A savage compendium of poetry, prose and visual art by Teone Reinthal ©2000-2018
KEYWORDS: Politics, War, Environment, Childhood, Love, Loss, Sorrows, Death & Destruction, Awareness, Capitalism, Deception, Dreams, Earth, Greed, (in)Humanity, Culture, Life, Pain, Power, Spell-breaking, Symbols, Transitions, Autobiography, Emotion, Ironies, Philosophy and Trance
A clarion call heralds the fall of all who falter at your oval orchestrations. Who are you to wear trouble thin? Chewing the cud of your face, you capture yourself in the glare of who you believe you are writ large … distracted, sorry, what was that? You were disengaged, momentarily, until the object of that brief arousal lost its flavour too, and you, …you were saying…?
Are you God of dull ideas? You’ve nothing at hand to command, to inspire, to drive us to passion. You just lack lustre Mac’. And it’s easy to fall, beguiled by heartless infidelities as you stagger through an abyss of lies. Behold demented Medusa, grid-locked in a tower of golden showers, little lord of unearthly desires, anguished by the irony of a cashed up mortality and the brazen grip and grin of so much grim reality.
King of Trolls. Crusading, endlessly summoning gain. Hard-baked, battered, knocking, ringing, broadcasting strong faith through the spittle of puerile self-defense; despised by all who yearn for some salvation from the pain. #Falseprophets -> you claim. Awaiting the past and the future to reconcile your impotence, you are alone, small and yet smaller again, in company with the ugly mirror of your magnitude. Death does not wait for you. Somehow you must brave that climb. Night covers you in vast shimmerings, you are its angel of dust and debris, lost in unfathomable sovereignty, a swollen particle of Light’s discarded plans. – TR©
Proud, oh, sturdy champions of gain, cannot hear the moans of people’s pain, whereupon screams, castigate fearful dread, that the faithless few did gather and spread, cheering within the grove of shocking night, with but a few remains to dress the fight
Smug and fellow, prized hearties abound, as squalor and dearth quake there, underground, so empty of menace, of evidence nor shred, just a surfeit of stratagem and honesty misled, from these agent Avengers who defend disbelief, and sacrifice prayers to humanity’s grief
Indebtedness falls, what glory upon wings, swooping silently sleek as the currency swings? Slick, Gloss and Promise reigns foreign on choices, of sufferance at heart, deftly refuged by voices that now broken to whispers, to echoes of shout, plead for reason, for justice and for truth to win out
Shadow looms, now long, over eagles and ire in prescience of trouble, lofty, more dire than eyeless, and empty, the oligarchs clutch at the embers of remnants of vanities such, that the wall and the ocean of fire soon will come, engulfing the privilege of all Christendom. – TR©
A LETTER FROM MAGDALENE TO KHADIJAH
Dandled in the maze of the faded and ailing garden, blinded by the phantasm, we are awed by such glittering monuments to his touted stories, we are laden within our crumbling paradise. Mulled, twittering, honeyed by distractions, my sister, when did we turn away? Hovering, this vigilance is vainglorious until we meet, suffering our own flesh hungers in virtuous tandem. Sister, hear my brittle screech for justice, I hear your desperate bid for silence, I cower in fear of desert winds across your face, and we are, each of us, dusted by disparate devices in this, the awe. Who is seer to breaks and veins within? Are we lost in the lip-seams of the times? What days have I not wandered, bending within my white bridal purdah?
Here, now, I am fragrant, clear as the myrrh crying out for all lost rain, in solid tears, reaping the endless heat of our eyes, we share our mother’s sweat and her blurred outline. Deafness is ever-present, it is in me, I am altered by it’s after glow. Wary of our fears, my power is dreadful, and I am stilled, silent in the roar. Roses on the path, we are shackled to the same wall, dreaming of a new moon, strangled, deep inside the well, I know your eyes and they are mine. – TR©
AUTUMN CROWNS THE CRONE
Flatter than sullen, dull, earthen reds, torn, streaming cascades of dreary amber, in bitter strips from our mother’s tongue, flutter from her, in awesome, rusted anger.
Shimmering, in a loose-knit, mad mettle, chained by the stiffly stalking shrug of age, time drifts dirty upon the lustrous queen, lost in the shadowed threshold of her creaking gait.
Suffering, bloodless hour, winding down days, ritual over, her candle flicks in rhythmic strokes as she trembles in shifting sands of heaving loss, piercing smooth allure. Her eyes deepen as wisdom cloaks. Purchased up to darkened strands of shivering wisp, swiftly at the crone’s pyre, she wields her servant’s blade in the poisonous tower of furious power. Stand well sisters – Autumn summons all to flame. – TR©
You Lenders, colder than lifeless Zion, I have turned my face away, I have salted you in scorn, And you have bleated loud and vain just as Valuers, vile corruptors of Light, blind as if terror was thy spirituality, thine sacred right to bind all Life in such a famine of Charity from Syndicates, who proudly feast upon bones – as candle-lit conspirators, you pray, in costly tatters of holy gloom for Palestine to weep her blood away. Yet, your Victims suffer longest and loud, hotter than heaven’s counterpart, to greed and grub at Jerusalem as you wail my walls apart, so that Developers, mortgaging your mother’s soul can auction the glorious spheres, until my Garden burns with a pestilence that mighty Armageddon fears. – TR©
I am withered and shriveled, and weak in your eyes, invisible, inconspicuous, faded, faceless, drab and dreary, biding my bleak days in the charity of your scraps. I prattle. Sly and carefully I creep, shuffling, slow, hunched and brittle within my tight band of sorrows. Stooping, low, I cast the smallest, shapeless shadow. Hag am I. And I have wandered; hungry, into your glittering town. You tribes, who once were my own people, I was watching you, ravenously from a distant hill of dripping mists and grasping ferns, and I perched upon that mildewed mound of an enchanted garden of outcasts, shrouded in a mountain of maddened minds, completely quiet in some mottled forest… Yet I did see you, parading the spurious spectacle of your glittering glamours, polishing the purchased, passing lustre of all your prosperities; feasting upon your languid lifestyle of ill-timed illusions. I stayed so long in such dank, dark places; I was stilled, witnessing the glory of all your frantic dreams come true. You tribes, who were once my own people, now I have clambered down upon you. And I am whispering; cackling in words that swirl and drift in circle-sounds that ebb and flow, ebb and flow, and I stitch, each creaky, crooked stitch, late and spidery, follows, one after another, inexorably, I whisper and stitch.
I see the ruins you have built; I see Bruised and Battered, Outcast and Wounded, Raped and Neglected, Ignored and Discarded. Gladly would I gather your precious, tiny, torn shreds and cosy them in my creaking cart. My back is bent but somehow still strong and growing stronger. Now I find Bloodied and Hurt, Traded and Sold, I collect Worn, Sick and Uncertain, joyfully do I lug Angry and Wild, here’s Fallen, Misunderstood, here’s Kicked Away, Wicked, Useless, Burden and Needy, ahhh, Liar, come, you’ll see, I have room aplenty, abide with me.
You tribe of vain, old fools! What glory have you lost to the duplicity of your greed? I have tinkered hard to harvest and cherish such jewels as you have tossed and discarded, and I have found your stunning children, and gladly would I claim each and every one of your forsaken treasures. What joys have you missed in the ignorant, sucking, desperate clutch for some temporal, plastic, personal bliss? I will lure them; piping such pure and flawless people home to their own sacred groves, where they may heal and shelter and share in the radiance of the light that yet dwells in them all, natives again to the integrity within. You tribes! Tend carefully to such beauties as you may come to lose; I see our children dimming in the blight of cruel rejection and self-serving stupidities. Here now, look long upon your perfect mirrors, else I shall whisper more, and prattle to stitch and witness them all to stride and boldly surge in the magnificence of their deepest heritage,… such beautiful, brave, brilliant beings; victors of truth and love in action, word and deed. Changers, champions, challengers… – TR©
I am mildly broken biscuit, clumsily crumbled at my edges, slightly burned and yet frequently propped in clever disguise beside and behind more premium, pretty crackers. Self-deluded I snuggle, cosily tucked between glossy and perfection, composed in some furry idealism until finally, in each protracted moment of selection my difference is discovered; I am deemed damaged, ugly, unsavoury and summarily discarded in a late and hasty trail of brushed and guilty crumbs.
Rejection reigns supreme, my sovereign state of solitude extreme. My heinous social crime is not that I am broken,…nay, simply that I am insufficiently flawed to warrant any classification as an acknowledged and acceptably unacceptable secondary division of treat. I am a grey stalking shadow of product inadequacies trapped in a realm of defective uncertainty.
Compassionately I defer to my next-of-kin, the definitively cracked and irreparably, (unrecognisably) wafer-thin, all who have bleakly suffered such outrageous brutalities and cruelties by fate’s obsequious hands of injustice that I have swallowed my own sorry sorrows and surrendered all patents of assumed status to perfunctory scrutiny and distracted dismissal. Must I remain so vaguely wounded?
Where is my own tribe of gentle shards? In this boutique of one such bitter pill, I am cleanly erased, insufficiently lacking in any sense of measurable personal cost. What then is this exhaustion of grief and shuddering? My sweet child’s scarring is diminished as merely paltry and furtive amongst the accredited broken. My submerged and timid heartbeat drowns and I am utterly forlorn in my exclusivity. – TR©
BLACK and WHITE HOUSE
Donning his cloak, in speckled pride, watchful, sure master of the ambered grass, tallest mark on a low, clouded line, returns running, full roaring in a wilderness vast. Radiant ebony, mountainous he towered over my wheezing and breathless piety, challenging, primordially erect, as dreary, I languished long beyond sobriety. Perfection flowered, nocturnal in its mark, in lusts and raw fever, fortressed in my mind, diaphanous devil, vaporous indigo of soul, liquid to the whimpering stone of my sodden decline. Purple-backed demon, spirited away, to rotting fields of my deepest southern hell, steaming to the high-slung skies, he bows to the mottled whispered call of my cotton belle. Full-spectrum of light, he and she, rose-bud of my lineage, bleating in the throat as my heaving jealous repression descends, jet upon such naked joy, to scourge under stroke. Snowy embers of his fleshed remains swing still. What brotherhood avails engorged black pride upon the violets of our own weeping and fettered entrails? – TR©
BLUE LIGHT LOUNGE
Deaf am I, enshrouded by silent shriekings from a sickened lump, down here, deep inside of me. It stalks me with a little blood and the sudden, sharp hiss of consumed breath when I am dozing, readying for it’s wake, the after-burning wrench, the menacing creep of my long reckoning, and yet I fight, thrusting hard with every remnant of my manhood, shielding my soft and troubled clan with an heroic smile. Lolling, drowsing in all my comforts, I am that true hero, nourished by the juices of my past. I make stride over great seas of challenge that part and shiver with silver-lighted glistenings, bold as imagination, articulate as life, a world-weapon wielded by dreams to wrest wrongs from the rights of all-kind, and yet, upon my waking, I stammer and stutter with indecisive servitude and slump back in contracted inertia. Shriveled and sadly, I roll over, and if I slip to make a martyr’s grunt, it merely conveys a common burial of soul. This fiery mantra of my pain, bears and stifles each gripping, blinding stab of internal urgency, knowing full-well the archetype of all my forefathers, grim-faced with all man’s clothed enemies, as I fantasize to struggle and grasp at any investment in some masculine howl that heaves with a last, palpable, shuddering spasm at shouldering this burden. I know only the lusting shadow of my massed confusion. I pace in circles of self-abortion. I have screamed internally, reciprocally, that this clear and sudden message is misplaced in me. I have guzzled the laudanum lie, swallowed the bait, and purchased the profligate party line that would drown me, to sluggishly drift in these clogged and distressing currents of Modern Man. And I am broken man. I have bought that I am; no worth, no power, no voice, my mind is dulled, dreary and I snort, desperate for any cynical, fast-fed release. Heartily am I cataloguer’s consumer, follower of fads. I am provider, bringer of shallow sips at fate’s fallacious fountain. I seek only the sly glutton’s death-of-mind by orgasm, drunkenness and voyeurism. I feed my ancient hunter upon a festival of fats that roll down, running and congealing along the blubbered ulna, the porcine radius of my oft-tilted limbs, clutching at these frilled and manly rituals of slaughter, mirthless at these bald and turgid orgies of barbecued bones and beer. – TR©
My daughter is a bird with silver clouds in her blue eyes. Some days she makes a golden sound, some days she gives me signs. I feel her soar above me, then suddenly she’ll dive, and fly so fast towards me, with ribbons all alive. She burns, metallic Winter-sun, small mirror, in laughter and tears, calling her over the curve in the road, pushing her on through the years. I yearn to watch her drift and turn, fragility in the wild, impassioned, storm of images, and singing as a child. She wanders in her candle-light, weaving magic with eyes and wings, promised before her hopes were born, & dreams were perfect fairy rings. Tormented in the cut of words, of bullied taunts they call her, yet, Life, she knows, is shining here, in a rainbow of such Bold Colour. – TR©
Sucking the fat from a radioactive atmosphere, my great gulping heart falls stoned to its pillow, crushed under weight by all our greedy sorrows, throated by the ropes of jealous expectation. Finished up, fast karma speeds my soul in triumph, carving an eternal flame of sickness upon my young, in strands of genes and pollination parlour games, this heirloom is the furniture of all true beasts of burden. Webbed in the wasted weaver’s fine creation, White Bull wanders, lowing fear and blood, pumping, heavy-haunched, his gluttony throbs erect and lazy, cycling through two emotions of ’empty’ and ‘full’. Sacred bull moves ever homeward on his simple path, carting the womb of beaten, tendered children in tow, driving the fat phallus of such prized masculinity as his emptied testicles drag softly in the dust. – TR©
CHARITY of TIME
Pitched in the fires of a living hell, they scorched my hard-earned eyes, alive, until blind as battle, I lasted for days on end, tho’ you were long gone as I soared across the land, how did I ever find our summoner’s clan? “This is war” you roared, as the drummers rolled and I have come to claim a boon, good sir, …may I come inside for a warm bed and a winter…? – TR©
My silent and spectacular moon once roamed around, loosely in these open skies, scornful in her defiant gaze, full-faced and tilted at those supercilious wane charters, silvery, boldly sudden at all those predictably dark and brooding, cosmic arithmeticians, late and early and furtive as she pleased, blithely smooth and empty upon their waxing expectations. I carted the fears of others and it was a lonely, long road. I questioned my own safety and my sanity as I stood in the darkness, biding time with the darkness and watched radiant starburst lights and listened to the wisdom of the night birds, to the urgent whisperers of the world. I fought for answers, desperate that something must be wrong with me. I gave away my power and I hid in poverty and lethargy and gloom. – TR©
Circle-centre, wagon wheeled hub of ridicule. Lord of eyes and limbs of awkward innocence hidden in indigo richness of unfolded gifts. Self-stabbing, sharp craving suppression, aversion to echoed stones of stupid words aimed at the softest joy-heart of curious genius. Singled for down-payment, out-cast for the part. Congealed, powered by surrendered thought. Driven under, mined into chaotic asylum. Brave small beauty, wander away now. Dance it out, all eyes to the open ground, nestled to the thump of loving crept so far close. Peace dreamer, drummed visions arcing, in this clear deep port of opportunity, gently now, in widening strides of the circle centre. – TR©
I’m Generation Regulation, born of economic rationalisation, self-serving, by fundamental justification, I’m standard issue for globalisation, I’m a world set to capitalise to incorporate and dehumanise I’m a sweatshop drone for enterprise for neo-liberals to sodomise. Bipartisan, bipolarisation advertising for socialisation I’m a pharmaceutical population, genetically encoded for manipulation. Everything falls, there’s hardly a breath, we’re staggering to get to where there’s anything left
“Consumption is vital to the policy”
but the mercury is rising in an over-acid sea the West Antarctic ice sheet’s broken free and Kyoto’s drowning in ecology. Farewell the tropical rainforests now, Kilimanjaro’s finally bare of snow, fish float in carbonic acid oceans alpine flowers choke on toxic gas emissions. Earthquakes, tidal waves I wonder how the money saves? carbon dioxide is cooking us to death, oil suppliers take a bow, which horizon next? Everything falls, there’s hardly a breath, we’re slaughtering to get to where there’s anything left. World Trade organisation, dealing arms to 3rd world nations, assimilation by corporate invasion, lowest paid workers in the industrial civilisation. 50,000 women and kids sold in US slavery… someone better come on down, ‘cause Greed is tryin’ to saviour me. – TR©
Everything Falls from the CD The Sacred Jungle by Teone Reinthal and Steve Reinthal ©2006
…again draws the blind, cooing softly
“Come away, what good can ever come of such strange desires?”
Withdrawing fully within the left side of hope, bannered dreams scorched, my naked seeds spill there in ugly crimes, dirtied, soiled by lusts and hungers that stalk in electric shudders slaking me to flaccidity until the top of my blunt head, hums and crawls, in a seizure of rebellion; to not ever conform, to break rank, to wither and bleak, escape the game, bald within a false and desperate freedom. – TR©
Slither across the flat land, mortgaged to the maze, customers of money gods under the minister’s gaze, we can cut across the landscape in a web of open veins, as he fingers and fondles the best of what remains.
Let’s rummage to unearth all the sacred places, conquerers of the secret spaces, we’ll poke a cheaper hole, squeeze a deeper breath, trampling ancient havens to a crippled brown death.
Smell pure turpentine flames screech and burn, as stone rivers crack, virgin forest gone, buckling and bending to unending demand, blasted into the rising seas for more flat land.
Strip and drill and force our way, shaft the native claim, classify the poverty, manipulate the shame, so long medicated, that the Dreaming barely breathes, so damned threatened by what everyone receives.
Squirm with me in the flat land, tethered to the cage, we can rip across our innocence in open rage, and all lie down, panting under the master’s chains, as he fingers and fondles the dregs of what remains. – TR©
Flat Land (performed by The Poetic Murriz with Steve and Teone Reinthal for the film Blue Colour ©2008)
GET AWAY OF ME
Long and tight within the growling dark of July’s heavy womb, my soft and satin crown tensed, and a drifting knowing surged into the void of my silent and close-made change. Flapping off my soul’s ledge, ready to be gone from a grim and shuttered back, I would not turn, could never return to suck on old bones, I would stand alone. You and I did capture a beast, and grievous, you nourished its child by thine own hand and by thine own cold fireside. Sweetly I fed, from my own leaking life unto the cauldron of your bitter syrups, and you did sit, stirring ooze, until I grew to stutter,
“Eschew and taste not this flavour, ‘tis mine own”.
In the tumbling path of four August winds, I chanted
‘Bald and Wither the froth of each engineered dance of rape upon my broken heart, whereupon I soundlessly called to the great southern Mother to stricken each gesture of your gripping, sickly stings, until naked, I freely ran, long within the mist of Spring’s drenching rains, where at last I bled my lost and stammered pain upon the earth, clad only in the breath of death’s oldest prayer, and there did I banish thee at last, discarding the strangling cords of your foul predation, (stalking alien spirit), to get away of me now, and forever!
West wind winds you, sunlight blinds you, fortune finds you at your own creation. Forest falls away, green paths fade to grey, long roads growing longer, ways mist and shadow stronger, safer in cities, glittering in pretties, dreaming circles smaller, numbers lost to caller, distant doors into foreign shores beckon and command thee Attend, and I sever you from me. Now ‘tis done’. – TR©
I hear the rumble, deep down, and pounding. I’m frozen in the belly of night, by the firelight, and I know that sound. I feel her power in the shifting grip of the wind. And I will run towards the shimmering, I’m watching and waiting in the woods for her.
Gossamer won’t dance, Scarlet turns to grey and the mystery has fallen, since you went away. Vision of Inana, Breejeh yeah yeah vision of Astarte, Hecate, Nada ah ah, Vision of Anu Anu Anu
I could meet her on the rise, and if her silhouette is mine, between horizon and a healing sky I know an ecstasy would claim me on a turning tide. I am a watcher in the stone, holding ash from every bone, I’ll see the famine, and the flow, and I just can’t let her go. and, I long for her touch to come around again.
Gossamer won’t dance, Scarlet fades to grey and the mystery has fallen, since you went away. Vision of Inana, Breejeh yeah yeah vision of Astarte, Hecate, Nada ah ah, Vision of Anu Anu Anu
So far inside, within the rhythm of her breath, under the skin, underneath us all. I’ll make the bones, soft ash and earth again, back in the arms of my beloved and never shall I turn away, I’ll be unafraid. – TR©
Vision from the CD Heavy Cargo. Music by Steve Reinthal lyrics Teone Reinthal ©2006
In the spaces between time, a misted tide flowed along in an undercurrent of soul, prisming into the watery arms of mermaids until it rose up under the hearts of drifting boat-kings, as breath-songs of a flaxen haired people of long ago. I heard a sound, carrying it’s own tunes over the waves of an ocean that filled their skies with salt and the hungers of human beings. A lad was resting on a rock, far out in the coldest part of the great, grey Western seas, a curious boy of the old people, and we fish heard his current-tones as he swam for days in our wide sea-lanes. His mother called and swished her own dazzling tail in the feeding bays near the tiny islands, calling to him
“I have drifted here, searching for you upon ruinous crests of waves, in so many black and bitter days, that I have tumbled in tides of white sorrows, as if the oceans were such empty seas into which we must deliver our pain, our hatred, and toss away our war bones evermore….free to glide and speckle in glinting sparks of light upon our slick and shining joys… ohhh, return to me now”
But he had become an elder, deeper in his distant thoughts than all the fathomless ways of ancient ships, sea-borne of the boat-tribes, and filled with carved memories of deep and foreign longings. The lights in his eyes were as clear and bright as the ferry bells that chimed into the very shrouds of our trusting childhood breaths, twinkling in bell sounds that floated and fell like pocket handkerchiefs and forgotten shawls left at the festivals and dances of all our days long gone. – TR©
Days gone and dark, deep in the blizzard. Boots crush, hearts pound and widows stare at trucks rolling by with heavy cargo. Wailing breaks the day, kneeling and wild. So much blind devotion blows away, and hatred burns in the throat of heavy cargo. What good is gold, in the face of death, when still we serve ourselves, while our broken babies scream, underneath the weight of heavy cargo?Danger glides, silent in the heavens. Doom comes to faraway, with the push of will. Wheels turn and turn in the scheme of heavy cargo. We stalk the faithless full, and round and fluid. Glamour is so deceptive, we walk the path alone. In our servitude, so heartless with heavy cargo. – TR©
Heavy Cargo from the CD of the same name by Steve Reinthal ©2007
Her story flies, cradled by shadows, caught on the winds of south-westering storms. Lamp-lit, through windows, in whispers where lilting, sweet murmurs of legends were borne. Called into form, out of tribal desire from the spirits of women, to her place at the fire for their unspoken passion and secretive pain, she brought herbal and tincture, so deeply ingrained. O Laela, oh lallee caerlean, Those wild craggy faces, of the blood of our line, I saw you dance, you were fearless this time. Climbing out of her past, she flew out of her mind, as sure as a daughter with heroes to find, crying out for a reason, a country, a name, that a mother, or priestess could passionately claim. She smiled in my face with a star from her mouth, I saw rivers cascading, and I was allowed to run in line with her powerful stride, I lagged behind to beg for dreams and to read all the signs. O Laela, oh lallee caer lean. Those wild craggy faces formed the bones of our spine. I watched her dance, she was fearless this time. Tides of bold oceans, of voyages made, with the waves of her journeys went rolling away. To the mountain she flew on her watery wings, like a Goddess who knows what the festival brings She’s in my sight, I’m of her skin. Who knows the sound of peace within? Her wisdom’s grown from breathing in, a heart at home, she is my kin. Hibernia. – TR©
Hibernia (music and performed by Bridget O’Donoghue and Steve Reinthal for Rainbirds by Teone Reinthal ©2001)
HIP TO IT
Daily I watch the same-names, drive vast cars to penitentiaries of greed, trudging and straining to create a product need for some evil seed of mass-consumerism, I start asking “who is free in there, I just wonder officer,… who breathes inside the corporate life-coffin, when it’s filled with frightened men, trapped inside their hellish den of deep deception? …and I am clearly seeing just whose brothers are identified by the privilege of wearing toe-tags, plastic bags and man, what’s that flapping on my chest? Is this my true identity…? Hey I’m cool, I’m hip to it, fashionably attached to my snap-on clip, I’m hanged by nylon cords, tied to my corporate corpse, tightly observed by associate suspicion, beaten into submission by so much derision, and with your permission, I’ll be terrified now, right back into my company’s steel chokers of control. Your Money for My Power. See, I’m hip to it… I’ll have a large serve of ineptitude, so you can brand me with a platitude of never-ending, condescending attitude, I’m still believing that my anonymity, my homelessness, my poverty, cloaks me in a freedom that offers me choices to come and go. I am so completely fuckin’ wrong. I am fodder, flotsam, boot-grease for the titanic white wheels of misfortune. Are you hip to it? – TR©
I touched their sleeping skins, a gentle silken brush with love so round and splendid in such vulnerable, peaceful abandon. Their breathing, deep and certain of each next true moment. I stood and wavered, torn at this departure, what crushing dawn breaks for them? I feel the separation now, like an ice house descending over these limbs and feelings. Nothing holds my gaze but the stairs. The hole in me is clutching at my wholeness sucking me down, gulping for some peace, where am I next to be? Where does this tunnel lead? She’s sweet and grown tall now, I long for her smell. He runs with a fire at his heels, and I burn for his hand in mine. – TR©
Walk tall, sway to the moon, big bones dance on old land, so far from here, where fire cools the sky, in the heart that calls, as you scorch the walls running right up to the sun. Lilith in my shiver, Lilith in my roar, Courage standing, standing as you did before. Bearing down on time, never mind the rain, carving in the shadow, I know you suffer no pain. Big bad girl on the loose edge of life, when you gonna take me home? Lilith In my shiver, Lilith in my roar, courage standing, standing as you did before. – TR©
Lilith – music composed by and performed by Bridget O’Donoghue from the stage play Rainbirds written and directed by Teone Reinthal ©2001
I wonder now, exactly when I knew that I was losing sight of you, forgetting the sounds of our ancient game that was subtly born, and so shy of form, that ever long, in childhood we played within our miraculous and floating veil adrift in some soft and luminous sail so strong and so certain of our fate, the total span of each fine fibre, that as a tall and feathered tribe, we came and visited life, drumming, fiercely swift in our fearless power, to sing and smooth away that haunted hour
Lately I have hungered to dance again, now, rattling and weaving to chant away the bitter screech of this ugliness age, as each new encroaching malady, is shouldered upon that awkward, slow, dim death of mine, turning me into a light, sweet as rain to soften my eyes upon the dreary sight of your tortured face lost in the cradle of our lived-full lives
Breath-spent, my brother, and heart sore have I shuffled these cooled corridors in crumbling steps, and, as tattered flecks of remnants lost in our yellowed red legends, as phantom as this, we white-washed old, so shivery-blotched, too black-bled and cold to take numbers, nor bide in some customer’s bed as left-over patients, akin with less style than that cynically arrogant specialist’s smile who, case-manages, prescriptively postured to sign over subsidised bullets for this enemy of mine and I have lolled here, losing all sight, alive, without you. – TR©
Boasting an obsessive preoccupation with party protocols and principles, mad bull is fire-filled with a haughtiness that blithely slights we ne’er do-wells, regardless of the blood that spills in bitter juices and juxtaposed ideologies, declaring we are surely his minion metaphors to savage in a bid for charity’s ill-bred and brokered…yet he, whose bitter and bombastic spite carelessly splatters the lips of more hardened harlots, charges the club of moneyed monsters, a blue-ribboned thoroughbred of darlings never too dry, nor too scathing to slit their own throats for publicity’s sake, alas does fall, butchered at the death-bed of his dreams. – TR©
awaits the body of her cold king, downcast, as the spurious tumble of chimes, that winter in his barren lands, flatter-toned than she has ever known, yet hardly touched upon the hallowed eve of all such long-lost souls The curving drift and the scurry of airs twist ugly words into her grass basket of grief, weaving to mourn with the very finest of all bawd miseries and surgical humours that she has learned yet, never understood. Seers and jugglers mill at the base of her tower, dressed well, for the fair, yet lost in all the silvers of a river that ever winds and banters small boats into the fishing lanes, so far from that town of deaf, lonely women who sit and preach to cats and cradles, while my queen combs her hair and eyeless, knows the longest night. – TR©
OGWEN & EYRIRI
In the light of my eyes, you are the tallest mountain, towering high under winter’s love, you stand forever strong. I am a river running on your path of courage. Eager to touch you, I bubble with so much joy. I meander in the hills, deaf to trouble, ever moving, rushing towards your open arms. Feast me in your love and I am alive! Wish me away and I will fall. Where will I hide? – TR©
Gentle Podlight, streams of fluid-gleam spill nectar beads to herald the flow of an open, emerging miracle.Rapturous from communion with a silvering of touch, a tiny harlequin dazzles in numinous amber and pure growth green. Unbidden, wild as evil garlanded in wreaths of solitary reckoning. Nimble faery, best borne free. – TR©
Red roses droop, passion falters. Damp linens, crushed velvets ago. Pale beneath the sudden fire of the rubies in her eyes. A breeze of Italian summers, lifting of silk in heaven’s breath, lingering light-fingered luxuries, lost to the lustre of wolves. Haunting the promenade, sweeping across blurring the years. That sullen cool step on the roses that fell. – TR©
Sisters place the blades away, bleed in the shelter of the cavernous mound. Full of shadowed truths, in shallow pools,we’ll watch our predators, shuddering in mimicry as we bubble from the stream. We’ll sweep in the force of keening sprites, enlivening fate for emptiness minds. We shine, in majestic permission, proud sisters, let us slice the fold that catches on our pact, and drive the separation into the wailing realm. ‘Begone’ to it. Watch the steps from perches now, in glass eyes and symbols, we see the fall and the rise of all who seemed returning to the fold, as we bid our minds. Drink deeply from the cup of making, let us quench the thirst of our holy flames. We’ll touch the hem of lightness here, from which we may emerge in time and cacophony of song and siren. We may be, to choice we survive, and seek the wild in every dying, in the birth of all that never dies. – TR©
If you would but wear me, I could drape your Dover bones in plump foldings of succulent heaviness, as a viscous river of fluid nectar flowing to moisten your cracking, shallow scrabble for joy. Purely for your pleasure, I am a full-weighted sack of shiny toys, a playful charisma for your loneliness-show, a deep, full larder of festive feastings, a prime lubricant for your stiff and brittle pain. Yessss, I will press you into so many glorious shapes that will dazzle and perk the brilliance of your imagination, that you could ever be so proudly ribboned, so boldly bolstered. I will whet your dreams. Anoint you with such glorious, grainy colours, that you may sniff at the banquet of my death, that I have long prepared, honed, sliced and browned in these flagrant, flavoursome poverties and wandered forlorn in such grisly groans, to tempt, tedium upon tedium, until your moods could bind the mighty sun in ropes of bitter bile and I would fly, in tiny, tender, ancient pieces of me. Free… BOOK NOW! – TR©
Here, inside the wire, I knew the father of all legends, he taught me, roaming in valleys through the floor of all space, and I was singing until my heart was fully given just to be with him, in time I roared for joy, as he overflowed his river’s banks, rich in rain’s bounty, and the watching stars and a loving sky were up so high forever, I learned all land was alive and the blessing of his sacred life was in us all. Wanderers, lost, maddened by desires, came to claim all lands for their own tribe, hungry for my father’s might, stealing the gifts of his truth, I fought for their souls and lost, to watch them build their smoking deaths, their killing roads, under the light of a cold false moon and I knew an end to joy, and lay deafened by shadows that tilled so far and raw. My people go without, hungry, while bellies burst and banks now own the rivers, and all hearts break with sorrow for the hunger that never ends. Walk with me, I know a journey road, here, upon the resting bones of my father’s life, I’ll sing a broken earth, I hear the homelessness of all our people, and I’ll weep the last tears of my father’s blood for the children of this world. – TR©
In the mouth of hunger lives such bitterness, it subscribes asylum in Plenty, why must I taste it?
Black lips blister, hands tremble, all bled cold, in the watchful blue days of my life. Cheap in my time, Cool in my calling, Wasting my mind, Feasting on nothing, but nothing. Savannah waves, nobody answers.
Savannah craves, nobody listens. Savannah days, bleaching and dry as the bones of my eyes. – TR©
SET TO THE LEFT
Love lies laced in camphor dreams of the watcher’s watery white smile, fading light-silk irises, restless as the spectre bathes in yellow-box fog, her frosty knuckle-bones fallen forever idle under the stooping hem of the floral settee. Treasured flakes of hair and lifeless dowry ponder from the past in savage undertones of icy draught, captured in that candle’s Gaelic gloom.
Grim memories swell into cracks and crannies, filling all opportunity for any change with choking distortion of the frittered rain. Wafting in darkened lochs and quays, channels of rippling, shuddering sobs cast fishing boats into the point of despair, nets empty with aught but grief, losing all but resignation and resentment, lodging brittle in bones, seeping into fallow lands.
Warriors, shoulder-borne, are welcomed back to earth in keening, wailing sack and ash, draped in bleak truth as loss follows lack into the poverty of hearts. Merry widows step upon the field of fecundity, scrying for a hand upon the breast of loneliness as the circling birds of endless dreams fly on again
I’m rupturing in a flood of hydraulic sorrows to reunite with my six year old. How were we separated, kept so far apart, hidden from each other, trapped in our lost worlds of scorch-blackened valleys and night-dimmed caverns? I have remembered her troubling sandals and her small, gentle feet. Somehow, just now, I stumbled across her drawings and her earliest words and I am fearful at scaling the fragile mountain of her confusion. I see her there, my little heavy-heart, burdened with worldly weights and ancient worries, bleeding from the savagery of the playground and crinkled from all the spitting…Inside their circling hurt she pounded herself into a mote. Before they could. No one came to salve her fractured shell and so she waited, each day for any friend. Digging in the onion weeds she whispered into the dirt,
“where are you?”
but such sweet fairies were already long-gone, buried in the choking dust of bells and little lunch breaks. – TR©
SLOUGHING THE MASK
Sloughing all days, away from rough skull-bones to scorch, deep in winter’s cave of hungry scorn and self-pity, she draws me, in tiny bitter drops, wet and warm as leaking blood and fondles my mind, restless as a rolling fog she drifts, cool and wispy on this mountain.
“Better to dream under the road of awkward, aching slumbers than to race and scurry so” she whispers,
and I, scribbling, crisp and hollow as a wretch, fall empty, deep sedated into a place of ugly screams pounding and punching, under the heart, nauseous with the spatter of bloody drops, the scarlet rusting drops of hope that earnestly summon the womb of worth to lock and tumble, feasting upon the banquet of choice grim within the sullenness of my mask. – TR©
SAINT ANTHONY OF OUR ADDICTIONS
Hurtling and dire from the endarkened pulpit, the gorgeous, gilded gown of new chastities unfurls in a slow and steady revelation of turgid litanies from spendthrift men of worldly means. Behold the wet Martyr, masking his covenant with castigation, dishing warm and wide from a broad and slithering net of simple human woes. Casting again, he is charged by an host of sanctimonious desecrators, saturnine in self-servitude. Dull faith surges, smug within the privileged guild of gluttony and unceasing temptation, merely to suffer some few, shadowy children to lie down in burning pastures. Fatted, we slaver for the feast of our own oblivion. Igniting such lax legions, the public tolling of this naked servant’s steady drone is underscored by orchestrated visions of a grandeur so temporal, so ephemeral as to herald the immediate arrest of popular dissenters and idolators and mercurial minds. He leadeth me beside the rising waters. Hopelessly we bend, suffering the fate of lesser men, as our martyr musters us with almighty means to bravely withstand our lemming drive to catastrophic monuments of righteous law and sacrificial logic. – TR©
TALK TO THE HAND
Unspoken, my youth went swimming through the consequence of borrowed wit and emptiness until the starlight bled away. I watched it from my chair, vulcan dreamer and featherweight, clutching at breath and moaning, scorching the blossom of my faith. Fear can find me anywhere, so casual in the bar strolling through this lifeless education, I am just a scream away. Some girl seeks a warrior and I will drum him home. Who will pay the price? Now she craves a life inside and one will twist and turn and who will pay the price? I will pipe that broken soldier until he falls asleep tonight. Who will pay the price?
Wind and shadows rattle these walls, of every shame and ugliness and my love is empty, my love is full
I catch precious glimpses of a radiance that weathers soft with age and speckled time, like an elder dreaming of tender touch from the long watch and the distance of a life. Some monster, in a moment of grief could shatter the illusion of the new age creed, shouting “ecology is your mirror,” and like a bandit of truth that sells you your own creation, I’ll see the sky has fallen in acid tears and an acrid haze of amethyst affirmations that polish the grain of our glorious greed.
I AM POWERFUL but who will pay the price? I AM LOVABLE and who will pay the price? I DESERVE THE BEST and who will pay the price? I AM BEAUTIFUL and who will suffer and die tonight? – TR©
THE BLUE MARIA
Shocking me, a horde of flickering blue radiants dazzled me and embraced my whole swollen heart, touching my face and eyes with a sprinkling of their shimmering light, such luminous makers, they whispered to me of world-deep waters, and wide coastal lanes and great oceans of power so that I curled up tightly within their legendary laps and sailed into the full gust of their words and wonders, until my wishing made it so. – TR©
the SERPENT’s BOOK OF LAMENTATIONS
…unashamed of seething darkness, I curved in raw arcs, borne on the whittled spine of an alien genius. I bartered hard for my place at the mystic moment, I roamed under the world and found what others chose to lose. I knew your limbs, ever the tentacles of your hedonism. Did you feel my soft and promising coils? Could you take me into your self, delivered unto your deepest need? Your flesh hurt, that proud and persistent hostage to fear and I would not inhabit your sour temple of ugliness, your bleeding tomb of terrors. I slithered, free and sweet, fresh in earthly gardens of wild root and wondrous loam. You showered me in the wetness of your scorn. Now you are weighed down, stoppered by an indolence of soul. I grimace at the wickedness of your foul and pious march of destruction upon the glorious path, and yet, I am deaf to your ecstatic madness. I banish the buried, muffled cries that whimper from under your savagery, I sever my eyes from the sight of you. My Earth quakes at the blight of your days. Make way, dispassionate wisp. Victim to the illusion, you are truly Fallen! My end is a silken fold of purest drifting shimmer. I devour me in the void of your heavy silence. Mother! I am returned unto your stone. Bury me in this blanket, dead as they who walk, drugged upon artifice, startled by the elegance of allusion. I feel your body beneath me and I know an ocean of loss. Father! I am the Path! Following none but the voice of my own creation, I am here and well away. Not once upon this skin did I find affliction, nor do I hear the snarling of your monstrous rage. See me! I am a radiance of emptiness mind, seeking guidance from furious light, onwards and upwards, breathing, clear, fostered by a dream of compassion. Resting in such vacant joy, I slide into the skies. – TR©
Complex boy, deep and away, sailing in a wind that no one hears, your ears primed for the dutious call, persistently piercing the silent night fears of your stoically dark and impenetrable wall. Many a storm have you weathered, coldly distant with your swallowed pain, you stifled, fatherless child, I too heard the wind, reading the compass, so cracked and frail, surging on each grim and heavy wave. What love will you know? weaving your solitude into the bow, alone, with the stars and the bones to navigate the waters of your world like a journey-man, seeking his home. Yes, yes I acknowledged your Light and watched it dazzle, a glorious sight so glossy and plumped by the cycles of hope as richly, and fragrant, Divinity spoke decreeing “your power is bound”… You, rudder, all at sea, faring the fortunes of old men’s clucking tongues, when, see these miniatured tendrils of breath, strongly struggling in the gust of our world, looking up, impassioned by your self-serving course. – TR©
This hopeless depth of swelling is a pitcher of blood that sprays out at your feet, soaking to the bone, blacking every fibre, drenching all of you. Arteries spurt in an arc of crimson terror, tainting every hound, my grinding fangs are aching stones, from worrying at your flesh. Now the chill, the shaking furious, poisonous immolation clenching and brooding and cursing each rabid dog in me sniffing around you, snarling waste of fear, quivering casual foe, thrusting back at me. Vermillion gorging of lust. Gorgeous thread of adrenalin, pasted on the surface of a smile. No jagged spear, to parry, to rip at your wall ? Where does my carcass fall? We are a field of frozen war, enemies feeding the flames. Where is my chariot? Bring me my horse. Nightfall beckons, with it’s horns and it’s fallen, in these crumbling halls. We drink to Lust. – TR©
A silk of quivering birds, anemones of pure sound, went gliding out from universal anima, drifting in, through Plutonian gateways, the tiny, triumphant gods of numinous rhythm fluttering upon vast tides of vibrating light, crowned in crimson rivers of golden flight, swallowing the radiance of stars in turbulent love, watchful as feathered journey-men, dressed in fanciful visions of my grim, imagined human suffering. – TR©
What bell peals here? I was long in the shade of my sickening, captured by a foreign touch and marched to a drum of whispers. I watched the trees, certain I would see some flitting form, here in this monument to suffering, I called out clear to the horizon, kicking at the walls of my grief. What pale dawn did I not wander these pastures of my pain? And I was borne here, ferried on a tide of rejection, and so I ran, whimpering through a forest of scars. Cradle me, and I will lay me down in the sweet ground, just to be held again. Brush away my tears and never turn away. I will lie down in the soft light, casting out the ravages, cool and clear in this pool of comfort, safe in your arms until they say
“she’s gone now,… gone,… now… she’s gone to the gums” – TR©
THE LIGHT OF THE SCORPION’S MOON
Encoded and twitching, dangled from some banker’s planet, grimacing carcasses swirl on cords of shimmering icy blue. Comical kings, sleek luxuriates, rat-dancing on their prosperous gland, strung naked in the phosphorous dark of the Scorpion’s Moon. Vertically tethered at the pale skyline, elegantly silenced, lip-less & sanitary foot-women starve on the purchase-plane, posed crippled in sweet servitude. Golden Millenia, what photon of time? Are we quanta of some other selective organism, liposucking earth’s charitable coffers, parasitic upon our heavenly inheritance? Diseased tissue, duly apportioned as rorters on a junket ride to Jesus abort these triumvirate waves of doom, crashing down from the soulless crew! Sleaze appointed, greasing the pole to slither inside a tumour of hope, pumping. Posting glamorous seeds of insanity, feathering, fathering, fashioning time. – TR©
THE WAITRESS OF HELL’S KITCHEN
A dulled flint of ideas scraped across my mental sinew, pricking the membrane of old solitudes and suffering, yet, nothing but specks of stiff and tired flesh fell, flaking, wan with exertion, frictionless, cold, listless, drab and lifeless now. If I was just watching a breast, or a forearm for a smooth and palpable landscape of vermilion reprieve, then say that I am shallow, and guilty of a dreariness, lonely, yet hardly loquacious in this rusting skin of age, perhaps then, I am neither here nor there, nor never can. Dusted by thoughts of change, I can barely breathe for it, I am worn black and studied from negotiated trial, bleating the scripted wounds of the age “Heinous!”, I bleat, spiritually attuned to watch worlds of supercilious, warring, empty, faceless, dry and brittle conjurors. Scrape the face away of it, see, there’s so many bleak and bitter binds, hoarded in the heaving heaviness, divorcing me from the edge, wordlessly, where, exhausted by a trial of errors, I am deadened to wonder “where is bliss?” and I have no idea. – TR©
The trees walked around me as I dreamed, and my feet planted me in the world, stamping me into an existent splendour as I learned how to cry. – TR©
Slow, loose, garbled, silt waters slide, biding, unbounded, destiny unknown, overwhelmed order, undertowed fibre, lunar bearing, brazen imposter broaches carved dark passageways, watchful, beaked, wading, feral, slime stripping, shifting side to side. Ghost gum rusted, miner’s pan rested, fallen disuse, gnarling deep decay. Whooping, cawed, warbled and shrill, bones, feathers, sand-gritted, gold hunted, curling smoke-drift, eucalyptus, red-box, splitter hammer stands, brown slips away slithering, dry, piercing and scorned. Mister Lincoln, Rosemarinus, Thyme, Pigfaced, greened, hard bored, salt-borne, widowed bull-nosed waves, cattle-calls, grown gone, locked brittle, peacefully wide, parceled heritage, grappling, seeping, sagged saddened, dry dried, dusted dirt, lilac shrivelled, crisp and cracked shells. Frost-driven, fire-licked, gathered fray stands, storyteller, drinker, beast and battery bawl, forty four furnace, log and liquor pagans “might rain, might not”, yawn, scratch, nod. Wistful winding ways, track and field, goblin’s grotto, mob o’ greys, fishes lane, hollow land, tunnel of time, we’re in here. – TR©
Deep in the dank cupboards of all my childhood alienation, I chanced upon a vast collection of lonely, discarded words. Hungry for play, they picked at me, snarling the broken threads of me, poking fun at me, snatching at my fragments, hooking me into the crooks of their pages until I became their enraptured captive. – TR©
VENDRAN POR MI?
She whispers to her baby, stretch up to me now,
Ella sussura a a su bebe estirate hacia me ahora
reaching for the highest, you’ll grow and grow and grow
alcanza lo mas alto crece, crece y crece
Vendran por mi?
Will you come for me?
Vendras por me
Proud mother moves, swaying in the sound
La orgullosa madre se mueve bailando en el sonido
of dark clouds on her destiny as amber drops roll down
las nuves oscuras de su destino como gotas de savia deslizandose hacia abajo
Will you come for me?
Vendran por mi?
We are stranded in such beauty, she knows they will surely come
Estamos maravillados en esta belleza ella sabe con seguridad que ellos van a venir
so cold in destruction, to take her from her little one
es muy fria la destruccion de quitarle a su pequeno
Will you come for me?
Vendran por mi?
she sighs and wonders how will I ever keep him safe?
ella exala y se pregunta como voy a mantenerlo a salvo
love falls from her heart upon his tender face
el amor brota de su corazon hacia su tierna cara
leaves curling softly in the black smoke
las hojas encorbadas suavemente en el humo negro
she falls so swiftly in the dark
ella cae rapidamente en la oscuridad
Will you come for me in the river?
Vendras por me en el rio
I will cry no more, I will be still
No voy a llorar mas estare quieta
from the river of silence
desde el silencio del rio
to the timber mill
hasta el acerradero
who will come for me?
Quien vendra por me
leaves curling softly in the black smoke, she falls so swiftly in the dark
Music La Selva Sagrada by Steve and Teone Reinthal with Brian Whyte from the CD The Sacred Jungle ©2006
Under a blanket of sedative sorrow, nightly in a troubled face, I scrabble, in a blind and breathless hollow for daylight, for some mirror’d hope. Trembling circuitry clutches breast, and sighs, breaking silence, reach none. Deeper, loves twisting in tortured loss. Agonies, flickering shapes summoning in so many wordless seams as this vessel of grief shudders now and tosses. Never linking, desperately unyielding, self, stoically harboured inside. Suffering swallows yellowing words, dispensed upon uncertainty, as relatives, chair’d at ritual bedsides, mouthing, open foul trench of humanity. Wording tears away, grinding down death in every crab-actioned fear of life itself. Rising from streams of my dread consciousness, a gushing vast eruption of rejection and pain, this gallery of pathetic ghouls hang, thriving, teeming under artifice and betrayal. Webbed choicelessness musters now, a corrupted, captivated specimen of light. Casting the burdens, where in the world weathers such loss of simple choice? Bitter, plastic youth, shallow needing, drain the spirit and drive the highest price. This spine, hunched small now, reaches out, as scowling winds hearken depth of night. – TR©