Is this all my reflection, my projection?

Stammering, stalling, stuttering, stung by a raw cut and a douse of astringent,

Letting out air, dripping blood, drowning in fear and shame and filthy habits …

No longer able to patch together any justification, any people of interest, any way it can keep going on this way ….

Punctuation is going to have to wait … these sentences need to roll on and out and over this mess for a while, for a mile or two at least

My oppressive hand trembles in the fear of retribution, my shadow drinks my vitality and my reflection sparkles and shrinks in front of a sunrise of another day so much bigger than me

my knees knock to a rhythm of the heartbeat of my mother, so close to my ear, me so close to her heart, what is it that strikes me white, that we somehow cleaved apart from one another …

Nails scratch up earth and tidily store it between flesh and my death, dirty now and more at ease as I cast seed over land I claim and so deeply want to share … with a stranger, a brother or sister

So I plunge down and quake with the mother, thunder with the father, struck and stricken, burnt and blackened, shadowy imagos of a death and a birth and freedom never really understood

We are always connected, in the womb, wrapped around the emerging life, clinging to the memory of having lived in a curling grasp, always connected, always one

How is it that a species can create a heaven, dream a hell and be a bit player in this awkward play of polarity and judgement — who is dreaming up this fog of separateness?

Breathe in and be wrapped in the doubt, breathe out and fall into step with the mass hypnosis, breathe in and ponder, breathe out and wonder

There is a spark that is neither female or male — and both —there is a pulsing rhythm that drinks from a continuum of colour and hue — yield to the beat