I’ve been waiting. Waiting for that warm glow on the fingertips.
An aural envelope that sings over the skin; a sign for writing.
Scribing the now-myth (legend?) of the paddington farm solstice, the weaving of a new albion potential – is daunting.
Should I talk about my tribe of warriors? Facing down a queer burden of shame with exhilarating, fierce-piercing love.
Like hot knives through a butter of bullshit, a searing arc through the rank curse of revolving closets – each witnessed to dissolve like charred flesh in the unwinding of fire.
Taken in by trees that know it no different, and which hold you all the same.
I watched ghosts walk on in bodies that day. I’ll never forget it.
Should I talk about my tribe of two-spirits? Walkers on tightropes of imperceptible wavelengths, each wing-tip dipped in the crimson of other-dawns and the fine-centring-focus of the minds that know – and played the solstice in.
How the fire burns and holds – so beautiful you want to fuck it. The surging within, reflected in flame.
It licks at corners of the unseen unfolding of a boiling-spirit, that animates us each according to our own, but each according to its calling; cackling for its chaos, fucking for ecstasy, embracing in joyful-love – beating drums like a calling, the spirit is home.
Should I talk about my tribe of lovers? Fearless in their heart-space, bold in their sharing – an antidote to the plague of “not enough”.
Dancers on the margins, eros on the fringe; eyes like opals in greeting – even in the stillness, at rest, circles twist behind the eyelids and it plays.
Rendering possession meaningless with a fluid love, spontaneous.
A reciprocal gift, untapered, without boundary.
A weaving of tendrils so potent, so unshakeable – we were all touched. And continue to be.
Should I talk about the future? About how I saw it – each beat of that drum that I never played, at the intersection of each vibration, its poetic-geometry opening to me, opening like the simple gesture of a flower, opening to the sun.
Each beat, each snarl, each moan – each glide of skin, each pulse of cock; each and every moment in gaze of bewilderment – held in the bowl of its spectacular crown.
We played with it. It played through us. We were perfect. We will be more.
