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I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
‘Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a
dream of thee.
And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one,
and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp North, without declining West?
Whatever dies was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.
John Donne

The Mechanic

I was leaning over the tray with my head on my arms looking out to a large palm in the distance. It was flanked by a sparsely blue sky. Also in the distance was beautiful classical music. A orchestral piece, mostly I could hardly hear it in amongst the mechanic, Vic’s foot scuffing at he tuned the ute. I had been here for amongst two hours and finished off sewing the top of a bad I had designed. The violins had brought a cavalry and the palm an oasis. It was so soft I thought it was coming from another house.., as though the curtain of tone blew a summer breeze from there. It was a greyed-yellow rendered brick house and larger than a family would be able to occupy. I had begun to question the purpose of huge houses and their lonesome empty rooms - formal dining tables used to keep the washing in baskets. I wanted a home to wrap around me, respectfully, with enough room for a summer breeze to blow, and a games table near the fireplace. The horns in the concerto billowed deeply in harmony with rain ready clouds that are so plump one might imagine a portal open up to a world outside of these low lying plains in Sydney - home to plastic greenhouses, colourblind garages and scraggly gardens. Home also too a mechanic who charges $270 for a service and asks if it’s been longs since another type of service. It has, over a year, and months since I’ve even touched myself.., but the whispering orchestra is all I need for now, I couldn’t stand anything too brash, I’m in a gentle place of dreaming and sewing and listening.



The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and they’re pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody’s be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you’d be so much older or anything. It wouldn’t be that, exactly. You’d just be different, that’s all. You’d have an overcoat this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you’d have a new partner. Or you’d have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you’d heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you’d just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you’d be different in some way—I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.
J.D. Salinger


I wake up this morning
And my back rises from
The bed
I sit cross legged, naked

There is anticipation as I begin to smooth out my attention from the noises
Distracting myself back to where I wish to be… The secret of the golden flower.

My body: breasts droop from dancing with out a supportive bra.
Stomach like a cliff hanger in the sun..
And the muscles in my vagina, beat open and close like a thousand days in the life of a lotus..

First come the illusions and inspirations..
Heart beats.
Think of a happiness.
I usually think of throwing mud at my sister as a child - sliding down the river in glee.

Drop the thought.

Take a breath.

Now you’re living.

"Open the heart, breath in love"

To heal. To heal. To heal.

Once I am saturated in the gentle power of the rose flame, I will become a conduit for healing others. A romantic notion, it is also a heavy job. People, just by being near you, will be healing their traumatised hearts. And your vibration will be so different to theirs.. And as Ghandi said:
First they ignore you,
Then they laugh at you,
Then they fight you,
Then you win.
(And you have to go through that time and time again, in loving service..)

And so that’s why I meditate.
Because you need to be in your strength.
And that means being incredibly gentle with the processes of others.
And making as Emanuella said: “compassion your calling card”

I wonder, often, somedays, of what we had..

This life, there doesn’t seem to be much to cling to..

You’re unavailable, often, in ways..

and although I adore you, and find you beautiful because

you are you..

my blood does not burn for you..

but your smile stills me.. if only you knew..

I really don’t do a lot of imagining of us between the sheets..

or of us at all, doing much.. but 


i see you almost each day, my, love

doing something, you are there, or there where you are

and I am there

talking to you.. or just being, with you..

our conversations are a bit awkward really.. 

i talk better to you in my head

because when you talk back to me I see you understand,

because I do (in my head)… and real life confuses me, 

because often you haven’t understood; I’ve understood.


through this life -

and the last eight,

I wonder what promises we made,

the rolling tumbling of alphabets

languid lap stones, 

none of which make much sense today.


and I wonder, often, somedays, about this..

and because it’s such a confusion, I 

find it a great waste of time.




He had probably the most understanding eyes she had ever come across. And when he crossed the bridge from his own into hers, the gates she had kept her soul so safe behind became like a gossamer wind, folding safely toward earth.. because he was.,
The type of man that could give you the sense he took everything in..
in kind..
As though you too were as much of specimen as he.
And so at once he understood your need to escape.. 
Travellers.. perpetually caught after-dark at this station.. waiting for the light 
he was always ready to provide:
a lighter, some warmth, something that might help you breath deeply while 
passing through.. highly humorous stories and an arm around your shoulders as you were wrapped into his deep-golden-wheat-packed chest,
the scarecrow, the lion, the tin man, the wizard and dorothy..
A secret heart beat behind tickets he kept tucked in tightly..
name of places he felt alone..
"Ghosts of a love come and haunt me night and day.." sung one night
He took the tickets out of his pocket to show her, and her loving eyes blew a gossamer wind that saw them fold safely to the earth..
He snatched at the floating pieces, embarrassed.
"Those were tickets!" 
'Did she not understand the reverence of tickets!?'
I wanted to give him some advice to buy a new ticket.. 
And maybe see something different.. with me..
He paused for some hours - touching her lightly,
fragile bodies rising together - eyes opened and closed like a strobe light..
like watching maracas being shaken in a silent movie.. 
you get a sense of what’s going on but there’s nothing much you can do about the volume.
As I held you tightly behind the gossamer veil..
I wondered how much you had realised you had created. 
More than what you hand clutched.. 
You are a powdery kaleidoscope stitched together in a way that glitters and shines.
So fragile. So impressive. A festival of ideas, halls of laughter, destinations.. You were an island of kissable flesh,
a lighthouse searching for captain lost,
As I lay there the other night,
naked on your shores..
your light hit only the baron seas
.. and missed me completely.. 




(Source: makemestfu)

I wrote a poem

and I tied it around a tree

(a really big tree with wide open branches - a dream tree)

I wrote it on planned & platted string

and wrapped it around the leaves

(it was a poem of magical proportions)

around and around

I wrapped it a little bit around the trunk

and the i wrapped it around the neighbours tree too


it was about an icecream

and how on a really hot day,

that ice-cream was so beautiful to me,

but you had it all the time, so it became normal for you…

and you were wild to sense my mysteries, so

i laid in the bath stoned and ignored, 

you dared not ask why the tree had been

wrapped in platted string,

(written on it unimaginable things)


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