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Last night I heard consciousness whisper crude jukebox sonnets to an already subdued and lovesick dream, while in between the body slept with ancient purpose. Absurd in absent motion. Groping sculpted bedsheets with the thirst for intimacy. Primal as the moment of touch. Homesick for reality, warm and sweaty nights of tantric communism. Dreamlike but true. Never forever but long enough to seem, another dimension away.

Last night, new age dinosaurs stole our campsite fire while we slept like escapees from a world of bitumen. Singing the winds eaves. Listening like an audience of trees. Moon dancing with gravity nightclub spinning earth beneath, barefeet heartbeats on dust floor of bush grass, speaking touch against bark skin of sacred scars. Eyes opening, risen in morning over mountain fauna, chasing. Species of nativity. Freedom in the uncontained theme park of this land.

Last night I saw this insect crawling through the cracks in the system error, picking honey smacks of consent to chew upon while it delicately manouvres the monoliths of industry and love on the pathway of its fate. And stuck in traffic to the hive one day it looks up yearning to the rippled sky to see an ocean of possibilities, if only it could glide the currency of the wind market, envious of the birds who hold the secret of flight tight within their petal feathered wings like wild satellites of life. They are the acoustic sounding card, early warning signposts to alert the silent spring - tiny angels for the trees, concerned with ecology, forgetting humankind.

All these are maps torn softly from the ether, translated in visions of shaman poets to language code to describe secret webs hidden and beautifully uncivilised, outside of aesthetic tourism, self contained and interdependent. Oblivious as the clouds journey through reservoir and storm drain. Revolutionary as solar winds curving atmospheric sunset aflame, feeding the clean meal of productivity everyday. Retrofit suburbs of permaculture born futurist, dead as the past, foetal in its infancy, awoken and broadcasting the sound of acoustic ecology, bandwidth increasing naturally, protest of lifestyle evolving like modern pagans trading song for the right to be alive.

Mystic as a leaf.

Chaos fingerprint fallen and scattered carpet.

Grounding me.

~ MAPS by Tim Parish first published in The Oracle zine, 2002