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Blood Moon Scrub - Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier

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Through the eyes of the Lost Soldier The sky is bleeding into the dirt again, and the old hunger crawls up through my boots. It no longer matters. Time does not march out here. It pools beneath a dry creek bed, stagnant and unseen. But when the moon swells, heavy and bruised with copper rust, the cold in my ribs becomes a scald. The scrub does not burn with heat. It burns with memory. Through the tangled mallee, I see the flash of artillery, the orange-red roar of a barrage that never stopped falling, trapped forever inside the rib cages of these dead gums. I taste copper on my tongue, sharp as rifle oil and dried blood. The black heavens press down, bending the whole world inward until I am trapped inside a glass bead of fire. I pace the boundary where red light cuts into deep shadow, waiting for a relief column that lost its heading eighty years ago. Everything here is parched. I am so thirsty. But I do not want water. I want your nourishment. I want your dawn, your warm pulse, as yo...
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Head on

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Head on

Locked into a decollation of vision
Somewhere between dystopia and utopia
Of daunting scale and empowered ownership
For the futures of all inhabitants
Especially for those who are unable to prophetize

Through compassion and in hatred, paths are layed
Through rhetoric and within reality gaps, plans are devised
Crossroads are manufactured to include outputs of macabre scenarios
And these vivid horrors repetitively weave throughout our histories
Nothingness as sacred, nothingness as incidental

Our fabricated artilleries are lavished with discord
Of senseless killing and normalized clarification
These roadkills are cleansed though legitimate action
And our carnage is visualised through predictable datasets

Grieve is pushed aside
Knowing that the odds against are in favour
Contained within the numbers
That is digestible
To those in pain, those who ignore and those who can exploit





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