One day, when my life is in order, I will find my books, I will number the pages,

And I will share the stories of my heart

Specifically the blood that rushes in

The oxidised blood that gets pumped out

The dancing plasma. The haemoglobin that collides with the lungs.

There a pattern to the platelets, a formation.

There is a rhythm to the breath

Breath out the good things and breath in the fire.

There is a pattern to the tea leaves, a formation.

There is a divination in the way the beetle runs across the floor.

A flight pattern full of sigils. How they circle the light because it’s brighter than the moon.

My fingers push water that forms in the air. They are the air. They feel the air.

I form patterns, a formation. Dance runes.

The termites carve out patterns in an old shop sign.

Telling a different story

Advertising the attention

The presence of him himself.

To us these Gods seem tiny.

The patterns in fallen leaves and rock crevasses.

The formations.

The rise and fall of the stock market

I drown myself in holy water.

The goddess is the cup that holds all the worlds

I drink you up

It tastes of jealousy and treason

It tastes of living from the inside

Another sip and I’ll be a poet

Another sip and I realise there is no divine plan

In spite of the patterns and formations.

Another sip and I’ll never come back from the ghosts.

I can sleep on any surface.

Still the midnight blue city shimmers in the moon

And the gold belongs to the birds.

Let go of the world poet

Step off of your head with your toes sparkling and walk through a mountain.

Picking up a pebble could make it ran in Columbia

It could cause the fascists to win

It could take you away from me.

It could take you home.