aurora

 

 

i am aurora

the sun god

 

the light pours out from me

scything apart

the dark 

 

i am aurara

the night-swimmer

emerging from the black

 

i am aurara

i am the dawn

and 

i 

have

come

for

you

 

 

 

adventures in the underworld

 

 

 

 

The fix is in, the fix is in!

 

The shaman, the black-clad night-tripper smiles and beckons me to follow. We enter the garden together and stand chilling in the winter air. He lets my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness and I wait, heart pounding.

 

A lightening flash. A bare-bone skeleton tree sears my retina!  It splits in two, opening the gate to a new world beyond.

 

 

I fall to my knees before a shrunken shrub resting its head on the night soil. I'm captivated by its charms.

 

 

The shaman stands to my left. He claps his hands three times. At the third clap a shaft of light emerges from the ground. It races the length of a far away tree before it disappears into the blackness only to return a moment later to repeat its journey over and over again in a hypnotic tic-toc loop.

 

I'm locked in now. Unable to rise to my feet I crawl slowly on my hands and knees toward the distant tree.

 

My body absorbs the textures of the ground beneath as I edge ever closer. I look up. A spectral pattern of light veins the night sky.

 

I rest for a while, holding my hand to the intermittent pulses of light.  Strange iridescent forms start to course back and forth across the surface of my skin 

 

One final push and I'm there. The tree greets my arrival with a shower of myrrh-scented needles. They prick open my flesh and enter in.

 

The iridescent skin formations crystallise, turning me to bark at the moon. Now the fix kicks.

 

 

 

 

 

Dancing among the death of last year. Strange hues and flash backs. The shaman draws near, in his hand a single preserved flower. 'Look' he commands. 

I look and the flower explodes into tone before reaching forward to bite off my head.  And now things get seriously weird.

 

 

the world spins around me

 

 

  

all colour drains

until there is nothing  left

 

but

 

the smallest spectral trace of my life

 

as it passes

 

from the garden

 

the hall as dusk falls

in the night garden

in the night garden

once more

padding the soft moss lawn

which floats in the dying winter light

purple-headed hellebore 

breaks ground

and sharp leaves

pierce the growing gloom

as a church watches over

the path leads home