hail hail

i'm unsure whether I've ever seen anyone ooze such joy and passion... the way she looks at him like he's her god, like she wants to f**k his brains out, the way music and rhythm seep from her pores and her voice. dear lord, her voice. I adore her and her energy. turn it up.

love carved in stone..

love poem

and if briefly you are none the wiser

a request please, to censor me not and eat me whole. morning noon and night we are inclined to believe and build, brick by brick, homes we will and wont inhabit. somewhere on the periphery, an absence, which is an always presence. shades of the dark make the light brighter. i see your tracks, but might not follow. a suggestion to unearth the roots and take the back roads, to marvel at how it came to be; the authenticity in and of the first gesture, where the only way was wholehearted and the names were learned by heart. names that are more than words, of those with whom we are secretly in love. the glen holds the bright and the weather in her open arms, waves crash against the rocks when yesterday the water lay still as glass. tomorrow again a change. yet always water. stark lines against low and trembling clouds. it is only three glorious summers since first we met.

for R

"...We are animal in our blood and in our skin. We were not born for pavements and escalators but for thunder and mud. More. We are animal not only in body, but in spirit. Our minds are the minds of wild animals. Artists, who remember their wildness better than most, are animal artists, lifting their heads to sniff a quick wild scent in the air, and they know it unmistakably, they know the tug of wildness to be followed though your life is buckled by that strange and absolute obedience. (“You must have chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star,” wrote Nietzsche.) Children know it as magic and timeless play. Shamans of all sorts and inveterate misbehavers know it; those who cannot trammel themselves into a sensible job and a life in the sterile suburbs know it.
What is wild cannot cannot be bought or sold, borrowed or copied. It is. Unmistakable, unforgettable, unshamable, elemental as earth and ice, water, fire and air, a quintessence, pure spirit, resolving into no constituents. Don’t waste your wildness: it is precious and necessary. In wildness, truth. Wildness is the universal songline, sung in green gold, which we recognize the moment we hear it. What is wild is what drives the honeysuckle, what wills the dragonfly, shoves the wind and compels the poem. Wildness is insatiable for life; neither truly knows itself without the other. Wildness is the luminousness of a bluebell wood at twilight, massing clouds boiling up their rain, the weed that cracks the pavement and the river that floods its banks, the creeping jenny run riot. It is the first “fuck” on television, it simmers in the feral intoxication of jazz, it explodes exuberant in carnival, it honks with laughter in the magic-mushroom season, it smashes the clocks above the factory gates and sucks up the now, it blazes in your eyes and it glories in everyone who wilfully goes their own way..." ~ from 'wild: an elemental journey' by jay griffiths

concerning miracles

the green is coming. gently, joyously parting the ancient and mysterious skin. before our eyes, beneath our feet, it's all handed to us on a plate. the concept of edges, as always, solid and imperceptible. i march into the sun, vow to bury a piece of my heart in each of your bones, to be the idea, that about which you wonder. tonight, a silent passage home. the sun throws shadows long on the ground and it seems to me that love blooms on broken stones. they, which is it, sit crossed legged with worlds strapped to their backs. gold mines shine behind the cracks in their sternums.