We are older than our mothers and fathers

Always beyond and before conception

 

yes, we are our own porous ancestors

shells who come to only process occurrences

 

no longer concurrent with the course

of this eternal song-bird of moment

 

We are swollen in our borrowed homes

 

Oceans longing but swallowed

up in shorelines and bones

 

Cosmoses hollowed through closed palms

and still opened sockets

 

Buoyant colours and souls, lost

through un-enigmatic tongues and throats

 

Dilations of current and voice, narrowed

and foreshortened, paused

by the jaundice of the wrong thought

or word choice.

 

Trapped by mapwork

and palsied by our own distortions,

comforts and love of

unresponsiveness

 

enough of the half-heard world

 

we are born more than our own

and come to forget

 

we share language with the world

in a single, effortless gesture of breath

Song Of The Dung Beetle

 

Begin the curve of the world

you become

 

Stretch and roll out the land

into a little continual womb

on which to dance

and discover

 

a laughing elasticity

to circumference.

 

Upside down balance

backwards

 

Legs translate the muttering

of stars effortless touch

 

Synchronise solar sighs

into straight paths

 

Do not ask, there is no code

but course, the disembodied voice

of cosmos

 

Organism sing whole

the scatterings of continent

 

Dew settle restless into

collective sediment

 

and let setting sweat

remembrance

 

 

One must mix gravel and grit

in the round gut of a drum

mortal must help shape

the colour brown,

 

Rib the night with wind

whipped stick, the mixture

will soon sit quick – smooth

the roof over our cool dark pit,

plaster the dome walls and still the heat –

a gourd – this hut of skin, flesh and/organ

will wrinkle and crack in umbels of light,

 

peaking its head like a worm

does the splits, we drift

and move along as morning, learn

the soft turbulence of soil, become

the tuberous fold of the world’s home

 

Rolling and tumbling

tumbling and rolling

loosen like surf

 

Journey man – Journey bug – Nomad

and astronomer, carry what you cannot

and unravel unstable as song

the remainders of the longest beyond

 

Rolling and tumbling

 

tumbling and rolling

 

travel like surf

 

You passage of earth

 

 

Termites furrow and tunnel

blindly woven webs, networks

branch underground

 

The mound becomes

a mountain

and rain returns us

back to the ground

 

 

Go around,

 

Disturb the Ant lion

and fall into its curse

collapse curvature

and wall in

on itself

 

let the circle

get caught – open

 

 

Sun sunk and gone

sun sunk and gone a’

runnin n a’ jumpin – archin’

like a blue striped marlin

 

parts water to come back –

 

a boomerang ping-ponging

in action.

 

Shit son,

sun don’t know how to act

 

It’s a scab, a shell

a flesh-

less cuttlefish. Washed

up urchin orb

drawing into the shore

 

The law of tomorrow

 

crawl out. Glance

 

Have no choice

but to leave your body there

 

and start the dance again

 

The turning tide will bring

away the incessance

of daylight

Towards A Metaphysician’s Paradise

 

O atomless ancestor, unending

gesture of genesis

you action

that descends doubtless

upon the highest heaven

 

you chance

of enlightenment

and silence – all-at-once-

plunge of nothingness

 

you rest in loudest tempest

and acrobat of expansion, dwell-

er of becoming

 

lay your way in waves

your wake is a snake

laid in layers of waking

 

disentangle and form, you

figureless symbol, unhinge,

blind opening of angle,

 

you alchemical throw that turns

the skimming stone into an archipelago,

drums and lips, spills and distinguishes

this pellucid metamorphosis

 

yes you, residuum of creation

must be heard in imagination

the blossoming frond

and the tendril that curls,

 

the purr of wave and waterfall,

the dreamtime you arise behind

 

you astronaut of the ocean

and submarine of sky,

you sea of sun and mountain

of clustered vapour,

 

you alembic angel, condensing

sensation of dispersal, essential

ineffable

 

resolve, you shy – interjecting phenomenon

 

lonely listener in the midday anemone

of moon, interloper, here welcome

to answer the needless ticking

of speech and indecision

 

oh, you ongoing project-

ion of the poem, motion after which I

fumble for – the onward roll

of afternoon

downwards

toward possible

 

and the getting there

of nightfall coming

together a-

part—

 

The answer

 

always forming