Kill the message.
Kill the messenger.
Murcury is not death, though
His is as deceiving as any one can tell
A theith and a lair, Larunda will not tell though
For cutthroat Jupiter hastily cut out her tounge
You may think, that Murder has beseeched the messenger of the gods
You forgot they are just as tricksy as us if not more
But what else is a god, but the very hardened psychosis of us poorly mortals
Impart, impart, impart
Said the speckled frog
I’m walking in this soft moist bog
And a Willy wag tail squeaks
Be curt be curt be curt and cerful, thicker bushes
I squelch and simmer in the heat and avoid the bushes
A duck startles me
Map! Map? Map!
I check and see I’m indeed of course
Onwards to the swamp gums on the bank a kookaburra yells
I hasten my retreat and avoid the area and get to my destination
Their in a little clearing is a old wise serpent whom I’m sure will tell me more I need to know
Every string is concerned
Don’t believe me?
I’m not surprised my love
This is why I tie you up
In these binds
Listen to my voice
As you know how to trust me
Learn how to trust this truth
Feel this loop it is the roots they are strings
Tighten blood bonds on your feet
You walk on these
Reach into the trees leaves,
Careful caressing will reveal
Touch as swoon you will, to you hair the
Phantom of my life, atoms are all
Strings tied into little balls
Tie into strings connect
A little lonely
Fishermen in a lake, and yours is great
Little liquid form
A thick string to plumb the depths
Rope that’s now
Dismal bloods, beads out like water
Watch and see it thicken
It is sap from the tree
Thickens scabs that the strings can be seen
You see the boots walk on the roots
Winds blow you stringy hair
Tied by the fletch
Wetter by the lake
Ties again with the blood
Strings are connected together my love
Just as you are to them
Shine on that spring sunshine
I’ve got that green and yellow on my mind
I taste the air, I take my time
Down wattle road, see the sign
All those suits, give into the grind
I’ve never seen people so blind
The wattle road is very kind
Flowers green and gold for all their lives
I’m taken by this weekend bold
The frosts still grasps at being being cold
I’m not going anywhere else in the world except wattle road
To grasp at the warmth of the inspiration light
Touches the leaf, root, brach and soil
Dancing in the flowers
To sounds that activate your minds
Bringing forth the spirit
Trueness is this thing in its current form
Also part of Devine
That is also part of all
Honey almost every flower found
Grass under a sun beating in on its nested swords
Cows gathered on the hill of fertile grass
Rain and wishing winds flows through the mixed sky
A Hallow group of trees, grove
Flowing from the same time, milk
The soul milk
Do not forget the power of a rose
It’s wise words to those who know
The rose comes with not thorn, but prickles that I can assure you do not tickle
Should you come across a wild thickit; I advise that it’s not a place where in to play cricket
The sunny maze I’d welcome in flower, from now till the dying hours
Piece of the rose, it’s wise words to those who know
Changed and charged to the chanting of the hazy summers
Rising steamy visions of the mirage
Eagle flying and searching
Barely a cloud above the scorched red earth
A creekbed just below his ancheint sandles
Waiting in this sunlit virtually brings you to feel hell
Then suddenly a whisper from the tree
The dance of the new rains will begin
Well that wasn’t even the justice of the curls in the system
I’m sore as a whole bunch of petitions
Piles of cheats and gassing hermits in leering metal boxes
so I hear they melted down the ox’s
Great beanie islands, sitting in a million times their volume of views
I anguished. I stepped. I swore are you doing not the right sight. That true box of things that weels it’s place, seems to know more about your directions
Curly, your just like them
Grenadine, mixed in tears of a virgin
Lonely, like a oyster
You will blame the system then the others
Never see the ocean of muck you are in
Is that your fualt? Your future?
I’m just a pearl
I’ve got no cleavage to cut with
I’m anguish, I’m hatred, down into the salty sand I will fall when your gone but a memory in the heart of the ocean.
I’m part of a potion
Coming into the second hands higher than thou attitude
I’m just dirt. I’m not nothing, but it’s how some will see me.
Given into the dark
Rotting, slouches of flesh
Eating, crunching, mandibles slicing
Casings filling the remaining bits
Soil, aches full of the noises
Revving, is the true job
Dirty, dark, disgustingness is the frame
Really, you are just a nessasarry part of the whole
Carrion, I salute you
I walk the streets, feeling meek
A cloud above my head
Feeling utterly dead
What was that they said?
I’m not able to hear
Fear, hate, they are dear, to me
The haze of life around them
Their plastic lovesick pup and the leash they are on
At least they could try to see the whips of their barren masters
They are created casters of spells you cannot tell
I walk the streets feeling meek
The haze of these things in the air
I try to show them how things grow
Through the pavement path my children sowed
The path is poisonous though, it suffocates them
I still try
Maybe some hear my song
Sheltered by the tree one stands
She smells different
I see the haze has lifted from her eyes
One of them
The rest of the day goes well
Walking the streets feeling not as meek
Then I come back to where she was
And they, those sprits of plastic
Like a cloak on her back
Trying to re create the haze
She looks at me and sees me
No one has ever seen me for centuries
I tell her I am Jack
I have your back
Now you see
You will be free like me
And then there are two of us
Walking the streets, feeling not as meek
Maybe we will find more soon
My feet are so tired
Mac Lir had a son or two, born of the sky and the sea
One traveled to the sky
He was killed in the battle with the birds
His twin a duck
Asked the battle to stop
He makes himself and his brothers memory on the sky
The clouds remember
Serene king on a splinter thrown
Blocks of ocean calling home
Trawling through thoughts alone
Eating dinners of fish and bone
Volunteer your discordant keys
A set of bloody maul
Trumpeting the local call
Befriending only whiskey colored clouds
Despite these loud crowds
Surprise and respite disjoint the thoughts inside
Lonely, mountain cries
Flowers in two colors in the winds
Send them in, send them in.
Ground swallow me whole. Become my comfort.
Spirals form and twist me inside out. The wind comes and gently touches my form.
Ice falls and inside the moon.
My eye opens and three gardens of life form.
Clouds of stars above, striking the sky above as a blessed drum.
Punctured beats singing abound my head and captured for a moment by my senses.
In the morning my three gardens full with joy, open and sleep again each evening.
Breath takes my flesh like fire as a new garden forms. Again and again. Bare the old dead garden falls. It has had a good place on my form, I will grow others.
Drink the cold rain.
Endure the freezing ice.
Celebrate the new spring as I seek a new way. Send a message.
Send a new path.
The flowers grow, like my gardens but less whole, less lived. They last but a few settings of the life giving light.
But they are replaced by this feeling.
A new path is forming.
Not just one.
It blossoms. It rages. It aches me to our all the spring and some summer into these… Things. My body compels.
They are gone. One sunrise. I again store all the gardens joy inside. Wait for the cold.
Year and year.
Day and day.
Until I feel a prickle. A itch.
Then I am on the ground. It swallows me whole. And the former self reborn, I find myself starting back.
In a dark way
An ally of brick
Smothered in filth
Made that day
The haze of glaring fluro
Bathing a street of words
Tied like confetti
An infinite blurb
Hope I find
In Pandoras street
Tasks drunk like beer
Two by two, in eyes of blue
A unpleasant air makes the climb all the harder
For age has made these bones as old as the land under her feet
And no one will help her
Not that anyone is hear to
A lone pine sits watching her smugly from its permeant residence
Waiting to snark at her slow approach
Not one but many more steps before the summit is reached
The hag begins to wonder
Why do this every time?
Because otherwise all like her will no longer be?
Maybe it would feel better if it wasn’t for that smug tree
When the sun finally rises she stops to rest
Her luncheon of nuts and dry meats
Consumed in teeth that hang on
Chomping as loud as she can
No one cares what noise happens up here
Up again and bones creek
It’s not far now
Past that pine
There is a pool
Full of summers last wine
She looks at her reflection
It’s older that she thought
She takes out a spoon and drinks
Sip by sip the memories of the summer past are drunk
At the end she feels a bit sunk
By all the memory in her full belly
Then it’s time.
A flash and she’s back to being all dark and mysterious, still aged but black and not orange
The Winter Hag looks at the empty pool and says
“Pine. You always keep the memory so strong. I wish I could keep such strong memory. ”
And as she walks a into a nearby hut, you could swear the pine was now somehow even more smug than before.
Grey and wet and old
Silken or gritty
Mould to your skin so deep
Pithy and meek
Sign to be written
Hands hope and given
Your given permission
One cloudy shape
Nods it’s head and makes
Gesture your to follow
Down into the mud you go
Open wounds, scared flesh
Burdened and blackened mess
Decaying, crying, hated, dying
But your ready for the mud
It’s sucking you down
Fear and fright comes first
Maybe something makes you fight
Struggle again, but you are so tired
And soon it’s all around
You find it doesn’t suffocate
It’s mud that gestates
You one day have healed
Your wounds no longer open are sealed
Up comes the sun and bakes the clay
Renewed by the Earth and day
Then you see your renewed
Clay doesn’t lie
So wounds of untruth, left there in a brick of clay
That, you will have to deal with another day
Physical hurts are gone
And those you will not mourn
Harrow, the wheat is wet by the summer rains
Slice and chop the chaff and crop every last grain
Upon my face the heat and warmth of the touch
Inside my heart the fire of the hate
Crop and cut and the burn the stubs
I can’t feel the same
The hill above is coved with clover and sundew and pain
I grip in my hands my mothers crown and perhaps fame
But am I my mothers child, or is it just her name?
In court we haggle, in offices we barter, we trade friends and play power games
Do they give the chance to those like me whom have not the brain?
No we crop the soil and tend the earth, when they bite on there good they thank us none the same
But the hill is always there, and the wheat. I am here cropping the wheat. A bug has eaten its pollen, and a worm has eaten the chaff. I will also be eaten one day.
Eaten, and consumed, like eyes on a perfect page of poetry that makes you feel insane.