From The Heart

“Transfixed and mixed with a little autumn blue. Somber grey-day (not my hay-day) dull-axed emotion. So this is what it’s like to softly softly tread the well-worn beeswax dancing boards of one-way screaming, sometimes dreaming ticking tocking locked clock life.

Inspired (an acquired taste) with a dash of summer gold that splashes liquid-light; seeping into thickened nights of bored stiff emancipation. So this is what it’s like to breathe and breathe again; relentless, crisp and dry-air atomic neutrino slivers. Flying clean through crumbling cortex rivers of thickened blood.

Bombarded, mind retarded blow by blow with four by two’s six score and one; this is not the fun I thought about (I had no doubt) back hugging warm sweet earth with thin stretched skin. So this is what its like to peer through hardened glass of ‘hocus pocus’ out of focus mystery worlds of goblins, devils, angels too; hell bent on dancing in the ‘morphic fields’ that never yield the truth they paint on the tired ‘sinew’d’ rotting epidermis canvas.

Remotely floating, never gloating at the thin-lipped lives that fall between the weavers thread (they’ll soon be dead) swept clean by black grim reapers; laughing at the silent sleepers comatosed by mammon’s midnight snack. So this is what it’s like to walk alone on moon-struck stone with sweat-gland oil to ease the strain and love-locked pain when walking in the light of God.

Final gasping, thinly rasping at the hair-line thin sweet oxygen that freely floats across a fading field of vision. So this is what it’s like to pass away (I cannot stay) into a pool of shining light and black-night fright; when every cell at last will tell the secrets of a time-locked spell.”

“Machiato long…and make it strong as life is leaking, creaking through these porous bones that often soften as the hard winds blow.

In this ‘winding down-world’ crumpled frown and looking down I’m silent like the grey-chipped tomb that leaps to greet me from the sweetened humus deep below; years will show the depth of iron-clad shell that ‘araldited black as nighted’ nails my cotton wool soul firmly shut with steely voice.
“Relax my child you have no choice!”

Yet somewhere round a warm-glow song-fire, guy fox bonfire hands are warmed and cheeks red singed. An Irish carefree windswept shanty song is sung in angel’s voice.
Straining, craning to the sunspot tune below the leaping flame; words flee in ‘speed of light’ faster than my iron willed passion can pursue in weak boned pain.

“I’m raped!” I scream in roaring silence trapped in grey-walled highlands with their glassy classy rods and cones with focal zones that tease at life like clouds without the rain.

So machiato strong! Maybe a little shorter than the one you brought here just before the day begins. I laugh at you as glass walls glisten, straining as the weak-song waivers clinging to the semi quavers sneering at the dancing words. Scoffing at the pain within.”

“If I were a painter; I’d paint deep-stroked coarse-bristled red-edged shapes trimmed with black on fine white cotton. Colours, browns of umber! Rich volcanic rock hewn thoughts well done. Not forgotten.

Eight dots of grey from charcoal sticks plucked from life’s sweet fires would adorn the fraying edge; but pinks and lemon yellows pretty I’d leave upon the ledge.

If I were a painter; I’d take slender feet from long slim girls and walk them through a cool lime green; then place them in the field of vision, left where petal’d toes had been.

Then while the thick paint slowly dried. Wrinkling, curling round the sides with scallop flower thin precision; I’d take a scalpel sharp and clean, and deftly, swiftly like a surgeon make an open wound incision. Into this universal cry of bleeding, weeping life-cracked hollow of vermilion red, I’d pour my blood hot tired emotions. Reflecting words that can’t be said.

If I were a painter tired and old; Id want my cotton ‘threaded’ life’s long journey, masterpiece ‘stretched tight’ on angels’ bone; held by four great-headed beasts that worship close to God’s white throne.”

“Deep calls unto deep as spirits whisper golden threads; sweet words like morning dew on silk trace nervous lines. Travelling in a gossamer ‘other-worldly’ time.

Line on line there and here. Sweet small steps that print on earth made moist by lemon bitter tears. Walk the way made simple by the passing years.

Little by little settle into lighter hearts and fiercer minds. Fixed with possum gaze at the vision both within and in the other place; the quiet ‘sure as golden’ sun and sweet breeze space.

Hour-by-hour. Now is the only sign, the time to rush in fast to futures past and never ending open road ahead; where slowly slowly loves fine hand quietly as the angels sing, opens up the other door instead.

So enter now and breathe again the fragrant prayer filled breath. The breath of life.”

“There’s just something so fresh and lightening bright when two eyes paired collide, and ride for that eternal microsecond locked.

Then like saddened pre destined protons bouncing tangent, obtuse and furtive, it’s to the ground or up to heaven. God forbid they stay a while to breed a row of pearls framed by lips of flesh, to smile and say a holy prayer.

“Hello I’m human, blood and liver complete with engine-red and raging cells. Care for a dance, a chance encounter with a stranger, stranger? No, you’re right, better off by far to batten down the concrete hatch to crush those ‘true blue’ feelings that just may catch you out!”

“If I only lived for one sweet day, what would I say? What words would from my new lips fall?

I’d say love and faith and fuck’n cunt, excuse me if I seem too blunt it’s just my way. You see. I only have just one small day!

If I only lived for one small hour, what would I do? Would I be sour?

I’d run naked through the living room, armed with knife and fork and spoon to eat a hot Thai dinner. What the hell! I’ll soon be thinner

If I only lived for just a minute, what would I think? Would I wrestle with concepts lofty tall? Or fuck it not at all!

I’d think in sixty seconds blocks, from sweet soft cunts to aching cocks. Thinking all the good things first. Why would I start with the worst?

If I only lived for a single second. What would I feel? What emotions would I squeeze into that frozen moment on my knees?

I’d feel the love of God with joy and peace and dredge the depths of pain beneath to fathom all emotions cross the human scale. Until the end of time grew pale.

After all you see. We have only one second you and I. To live them one by one.”

“Life fell on me today. Crushed my bones to dust and ashes scattered in my soft eyelashes just like Mum on fine red roses. Like petals under soft bulldozers.

Life sucked me in today. A whirlwind terror spinning vortex, axis angled from the sun to catch my shadow, four o’clockish. Coy and sweet almost coquettish.

Life toyed with me today. Teasing pulling nose in air, it prodded me to deep despair then fled. Leaving me with limp wings spread.

Life questioned me today. Asked if it was quite all right that deep inside the next black night a friend might visit. An important event I was assured. A ghost of childhood seen not heard.

Life fell upon my neck today. Danced stark naked round my table asking if like Cain and Abel offspring might be born. Children from the seed of sin. Sneering at my frozen spirit deep within.

Life befriended me today. Smiling through mascara lashes walking through the golden ashes hand in hand we chatted such as lovers do. Growing one from two.

Life laughed in my face today. Exhausted by the mounting work the toil and tears, I pleaded for a stay of mortal fears that steal my thinning smile. But that’s life so stay a while!”

“Thrust, moan and sweet smelling juices trickle down legs lost in love’s sacrifice.

Fire and torture, teasing passion love-locked limpet mounted pleasure.

Sudden rigid pre-ignition tremble, primeval souls sweet cell division, and love unlocks the secret odour power.

Emotions scramble try to re arrange.”

“The night I rag doll peered across in crimson horror deep wound gaze, only you dear one in loose fit dressing, draped across your past life genes
could save me from the horror hot and sacred flesh that killed me cold.

Only you my deep-well friend, font and tender spring of vital childlike soft-word touch and praise, could quench the firebrand crucible of insulated hate and strangled heart.

I now well-worn wonder at the young and small aged mind and heart that beats in love torn breasts, and wait no more for feeble bones and crippled limbs to free me from the hand that fed the wicked flesh of mortal sin”.

“Colour me, surround me, shroud me in one mystery or is it two?

You talk of love and boundless free-fall pacts with thumb-prick blood-thick lovers dumb-struck bonds.

Yet no mention of the gentle unobtrusive hand of God or mothers milk that gently talks within you both. Some of this or that of far-star life.

Weeping like an ancient infant, changing in a metamorphic fog, you reach for life and find it waiting, wanting.

Springing from within your hybrid soul, it also weeps to river form a braided delta raging storm, that fury howls across the great divide to cut the ground from where you stand as downward, outward, inward fall you only die”.

“Lonely bone chains moved in tune today to a warbled, garbled not so long song that fell like thawed treacle into frozen ears from tawny pages; ripped from a tired paper bark and singing just for me? I just can’t see.

Gangly ganglions shuddered, shivered sudden in pre-ignition vision as a thin slice of just-in-time light fell like tired butterflies; swimming on their backs and seeing far too much? This I cannot touch.

Soma-sensory soldiers gathered in legions bewildered in the dirt. Some were slightly hurt as a rough-as-rose sized needle found its mark; slaying epidermis soldier cells that sniffed before they fell? The dead I cannot smell

Olfactory flaring worker bees sprayed a feint scent into the air today beating on a different drum. Smelling sexual tensions in the air; looking for another way to beat the death that marches on in haste? At last here’s something to my taste.

Fungiform tongue-room mushroom buds exploded, slapping left and right free-forming like sweet papillae in the mud; moving ever upwards only one thing in their hooded skulls. To brown and whither on the plates of drifting gods that play with subtle jaded grin? I sense another deep within.

Brooding clever angels locked in fresh flesh prison feathers, soft like down struggle for the fading crown that sits high in temporal horn today. Peeking at the ancient light and squealing clean in ruffled words and voices high in fright? One way they say and to the light.”


Featured Posts

Showreel – Creative Services

A video showreel outlining all creative services offered by Wayne Tindall @ Chaotica. Chaotica Showreel 2016-YouTube sharing from wayne tindall on Vimeo.

Chaotica Laneway Project

This project has taken five years and is now complete. I have worked with artists from all over Melbourne to transform a once dirty dark alleyway in Melbourne’s inner East, into a vibrant ‘Art Precinct’ …

Aboriginal Health Campaigns

CLICK PHOTO TO VIEW One of the latest campaigns for Aboriginal communities in Australia. The “SMOKING…ARE YOU KIDDING?”campaign is another major holistic anti smoking campaign, this time for the Gippsland Tobacco Action & Healthy Lifestyle Team …