we have been
Cupid’s arrows/
blue bottle 
jellyfish like/
shooting balloon
sacs towards
the edge of 
the water /
we have had
to learn how
to breath below
the sea a while /
how to hum to the 
song of the
amoeba a while
/to the 
protectors 
of our pulse 
you have
kept the 
morsels
of us mortals
buoyant 
while
our skin
coats 
stretched
out as sea weed
rolled out 
like
carpets 
of endless 
sand/ 
an amusement 
park or a
museum 
of memories
and myths
yawning
on the bed 
of the screaming
ocean
covered
by shells
of
shelves 
of 
all the selves 
we shelfed in/
when pain 
outgrows
it’s own 
host 
it’s many
tentacles 
are exposed
choking 
and squeezing 
every
one of our
arteries 
pressing 
hard on
a vessel
and
threatening 
to burst 
a capillary/
we are 
raw and 
red 
and blue
and we know 
we cannot
go back to
what once 
was 
can only
start over 
often /
healing 
ourselves
often /
when 
we can hold
ourselves
on one hand
as small
and gods
on the other
equal to
all things 
that are 
also
in all
measures 
god
we can hills hoist 
hang high
and drip 
dry 
clean
the trauma
of 
entire
bloodlines/
punctured
wounds
that 
need
healing 
often /
healing 
needs starting over often/
so we
slip
off 
the skin 
cloak
octopus legs
rubbery like
tyres of rings
oily 
and
pearly/
we must 
undress
to the
sound 
of her
intelligence/
she knows
how to be 
a sacrifice 
an honour often/
for the thing
that makes 
us dense
will
evaporate
into the 
moisture 
of the air 
eventually/
by
the good
will of the
wind 
we will
travel/
when 
our bodies
are bound 
to the tar
of the earth 
by the good
will of the 
wind
we will travel/
we must
douse
the selves
that 
can 
no longer
be of service 
in petrol
on the rocks 
and hold 
a bonfire 
and
seperate the chaos 
that is not 
scared/
we must 
burn 
and
let ourselves
quiver /
to quiver
is feel
is to fall apart 
is to speak the
language 
of presence/
a dialect 
that the 
tongues
of the 
flowers
talk
and
we must
each of us
arrive 
slithering
away
from
our 
polished 
excuses 
we must
arrive 
on our 
islands
another 
shedding 
a rebirth 
on the sleepy
cove
of transformation
and soothe
ourselves 
in the balm
of a gentleness
that the moon
in her tides 
in all her shadows
and figures 
has 
taught us
all along 
how to 
awaken 
we must
lay out

our booby traps
the loops
and the mazes
the freeway
sized sentences 
with no brake pads
stuck in a frenzy
frantic peak traffic 
anxiety 
on replay/
and there’s the
long service 
soldiers 
fighting 
for us 
senselessly /
there is no
war
but with
our own selves 
also on
repeat
endlessly/
but 
we 
each of us 
forever 
on the edge
of change 
we must 
give our soldiers 
the order to hang
up their boots
and fall
into the
bosom
of the universe
and
surrender often/
we 
all of us
must find
our song
in the sound
of the fan
and it’s 
metal 
propellers
pushed
soft 
by
electric 
waves
the 
lullaby of
the dolphins 
and the 
hymn of the 
seals
ring through 
the turtles
in the water tank
if you listen 
the song 
will be
our 
victory/
we are 
creases of gods
who’ve recognised
themselves 
enough to 
return home
to our selves 
we are occults 
are our amens
to our own ceremonies 
on repeat often/