If anyone has a soul, everyone has a soul.

Snow-studded sycamore with a bird in, with a brain in, with a soul in.

How lucky are we with souls in the trees above us and the air around,

with souls in the soil beneath us and the flesh among us.

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species

These words are just clicks and squeaks and growls, telling you I want you.

This keyboard and the one on my phone are sticks in a termite hill, are feathers in my tail, and what I really want is for us to grab each other and bond and fuck for a few years, maybe longer, if you like.

Flame of Consciousness

Stretching out ahead

Vast narrow wind

Stringy path – goat tracked

Grass matted like my hair at the back when I can’t be bothered to comb.

Poke holes in soil

Dampness

Dew in the morning on the “washing” line

Granted

I’m an adder, swishing through, coiling up

Slow worm

Slow wyrm

A letter and I have wings and claws and

legend gold

Fear inciter (twisted)

Blowing up bin-breath

Antisocial hoarder of things that mean different to me.

A magpie value

Scrooge McDuck Dragon whip my tail and yawn, as you creep past me

Heart pounds

My great yellow eye pierces your body,

Drop in fear and I make you dance, twirling dolly with scaled fingers,

Black glinting talon twirls.

Scar in the lair – you can be Rowan Atkinson’s blue bird