outsidethebuzzinghive - LGW

caves and sheds and stacks of plastic chairs and trunk seats and stalactites and moonmilk and window frames and leeches and getting back to a buzzy busy hive and then itching

Outside; a crumbling hive.

Inside; the air like shredded silk.

An argent blouse of smog is torn by the red finger of a stalagmite.

(Soupy)    

              A humid dew that curls my hair.

 

Relieved of my senses, I crawl.

                                Drenched, calescent, silent,

And then I feel the birth of language, with no one to talk to, I learn to speak.

“Irony with its plasmatic film”

I let my voice fill the cave, coating every inch, until I am quite sure it could crack. Then again, all at once the words deflate,

                                           Fall, left writhing in the dirt, in amongst the cathedrals of limestone, between the Moon-milk covered limbs, this is my empire of dust.

                                                                               ***

I’m crawling still, pink knees and palms skinned by red gravel, weaving through rocky arms.

With every inch, introducing my hands to the tiny roads I am creating.

I sputter like an old engine, spitting up what my now raw skin swallows,

                                                                                                                                 It travels through me, forging paths and finding its exits, just as I am.

 

                                         Scratching, scraping the cavity, crumbling the flowstones.

I’m pink, raw all over and I come to see that there is more to know here in this dim grotto, than outside the buzzy hive,

                                        So ill stay, tuck myself in with blankets of deadwood and dust.

Night.

 

 all photos taken, all work created and all words written in Yingina/ great lake area (Tasmania) on stolen land. I acknowledge the aboriginal people of Yingina and their elders past, present and emerging.

lili grace ward

sleep tight

*****