outsideinroads

Life games, music, magic and all the rest. Adventures of the fringe of the fringe amongst the.. "People's Republic of Brighton and Hove"


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The Past’s Future

Open | Sun | Shimmer | Movement

Slips between channels,

our experience, energy

moves from

place

to

focus. You, the heavy weight,

tall hoof of the past’s

future, you burning neck,

soul inside my heart,

trapped and

breaking

Out, weak point

must be strong to hold

space for you.

The largest

form

an everything

for endless expanse,

still tracking under !Xu’s wide sky,

while these layers of

Power struggles

demand sugar in the cement.

For shudders, kicks,

expulsions, pushing towards

our future, our past

presents itself now in threatening letters,

to loved elders,

whose home is here.

Who once welcomed

to Britain

as young folks,

descended from the people

ancestors of this country

stole, sold across oceans as slaves

into the hardest life on

those soft wave shores, the ones who survived

and broke finally free

into a world which has

never yet stopped trampling on those

Bones, those humans, adding

accretion to inheritance

trauma, constant battle ground

to be known

as human, to live in peace,

share in, and hold

wide network of Love and

All, for those ghosts

that haunt the bones, raised each time

Words are spoken or

threats or guns are raised. The Windrush

a n  o p e n i n g

of its time, another expectation

of servitude, to previous

powers, now in need. One dressed in

fancy best and invited

for tea, which we drank in your living room

when we were very tiny, so sweet, so

Delicious. My first attempt at a school friend,

I digress. And you know

on a day like this

in 2015 I

wrote about hearing Miriam Makeba

in the sunshine in Brighton,

Our own adventures in community

and amplified political

horror had

just begun. Whirlwind creation

of spitting fire between our hands

You kick and sputter, you

Hoof hands, you heart

neck attack, the world,

the life and

death

oh my. Half a million souls

across the waves to reach these

shores towards attacks, you know the

signs in windows, fists in

faces, words, attitudes,

Integral structures

against

and hopscotch

Imagination games, playing out

Beautiful mergers, our

learning, playing

music, dancing

our attempts to make some sense

of belonging

Together

Apart

to build what we saw,

make magic in the mountains of

our dreams, like, no idea

what the power of stories,

words | breathe | touch

could be. Still. A woven dream of

a moment in the

brutal

Interruption, a vision of a home to make

somewhere. That

somewhere.

It continues, perhaps on purpose

the layers have kept

Pouring in the same patterns in the

mould.

Mold may grow in

Different shapes. We weaponize mold

to grow new forms. If fungus can eat

plastic

we Mycelium are the fungus

that can eat these structures, it is not a drill but a

Growing, and the patterns can be moved through,

Can be adapted or SMASHED

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of slavery. We say it

with real process inside and outside

of ourselves. We say it with care and love and

Setting fire. We say it throwing seeds and spores in all

Directions and ready to water | wait | tend | protect.

We say it with sigils. We say it with alchemy.

We stand together in our home.

We build that astra

Diane spoke of.

We say it with those we love.

We say it looking

at who we are.

We say it clearly. We say it with words.

We say NO to this

repeat pattern built of colonisation

and slavery.

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Untitled (Brighton, June 1 2017)

13412975_10153806693458031_4064815948681787480_nBrighton is that sort of place that makes you want to throw off all responsibilities and declare everything a holiday forever. The beach is always there, whispering all Siren. Bright sun through the window. The promise of fluttering sparks of energy, dancing with your gaggle of tremendous oddities. The spinning rides in motion on the end of the pier, tangential lines and angles.

The sun is out, the beach is full. People have plenty to do, but sometimes the call of the beach is greater. Everyone feels a bit guilty about it for a moment, then laughs it off. If you escape the guilt you feel the tingle of a kind of immense freedom. The streets are full of shopping mothers, folk on lunch breaks, weaving hippies, mod stance, fluttering gulls and pigeons. The sunshine/chatter/open/flit through the crowds in a sea of possibility. This is the only place in the country where most people vote Green. And you can feel it. 

And still violence happens. Gaybash tourism to St James’ St, drunk football louts shouting trans* slurs, almost no one realising how insidiously racist the stupid little things that fall out of their conditioned minds and mouths often are… all of the above is true, but also this is England. This is life. This is not so different, and the streets are full of dickheads and people who have no idea they could stop griping at each other. Cops. And people who are unable to get a roof over their heads.

I remembered recently a primary root of the floatsome weight that seems so often to be inside of me, the heartache at the core of my being, all hoofy and impossible. I remembered why there is a seriousness, and why I have responsibilities to it. Plus I also have to eat, pay rent. It would be great to get out of debt. Fun doesn’t pay for itself either…  and wouldn’t it be nice to buy some records again one day.

But look at Brighton, although you can’t see it the sun shines through the window all shimmers and you know it’s out there, holiday town, mini windmills, put on those imagined or actual cowboy boots, a featherbow-a, little shorts and a spangling attitude. Mince down that promenade like you know you were made to! Howl at the folk trying to get on with their regular lives. Fall over laughing. We’re glitter trash queer party otherworld motherfuckers from the future. We’d better make it right now!

And later in the soft moonlight, crash hush waves, repeat, repeat, and the two moons hang gentle power in the sky. Close companions suddenly on why we are no more to blame for this mess than the moths and butterflies, leaves on the trees gentle rattle, yet sit in shared responsibility still, as with so many things. Remember the stillness, the wide open brilliance of sitting on this rock in space and staring out to sea, out to the universe.

Absurdist patterns that we make together and apart are not merely to shock each other into realisation of political emptiness, no. And that is why those tools cannot be left to reside in the hands of those who do not at all seem to perceive these things (and also why those tools may still yet have effects on them that we have not yet seen). It is the profound emptiness of everything that floats our boats and blows wind in our sails, the experience of consciousness that for a moment in time appreciates it, and within it the being of those glorious roots and connections, flutters that function so obviously as this is one, this strange process, us strange process, universe, All.


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Karoo Invocation

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Home desert gives free flow to

twisting genetic

freeze frame in strange pattern space.

Bring up processing tension weight release…

Guess I came here to do this. Forgets how spikey old memories that never

happened, to you,

looping trauma patterns.

Shared together, held alone

in empty expanse,

Wider scale than eyes can, tiny details,

perfect flowers at miniaturised, shrub plant, thorns, focus.

Desire to weep, unknown difficulty, but I know I will and invoke safety in it. With all its vaguely teeming with snakey mambas, stacks of bones, its endless vast potential to be lost, this place is safe. I feel it’s gentle hum deep always, and although I am filled with age old chasmic sadness, tears lurking,

it holds firm, steady soul, parental hand in rattle boom storm.

All the stories here, although weighty and familiar, are still stories.

Karoo continues, ta ta ta, ta ta ta, train – hosho rhythm.

Silence. Wind in howls. Wide winged beings taking flight.

Depths in dust.

Connections as they are: loving, strong, essential

will come through.


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Untitled (spells on that mountain)

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A hearty mystery

to stand barefoot

on that ancient rock mountain.

10 million years, back to sand.

Vista on rolling potential

mapped on wand, found

Body Map

Sky above

Feet

Dirt

Space

No need for sense.

Senseless shift.

To trust in grounded

home space,

to wide open heartfelt greetings

Energy zoom to space,

flow smooth and strong

on this big rock,

on this bigger rock.

The tugs are tides I accept not to understand

And every Will the ocean.


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and yet not

Doubt, holy force

centre spiral, this life with

central point in all directions, all

directions doubt. To stop

and read, encounter

words, feel

strange

strands,

never

had to

read entire

ancestry through

               colonising other’s

eyes, eyes of my forefathers

             saturated in unimaginable

disconnection grab grab

                                                             grab crab better like my family,

                                                                  like I just learned

                                                                           Gandhi did

also, in

chain

of

like Do Things Our Way but

not too much, know

place, fuck off //

territory not

all over 100 years ago

how we have shifted,

flourished, grown

and yet not,

chasm

       failure perception

Where the road

had taken us

every moment

                                                                             still

                                                                                 here.

and say No.

and remember

                                   transmutation

Hope,

Love’s wells

spring

in

 step

 we are new

  Children

     Weeping

       in the blood and

curses

of our ancestors,

we take foot

and make new

Our own methods,

Will learn

(depths, games

Nothing) from

Everywhere,

Still

acknowledge, respect, dance

only way to play with

gentle footsteps

although

                                                   loud pumping progeny

                                                        rest and grow

                                       Build new queer

                                   Future We Are

                               from nowhere direction

                                  Meet and find the others

Only when the time and stars

                                               And spells are


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Ticket #1

Sunset, Western Australia

A ticket to the Void.

Inhale,

Exhale.

Everybody,

Nowhere.

Home is a flicker of light on the horizon of vision,

Is a disjointed question, awkward stacks of suitcases,

Is the yearning I have to communicate to you its lack,

 

because you already know.

 

A still sad everything

in slowly emerging morning.

uncertainty in how we dovetail joint

these flickering wing shudders

life and

words that seem to resonate like

murmuration.

Joy when it occurs,

as obvious the rain is when climbing

and skidding down mossy paths

to Cybi’s Well.