Murcury is not dead 

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 

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Impart said the speckled frog

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

Crockcrockacrockaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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

Limit of a string (a spell)

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 

Boots
Reach into the trees leaves, 

More strings 

Careful caressing will reveal 

Touch as swoon you will, to you hair the 

Breeze
Phantom of my life, atoms are all

Strings tied into little balls

Tie into strings connect

A little lonely

Fletch
Fishermen in a lake, and yours is great

Little liquid form

A thick string to plumb the depths 

Rope that’s now 

Wet
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 

Ties 
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 

The facilities of a rose

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 

Endures, the Perl

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

Ques, cues

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. 

Carrion

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 

Haze of life

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

Discordant keys

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.

Tree, a life of

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.
Many millions.
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.

Electric Gods

We see put the legacy
Places hanged from a ancient tree
Power driver sounds black lights
Fright, flight, fight
Ought to see the electric gods
Standing on the dualistic mother lands
Clouds raised
A old god appears
Throws his Hammer
Beard in the wind, his time has come again
He drinks the blood of the electric gods, dead as clips
It’s a mighty day

Orange Hag

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?
For love?
For hate?
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.

Mud

Given soil
Grey and wet and old
Silken or gritty
Mould to your skin so deep
Pithy and meek
Hidden toil

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

Season

In the embers of spring I warm the cackles of my heart. My hair aflame, rosy red like fresh loam cut by a silver hand.

Black ash crumbles and dries in my hands as I spread it on the cherry leaves. The slugs that parasite it’s essence shrivel in the sun. I feel sad for then but know enough will survive to pass to the next generation. They will also have me to spread the spring ash on there leaves. I look and see the ever ripening cherries, I mutter a pagan prayer and bless the leaves in summer. Wind picks some of the ash and takes it far away.

Peace and the fog come in autumn. Both old friends together they blanket everything in their grasp. I feel as covered and comfortable with them as I do with my jacket and jeans. A freshly born baby in a blanket, cooing to herself. The bath water is warm but still.

Winter earthy frost. Still. Dark. Nights. Fear and truth walk hand in hand in a brothership of equals. The earth comes out of her ancient home and takes a cup to every tree and every animal. Some drink, some don’t. The old green man, her husband takes those who have-not drunk, lights little candle under those who have.

Then a fire is lit in a old grove. It leaves the ash ready for spring.

Jack the lad

Jack the Lad

By winters light he holds deer
The flowers of spring in his ear
Seeds of wattle for good cheer
Grass growing in a cup of beer

By the full moon days
He builds a grave
For all those taken by winters frost
He holds vigil, plants seeds

He wears a coat of brown leaf leather
Crow feather trousers
A big cowl he uses to dig around
A hat of fine bear skin
Boots of barks of trees long gone

He drinks a acorn cup of mead a day
Then puts it away

Little wrens feathers he collect
Puts them in a mat
Reflects on the days he’s lived
Then walks on to the next lap

Given all that
He once had a black cat
Whose name he can’t remember
But he sometimes thinks it might have been September