Fragrant rose
Destroy me with weapon of your scent
Until I am laid bare
And broken into pieces
With but one sense left
And one breath
To offer you wholly.
Then let me die
In your folds,
Loosened from the world,
Myself thrown
Headlong into the softness
Of your beauty.
What else
But sweet oblivion
To solve the angst
Of worldly living;
Its pleasures and pain?
Where else
But the heart’s here and now,
To quench
The ever-shifting appetites;
The changeling mind?
Who else
But the you behind the you,
The self itself whole
And happening;
Spontaneity immediately alive?
In the slowing moments
Of the settling day
Where stillness nears its absolute,
The honeysuckle dusk
Blooms in windlessness,
Prickling the senses
Of moths.
This is dying:
The day spent,
The light away
Beyond the curvature of the world,
The night
Not yet begun.
There are sounds:
Birds chuckling in the canopies,
The swishing of cars,
A throttling motorbike,
But all belong
In the settling,
All are borne upon the air,
All are called
By the magnitude
To witness,
To witness a death
More alive than words
Could ever carry or convey.
The morning is sweet
With the bird’s high ether,
Trill, and as full
As their abandon.
The air is warm and fragrant,
Infiltrated with wood smoke
And the earth’s low savour.
In a faraway glance,
The distance fades in to mist.
The morning in the breath is sweet.
All the various people toing and froing with bags pause as heads tilt to orange lights capitalising arrivals, departures, long lists of destinations, or mill about waiting to board.
A deisel thrums, fuming up the place, and a tannoy mumbles. The sun shines, diffused through skylights stained with pigeon droppings.
And in this intersecting place which is no real destination, I find happiness in the happening of reality unfolding, suddenly miraculous as if the being in me, my heart, had melted like butter in the dish next to the half eaten croissant disintegrating on a plate.
And as the guard blows a whistle my insides break from something solid to a free flowing fluid made of nothing but lightness and space and the joy of dying, where all paradoxes balloon inside until my skin seems a transitory coating, a boarder and yet an open door, a bubble’s width transparency, in which, and through the world I momentarily glide.
In the aching out
Of separation from the Source,
In that desperation
Of the body without,
Energy in that fraught moment
Disbelieved
And transformed into a mind robbing truth,
The inner sun eclipsed
Until all is gripped anxiety
And the thieving hunger
Drawn from soul
Reluctant in the giving.
In that moment,
In the knowing of that bitter biting absence,
That disconnected fatigue
And adrenal drift of dept,
Caffeine flowing
In the pressured veins,
In that moment
Of seeing the truth of untruth
And the untruth of lovelessness,
The love to flood the self is found,
And all that was
Is warmed
And looked upon
With tender eyes
That seed no malignancy,
Only the simple need
That needs
Parenting
By the blessed touch of grace.
As you recline on the freshly mown grass
With your eyes closed
And the sunshine
Warm on your face,
Tell me there is no heaven.
And with birdsong
In every angle of your ears,
And the sweet breath plentiful
And touched by the scents on the breeze,
Tell me again, there is no heaven.
I could sit on the train forever
Going somewhere
Going nowhere,
My heart an empty space
Through which love travels
Carrying me as passenger.
The heart that is no heart,
Broken yet whole,
Fluid in the nothing,
Being in the free,
Disintegrated beyond particle
And solitude,
Blended and indistinct,
Dying and alive,
Timelessly destroyed,
Obliterated,
Overwhelmed
And pounded from existence
Into existence’s open arms,
Until nameless,
Until faceless,
Until placeless.
Upon me rolls the wave
Of being,
Brought by the voice of the bird
Invisible in the thicket.
With the pick of her beak
And blade of her song
She cuts
The monoculture of mind
Bent on blandness
And domination,
And frees me
From the world of my cage
To world of my own.
distilledvoice 