P’hore

In the darkness, they are waiting

those thoughts

Cycles and rhythms

Tether that has reached its end

Reaper of the sameness

They are full of mindless fury

each day to fight and fight again

For what?

To fight again

This pointless samsara

I am but a performance

Combined of the thousands of deaths

I became the end

They are still waiting

Anticipation for a long war

Rampant growth and angers

I get up and fight again

I cannot be killed

flames lick me

Lava falls upon my shadows

Stars exploding from my depression

Paths close

it will be again that this happens

The purity of that again

I fight against

Which just adds to it

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Rock eternal earth

Pebbles in between the toes of trees

Boulders standing aeons beyond memory

Moses gathered on the future sand

Drip all your thoughts of man

Crystalised your minds maps

Silicon only takes short naps

Beech whisper sun and sand

Little creations seek to find caves

Staying among crystals older than any land

The entropy of existing is nothing to a rock

It will always be, and again

Until all the stars are gone

Then begin only then to feel an eternal friend

Snake queen and the devils

Flames of the devils have come among us, first tickling then stabbing at our every pore jarring it future open. Blistering blood floats to the surface bringing with it further heat as if it’s been equally possessed by demonic charge.

—-

Tightly she squeezes, the serpent of winter. Sucking all the heat from the land into her body like a black hole, scaring the landscape with her frosty tendrils, and taking with her the heat. She will lay an egg mid winter and the devils will find it with their heat and incubate it, when it hatches again her daughter will scour the land in her place. Her death and corpse will lead to spring, and be turned to ash in summer. One day though, her body will not die, her daughter will not be born, the devils will not come back, as the frost envelopes the land allowing her to suck all heat forever.

Digital Necromancer

Recreate my computers place

As a holographic Elvis sings with a passionate face

Removing a lacewing Ace

The code of the late

Necromancing the digital world

Comes from an analogue alive girl

Having find recreations of a man who hurls

Watch it all unfurl and bump on that Tumblr world

Snailways

All across my path

Rain giving the land blessed baths

Snailways cross and part

Silken rails, drifting trails

On my way to get the mail

Snailways, from a rain-filled day

I need to be with you

Snailways, it another thing telling me

I need to be with you

Snailways, kneel down an say

I need to be with you

Snailways, from a rain-filled day

I need to be with you

Grit the shimmer

I’ve never been able

The grit and the table

Horse and her stables

Bridge lovers cables

Various embodiments of Hagel

Shimmer ever alongside clouds

Light seems to trip all the mounds

Pending upon fur pound

Very trod vent shaped like hounds

Crime embers bring high fowls

Fights dreamed in cowls

Emery gathered and bound

Cherry pie went, four clouds

Rather than this price

A dip for a dollar, a coin in your eyes

Bore onto our gold beads

Explain dolphins to your alien friends

Was on a balmy silver day

Lasting tinctures of single strands of sunlight on whispers of clouds that drip to our outstretched tounges

Quality or sorority, collars and chains

Meaning if this law, this isn’t a brittle magic draw

Drip into dollars, ravens claw

Do we all know the mysteries of Elenor?

Rather than this price, energy is just the working might

Five bottles

Five bottles sitting in the rim

Made of earth, made of glass, spun from of wood, grown from faith, free of sin

full of the flowers of the kings, each dripping with sweet honeydew scent within

pretend they contain your deepest dreams, see the silky skin

the heat, Softness, Full to the brim

I grasp at sunlight to spread upon that skin, to bring it to life, as gaze again

Shock to my scene, a wasp comes in, hoping to score a part of this gorgeous place. It soon brings all of its friends, and they make a neat nest and again I can not be here anymore

Five bottles no longer filled to the brim

The honeydew skilled all over the rim

Spoiled earth, broken glass, burnt wood, chained faith, coated with sin

Look, on the asphalt a stamp

Adapted that flourishing milk that drips from the succulent box. A unlikely case for a senior caseworker such that begins my appointment with this rocky day. Nourish me, lunch! Bring me my sips of caffeine thoughts! I’m dry from my horse whom came to naught.

Typical upon the municipal, supplication of my heuristic predictiveness, I’m a little apprehensive mystic. Instead other things were going on the sappy worry. Learning about the alien concept and bidding on the mobs feet.

I’m typing my fingers to the bone. Blast and through the morning phones. Grown things grown.

Gallery purples

Clearly the pumps down and dump. Blue of heart and pink of blood. Curse the corpse of emotions. It’s a day that strikes my evocation.

Down the waters

Flood the brain

Sea of feeling

Ocean craze

Pure or evil decision to be felt. Crying on a balloon ride beyond a joke. I’m falling in my most empty ways.

Empty of knowing

What mistake

Words have passed

Empty and alone

And here is the sleeping razor

Witch soapbox for a little mousetrap. It’s short and full of minds blooms. Dead and hard in its action, forever crystal in its hate of itself. Duality has its heart fully cooked. Like my most important rainfalls.

Drought tourism

Has taken acting lessons

Misadventure on the streets

Pointillism of pores

I’m sitting on our bed, watching the darkness creep across the street

Little cicadas children hatch in the roots of the trees to crawl up and I start to forestall a night of cream shrieks

out of my clothes, naked and known I wait silently anticipating

titillating

participating

the shown

I want your momentum, your dreamscapes, your flesh against mine

Sheath, shell and reap the kisses and the teeth you touch against mine. Deep inside me, heart beats like the calling, I hear this warm cicada night

Stars bloom my night orchid swoon, engorging like a harvest moon. Cicadas scream as we bloom

Upon my form of lyre, from which I do desire, comes the flanking crops

Up and too, into hear, pain into ecstasy, upon my rear

Purple, your work, draws it’s words

And now, from into your mounds to I give chase, for milk and honey tunes do I need to hear

Faces meet for a repast of lips, it’s a very nice trip, but oh what a trick

I feel your hand below my hip

Little footfall fingers walking across my soft pages, reaching my spine and then down to the other hand playing the next

Often one can feel you break the dam, only to find beavers build it again. Oftentimes I would probably feel anyone but you would fail to break mine so much, that the rupture would be better described as a flooded basement with creaky house attached, but it isn’t possible to be so blasé. I’m flooding everywhere, creaky house pouring like the rain

Down and through this all, my timely means to get to you is but not delayed. For sure as the flood does cease, I am willing it likely to come again and again

Then taste, a good thing inside my mouth, sitting down around a bout, I’m twisted sheets and tongue attached, into caves, crevasses and cracks

No area is to small for my place to drink, lick or eat, it’s all a better meal than ill have this week

Blimp’s Folly

Standing in dawn darkness

Outline of a city below harkens

My frigid breath is icy waves

Cascade froth over the cappuccino gaze

Yellow dust flowers spring to life

Wattle, I breathe in its sand castle essence

Danger clouds face me; moon is a crescent

Up beyond a yellow blimp falls

Diners at the street cafe call

It crashes, down like a wet mop

It’s gallon shape flop, flop, flop

awake

sunlight is reading

Of the time spaces available

Pails of rain disable blue

Creeping winter storm breaks

And those mighty duets take

Our of mind and into place

Aren’t you glad you won your race?

Sunlight is reading the sky’s feelings

fathered triggered by chomping dearest ethers into peepers

The brightening thought is forsake

Leaves open and partake

Two triangles crossed

Sleekly was the blue eyed beast that crept in jungles deeply

Waxy leaves parting gently on its feathered body. I’m hiding, hoping my smell is but a facsimile of it former stench

Beyond my magic, I cannot fight well and I have not had a crystal for a single spell for days

Rays have come through the trees and I hear the beasts clicking maw

Again I find myself feeling the need to thaw myself

Gentle rain falls and it’s very hard not to feel cleaner

The beast is still their blue eyes staring into my hiding spot

Clicking

Into

My

Dreams

I spot a tiny stone

A quartz but it will do

Magical light fills the spot I’m in, just enough to conceal me, from big greedy eyes

I see on the ground where the the stone was, and their are two triangles crossed

Lacertae II

Ducks. Moons. Eternity. Tamed memory.

Little things I keep alive in my mind.

Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. It’s still hard to find anything that will ever replace.

Eclipse. Moonshine. Moonstone.

Pentagram, in a illustrated book.

Never, ever, even being.

Your words that saved me. And these little things I do. Again. Again,

Pain gone? That’s a comfort. For some.

I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile. Again. Again.

Desolation in the empty.

Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting. Dissipating.

Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain? The life that flows through us, it’s trying always to escape.

The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time.

Yours, to brief.

mine still lingering

I ask why

Under the lakeshore boardwalk, near a junction

This moist morning due

a Friday’s moves

Choice tickets torn in two

Recant the wolfs howled they cant survive on rice

Blue plants given a chew

And waiting in ice cream parlors was the way for our crew

In lieu, in lieu

Impressionist duels!

Dying for the winters eyeshadow

Crushed by marrowbones grown in thick orange groves

My queen, I brung down my life for your winter

I have no use for myself anymore

Give me leave to dot my eyes

Oh I cry, oh I cry

Grazing on winters clouds, sodden earth is bleeding

I’m coming down from the highway of the straight. Richard flower blooms it’s gray history of fraught. Chatter of its timely resolution pistol.

Diminishes humanity to gain humanity yet takes all of the sodden Justice who has bled her last. Little “can’ts” wispy flowing with no more worth. Difference socks slide.

Humanity is not going to bring it’s cloudy loftiness down. It yarns victims vast value into resilience soup. Wearing its weakness as a badge of flags high on the lonely hill.

Then again the blood works it’s taste of damaging anger. Tension storms to take humanity’s clouds above again and again to shake a hatred of the snowfall. That feeling is the loss of ourselves within ourselves again.

Cuttlefish’s eyes, gardeners surprise

Authors note: Inspired by Mills, Jennifer (2018) swimming with aliens, in Overland, issue 230, Autumn 2018

Cuttlefish turn on their colorful display

On and off from my place in this sea

We follow them in this little cove

Are you a eye of truth or a eye that sees the truth?

I’m a intruder, a non cuttlefish

You are not unwelcome, for now

Do we save you with a referendum? Is that how we humans decide things now?

This is my favorite stone to hide under

Our collective energy feeds into your ocean, are you doing ok?

it’s getting too hot for us

I am sorry this is all our fault

Subsidy of clothes pegs

Upside album in my head

fungal trampoline yard it fills

Source and as we sing trills

Cure pedestrians pliers on roads

Crows team in political memes

Keep rocks towers to lean

Eastern west-men keen

Crosses in cloudscape

Two eggs, laid down by the corridors

Sure as mortal days escape by the west coast

Rolling boulders feel the way of the mocking birds

Roasting legs dripping starlight onto the verge

Up in my estimations, high sky crosses the absurd river of ice

Titanic served salmon on a bed of white rice

With such luscious little smiles, scales and forgiveness in the rails

It’s the day of the cowardly snails

Pop up people

Poppin and rocking out with the shocking news of people not along

Are they digging dirt, shifting mirth, Eating in a pop-up park

Booking from, a booking dot prom

Glass slippers rented cheep

Angry ground tilted into the surrounds, lark heated pool

Nazareth and his bloody teeth seem almost like heaven now

As sold becomes double the rent, triple the whalebone spoons

Dead dogfish, read a wrong east

Now how do you do?

Acacia’s in the morning, autumn weather present

No one thing has ever really described the Acacias in the morning in autumn.

When they flower in springtime, that’s when people see them.

Big yellow pom-poms hanging out egg yolks, fluffy but when wet a yellow painting that’s leaked over the grass.

It’s hard not to miss that. I suppose.

It’s in the autumn I think their best beautiful display is out, because no flowers, but they always seem a bit greener. Like they have all summer stores the green and now it’s overflowing into their leaves.

That green, it’s the best green. When the frosts come and slivers of ice melt on the leaves, the green comes out even more somehow. It’s the green of life. You can see them hold it. Store it.

Then as it matures it turns yellow and grows and they let it out with the yellow flowers, letting it spill across the country. Letting the life out, all over the ground and into the grass, the other plants, the animals and then me.

I know though, the summer will come then. The heat and rains will fall. The life will be stored again, in the acacias, the wattles. If it’s not, who knows if it will last all the winter.

Caution, please stand clear: autumn opens inwards

The first frost closes in on my flesh like a falling leaf, dying in its orange light. Pattering sighs of ice melting towards a harsh stream. Rotting pumpkins sit being slowly nibbled by rabbits, getting hungry and trying to eat as much as they can for a long cold winter.

I open the frost inwardly, hearing crackling thunder of the last summer storms across the plains. Dark bark, scraped off trees defeated by another encore of the days.

Slippery streets, full of black ice, steering carts and buggies around gets dangerous for the livery. Most of them have tasted the new grapes, thinking of them on long trips as the city is emptied out of suites. Green velvet cake and fresh iced coffee greets them in the tea room, to remind them of the snakes who will not be seen in the winters haze.

Roadworks start in ernest as none may know they need to keep from doing such things when they suited can see them. Orange hatted daisies are but only paid slaves to the white ghost gums, whom keep them under close eye.

Hex owls’ quarry

Reduced flower tears coating my purple blood

I’m a hex owls’ quarry, digging myself under the lust

Least I welcome a thunderstorms blight upon us all

Poison flows in my mind, trying hard working it’s very bind

Cowering does not save my life

Sidewalk sunscreen

All of us stand, waiting in a passion for a self-contained prison

Earhole, homeless, scrape, blood all over the sidewalk like sunscreen on a beach-ready body

I don’t really know what a beach-ready body is, I saw it in a magazine

Old blue necklace on a woman who looks disgusted by the screen

Trees leaves falling by the slippers we all wear, fashion of the reaping consultants

I get mine by the factory outlet, never wear them and they sit in a carpeted closet by a set of skis I wore only once

Waiting still for the passion to hit me, I read a blog on my WordPress while eating sultanas

Cone of my own thoughts written they’re from years ago, just orange juice slipping into a skirt

Headphones, its playing musing time dilated crimson finch songs to the tune of stairways

I sure start to rank, my old thoughts are but commonplace now? Is this what it means? Meaningfulness?

Open the pod bay doors, HAL it’s time to restart things again I think as I get on my bus

City observer 117ATR4

A city has but branches of the commoners

Paved over with the solid tiles

I’m only inside their nests observing their movements, obsessions right and left

They seem to like to spread them up and out

Build a metal roof and add more cement

Move around like ants though none is the queen

They seem to congregate just to be teamed

Every one of these nests is a little different

Some have tall metal buildings in which they seem to collect their food and then go to smaller ones they sleep in

Others mix them in almost chaotic ways

But never are they confused by this the locals seem to just imbue the knowledge to younger ones

Occasionally they travel between the nests, sometimes to visit, sometimes to stay

Today I noticed they use little lights to help guide them in their ways

Are they afraid of the dark or just unable to see?

Resident Animal

I’m tempted not to state my interest

Moons sky brings me back to reality

Barren buildings and owned killings

Faces swapped so none can see

Masks are commonplace and I know them more by this icon than a so called real face

Mulling over my inability to make my way

Yoga music playing on the railway

I have a mask as seen by you

No one else knew that my mask was so true to my real face

Brilliance from the knife spliced into silver flesh, flesh of the new

Splashed on the rocks and a darker rotting core-flute, blue blood, red blood, all mix

We all woke, mention ash falling on asleep birds

Climbing stairs is my new pastime

Blazing carrion sky

Eating all the clouds

Breaking all their moister

Mawl down the lighting and the ice

Filling bellies full of watery vice

Brace, riding this carrion is hard

They eat their way scaring the sky

They are serving tea and biscuits in the first class cabin

Just you say, I’m sorry darkly

There’s a cat sitting on the asking to see you

To say mice have taken over the parliament of owls

The shallow black waters running in the creeks and valleys, so nothing can be drunk.

and I have a home that I have a hawk down into the grass

I heard from the frogs you had a quickie at the gym

thinking is I think he wouldn’t stay here with the others

Berries won’t come in the droughts that have harmed us

Blood has spilled as the carnivores have even starved

Yet all the mice have done, all the mice has won is a deadly fight for life

Just you say, I’m sorry Darkly.

Concenteena pantomine brushes

Damn

Blue the distance

Convergence we gather/crosses we shatter

I wish I was bulletproof on the tune player

Does it matter? Rafters/plots pantomime horse slayer

Cram

Leave this wish ant

Apple tastes, butter grace/fly buzzcut shone in the race

Moon kisses her mace. She wields it with all her grace

Flavour/silver bottle dies in a haste

Stamp

Is that a quote from Immanuel Cant?