Cold empty chrysalis
And pig slop -

Suckle the hearthfire **** of mother earth
we praise ourselves on being diverse
but we are the biodiversity,
spread so thin we can't nourish the hungry and thirsty.

The pale moon shines on a world somehow even colder,
we consume the birthday cake leaving only the smoulders,

Built monuments and towers to a false kind of power,
mycellium clouds bloom come to consume what is ours,
The midnight clock ticking to doomsday, now minutes from hours.

We believe that we control the elements, but loom they,
The ancient forces come soon to smother and cover in dirt
this mausoleum soon to be crematorium Earth.

And when the smoke clears and lifted is the haze
I dream of a peace on Earth without the human race.

Beneath the Autumn willow tree
Sat a lonely bird.

Once it flew high enough
to curse the heavens

Before it was cast down by
The desert winds.

But now it rests, becoming the wind
as it takes flight

for the last time.

Humanity is restless in its pursuit of
pure, and unbiased comprehension.

But we are as blind as the ants,
Who navigate a pheromone soaked
sensation scape.
Only able to perceive perfume
trails, and the colour they emit.
Like the warm, hazy lights
of a carousel river steam boat,
They pass each other like
perfect strangers in the night.
Amidst the dark and misty waters
Unafraid to surrender trust
to the twinkling of an eye,
the faint smell of musky cigars
on collared shirts, or the
Incandescent shades of a lip.

We have yet to leave our ancestral
cave homes, full of mad desperation to
capture, define, and preserve the
fleeting forms of nature and it’s denizens.
Sand and ochre kicked up and splashed
in deeply passioned abandon,
as fingers raced and traced the earthy canvas,
Etching, marking, tracing and screaming.
Until, in the end, the exertion itself
is impressed into the rock-face wall.

Other, similar endeavours may well include,
The many voyages and explorations of
Early settlers and tribe folk,
in attempts to map the sprawling land masses,
from the tips of snowy doom filled mountain tops
down to the last measly grains of sand on distant coastlines.
And even now in the modern era,
The sky itself and the cosmos in its enormity,
Probed forever deeper, but never reaching
Its absolute depth.

The creating, and dividing, of art into
it’s multiple facets of genre and subject,
Always pushing outwards in the need,
yes, the very drive to express anything,
everything, and nothing at all.
Emotion itself made captive to
Staves of rhythmic and melodic
progression and regression.
to plumb the very essence of a note
would reveal a beyond Planck length
Spectrum of wave and particle,
Eternally ringing out into
The collective consciousness of the universe.

This isn’t a poem, so much as it
is a personal meditation into
The finite infinity we experience
From one moment, to the next.
Much like meaning, we can only
assign so much burden to a word,
only place so much faith in diction.
But that’s perfectly alright,
Because without ambiguity in
the shapes and forms of metaphors and simile,
We lose a sense of the PROFOUND.
The innate desire to find meaning,
in the most personal sense, in anything.

And really,
isn’t that the most beautiful thing
Ever?

Fear gripped primal synapse,
a quiver of spider’s silk bunching,
rippling outwards in a cranial pond.

Anticipation surrenders shape
to the dense jungle rhythms,
but reveals little of their depths.

Breathing stifles in cautious
and irregular release -
amidst the midnight black box.

—

The bone sharp tension uncoils,
as vine and fibre come undone.
The cycle remains unbroken.

Its disastrous out there ~ the world burns and starves itself while I’m here taking a drag.
Ignorant to change, we’d rather be stuck in our ways and continue hating on “the ****”,
As if the love that two people share for each other could somehow impeach on your parade.
What difference does it make at the end, of the day, because its getting awfully hot under the shade.

For everyone.

No matter the banner or the flag you fly, the country or your nationality all filled up with pride.
No longer can it be the land of the free when time finally runs out, whether you have belief or simply doubt
The rising sun which should feed bellies and help crops grow but instead fills me with dread.
When I think about some starving children who won’t get their daily needs met because of rampant drought.

So to everyone still listening to the signs that the end times are really here,
I can only comfort you in your time of need through the insecurity and fear.

We’ll distract ourselves and drink and make merry before being shipped off on the ferry,
But I’ll try not to think about it as I fall asleep tonight, because it all quite frankly scares me.

Exhale.

Maybe I am a robot, no really, hear me out.
Perhaps all this time I’ve always known
that in existence there was room to doubt
this fleshy simulation, I call my own.

What if, to fulfil my dreadful curiosity,
I tear away my soft and pudgy outer shell
to find a mesh of moving parts and circuitry
instead of living, breathing cells.

Maybe I’d shed a tear at the realisation,
With a hint of shock, horror and/or dismay.
One moment calm, then launched into frustration .
All quite possible, but I couldn’t really say.

I just hope that you’d
still love me -

anyways...