beginnings

the day is bloated.

we are swollen on lounges. the humidity presses upon us. our speech grows slothful and slurred. we trickle through the day like rays through the cloud cover. turn to yellows on the tips of palm fronds.

stories are carved into feet. fading with time, rinsed in the rains. in this place, we defy physics, a reprise from reality. the precipice looms on the horizon.

i trace the outline with clenched finger and thumb.

not quite right

my depth of field is shattered.

my perception is shot. 

layer this on my temporal vertigo. 

there is no more i can say. 

on contrast

i am settling into the cycles of rain and shine. 

all is devoured by the garden. i am content to bear witness to the annhilation of the inorganic. 

my appetite has returned, the heavens emulate my stomach. days roll by like thunder storms. 

prone to excess, i mimic the contrast between wet and dry, vibrancy and grey scale. my heart has no anchor. i have no depth sounder. i am content to drift until running ashore. 

in these sweet monsoonal moments i catch myself sighing. wondering at the spontenaity of cyclical change 

gardia of eden

at the mercy of the elements, my chest grows heavy. there is so much i cannot swallow. my stomach contracts, my eyes expand.

in a sterile room she takes my pulse. explains her concerns for my health. i argue the case for consumption, that I'm recovering from a fall from grace. of those who partook in those heady days, is there been one who has not been struck down?

abandoning ingestion, my appetite is perverted. i sweat through blackouts with rising fevers, thirsting for briney bodies and tropical fruits.

in the whitewashed room we agree
that i am exhausted.

i do not detail why.

victims of the spectrum

the whole day was ravenous. the horizon wears clouds like a gunslinger, slinking low around it's hips. the storm slides into the ocean. water slides into water like skin slides into skin.

by the time it reaches our bodies we are clad in concrete and corrugated iron.

everything is preoccupied with growing. punget greens electrify gardens. we are victims of the spectrum, captured between torquises, pastels and greys.

the atmosphere envelops and claims me.
i become helpless in my restlessness.

the stillenss of green

touch down in thunder and torrential rain. awakening to a world washed green.
early morning chain smoking chain story regurgitation. my mother fresh dressed in jewells greets me with the dawn.

when sleep comes it is swollen with memory and anxiety. i am shuffling myself into place now.

now the grey is stillness and i am aching for salt and my sisters.
stop a moment. breath is catching.
chasing home again.

all this i would exchange

despite the sordid adventures under mosquito nets and bamboo ceilings, despite the sensuality of steam that pushes into every crack in my clothes, despite the glistening terraraced gardens, the torquises waters lapping, the endless olfactory overload, the gastronomic overstimulation

i am aching for the dryness, for invalid mountains, for red and more red, for houdini rivers and big sky country.

it is time to come home.

batur

hoardes of cats and derelict buildings, pork disguised as chicken. cramped betweeen back packs we descend into the volcano, held ransom by the pouring rain

fighting our way through the trinkets. we escape well after dawn, scalps tender from seismic steam baths.

we are winding our way through navigational half truths.
we are bloated on the taste of home.

rise as does the morning

the light of the north is muffled. curtained by clouds, filtered by water.
beneath the shower I am scraping the scent of you from my skin.

between mouthfulls of tea she asks for the details and i say i can't speak of these things. my hands return to emptiness. i am not holding. i am not grasping. these things flow through.

in the last night of the derelict palace i lay awake and contemplated how all things crumble. even stone must submit to the elements. my heart is organic and quickly washes away.

i seek higher ground and rising altitudes.
not yet ready to come back to earth.

Origin of the species

I am twice removed. Disconnected from the electrical. Toes buried in the sand.

This web we weave becomes elastic. Stretched to cover each and everyone. With stained cheeked embrace I remind her that I was never lost. I just couldn't be found.

We solder connections until the circuit is complete. I am full breathfulls of all that was colliding into that which is. I am both the then and the now, and therefore immortal in this place of shifting sands.

These things are for always. Dynamism rules the day.