Thursday, 17 March 2011


One day we shall break this looking glass
and smear our new mosiac onto pitted concrete walls
With the ruby blood from open hands
Crunching glass fragments into place,transparent lizard incisors
Bring this tableau above the surface into flesh
Choosing to break the unchallenged air
And split the distance between.
We beat the nut against the rock until the orange flesh hangs free
Juice running down our chins
And grin as a drop drip splashes on our open toes
Webs of effect bound with near invisible thread bring our clumsy hearts to death
A certain close of business unless
Our art returns to resurrect
Unpicking, one thread at a time, with the delicate dripping tip, until those silk chains, useless, slip
vulnerable into the dust
Our fingers meet, suddenly free, in the jagged refraction, the play of roles sung into distraction, No time for trivia time no object in tension
Creating, tongues heavy happy waiting for the refreshment lapping at their shore
A shard of crystal sand cuts a whole in my world and you pull another through
A spectrum enveloping the whole we term seperate
A lie so great it exposes our truths

Friday, 4 March 2011


Something more, something warm, uncontained,in the air, pushing against the wind to refresh this body. Friction generates movement through this world of obstinate obstacles, barriers we worship and bolster and valorize in textbooks.
Disrupting that discourse is the stuff of freedom, step aside the stream and watch it run dry as it can no longer bleed us, we see dust, wipe away tears and keep driving forward to chase away the blades of order

The weather, the elements, exhaust themselves as resources for now, so I search in vain for the idea original, swinging from the rafters in my head, leaping from each to the next, shouting out for chaos to invest the crowd with youth, These labors have atrophied faculties fast and early. What means can reclaim the joy that is rightfully ours?
Joy is resistance, especially in pain, our voices form the weapons that wage love upon the oppressor in me; the bigot, the abuser, chased down by lust, we dance down the road of corrupted principles, our tongues lashing but not killing, creating spaces of flourishing color and shape, this ignites the fire in my head, feeling beyond closed lip brushing to reach…
something more, something warm,
uncontained by columns or stories blocking or walls blocking our way from this tomb, smashing through EVERYTHING; Terror, Hate, Ignorance, Unlearn through Verse and Have Heart that IDEAS REMAIN BULLETPROOF, These ARE our lives, survive through the trials and legislate through poetry, without seeking expectation of acknowledgement , reference or footnote. Revolution has no bibliography,History breathes, pauses,
spits out the unprepared, so seek nourishment and stand full facing uncertainty. This is our legacy, our birthright, surrounded by violence, beyond the false choices presented, uncontained.