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We rest
on tired cliches and proto-hippy waves
lost in ancient perspectives
hollow expectant winds sing
as they clothe our bodies in gilets and watch earwigs dance inappropriately on Saturdays.
The rains applaud naturally and rapturously as we impregnate spectacularly
the mud with the souls and smoke of moons wrapped in a thousand lost words and leaves.
It's time to leave
Bukowski in the bush
blind with tshirt slogan head rush reading the mist of literature written by the forest that never existed.
Double sun maneuvre ecstatic
bursting atmospheric places at the centre of the tree bestowed with an eye
offered to the sky by meandering erratic children of yellow gentle breezes and
nonsense and horses constructed from sprays of water
making lungs grow shorter, static
and then the eye freezes.
... ... ...
Blinking then
blinking again
then
staggering stargazing of internal constellations
then
isolated incarnations illuminated inside ruminating
internally cocooned in our bodies lost beside melancholic moons and
notions and middle class potions coaxing the trees
who can now only speak in high-class hyperbole.
The perambulators are stuck
being pushed
by adjectives that rise like dust from the mud that's stammering through vocal chords of roots
being pressed closed by boots as heavy as planets and yet...
the babies of Venus are expanding into their inner-planetary oasis
and are planting dreams through their waterproof roofs,
with stems and sprouting flowers on wheels
being navigated by miniature upright fields where the high Priest of Nowhere sits
ubiquitously
on other people's legs
spinning rhythms of winds relinquishing the roots of all their knots
And the eye of the tree speaks to us, and only us
although we are not sure how, it just does
and furiously our feet are majestically bathed in swathes of light
and we are wet
from our souls to our socks.
This bright eye can't dance like the pulsating glow of night
our bodies are getting used to the idea of being lower than soft, our mechanisms are stuck
facing one another
like the mirror portraying the looking glass, at last
we are lost.
At last,
we can move with the essence of Cassiopeia and gravitational shudders.
At last,
we are nearer to the wet glances of shadows.
At last,
we are benevolent trees that stare and dance to the timeless rhythm of earthy hands, applaud,
because at last
the clouds have given birth to the lioness's paw
At last,
the fallen trees form parts of vibrating dreams
hidden under the awe of resplendent poets and branches and stems and spirals of animals and
whirlpools of invisible electricity
and within these cool depths of morning we'll imagine
our city
cast in the shimmering trinity of trees
frozen deep within the tender fountains of Venus and the wombs of infinity
blooming in the scent of twilight fast
burning like forgotten monuments of skies
between glaciers of you and I
cascading at last, we gasp
in a simple effort to breathe
our world becomes statuesque
like a requiem
for weakened knees.
