The Bull

So I am the bull both sacred and hunted,

The holiest of holy and fresh meat walking.

 

The blood in my flesh may be drained;

My tail hung from a wall, or will I be washed in milk

And sent out to pastures golden and gated.

 

Blissful, serene, and yet disturbed by my own power.

My strength to trample those weak fences

Is my greatest inhibition.

 

In my horns, the crescent of the moon,

It’s curves catch the still air, the intensity of my breath

Wets the red desert breeze.

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Stole Brooklyn

I didn’t make it to Brooklyn to visit my
Cousins. They said, ‘bring me the things you steal’,

Fighting rough in the wild streets, stay tender
In violence, ferocity in peculiarity. Keep

Talking, feel the warmth, all the brutal
Thorns we can only ease to dislodge.
Golden period maybe, terrible drinks poured
Into illness, great friends line the

Route of our strange Subway souvenirs,
Tucked away in respectable compartments,
The neighbourhood was a drought,
With my feet on the dinner table.

I took a pigeon hole as my own, built
A life on a pot hook and typewriter,

Writing at night to
Sell my soul, little by little, into the dark,
The soft light luminescent, grows in the
Lucrative trap,

Bearing witness to the lovers who’s name we
Forget and not sure how we got out.
So this is my article, a string of words,
You’ll like me there, for 5 cents,
Maybe more.

Never to be printed, like a reindeer tucking
Into stars, all that family tree of cheerful
Madness, no one asked a real question?
Pointing out the window at the blue sheep

And the black bile, some people are too
Much, lazy in the face of hate, too young
To be afraid of a bullet, weeping; families
Are a tree we should not climb, the moon
Is fascinating but the mind makes the
Heart bad in the end.

For and inspired by Henry Miller

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Warm Earth

Swaying in the sunlight,
Ash on the eyes, as the canopy of palms shapes my soul.

Bougainvillea speak in some ways familiar.

To this green palace, our home.
Rich land and earth clads the bones;
Each clearing the sky,
And I turn my cheek to the calm moss
Inhale the rising nature.

This morning’s crystal dew is well risen
To the tune of babbling form.
I rest my cheek to the ground
Make wishes and listen,
Long distance calls to distant constellations.

The infinite, not filled by blue giants,
My cells a billion gods colliding and reforming.
The clear air a sweep of vermilion emotion,
These sunset colours are my own.

Collapsed hearts, broken promises.

The warm earth ambivalent and pristine,
Forgives all.

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Melting Stream

Firmament, fervour, born to the furnace,
Entwined in fiery embrace, man is the flicker in fire again.

Jousting with self, not wicker rocking chair, but granite chest;
Nerves fire off tropical storms and convulsions of energy
In majestic wave forms; bread knives, sinister laughter.

All hewn and etched, no solidity found.
A melting stream, falling aimlessly to be closer.

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Lay Me Down

 

I’d like to say that god, is the answer to all my little problems,

but I never met him and it looks like he’s disowned me.

 

I’d love to say that love, protects and breathes freely,

but you know sometimes, the loving just escapes me.

 

In this old world, seems like we’re always learning,

to breakdown, the little, that we are.

 

We may reach out, into an age of discovery,

but looking at you my child, I have some doubts.

 

You could venture, into the unknowable,

But too many questions remain unresolved?

 

Like when did we let go of the garden,

and where does the dying sun not shine,

 

As we step out, into another paling mystery,

Each moment, hand in hand, and the freedom there within,

 

Uprooted, yes, but seldom knowing

Of another silent lesson, a way to forgive.

 

Doubting, sometimes, the great revelations,

That your true beauty does not reflect mine.

 

So we grow, down by the old oak tree,

By the river that runs bronze and fierce sometimes.

 

All the things I did and said, bury them beside me,

Seems to fit with one who’s passing through.

 

I wish to thank, the glorious unknowing,

That grips me, by my primal roots,

 

And the longing for distant, faded horizons,

That drew me close to an endless brighter stain.

 

But some glory, even fleeting, seems to be revolving

within the soft breeze of change.

 

I’m no longer out for a greater understanding,

Seems some things, are best left for the grave.

 

Lay me down, in this elemental shadow,

Let me rest in that fragrant rose for a while,

 

And breathe in some forgotten perfumes,

And fall to settle, for unspeakable demise.

 

Lay my body down where the raven can see me,

Leave the door open, open wide.

 

I know you’re tortured by those who raised you

But Jesus, cut yourself some slack.

 

I’m not asking for you to take up all my burdens,

But please let me know, when you’re gonna break my back,

 

You know I’ve painted a world, in colours I find pleasing,

And the shapes of sentiments, you held so dear.

 

In our loving embrace, you left me watching over,

Some kind of myth without tragedy to bind.

 

So here we are now in this elemental mystery,

know that you can change it, and it’s alright,

 

Go out beyond the boundaries they fix about you,

Bury your heart in something wild,

 

Go beyond the borders of your heartlands,

For out there, is the true and holy land.

 

So let’s swim, in the ocean, let it take us,

Let us forget about the ways of dry land.

 

And sink into a bottomless awakening,

Way down, in the blind spot of man.

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Pastures of Plenty – Woody Guthrie

Pastures of Plenty – Woody Guthrie

It’s a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed
My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled
And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold

I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on the ground in the light of the moon
On the edge of the city you’ll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind

California, Arizona, I harvest your crops
Well its North up to Oregon to gather your hops
Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine
To set on your table your light sparkling wine

Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down
Every state in the Union us migrants have been
We’ll work in this fight and we’ll fight till we win

It’s always we rambled, that river and I
All along your green valley, I will work till I die
My land I’ll defend with my life if it be
Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free

Performed by Michael Hurley 

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Lost and Found

happiness is a fleeing bird,
don’t try to catch it
you’ll crush it’s tiny heart.

joy is the call of a blooming lotus,
if you tried to listen
you’d drown out the chorus.

peace is a still and infinite pond,
and you the frog
croaking at the shore.

love is a fragile spring breeze,
may it linger to
grace these transient skins.

hate is a fire we try to hide,
it splits and burgles,
burns out our insides.

war is the charred borders of the soul,
which spills from the empty heavens
where we are not known.

bliss is a burp in the universal giggle,
we are lonesome when we
cannot swallow down the thistle.

life is a fleeting chance,
shining from a window where
we seldom glance.

death is a punctuation mark,
where we all full stop,
to be released, to start.

nothing ends, nothing begins,
and we are lost and found,
fragile kites in mortal winds.

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