Red rocks soaking in red mud
Drought choking out in shudders & Judds
Sticks cracking like spines in a thud
Sun shining through this pitiful flood.

Silhouettes of dried trees in the distance look like dancers creeping backstage to steal the directors cut.

Glistening speckles of crystal drops caught on every second or third piece of grass remind you everyone wants something precious.

The wind pushes more water out of trees, naturally.

Do you think they really want to spare it?
They’re acting like they do.
But so does everyone when they do something benevolent.
How good are trees, really?

These fields are burning green while the red rocks hide like the fire in the beast’s stomach waiting for it to turn, making it erupt and devour like weather does.

The Sentient Grape

A grape is a fruit, botanically a berry, of the deciduous woody vines of the flowering plant genus Vitis- Wikipedia

It was there, it knew it was there. It couldn’t see because it had no eyes, it didn’t know it couldn’t see. If you asked it and if it could talk, which it can’t, it would say ‘well what is seeing anyway?’.

Though to talk properly and fine… like the gentle people of old, one must know language. The Grape only knew it was there, with no touch and no sensation to behold whatsoever and even if the grape wanted to learn language, it couldn’t, unless language was injected into the sentience within that sweet mass that we call flesh.

But language isn’t something you inject. It’s something you hear, and like touch, like speech, like sight, a grape can’t hear as it has no ears. The sentient grape only sat or lay? Whatever grapes do.

It didn’t know what it was missing either, which makes something that seems like torture not such a bad thing.

Unless it was one of those grapes that knew there was more in life and wanted it. But I don’t think a single grape in history has ever thought that. Not that I’d know.

This grape was unlike all grapes only because it knew it was there. It had a sensation of being, even though it was just a lot (or a little) of senseless nothingness.

This grape was like most grapes because it was otherwise unremarkable. It was purple, oval shaped. I mean, it probably tasted funny, with all that sentience.

What this grape thought about was really a mystery, with such a clear, uninterrupted, unadulterated mind…
Could this state of being be unlocking bliss!?
Was this grape experiencing constant extacy? Unlocking the secrets of the universe with its life filled, sentient grape-flesh?
Does the grape with no discernible reason for being, know the reason for being?
Is this grape wise because it knows nothing?
At the precipice of its very nature, has the grape learned of what it is, to be one?

On the other hand, the grape could be stuck.
Stuck in that moment, you know it, we’ve all felt it.
That moment, where for some reason you are disappointed that there is no much more in life.
I mean this grape has no sensory glands, it can’t feel!
It could just be thinking, in its languageless style.
This is it.


Old Clearing

Occasionally a bone would speck this clearing, relatively shiny white and new.
Everythings relatively new, this old cattle ground is only old because it once was a cattle ground.
It seems life and death is decided here quite often, it still is natures battleground.

This clearing is nature now too, as ants cover it and logs, dispossessed – and emus in the early morning.

Nature is monstrous, even on this dull cloudy grey day.
Nature has birds singing and trees rustling.
And a roo standing in the distance listening for its final threat…
Nobody wants to become a bone speckled on an old cattle ground.
What else but a monster can do all this?

Do you think an ant would see an ant bone and pervade a sense of terror among it’s ant comrades with its communicative glands… don’t they make a hormonal stench or something?
Nature is cutthroat,
Nature is a cut out old red jerry can on the side of the path.

Dried out dams spot the bottom of this clearing, the water’s path is clear for next time, when it rains heavily.

Colours out here invoke and gifts.
Green grants breath.
Red grants beauty and wonder.
White grants gratefulness, not bones yet!

The wind rushes past and through as if nothing could ever truly stop it.


A gumnut branch still full of life rests on a broken tree
A plastic bottle shines.
Bones of ancients rest like the shoulders of our giants.
A red roo the size of you stares me down the path.
He watches for a moment, jumps away, 
Thankful he let me pass.
Shadows of skeletons rest on the sundried stump showing the suns strength.
The blackened patterns on for the show,
Stretch and shrink in length. 
A pink seatless bicycle with shiny white tyres.
No grips on the handlebars except two zip-ties. 
A dragonfly swiftly passes by.
A barrier splitting the difference of here and there.
If that roo could speak English 
He would probably still stare.

Black strips of plastic lace this tyred road.
Red dirt turned to grey dust with the use of apathy weight and speed.

Sharing my log with bits of broken glass.
It’s spread all over like leaves.

Barbwire, 6 inches from my shin, I didn’t notice.
Camouflaged in the midst of white/grey sticks and brown and yellow refuse.

A sound shatters over the bush for a minute.
Pervading me with a small sense of terror.
The plane doesn’t realise how incredible it sounds out here.

I sit by the fig tree which shares its spot with two lime trees,
a log,
a cushion,
a rubber blackened cement slab about the width and length of a decent shed that really looks like another trademark of failed plans),
the rusted out & graffitied on ute tray full of bushes
and a beautiful pair of rocks with someone’s name all over them…
They still shine with natures radiance.
I don’t know what you would call them,
a hybrid.

It wouldn’t be a stretch to call this someones home.

Lush and vibrant, amazing colours invade my eyes.
Even with new items showing up every day.

The trees stand with their family, survivors, lucky that they weren’t in the way.

Inanimate objects of the bushes colour seem to fit in just as much.
An empty beer bottle’s red brown holing onto it’s spot.
it’s a survivor because it’s not smashed.
A rusted barrel on it’s side, holding onto a little bit of white paint as if it still had a purpose… as if it wasn’t dented irreparably.
The broken down fencing surrounding it, reminding nature that human’s make borders and none of it is safe.
A gas bottle standing ominously in a patch with it’s red warning signal and knowing full well it doesn’t fit in but wishing the contents were free or back where they came from.

Rope & wire & plastic & birds squawking, whistling, flying away from this new ecosystem created by speed weight and apathy.
The wire ends so abruptly as if it never has a purpose.
The rope is dropped carelessly in a pile.
The plastic is strewn all over the brown and grey bush shocking me like a hammer beaten thumb.
BRIGHT PINK, red, orange, green, black & soon an ode to us when we’re all gone.

But this wire was cut so abruptly.
As if it never had a purpose.

The walk continues as nature always has more to give.
Someone is shattering rocks with their massive machine

It goes on all day because nature had more to give and nature couldn’t say no.

Do not trespass signs encroach this land.

Piles of rubbish are a disgrace.
Empty CD cases, lawnmowers, broken down pajero with its parts all over the place, car seats, head rest.
I mean, It’s all here baby!
Let’s start a new society with the rubbish in the woods!
It’s gotta have more substance than the lot we got now.
We  can live off the figs in that decrepit clearing
Sleep on that slab of concrete as long as we fight off those pesky spinning tyres.
There’s a creek that’s not definitely dried up, or at least a dam somewhere and I’m sure they can give us a damn for once in their lives.
It’ll be the last damn they can give us.
Because we’re never gonna give a damn again.
And then we can all have our own damn and none of us have to give it out to anyone else… Unless they want a damn.
A damn for everyone, because everyone needs water.
What a plan! Whata plan water plan! dam man! it’s a water damn.


Beauty is Life

Beauty slaps it’s beating heart in my face.
Every day. Every day.
It’s blood splatters all over me and it falls into my hands.
I choose to put it on a pedestal
For worship.

Because what is life without its beauty?
It’s dreary and not worth it.
What is beauty without life?
I don’t think it exists.
How do we even distinguish them?

No questions please,

A part of me feels like dying
And why shouldn’t I be able to ebb and recede?
Nature does it!
And aren’t we all just a stack of bones dutifully reflecting our nature out into our world?
I’m part drunk and stampeding through rough bush in thongs and boardies,
Crashing through trees,
like waves crashing on me.
On the verge of sobs.

I’m part able not to be sad because that’s who I am.
But right now, right now a part of me still feels like dying.
Why can’t I just kill that part!
I am in a fog.
The more I let myself feel this.
The more I’m gonna feel this.
But I want it to encroach me,
A part of me wants it.
Right now, at least
I want to feel it so bad.
I feel like my chest is about to explode.

A part of me feels like dying but I have too much pride to die.
Too much love
Too much expectation.
Too much to give.
I’m desired, like a lot of us.
I’m destined to live with hopelessness like a lot of us.
Let it sit in our backdrop and make snide remarks and pervade the colour scheme.
Luckily my brain is smart enough to deal with this here.

A part of me feels like dying.
And it’s dreadful.
Is it because there is nothing left to buy?
Is it because there is always more to buy?
But I don’t have enough cash for it,
Is it really desire?
Am I really feeling this depressed over money?
Am I just tired or drunk? Stressed or confused? Excited and confused?
Stressed, confused, excited, confused, tired, confused and drunk.

Do I need there to be something wrong with me?

Get a fucking grip man.