I am not here.

I am not Here. 

I am not here. I am 25 years old stubbly, serving up burgers 10.30 am in a greasy van. I cook my onions perfectly and dream of my future wife. 

I am not here. 

I am shucking oysters.

Tight lipped on some foreign shore.

Shells slice my fingers 

and my blood mixes into sea water surrounding their translucent, salty dying. 

I am not here, I am a giantess 

Striding the land sending shudders, 

making fire in the deep recesses of the earth to burn down your death culture.

I am not here, driven by sublime agony 

my mind rests from the pain of birth, 

in a cave in a Western Isle. 

Lying in the darkness, I count water droplets as they fall from crystal shards 

into pot holes beyond my sight.

I am not here. I am an astronaut. 

Taking Space. 

Umblicus stretched so thin I cannot recognise my mother – 

Earth, 

just another abstraction in the gravityless void of my colonial conceptions 

I am not here. I am stardust on your tongue,

in your marrow 

flexing your spine 

lick your lips 

What’s yours is mine.