opening is the new opening

I'm holding in my head
               a body the world won't call mine
   
but he's been here before
and I saw them all, when I was born /

and passed through the skin of both last night
to discover what I already knew:

that each body-being
resides in the other

I saw their faces merge
- and it was the same
                     just like the other,
the Muslim man smoking marijuana with my self in Christiania

                                                                               (his heart just beat so fast

                                                                                and when he touched me  

                                                                                my body flew backwards) -

I heard them speak with the same tongues,
that same slow, gentle weight
                                of words
                                    working their way
down
their limbs
from their mouths
and into their fingertips,
hands on the skin of my abdomen --

the space around me
                                   buzzed with my thought field
I came into my own God Body
and I was traversing time itself;
hearing the full ear/thly sight of sound

I arrived in them both -
singular in being
we all know that we've met before
but / and / whilst
                             without having ever laid eyes on...

neither separate nor joined
everything sat in harmony.
there was no line to cross
except for penetrating myself --

and I remembered the total truth:
emerging out
means going in

we are all one entity.
that is all there is.

and so, everything is good
everything is full
everything is love

lorstE

I go to put words down
but in fact there's nothing to say
because she's already said it all

spotted in Christiania

Only freedom is holy --
nothing kills like religion.

The garden of Eden is filled
with green smoke
and brown grass
and a million different languages
each body undergoing an exorcism,
their hearts beating the ahrdest
of any living beings -- so hard
they fall through the ground
backwards
forever
until they reach the other hemisphere:
reborn
into a parallel future
that's insisting on repetition
birth-death-rebirth
for all eternity...

I stepped into Utopia
and sat there awhile
I didn't even breathre
-- no inhale,
just sight.

caspar

it's like your head
swallowed his face
after he sank down through the earth -
and came out the other side :
the underworld of the other hemisphere --
a fearsome fairytale
of the same old shit /
repeated self-helplessness
that cannot be counselled

that doesn't accept breath, or
silence
or self,
and wants only
the things that
kill him surely ...

...
the softness of tears
with the immoveable hardness of ego

suffering in suffering

copenhagen

There was a time when it all poured out of me,
            because there was nowhere else for it to go --

now,
   things are open
       and so my mouth
 speaks the words
my fingertips used to

my dreams go on
             and on
                 and on
                      and on ...

we'd both dreamed of each other
      and I saw you in him
we started talking like us
-- and there was the gentle touching of hearts,
that impossibly palpable organ
    churning through a body
          making sure we feel alive
so close and
    yet so far.








italicised words are lyrics from DUAL

skyttevu

Everything keeps giving
echoes of itself :
I've seen - heard - met - felt - tasted
this instant before --
and not even in the accepted plane
of time -- it's happened elsewhere ;
it's engrained in the memory
of my body's intricate cells

so that when a moment presents itself
I get lost in the infinite order,
the ten-dimensional web
begins to weave its way
through my consciousness ...

I travel along the strains of light
until I reach a thousand intersections of possibilites
and then I play them all out simultaneously
and watch my multiple lives
unravel around me.

somewhere just outside a small town, on a windy coastal road

The traffic flows past our picnic spot
in waves, crashing over us in the same rhythm
as the tides of the ocean.

Large campervans, stock trucks, cars with boat trailers,
all seem to have the same gravity as
the burgeoning moon,
collecting a long line of vehicular planets behind them,
their collective orbit
snaking along the windy põhutukawa-lined perimeter
of the Coromandel coast,
for kilometers
and kilometers...

Their patient celestial dance
interrupted by small-town adolescents
with a big-time exhaust, or
a born-again boomer
made agile by his motorbike,
thrust into the wild future
with the spontaneity of middle age...

We sleep with our heads
pressed against either
the ocean, or the traffic -- they
both sound the same, but
what matters is
knowing -- a feeling, 
a search for
present-nostalgia,
the thin veil of reality made
tangible
by daylight
glimpse.

The sun goes down
at eight one night, six the next,
and I'm sure
the slow summer sadly descends with it...

the traffic all goes back to Auckland,
that sprawling volcanic hot-house
where one third of our tiny population
insist on clambering over one another...

We go back to planning:
our next free meal, retrieved from the bins of Countdown;
our next work of art;
our great escape
to the summer
of another hemisphere.

in/spiral

and those of us who have so much
will profess that we have so little;
and those of us abundant
will always cry that we need more;
and those of us well-fed
seem always to be hungry,
while those of us hungry
know others still are starving.

Somehow, those of us sleeping
in the warmth of comfort
will still, in the morning, be tired and cold --
while those of us awake
will see the sunlight pouring in
and feel it coursing through our veins
and know the day is opportune, full, open, alive ...

and instead of shutting our ears,
or allowing the slow droop of our eyelids,
we'll take our fingertips out into the world and manifest magic,
conjuring the transparency
that open eyes seek

and we will know each other better
for having known ourselves,

for having touched some quiet, intimate sphere
that only solitude knows,
that only hunger knows,
that is only seen when life is stripped back
to today's moment; to shedding, to being bare,
to being comfortable with vulnerable --

but that tiny glimmer of goodness found in a stranger's eye,
when he recognises himself in your freckles and
sits beside you on the grass,

or when you submerge your body into the ice-cold ocean
so that even your organs go numb
with the quiet of being

-- that's where we should find ourselves
because that's where we will be fed,
that's where we'll find our energy, bursting from within
the molecules of the earth,
rich and abundant, residing
in the folds of the fabric of time itself--

That is where we actually live
and living anywhere else is discord.

When tomorrow wakes,
time will still move in spiral - and I will be
somewhere,
sitting subtly in the earth's body,
and I will have chosen to be happy.

"You are dancers, all of you. Life moves you. Life dances you. To dance is to investigate and celebrate the experience of being alive. Like life, a dance creates and destroys itself in every moment. Like love, it is beyond reason. Ephemeral as breath, concrete as bone, dance is made of you. You sculpt space. You write with your body in a wordless language that is deeply understood. You grace the space within and around you when you dance. Force, trajectory, inertia and recovery - dancing is a ride. A duet between your instinct and imagination. To dance is to heighten your experience of the present moment. Your body is your location. When you dance, you are profoundly engaged in being there."

- Crystal Pite, Choreographer.

astro lovers

when I lay down to dream,
I invite them all into my bed

I wind my tongue around the mouths of un-strangers,
beckoning them to come and lie with me
(or at least, to omit the truth)

I astro-travel to be with anyone
whose head matches mine,
I wait until my lovers are asleep
and then wake them up inside a small sphere
known as the universe

I coax them to put their hands over my flesh
and intimate kind words to them

I never make them breakfast
I never do their laundry
I always tell them they're beautiful
I never tell them
               that I love them

but I wonder what might happen
if I dragged them into the living?
would they come out and still love me, or
would they scatter back into the night?