THE PAST LIPS ARE NOT DECEASED Why not look at the beauty your memory holds,  so nourishing that light can be. The past’s lips are not deceased. Let them comfort you if they can.  – Kabir (c.1440 – 1518)  

Finding that your words are missing           did you rip them out?   Finding my own words are now missing         will they come back? Shards of acuity gone the ability to write bereft The austere void now present and my hand  …

A fire burning feeding on black threads Sown into eyelids of all the corners Consuming time It is to breathe the slit air you cut with your hand through a window To look for words and finding them elsewhere elucidating in the fire pit Glowing when not a void appear…

Now submit.  Submit.  Sub mit.   To the hours, the stairs  the uncertainty of the floor tilting beneath your raised foot. To echoes of whirling voices, dissonance and rain bouncing  on borrowed graves. To pushing, pausing  wondering if this holds meaning  or sympathies for floppy haired fascism.    We do…

Crushed lips Colour me in every eye. Watching. With hands. Restless. Seeking. Accepting. Misunderstood. Soft Nests. With Every step Exeitment evokes. Cant conquer the tones of past rythms. Calm will find you. Through plumes douces et pierres. When the drop breaks Melts your skin. When the masses surround your foot.…

    You have nurtured beauty back to me   .   Sun full moons manifesting life moving air   .   Evoking a long missed touch, un-naming as children do while fires are spreading, sprouting fé in plasmatic eroding bursting ways as asteroids pass by;   I saw you…

  . Once in a hall of summer on a sticky floor rolling roaring with laughter and beaming smiles shouting into air as air . Climbing all those steps knocking at the stones front door “it’s only me, let me come in”   Carpeted floors in hallways the corners inhabited…

// from echos across honeycomb floors of the cityhall: half-cut planets your eyes an orbit from pupil to the lines around your mouth open i miss your touch your tongue shapes experiences you sense like mints dear child you transform every tip, joint and toe points a different direction rolling…

  Walking through heather and fern onto a mountain hill   Laying on a bed of stones   they press into my body from different angles   Placing a hand on my stomach and wonder   where your stone is placed   Finding a puce rock weightless filled with pores…

The sun and the moon converse: “If I told you that I miss you would you know what I want?” the moon whispered and the sun glowing as a sun does listened “can you see my colours though you are so bright?” the moon continued and with warmth the sun…