I had fallen from the skies but refused to land,
I was lodged in the green canopy of wilderness you see,
I had dropped through the patterned grains of a dreaming tree,
Just following the passage of water, drifted down
Murky rivers, drawing me out of the jungle,
The salt in my blood and tears craved the ocean.
I was 121 species of ants and unfathomable
Species of nocturnal butterflies. I was the crocodiles eyes
Slipping just beneath the surface.
I awoke in a hut.
I realise that nature fears me and rightly so,
I am rarely consumed by her.
But I can’t get in line either, can’t wolf down,
Can’t call for Mother when she seems feint.
It’s as if our hands were not living and our hearts
Never beat and we cared too little to look up
Or kick out and scream.
To another’s snake-like dream tryst I’m wed,
Eyes closed and grooving, feeling the forgotten acoustics
Of exploding histories, a poke square in the instincts.
Sometimes it’s easier that way
Y’know. To bubble.
The Amazon is a gateway, each tree a message, the birds,
Our punctuation to assimilate with natures rhythm section.
The howler howls,
The shaman’s feather drums,
We raise our sail.
But what is illusion?
To avoid the banquet of vine soul humming, not to
Stifle the fire flies of pent up mayhem, flickering; I reach down in, then out,
Chest expands, deflates, unassisted.
“Is this my heart?”
Each time my vessel is emptied, it refills with purer moonshine.
A human sacrifice. Experience, just vibration.
Crude ripples escaping without source, rhyme nor reason.
Without destination, meaning or hooks,
But maybe a melody or a jam,
Maybe the sound of a distant flute echoing within
A beat drunkards haiku.
Why not now?
Rip our hearts out, the black eyed priest
With fangs and deformed jaguar thumbs.
Life has always been the greatest offering
Beneath the blinking star maps.
Why not now?
But who lives the game? We are all gamblers in
Tormented ignorance of the stakes.
There is death beneath our life and only nothing to win.
No risks. No dealer.
Warm blood, airbags, radiohead.
Small huts and feathers shed, blown sour smoke,
Naked games in the steaming hysteria of polyphonic insect symphony.
The pinnacle of beauty, our forms, the depravity of our being.
We must hum together to cleanse this space.
We must hold hands to form new beings, new shapes.
We must take our clothes off
And pray for heightened states of gibberish, feel our way through
The shifting symbols of language and flesh,
Melt these villages with the power of volcanic insight
Then, with the white hot ash, cauterize our wounds.
The destroyed, freed by the destroyer,
As we dance in circles, holding hands,
To the tune of silent laughter.
The sweat is pouring down my wax mask.
The river is bursting it’s banks and tears flow across
I look down to my nails, have I clawed at the red earth?
Everything is gossamer pulsation and nothing is missed.
The poison arrow frogs come in slick numbers,
Reality so densely humid, we are breathing in brackish fluid
With lungs the texture of plastic shopping bags.
On palm stilts, above the murky wash and tumble,
A height where we believe we are safe. But for how long?
And what’s the cost? And who’s counting?
Our foundations seem to fade,
“We don’t even know you!”
Then something and twists, down near the heart
And into the wash we scatter jacks.
Before dawn, we come to.
The plants blew mystic clouds into the
Conch shell and we heard her quietly weeping.
Then a voice from the back row booming; “It’s Tuesday.”