To and Fro

Here we are again, the escape plan has failed. Café Nero, the throngs rushing by, the throngs saunter by, the throngs drag themselves by. Denser now, denser than before, they watch the tops of their wells be slowly stone walled up by their masters. They live to build their own tombs. Too exhausted to try something else, spent actually, flat batteries, drifting around. I know I am a radiant fragment, a speck of glitter in the drain water, sparking though the current flows strong, sparking though the water is filthy. What to do? What to do in this? I must set myself on fire, it must be done. Do I do so amongst the tie-dye clad it will be ok-ers, the forest weaving through my soul, heralding demands made of me by the community, at best fractious at worse a movement into untruthfulness? What is the truth about my situation right now, about what I am within right now? I look all around me for something to save me. I look fixedly and endlessly for a lover, any old nice face will do, after all am I not a crumb? How I doubt my fire with such a thing. This is a game of what I want in balance with what is Willed. I would like to sustain my living, create my freedom? I want that which I do, those things that I do to set others on fire, to burst light into their heart, to guide them to and around corners into strange, familiar landscapes. Why am I looking for a kinky Japanese man? If he came he would only be another kneeling soul, myself as it is barely stood on shaking legs.

To live here is to live within a mirage of life, nothing is real, no words are meant, no hearts are beating save the pulsing of muscle, I feel it swirling around me, like a big sink hole, whirling and sucking all heavy things into it. I choose. So what do I choose? Do I stay in this metropolis, study its decay, find a way to make myself strong, healthy and blooming, “City Sprint: We Deliver” passes by on the side of a van. So save money, learn to drive, find a way to become stable? Sun glass, glass that holds the flame, then I must become more and more filled by the flame, have it in my heart and in my soul, so that all I do will transmit the light, into all that come into contact with it, may it be honest and may that honesty be bright and sharp. Heart piercing, may they trade with me for the piercing of their hearts. Is it possible to do all these things in a way that suits? Must I have schedule for my days? Things to be produced? Within time frames, can music stay the unfettered one? The one that comes as a compulsion, the objects, perhaps they are the ones that need to be given a little structure, so that they are born, and fully. So strange to know of one’s nature in mind, yet to live like a feeble thing, though what animates this animal is lighter, beyond light. Filled with love, filled with brilliance, filled by all the unnameable soul quaking mystery that so few feel, so rarely. This shadow must lift, this veil must be torn asunder, or perhaps its threads pulled to total unraveling, the Sun behind, pure and illuminating, blinding.

May I be what is needed by Being, may I see what is needed by Sight, may you make of me a humble needle and thread, a pair of scissors, a safety pin so that you may embroider this cloth through me. These stitches, perfectly aligned, perfectly placed filled with colour and luster, patterns old and new at the same time, weaved in and out of each other, over and under each other, and straight through me. TWNMBD, thy will not mine be done, something myself and my scattered fellows hold within, in trying moments, remembering of course, your will not mine, be done on this plane. Your perfect stitches, exquisite, aching, bitter and sweet, shadow and light, so that all around falls silent.

I sit and watch the streets again, these beings all wearing the symbols that have been given to them. They don’t know that slaves have been made of them. Home time in the city now, they don’t travel home, they swarm, separate bodies, but something binds them, a vine, a ragweed binding them by wrist and ankle, mind and spirit to each other and to the empty anchor that hits no seabed. Smiling, falsely through the pain and drowning. It is hard here isn’t it? Even in the clean spaces of the natural world, there is brutality, starkness, blood and bone. Earth and sky. Yet the poetry of that fills me. The rhythm of this city has become a dance I do not know.