You awaken in the jungle,
mongroal.
Bees and sweetly, sticky, sap.
drooling from branches.
Taste the air, it is sour, with death.
The death comes from the carcass, next to you.
laying on its hind, a deer.
its fur mangled in the places you cut.
You awaken in the desert,
mouth dry as unmixed peanut butter.
You shudder, cold, so cold, when did the desert get cold.
You feel the heat from above, but the ground absorbs none of it, leaving all but the top of your head cold, and the top of your head, unbearably hot.
You awaken in the ocean,
around you the pollution.
Boats above, send their sound down.
You drown.
and now you reawaken, in a town.
Bricks on your back, a cold floor, so so cold.
Open your eyes now, see the moss, and the feet.
Breathe in the European air. There is no place in the world this could be, other than Europe.
You awaken in the sky,
fly by,
time to die,
it will be over soon.
No stars, no moon.
Unwrapped from your cocoon, and you balloon into...
You awaken in the night,
No light.
Could this be what they spoke of?
Burbling frogs, and cicadas chirp, the night is a place.
And then you see it,
the hand,
reaching, out of trees,
and out the mud,
and hidden by the dark, only the silver lining, cast by the moon’s glow, fades softly around the hand.
You awaken, in the day.
No hiding now, as you look around,
and they are here, the hands, they dance.
“Owhooah! Owhooha! Owoohey!”
At absurdum, into the day, they speak in their language of snaps. Of perfectly timed things, these hands.
These hands that grasp, and clap, and break bones.
They make their sounds, and their sounds rhyme with words.
You awaken in a sprint.
No hint of them near you. no plan.
Sweat is familiar,
exhaustion is not.
Being this hot?
It reminds you of...
You awaken in class.
You worry, will you pass, you cast glances at those who cast them at you,
play with toys, and throw off your shoe.
Pick your nose, eat all the glue.
So hot in this room. What is miss talking about?
a drought? No words come from her, only,
hands. She speaks not with her mouth, but with her hands.
and those good students keep the beat,
they clap along, and their mouths are sealed,
and the bad children rip at their stitches, and find no place to insert fingers, no point that can be grasped, to tear free.
You awaken in the brain.
This is not a place. this is a mind, and it is not yours.
“GET OUT!” it screams. GABA agonists flood over you, and you are lulled into a sense.
You exist only here now, in this mind.
One of a kind,
kind.
kindness.
You awaken in your mother’s arms.
Ducts sting, as she sings, and strokes your hair.
She gives care, and comfort.
and nestled into her, you are warm, but not uncomfortably so.
You can’t breathe well, because you are crying with your mouth,
and your nose is blocked.
and you stop, no movement,
a deep breath.
and you release the snot into your mother’s shirt,
and she does not condemn, but accepts, that this is normal.
that you are a child, and sometimes children need to blow their nose.
and this is calming.
and her hand, her hand, her hand,
and it’s grabbing at you now, and where is the singing, and where is the care?
and its fingers are tangled with your hair, and...
You awaken in the bush,
this place was devastated, at one point, by fire.
Your mother’s hand, drops beside you. Blood pooling around its squirming form.
A scatter behind you, turn, and see the kangaroos.
A group.
Larger.
Their claws sharp, and visible.
The closest of the group no longer eat,
but as the kangaroos go back, in their large numbers.
A gradient exists, with the closest to you, currently fasting, and those furthest away, feasting, gorging themselves off the ground.
A girl, comes to you, gently.
You put out your hand, as if to say you are no threat.
The kangaroo approaches, in a way that makes you think they’ve been fed before.
It uses its tail and legs, a kangaroo traveling at this speed, does not walk, and it does not hop. It swings, it swings itself to you.
The girl, she stops, and her face twitches, and her ear flicks.
Her eye spasms.
And you know this.
The girl bulges, and she swells.
She looks ill, and her fur begins to turn grey, and fall away, revealing her skin, which turns to the colour of concrete, and cracks like it was laid down poorly.
From the girl’s stomach, a movement. and she stops, she stops her twitching, and changing, and looks to you with big eyes, looks to you for food again, as if nothing happened to her.
and from her pouch, something pushes through, a kangaroo’s pouch, you think, looks a lot more like a vagina, than a pouch.
Gunk and slime spill out, and then the first finger.
The second finger, used for marriage,
the third finger, rude and obtuse,
the fourth finger, pointing at you,
and a thumb, swollen, chewed on.
You awaken in a box,
it smells in here, like the box was just made, and it gives you a headache.
There is no space. And you are tired.
It must be time to end this now.
Wherever this box is going, you decide you will go with it.
You will let it take you, with the currents of global trade.
and you sit in the box, for a long time, no scratching at cardboard, or yanking at chains.
You wait, for hours.
and no one comes,
and when finally, you decide you are hungry,
you leave the box,
and you step out, into the back of a truck,
and at the next light, you step out the back,
much to the horror of those cars around you,
and you walk now, so tired, to the nearest cafe,
and you take a seat,
and the waitress-Lola-comes and says something like,
“You look a wreck, for a guy dressed like you, are you alright?”
“Just hungry”, you reply.
and Lola brings you coffee, and something like a pancake, that’s been sitting out for a while.
Lola sits across from you, and you talk,
and she tells you about her life,
and you tell her about yours.
and no one comes in, and no one makes orders, no one comes to cafes in the afternoon,
and as that afternoon fades into evening, you feel your eyes closing,
and Lola goes to clean up the kitchen,
and you fall asleep in the booth at the cafe,
“How could this be any other way?” You dream.
