The Helding
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blood
show me something red
I am driving through a white van landscape that feels
Pressurised
Containerised
Refrigerated
Articulated
The white corpuscle lines of dot-com deliveries
T-boning
Traffic jamming
Under passing
Overtaking
Summer storms gutter flooding the soft verges
Washed out
Flat tire broke
Ego deflating
The uneasy driver
We are all paying for life’s highway maintenance
In vertical rain shards
In roundabout ways
In transit
In cold blood
Quick, show me something red like a heartbeat
A Ferrari sunset
Monroe’s lips
Albino eyes
Mushroom clouds
Climbing the hill now in a snaking switchback line
Arteriosclerosis
Losing speed
Definition
Air
our ancestral sunrise
golden rays of sunlight fill our eyes
every newborn sunrise from the dawn of time
captured in the blinking flick of a lens
time immemorial. shuttershocked.
a video framed evolutionary existence
encapsulated in this blood beat gaze
primordial. prehistorized. passing.
a journey back and a glance forward
every stillborn sunrise from the dawn of time
eroded by the wash of infant tears
blushed naked fear. photosnapped.
a moving mastery of previous lives
ancestors suspended in a torsioned vacuum
floating. familiar. future famished.
place your hand in mine and feel the warmth
every burning sunrise from the dawn of time
branded in the dna of chromosomed memories
double helixed. magnetic resonanced.
an x-rayed nuclearoid double vision
twisted on a tendon thread of apprehension
spectre sacrificed. ghostly galleried.
we move onward each day never knowing why
every clouded sunrise from the dawn of time
masked in the blinded misunderstandings of man
war torn. bastard birthed. heartbroken.
what lies beyond our sunlit eyes?
what golden rays fill our brilliant minds?
eternally everlasting. understanding nothing.
(sometimes I wake up with a line in my head repeating over and over and then another and another and I have no idea where each line will take me but I have to jump out of bed and crank up the lappy and take the journey if only to find out where and why and whatever. It doesn’t matter that it makes no sense at all or will never change the world one iota or even be widely read. A friend recently told me: appreciate what you do with this mangled stepchild we all dub poetry. Ha! I love his words and mind and inspired whackery. My cursor arrowed finger hovers over the publish button afraid to let this one go. Click. Gone. Published:)
