The Man Who Hatched From The Moon

Annie Blake is an Australian writer, thinker and researcher. She is a wife and mother of five children. She started school as an EAL student and was raised and, continues to live in a multicultural and industrial location in the West of Melbourne. Her main interests include psychoanalysis and metaphysics. She is currently focusing on in medias res and arthouse writing. She enjoys exploring symbology and the surreal/psychedelic nature of unconscious material. She is a member of the C G Jung Society of Melbourne and Existentialist Society in Melbourne.

The Man Who Hatched From The Moon

the shrine of early fall returns      kalachakra      the flame was still in the garden      the genres
of its greens      the migration of birds      how they wield their wings      the sliding
of their burdens in the net bag of their meats

my mother’s sunroom      i prefer it the way it used to be       white deck      hull of boats
consternation of my thoughts      the rust dust that rises when they fall into the palm of my skull
uncomfortable chalk      oil on a warmed pan

butcherbirds hook their prey on barbs      my grandfather was a butcher      impaled his son
to his virtual cross      i climb it like a ladder      mount helicon      my helix strakes     plain
pellicle  of my mother     when i pull on her belly rope

i deracinate diamond pins from my hair      with a cat’s paw under my scalp      draw an ikhthys
my intuition      how it swims round and around      a hospital      flying wreath of thistles
and thorn      my dead father dies      there is a method to madness      there is madness

when i’m sick i revert to my infant habits      sugared chamomile tea      buttered white bread
and cold meats      a spider drowning me in her milk      i rethread my ego      my dresses fall
to my ankles when i am skinned      a puddle of curdle and whey      wedding gowns are eggshells      cracked

needles and glass      small window to dance inside      my feet are poppies      field of wine
i throw my gun into the river      through the high life of seas      not to hide the evidence
of courtship      but to wash up      heartless wardrobes and shells      pumping their chests
of treasure      beating with fruit

i gather my shards like grains      i cross-stich the sun      fire becomes a yellow sky
swinging high in the gallows     the interiority of eden’s apple is a star       regina et
mater      mediatrix
the curtain indomitable and circular like a farthingale      i watch her in a temple      i
remove my theatre stockings and dance      i am yama      archetype of soft unstuck hands

fountain from the nets of fishermen      my legs in fishnet stockings      alapadma mudra
vallis lacrimarum      when a boy is frightened in his trenches      when his spokes
rotate like mouths and we take our gulp for manhood      he will cry out for his mother

our son needs the pulp of a cherry      whole      to rise like stone or bone      behind the black hills
my oblation      helming without the rims of circumferences      seamless      the lamb-lined coat
of  heart-cages      her perspiration and heat of oxen tongues grow the trees      chrysoar’s
harvest      swords of blades of wheat      that bow      rock and bough of his moon                                 cradle



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