My tent billows and tugs,
like a boat on an anchor rope.
The great easterly springs to life.
cooling the scorched earth.
Tiny beads of moisture
make the gravel darker.
Dark shadows of the spinifex border,
the path of desire,
setting my thoughts
wandering,
out into the eternal
vastness of the plains .
When in quiet contemplation,
I remember,
those Pilbara heady days.
The barbs of ego highly charged,
the spinifex blades piercing my feet,
and laughter shook my soul.
The primal thrust,
and the basic source,
ripped bellies and their volcanic crust.
While old Frank keeps a humble watch
his job to pump and plunge. (the water bore)
The Alien homestead, primal too.
Its doors and windows gone.
Wild throng visitation.
We are but here a while.
Inhabiting this strange and,
eerie landscape,
brings up crazy mad desires.
This morning,
there comes a calm
and peaceful end,
to all the mad wild thing.
For love itself, has entered through the door.
pouring inti the landscape,
unleashed the visitation upon the land.
And now, our primal instincts,
extinguished for survival of the clan.
A wild band of little heroes ,
plunge into homemaking .
in the homesteads empty shell.
And the dark voluminous sky,
in fractal pattern,
reflect the chaos so.
The Art is done.
