Insects once restless below the bark,
Now skit across the torn dress that hugs the sweet flesh of my honey,
Yes she’s tired and a little grubby,
But she’s my honey just the same.

My hands clench this the object of my desire,
Six legs stride to and fro escaping this murky mire,
Perspiration runs the length of her shirt,
While fluid fertilises this ever evolving tide of ****** consumption.

Her scent inhabits the soil,
She’s breaking down from corner to corner silently in alternating triangles.
Love is written here within the beauty of her frame.
Yes she’s tired and a little grubby but she’s my honey just the same.

She comes to me in dreams In dreams, in dreams.

Simply scoop lots of Vaseline into your hands and rub it into a small fluffy cat; work it in all over and slick it right back!
you get what looks like a very convincing otter, and at a faction of the cost!.

The son of love and god scratched the surface of humanity, only to fall in love with a kind soul, for every night I slept, the monster invisible crept, naked with feathers and a bow loosing arrows blow by blow; Busily chanting songs from its celestial throne, songs that transform; inspire love, arouse jealousy and invoke war!
Please, please, take pity on these the windows of my soul, for when the son of love is seen and the temples fall, the earth will howl with the trees, the birds and bees, let sleeping dogs lie with the serpents of blind faith and beauty;
Place in a box the nectar to protect her, untill the earth grows young again, voluptuous and born of pleasure.

Above the rain below the ground,
the leaves hide her blooded shroud,
Soon her folks will sense her plight,
Through the tortured dead of night,
They’ll ring her friends, the cops, and every-one,
They’ll search for miles until their done,
And when she’s found 6 months later,
once again she makes the papers.

First they sent me flowers,
Then they sent me gold,
Then they stole every hour of my life
When they sent me down that hole,

First the ground began shake,
Then the roof fell in,
Then came the unholy silence,
That spewed the darkness from within.

The family sent down flowers,
sent down pictures of our kin,
They ticked every box on their forms,
From this place of filth and sin.

Not even a drop to drink,
Not even a mobile phone,
Down in the stinking city of rock,
Pleading for our homes.

We used to mine for copper,
It’s true they owned our soul,
Now we simply fight for survival,
as three rigs bore the holes.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.

A billion eyes are watching,
As we’re pulled from the ground,
Despite the dust... the blood and fever,
The circus comes to town.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.

The Lightning Man.

In life we beat out our time; knees bent, singing and dancing.
In death our spirit, reappears in human, plant and animal form, recycled; reborn.
In telling our stories; we move through the days and walk in the past.
We push up mountains and invoke the rain.
We cut our bodies; dress in leaves, oil and paper bark,
We paint our bones red with ochre returning to the womb from which we sprang.
Nothing has changed...all is as it should be.