Gun grease adrenaline

 I squat to pick the up the heavy machine gun.
The gun weighs me down as I run toward the dug out.
I grab my small spade and dig into the clay between the trees.
I deepen the dug out by a full foot before I hear a zippo flick open.

A colleague lights his cigarette from behind a nearby oak root.
Just sticking out enough to get a bullet in him.
If I pointed that out it would be the fifth tiome today.
So he'd play fate, but I would only ever play it safe.

Two of ours pull an injured man out of the ravine.
Dragging him passed us the injured man heaves in pain.
The crack of rifle fire gets closer and closer.
I click the belt into place and imagine the killing to come. 

A homeless haircut life

 The homeless young man pushed his cart a long.
Half full of the things he had picked up along the way.
He skipped gleefully and reached the sidewalk.
The smile exposing his inner self.

His haircut was patchy.
The life he lived was much like that haircut.
some of it was bare and exposed.
Other parts were bushy and overgrown.

There was a happy soul in this man.
Not a bitter one.
I offered him an ongoing blessing.
One from a wish I had that he would live.

That he would continue.
Despite his rough streetness.
That he would find food and shelter.
Remain happy go lucky.

The flourishing junky

 The lit cigarette drooped from his lips.
He said good afternoon but it was still morning.
I read his eyes and they told me he was dismal.
He stared into me.

I stared into him.
There was something he wanted,
but nothing I could give him.
He was scared and down.

Under the thick heavy shade of the mahogany trees.
He sucked a drag and guilt slipped out with the smoke.
He tried to keep his feet aligned in steps along the sidewalk.
He turned on his little boom box and sung a long.

I dug the garden as he passed by.
whatever drug he was using dimming him fully.

She reads into me

 She reads into deeply, considering just what kind of creature I am.
She is half sure but still making up her mind.
Oh to be dreamed about,
Oh that my words would have any weight outside of my imagination!

The further in she goes the stranger yet brighter her world becomes.
I will not pollute it with these thick veins that pump skeptical blood.

Flow of ideas, care and surreal excursion.
Junctions, there are many hidden paths.
Insist on going deeper where the child me is found.

Godlike and peaceful unaffected by chaos of others.
Unlike the man who stands before you affected and mediocre.

Back lawn January morning 81 replaying every hour.
Touching the garden and pretending to bless it with his finger.
Come deeper he ushers and the lilacs flower purple and fragrant.

The begonia dream and personal magic have enchanted the day.
He is me even now, I am still back there in that Waikanae garden.

Or the hemi matenga hills where I would often roam all alone.
Something strange unidentifiable inside the forests.
Something that thought me prey, saw me, then ran away.

Hours alone, Inside the lost reservoir lake.
Where giant eels would sniff me like dogs.
What creature am I?

Am I the nameless wanderer in the dreamlike forest?
The oversized eel with thick veins pumping curious blood...
Am I the ghost of a dead hero seeking sweetness in a garden?
Read into this creature I am.
Go deeper, go deeper i am not one single layer

Where does my dominion end?
My physical form?
My imagination?

A world that screams

 He sits there as the other children clap and scream in glee.
His frown becomes apparent and even from meters away i can feel his tremors.

I want to comfort him and tell him it's okay as the other children start singing loudly.
He starts to panic and will now remove himself from the group.

I would like to protect him.
But I can't he's not my son.

I feel like I'm losing something as noone goes to comfort him
As he simmers in the state of his won reality.

I feel everything he's feeling. A world that just screams and never thinks.

A room after death

In a room
Broken off from the house
Surfaces are clean flat and sharp
This room  has been ripped off the house
Sent up into the stratosphere by some freak tornado

Inside the room
Now I'm looking out of the window
No longer seeing the earth
Giddy as hell
A level of disorientation that feels like destruction.

In this room
Everything is slippery, spinning yet still inside the tornado
Here I will learn unending terror
There is no earth below
No space or solar system above

Outside this room
A deep sunlit blue taunting and surrounding
Lit up by a sun I cannot see
Here I'll learn just how wrong I've been
I grip furniture as everything spins

There is no pity here, it is unrelenting panic
There is no safety here, I am falling upwards like Shiva
Searching for the inner strength
Instead of being grateful for this immaculate perdition

 

A sacred world

 All is sacred of the world
Yet inside many things are also frivilous
where's the path? Covered by the wind blown dust
And yet the world is sacred, but you didn't pick up the broom

So it was hidden under the dirt and grime
Now a shovel is needed
Dig your treasure
Blunt the shovel

The world is sacred
the way we absorb it might be iniquitous
interacting with the liveliest parts
ignoring the quieter ones

People are reckless 
motorcycle brains
Running on lard carbs and sugar
Covered by wind blown debris

Yet the world they live in is sacred
A holy rolling stone we sit stationary on
yet the restless ones try to accompany the spin
The drive and the hype

The world's invisible balance
Is seen by the rare spiritual one
The vision is the treasure
The seeing is the value