Gauguin or Michener
horizon lust inspired,
The South Pacific desired.
From early childhood on.
Fiji in the 70’s all alone in
A Personal journey of self
and world discovery.

From the big island of
Viti Levu, embarked
on native small boat, fifty
miles out to the Yasawa group.
Reaching tiny Yaqeta with
300 souls living close to the bone,
No Running water, or electric spark
glowing. Remarkably bright stars
shine at night, no city lights showing
to hide their heavenly glow.

Unspoiled Melanesian Island people
Meagerly surviving only on the sea
and a thousand plus years of tradition.

I welcomed like a friend of long
standing, with smiling faces and
open sprits. Once eaters of other
humans beings, converted now to
Methodist believers.

Their Island beautiful beyond belief,
Azure pristine seas in every direction,
Coral reefs abounding with aquatic life.
Paradise found and deeply appreciated.
I swam and fished, played with the kids
and laid about in my hammock, enjoying
weeks of splendor alongside people
I came to revere, generous and loving
at peace with themselves and nature,
Embracing a stranger like a family member.

My small transistor radio warned big
Cyclone brewing, of Hurricane proportions.
My thoughts turned to Tidal Waves.
The village and all those people
living a few feet above sea level.
Tried to express my concerns to
my host family and others, getting
but smiles and shrugs in return.
Spoken communication almost
nonexistent, me no Fijian spoken,
Them, little English understood.

It started with rain, strong winds,
Worsening building by the minute.
The villagers’ merely tightening down
the hatches of their stick, thatch houses.
Content it seemed to ride out the storm,
As I assumed they always did.

Shouldering heavy backpack
I hugged my friends and headed
for high ground, the ridgebacks
of low mountains, the backbones
of the Island. Feeling guilty leaving
them to their fate from high water.
Perplexed, they ignored my warnings.

In half an hour winds strong enough
to take me off my feet, blowing even
from the other side of the Island.
On a ridge flank I hunkered down,
pulled rubber poncho over my body,
Laying in watershed running inches deep
cascading down slopes to the sea below.

The wind grew to astounding ferocity,
Later gusts reported approaching 160
miles per hour. Pushing me along
the ground closer to the cliff edge
and a 80 foot plunge to the sea below,
Clinging to cliff with fingers and toes.

For three hours it raged, trees blowing
off the summit above, disappearing into
the clouds and stormy wet mist beyond.

A false calm came calling, the eye of the
Cyclone hovered over the Island, as I
picked my drenched self up and made my
way over blown down trees and scattered
storm debris to the Village of my hosts.

Most wooden, tin roofed structures gone
or caved in, the few Island boats broken
and thrown up onto the land. Remarkably
many of the small one room “Bure” thatched
huts still stood. Designed by people that knew
the ways of big winds blowing.

The high waves had not come as I feared.
Badly damaged, yet the village endured,
As did most of the people, some broken
bones, but, mercifully, no worse.

Back with my host family, in their Bure,
new preparations ensued, the big winds I
was informed would now return from the
opposite direction, and would be even worse.

For another three hours the little grass and
stick House shook, nearly rising from the
ground, held together only by woven vine
ropes, and hope, additional ropes looped
over roof beams held down by our bare
hands. Faith and old world knowledge
is a wonderful thing.

Two days past and no one came to check on
the Island, alone the people worked to save
their planted gardens from the salt water
contaminated ground, cleaned up debris and
set to mending their grass homes. The only fresh
Water well still unpolluted was busily used.

With a stoic resolve, from these self-reliant people,
life seemed to go on, this not the first wind blown
disaster they had endured, Cyclones I learned
came every year, though this one, named “Bebe”
worst in the memories of the old men of the island.

On the third day a boy came running,
having spotted and hailed a Motor yacht,
which dropped anchor in the lagoon on the
opposite side of the Island.

I swam out to the boat and was welcomed
aboard by the Australian skipper and crew.
Shared a cold Coke, ham sandwich and tales
of our respective adventures of surviving.
They agreed to carry me back to the Big Island.

A crewman returned me ashore in a dingy.
I crossed the island and retrieved my things,
Bidding and hugging my friends in farewell.
I asked permission to write a story about the
storm and the village, the elders' smiles agreed,
they had nothing to loose, seemed pleased.

One last time I traversed the island and stepped
Into the yachts small rowboat, my back to
the island. Hearing a commotions I turned
seeing many people gathering along the
shores beach. I climbed out and went among
them, hugging most in farewell, some and
me too with tears in our eyes, fondness, respect
reflected, shared, received.

As the skiff rowed away  halfway to the ship,
the Aussie mate made a motion with his eyes
and chin, back towards the beach.

Turning around in my seat I saw there
most of the island population, gathered,
many held aloft small pieces of colored cloth,
tiny flags of farewell waving in the breeze,
they were singing, chanting a island song,
slow, like a lament of sorts.

Overwhelmed, I stood and faced the shore,
opened wide my arms, as to embrace them all,
tears of emotions unashamedly ran down my face.
Seeing the people on the beach, the Aussie crewman
intoned, “****** marvelous that. Good on 'ya mate.”

Yes, I remember Fiji and Cyclone Bebe, most of all
I fondly remember my Island brothers and sisters.

                                    End

a big fight up in saturn causes cyclone activity in queensland and northern territory


you see ronnie biggs and ted bunny were having a quiet methane smoothie, in saturn

club rings, when they suddenly broke out in a fight, and this wasn’t just any fight, no, it caused

big cyclone activity in quuensland and northern territory and gold coast where my brother lives

has a bif of rough seas, and my dad is making sure that the cyclone doesn’t affect gold coast

and my brothers family, but ronnie biggs and ted bundy had no compassion, and really started

fighting with methane, which is causing the rough seas, and dad, is trying to keep the cyclone away

but, it looks like ted bunny and ronnie biggs are going to get their way, as they, poured methane all over

the saturn club rings, you see, what us cosmic sleepers must do, is alert australians living in these areas

to listen to authorities, and go to a safe place, for barry allan’s ploy to save this world, hopefully there won’t

be any casualties, and hopefully my brothers family will be safe, hopefully dad can save the gold coast

and keep his old family safe, it’ll be a hard job, you see ted bundy and ronnie biggs are still fighting, saying

let’s destroy the earth, let’s destroy australia first, let’s use methane to ruin the whole entire earth, you see

me as cronus is getting dad to help me keep the methane from forcing the cyclones to really **** people, and hopefully

nothing will be lost, but it will be ****** hard, because ted bunny and ronnie biggs are really ****** well *******

with everyone, as well as cronus, and knows how crocus’s current earth body is when storms come to cities his

brother or family lives in, decided to hopefully wreck cronus’s life, and his dad barry allan, is making sure he helps

cronus keep his younger son safe from this really fierce cyclone, i know i am going on and on saying the same thing

over and over, but this is a way, to bring all cyclone activity not to take too much control on queensland and northern territory

you see, ted bundy likes the idea of using methane to destroy the earth, to get crocus’s earth body, to SHUT UP, cause

you should listen to your voices when they said methane is a gas, and you can’t drink it, but you can fight it, and the methane

stopped dad from being a boy, but he says girls and boys are equal, and barry allan is fighting ted bundy and ronnie biggs

from having this cyclone get close to my brothers family, but ted bundy liked the idea of hurting the gold coast, and cause

problems for my brother, and barry allan and cronus are protecting the gold coast from a very fierce cyclone activity

and cronus and buddha YELLED OUT

UMMMMMMMMMM  STOP ted bundy and ronnie biggs from taking too much affect in cyclones in qld and northern territory

immmmmmmmmmm keep our family safe from this methane cyclone caused by ted bundy and ronnie biggs

ummmmmmmmmmm stop people swimming in dangerous waters, they will be doing what ted and ronnie want

you see, ronnie biggs and ted bundy are fighting each other, and dad and cronus who is me, are guarding anyone who is on the earth

making people too scared to not go in the water, ted bundy is enjoying people going in the water and so is ronnie biggs

because it makes what they are doing so very much right, and i tell ya i tell ya i tell ya, my father, is helping my previous life cronus

ME AND DAD MUST SAVE THE QUEENSLAND AND NORTHERN TERRITORY COASTLINE

ME AND DAD MUST SAVE THE QUEENSLAND AND NORTHERN TERRITORY COASTLINE

save it from the dreaded ronnie biggs and ted bundy, RIGHT NOW

The
cyclones are cellophane
saran raptures, and
gale forced smiles in the rain    
that comes after a dead-end starts
with a grave intuition.

Out of the blue,
a sky you knew would be safe
as sun-strokes-
of genius,
proof
that love had
a heart...
you found
mars

That's you
wishing where stars
don't fall
they just hang
in the black hole
dark...

I see a pattern Everywhere:
Circles and globes (three dimensional circles);
Shiny rings of fire.
Countless manifestations of this same shape.

Star-spangled galaxies wheeling through the sky:
That half-globe dome.
Earth, in circular orbit (more or less) around the Sun,
Escorted by the Moon.

Days give way to seasons,
Repeating every year.
Groundhog Days becoming
Groundhog Creations
Perhaps.

The list seems endless:
Hopkins’ dapples,
Planets, craters, cyclones, anti-cyclones, sea currents,
*****, apples, oranges, nuts, potatoes,
Teardrops, heads, faces, eyes, mouths,
Holes!

Coins, bin lids, and plates;
Sunflowers, daisies, pansies,
Rings of mushrooms,
Circling birds of prey,
A cat curled in a circle,
Like a foetus.

Life as we know it
Is a circle
And a cycle too.
Birth, Death, Blossom, Wilt.
Reincarnation?
Renewal?
Clock-faced Time itself.

Eternity might be a circle,
Infinity the same.
Maybe even God,
Some way.

Perhaps we still are building God,
For Him or Her to travel back through time
Like Doctor Who
To Create The Big Bang,
And form this expanding Universe,
Thus taking us full circle.

Or maybe the Universe will fold back in upon itself,
Producing yet one more Big Bang,
In an endless cycle,
Of Big Bangs,
Amongst this ever circling
Multiverse.

Paul Butters

© PB, 14th February, 2011 at 14.00, in Humberside.

The oxygen that we breathe
in
and
out
every minute of every day
is not lost
but shared
re-used
recycled
recirculated.

If we are in the same room –
or sealed hermetically for hours
in the cabin of a plane –
we breathe continuously
the same air,
the oxygen goes from me to you
and back again.

But air currents,
prevailing winds,
the jet stream,
cyclones and anti-cyclones,
all move the atmosphere further
and further still,
so that even if we are
on opposite sides of the globe,
separated by oceans,
it is a statistical certainty
that I still breathe in
atoms of oxygen
that were once
inside
you.

Do they carry your thoughts,
your feelings,
your poetry to me,
or mine to you?
Who can say?
I can but hope it,
as I thank you
for keeping me alive.

Disturbances, however hard they try,
Will always be horrifying.
Now alarming is just the thing,
To get me wondering if disturbances are atrocious.

The ramp is not nonthermal!
the ramp is exceptionally nonthermal.
A ramp is hot. a ramp is nonthermal,
a ramp is caloric, however.

hardships are not lean!
hardships are exceptionally zoftig.
Do hardships make you shiver?
do they?

Don't belive that gales are big?
gales are little beyond belief.
Now unimportant is just the thing,
To get me wondering if gales are shrimpy.

I cannot help but stop and look at depressing tornadoes.
Do tornadoes make you shiver?
do they?

Cyclones, however hard they try,
Will always be traumatic.
Never forget the harmful and painful cyclones

you see cronus and barry allan and buddha, has been battling the terrible forces

of cyclone marcia, which is caused by the cosmic fight of ted bundy and ronnie biggs

you see, brian allan was very tired, because he had to fight the terrible winds caused

by ted and ronnie, you see what happening is, kids and surfers and rock fishermen

and all sorts of the yobbos culture, have let ted bundy and ronnie biggs take full control

and ned kelly and the crazy ed gein, you see i just wanted to do tapestries, but, my eyes

were too tired, and i had to put power into these stupid people, who are doing all this

ya know rock fishing, and surfing, it’s herd to understand why, you see, at present i am

treated like a hooligan, but i am battling to keep the cyclones from really damaging the

earth, and there is some people stuck in an elevator, and kids near a poo,l, with high seas,

i know, it is a bit of excitement, but reality why are people allowing themselves to go out

and battle these evil spirits that caused this cyclone marcia, and elvis tried to keep these

evil spirits from killing with the powers of music, here goes

i wanna be, your teddy bear, you see i take out of my bag and cuddle you some more

i don’t wanna be a tiger, tigers play to rough, i don’t want to be a lion

the lion ain’t the type ya ought to love enough

i know you can be found sitting all alone

if you can’t come around, at least please telephone

don’t be cruel, just stop these spirits

i know it can be hard, but baby it it’s just you i am thinking of

and then elvis sang to ed gein ted bundy ronnie biggs and ned kelly

you guys are nothing but evil hound dogs, to trap these australians like this

you trap these australians thinking it’s fun to break the rules

you will never **** these people, no matter how stupid they are

you see these criminals can cause more problems, now they’re dead

ted bunny said, we are wrecking houses heh heh heh

we are forcing people to battle winds while surfing heh heh heh heh

the children caught near the rock pool, heh heh heh heh

people stuck in hotel elevator  heh heh heh heh

ted bundy said, i have everybody fooled,

then said he is glad he is dead, because nobody will believe in stories

ted bundy ronnie biggs ed gein and ned kelly making these cyclone victims

think it’s exciting to take the kids to look at the raging seas

yeah, ted bunny is loving every minute of this, every minute, every minute

and even the eye of ted bundy and ed gein looking at the queensland coast saying a loud

HEH HEH HEH HEH HEH HEH, foolish earthlings

cronus barry allan and buddha and athena, are pushing the cyclone away

but it’s hard to beat these evil spirits

I AM CRONUS

Again life cycles to a clutter, ideas thought through

don't anymore seem as though,

even when expressed aloud and not within.



Maybe they're right,

my ignorance is only withholding wonders

I struggle to actually see.  



Hypocritically, I find importance in self enrichment

and observing from afar.

and yet even from a distance you feel so close.



Is this an evolution or is it just another mutation.

Obscure out of any cultural norm, I resonate

impairing those who hear my words.



This constant metamorphosis has left me staring in the mirror for

hours, searching for the presence of my subjected  form.



Yet,



while I peer into the interworkings of my reflection

to observe what I actually see...



With all truth, it holds a boy,

an awkwardly timid boy.



Insecurely gazing back into the pupils

of his reality.



He's bellowing inside his

submerged mind.



Subconsciously Blurting:



"Do not turn back,  

their are cyclones that await.



And all that is required

to overcome this task



is to go forth without

pondering times long gone...





So here I am, engaulphed

in tidal winds.



I must break loose;



grow, starting from

below.

.
Her fine hands gentle
With lithe and spiny fingers
Of bone and fin.

Her eyes are opal,
Essence of emerald and topaz,
A hoard of treasure.

Her hair is sea gathering
And dances in the blue currents
Deadly as the sea snake.

Her skin is coral,
Made of mineral and sorcery,
A fatal beacon.

Her lips are urchin,
Set in a whirlpool of face,
A spiral of doom.

Her voice is dream,
Rocking the lost wrecked ships,
Ground into sand.

Her long tail is fable
Of paradise, beyond faraway seas,
Cyclones and waves.
.

You were the greatest neuronal reorganization to ever happen,
of course I don't know who I am anymore.

What was plastic seems changed to stone in a gargoyle brain and beneath a microscope the shimmering glia spell out your name over and over in little green lights, fossilizing the neurons that say:

Him.

The earth has an edge. Nobody wants to fall off.

So call me Homer, because the gods themselves could not convince me my situation's a sphere there's far too much fear in this flattened plane that understands only primitive desires and just wants you near.

Everyone knows the romanced brain could be mistaken for a ******* addict's.

But perhaps if you look more closely into my eyes you will see my irises have turned stormy, that cyclones of energy are becoming patterns that scribble and scribble arcane suggestions for a new cartography. A new story. A new being.

Supplies needed:
One strong pencil.
Enough oxytocin to unlearn an addiction.

Enough optimism to overcome an affliction, my diction is code for the way you kissed me and it underlines every sentence like the way a voice rises when asking a question.

I have so many questions.

And even though the notion of who I will be when I am not you terrifies me, like Cathy and Heathcliff I will not be doomed to roam the moors, already I know there's endlessly more, and with or without you the best is yet to come. Just as they say. No, I don't know what's in store. But I think that's okay.

Turn golden, Grey Matter, light up 'til you burn.

Reboot.
Restart.
Rewire.

*Relearn.

Mon aux deux tiers divine,
Toute laine et marjolaine
De douceur et délicatesse,
Courrais-tu, bufflesse, les steppes
Avec ton ombre d'argile
A la recherche du plant de jouvence
Semé aux Treize Cyclones
Qui hantent les îles-fleurs du bout du monde ?

A chaque cyclone aux ailes brisées
Qu'offrirais-tu, Gilgamesh, mon ombre immortelle
Dans le nigredo causal et a-causal où se fond l 'abîme ? ?

Au Cyclone-gel, la baguette et le cerceau ?
Au Cyclone-mauvais, le taureau céleste ?
Au Cyclone-tempête, la Forêt de Cèdres ?
Au Cyclone-rafales, le corps de la Joyeuse ?
Au Cyclone-tourbillons, les hommes-scorpions ?
Au Cyclone-du Nord, les cyprès ?
Au Cyclone-poussières, les gazelles ?
Au Cyclone-du Sud, les Enfers ?
Au Cyclone-de l'Est, le Déluge ?
Au Cyclone-de l 'Ouest, la nuit d'étoiles ?
Au Cyclone-tornade, le sourire des hyènes ?
Au Cyclone-mortifère, le feu éphémère ?
Au Cyclone-souffleur, le feu éternel ?

Call delicate sirens of the working class!
half-*** minimum wage poverty line
subsidy sages hollow of materialism devils,
devoid of darkness internal fire strike rage
and hellion god bowels light flickering shallow men.
The rich men.
The truly poor men living in clouded manors on
Ignorance Avenue.

Delicate sirens not so poor after all,
not so empty or so full.
God is the prayer call
and siren droll
and *** roll-in-sleep afternoon shore-breeze faint of hope
approaching winter-fall showering divinity flowers the same material as Peter's scraggly beard while he coughs his angelic bronchitis wheezes, purifying the western air.
Peter is apostle
his snores are their own gospel
the doves in his dreams
will always be there.

The battle goes on
the bottle goes up
the rattle hollers out
the chatter not without.

Sirens call! Call with short breaths as
the world cyclones through universal woe.

fools, ,you see ted bunny and ronnie biggs are saying the fools have been trapped in my snowstorm

and in the category 3 cyclone marcia in queensland, nobody listens to the ploy of cronus and barry allan

even if they are trying to keep them safe, and ted bundy who flew around aistralia trying too make

marcia and lam, really ruin australia, and keep these americans trapped in snowy weather, keep kids from

learning, by closing the schools, and cronus with barry allan’s help, was trying to get people to rally together

to make everyone happy, and safe, we can’t save everyone, but we could ****** well try

and then ted bundy said heh heh the fools, thinking these waters are safe to swim in, but ted isn’t shy

he is evil enough to make people lose their lives, we must listen to authorities as opposed for doing the

right thing, you see they call this nature, i call it cosmic attack, a really fierce cosmic attack, nobody can

see the clear sky ahead, in order for people not dying from this sort of thing, and that is, don’t do stupid things

ronnie biggs also is making the category 3  cyclones marcia and lam and a terrible snowstorm in the states

you see these vicious killers are doing more harm here, than they did on earth, they are ruining families

from all over the place, and elvis presley cancelled his neptune concert, to make the jewish messiah daniel

who is his earth body, to think that he needs to start thinking of trying to save people from these terrible

snowstorms and category 3 cyclones, you see, he thinks he is forcing the cyclone probably, but we all know

that ronnie biggs and ted bundy are forcing them, i think this country concentrates too much in celebrating

the jewish messiah’s previous life, and making him sleep like a pack of rich arrogant *****, but even if he

wants to work anywhere, he wanted to get into library studies but instead of that, he is playing all over

the planets, singing elvis is a schizophrenic and everyone seems fine with that, but, instead of looking

at relief web. int, you should help us finish off ted bundy and ronnie biggs evil and cunning plan, to

force the dreadful end of the world, you know what i think, if people listen to lifeguards and not going

out to these fierce seas, the end of the world wouldn’t come, we must pray to buddha, that these people

are safe, so when marcia hits, they are not out there battling the cyclone caused by ronnie biggs and

ted bundy, please, buddha help, cronus ands barry allan battle these dreadful spirits, ,and make the

storm ease, there are a lot of snow trapping innocent americans and all ted bundy and ronnie biggs

can say is heh heh heh, these fools are falling right into my trap

PLEASE BUDDHA SAVE THESE PLACES, MAKE PEOPLE SAFE BUDDHA

MAKE THE SURF LIFESAVERS, WORK HARDER TO PREVENT PEOPLE GOING OUT

MAKE PEOPLE IN THE USA, JUST SIT IT OUT

UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMMM

ronnie biggs and ted bundy are sitting in saturn club rings saying foolish earthlings

they are falling right into my little trap

and there, carved into the oaken doors
of the Madhouse, in stark, lifelike detail,
three massive cyclones. side by side. 
They seemed to sway and beckon
as the door began to creak open.
"We'll be there soon," the Cyclones harshly whispered to me.
"We'll be along shortly, and then we'll rip apart and send you whirling along with 
everything you love. Send you whirling to the void, where everything wails and moans,
and nothing will ever rest in peace again"*

 Madhouse

Time for the rain to shine,
ways for the moon to rhyme,
space for the gods to pine,
running through a madhouse with no way to stop.
 
Cane for the *** to chew,
slow when his eyes hit you,
rope when the hands push through,
skidding on wet floors on the way to the drop.

Slip to a diiff'rent side,
high on the wind to ride,
hope that the tree will hide,
stumbling up stairwells to get to the top.

Run as the jaws will snap,
swing when the wings won't flap,
streak when the soles do slap
Twilight is closing on the whirlwind's last crop.

A quicksand cyclones downward at the center,
A spiraling hole spun around by the sands that enter,
They scratch at the innards of my heart,
Pulling everything down and ripping it apart,

I’ve tossed so many things at it,
But they just drop into this endless pit,
Nothing seems to fill it up,
Instead everything just gets ****** up,

It’s like having my flesh sliced by scattered grains,
Spun at high velocity as it sheers against my veins,
Carving out tiny wounds accumulate into scars,
Blood seeping, lost and disappearing with its cause,

Cries are ****** up and then dispersed,
Scattered into pieces until it’s no longer heard,
Screams are silenced by a ringing vacuum,
Run through bleeding veins buried in my womb,

It’s like something wants to come up,
Like a volcano that’s ready to erupt,
Everything that’s been sunk and saturated full,
It’s getting ready to finally burst my soul,

I didn’t want to shut it all up,
It wasn’t my choice to have it all ****** up,
I tried so hard to pull it out with my strength,
But I underestimated the length of my pain,

It’s been loaded and treated with all its vice,
So I don’t know how to clean it up nice,
I think my exterior is too thick for it to ever explode,
But I think that one day, I am going to implode.

“I’m unraveling,” she said.  
“Where’s the thread?” he asked.  “I’ll pull it.”

Pull a thread and this dense fear
spins out and away into gales
like bits of flying paper
like cyclones
like breathlessness.

Then my life floats down
in a clean white line:
a declaration
a direction.
Exhaled, unraveled.

Encase me in nature
smother me in leaves
let me flow with the river
hug me a tree
When mother comes calling
greet her embrace
immerse in her wisdom
universal grace
Yet, we exploit her
pillage her soils
feed from her *******
pollute her with spoils
Scarring her beauty
no thought for her care
t urning our backs
ignoring her tears
But a mother enraged
is a sight to behold
you should be afraid
if her love, she withholds
Her temper will fray
her might will unleash
call us to account
there will be no peace
Fire and brimstone
floods and high tides
eruptions and cyclones
oceans, acidified
The nature I love
the universe of dreams
who sung us a future
unravels before me

The madness of money,
exploiting the human mind.
Never enough money,
never enough time.

The disasters of our time,
the result of natures resistance.
Rebelling against mankind,
Mother Nature can be persistent.

And while we watch the tide,
slowly go and rise,
we must remember, it won't be long,
till we are all gone.

Tornados and hurricanes,
wind whipping cyclones.
Heat waves and solar storms,
disrupting cell phones.

Landslides and flooding,
from torrential downpours.
Forrest fires and blackouts,
from ruthless lightening storms.

Some may say the sky is broken,
some may say the sky is crying.
This is natures rebellion,
Mother Nature is dying.

But our motive right now is money,
and nothing will stop our addiction.
We will pollute this world till the skies are black,
and when we do, there's no turning back.

Let the gaping hole in the ozone layer,
grow until it's big enough,
to burn our Earth down to the core,
till we are ashes, nothing more.

Mother Nature has sent her warnings,
Mother Nature, wish us goodbye.
Mother Nature will slowly die,
and nothing she does can change our minds...

We will destroy ourselves for money,
we will commit,
without knowing,
our own suicide.

My breath beat shallow at a chest of stone as I looked out
At all of our houses that seemed so small from whence I stood
The sky’s true and radiant blue, I discovered at this altitude
Cloud rings spiraled down, the sun beams reflected off my goggles -
And my arms felt stiff, strapped into wings of enchanted brass
     When all of a sudden a gust swept –
          Me from the tip of my ride with such haste!
          From a cloud boat I dropped and gasped for my life!
          Cyclones of wind paddled my body and blew back my hair…
From a tumble, to falling with such grace,
I soared with a smile over my tiny little city -
And yearned at the horizon in its majesty -
     This moment and its treasures I had stolen for me.

Her fine hands are gentle
With lithe and spiny fingers
Of bone and fin.

Her eyes are opal,
Essence of emerald and topaz,
A hoard of treasure.

Her hair is sea gathering
And dances in the blue currents
Deadly as the sea snake.

Her skin is coral,
Made of mineral and sorcery,
A fatal beacon.

Her lips are urchin,
Set in a whirlpool of face,
A spiral of doom.

Her voice is dream,
Rocking the lost wrecked ships,
Ground into sand.

Her long tail is fable
Of paradise, beyond faraway seas,
Cyclones and waves.

Sun fingers her hidden hummingbird nest of skin,
Each twig, love's unfinished sonnet, found by dawn's light.
My lips echo night’s bare swim’s wild lake water,
Our steam now swirls skyward, sisters with the breeze.
Her breathless wink, a covert quest cloaked as touch,
Then silence—inhales between our lingering drip.

Her drop, carried by sunlight, feeds my waiting drip.
Wander the rainforest of our clammy, wet skin.
She slowly turns—I search her folds, lost in touch,
Her nest, crescent moon, orbits a split of light.
She shivers, wild hairs pirouette by a breeze,
My fingers press her steam and honey tea into water.

Her hips sing a ballad—our rhythm cyclones the water,
Our chorus swells red—cools—softly—a lush drip.
We bloom, finding sun’s rays—chased by a soft breeze,
Flesh cools where steam once warmly caressed skin.
Sun’s gaze lowers, tangles softened with light,
Her calf discovers mine, a fawn, frozen by touch.

Gaze locked—hummingbirds hover, skin craving touch.
We lean as one, gathering feral hair, drowned by water.
Glints of wet skin flicker through mother oak’s light.
From her thigh’s fold, a slow, golden honey drip
Marks time—stroked by a returning breeze,
Its chill paints a stream’s pebbles on cold skin.

Sun, a spider, crawls along her breast’s secret skin,
Her woven silk—memories, a wisp of touch.
My lips chase her breast’s last rivulets of water,
A sigh spills golden from her—deep, into light.
Between her thighs, one final honeyed drip—
Then stillness—skyward, the gasp of our breeze.

A drowned silence—death—our last honeyed drip.
Our shadows triumph where sun once ruled skin.
Skyward, the scent of our love—a nest in the breeze.

I thought I had been cast out of the mud castle kingdom. Then one day it dawned on me, 28 miles per second would be enough to break through my own roaring and escape back into
over developed proxy and reach a small awareness.
enough, i thought, to overwhelm a wall of demons.

Guarded are their black glassy gates.
Then one day it happened.
Pam, crying chemical rainbow tears while looking at all of the big red blimps.
"now clouds" she said, "clouds should all be plastic and red." And with that her ankles turned to dust and started a fury of little cyclones. Outwards , outwards.
now she cant spell forwards. she can't count backwards, and every other time she blinks her eyes the retina won't flip the image. The world goes upside down and insideout.

I can't handle it.  
They all lied to her, told her the world was just level.
I am sleep now. I'm weak. Those big long brittle spider legs tapping at the pavement. Those ******* belladonna eyes and wormwood spire. Godamned, he bent the buildings out of shape. He could sink all the gondolas in Venice.

You found me
stuck staring
at rearview mirror reflections
of wintry, dusk intersections
of everything leaving me
all at once.
A forced exhale
of asphyxia caged
in collapsing lungs;
my mouth,
a fountain spring,
that coughed out
pools of blood.

I wish I saw myself
the way you saw me;
not a red traffic light
wounding speeding cars
on winding streets,
but an antique heirloom
priceless enough
you'd only wish
you could keep
in a heart-shaped box
you saw in dreams.

But, I'd cut my tongue,
paint my lips cherry shades
to blend with cells that'd stain
handkerchiefs you'd offer.
Make you believe
this isn't going to foster
because you are indecision,
unfinished watercolor landscapes
of summer forest fire skies,
a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer.
And I am true crime
untouched evidence of break-ins,
remains of faulty locks and lights.
I am mosaics misaligned;
static, seabed cracks
from forgotten fault lines.
Gaping fissures of sand,
and salt that won't let me stitch
frayed skin-deep fibres
barely holding me in.

Oceans would have to empty themselves
into whirring cyclones and high tides
for our selfish sense of touch to collide.
Ice caps would have to sink
deep enough to even bruise my skin.
And I wouldn't want to watch
more Shakespeare end
before it begins.

See, I am the one
with sharp edges,
but why
did you have to be the one
to clip my wings?

There is only an abyss
without a trampoline,
a safety net,
a bed of waterlilies,
I could fall in.
And I am so tired
of paradoxes
and ironies;
of always being wanted
by someone who doesn't even
want to be kept,
of always being mended
and then left
with more dislocations,
and fractures,
one after another
each taking longer to fix.

Now, in shapeless parcels,
without return addresses
sent out into the void
these words will echo
of love
I never intended to borrow,
and shadows
of false hope
you never thought yourself
capable of
giving away.