Nicola Easthope
Sit quietly with your eyes closed.
Let your breath slow and fuuu–
you’ve spilt your sweet milk
tea in the lotus of your lap.
Remember your breaths.
Visualise the fawn heat
fertilising the lower half
of your body
burning, moist, vital soil.
In your mind’s eye
take up the vacuum
cleaner, clogged at the head –
your index finger and thumb
pulling out lengths of hair,
yarn and puppet fluff –
fluoro and rainbow and
dandruff you must suck
up again. Try to picture
a white lotus
blooming in the upper half
of your body. See the tannin
staining the petals. Say,
I am willing to embody my spirit.
Gaze deeply into the blossom that is
truth. What nature of truths
do you see? The first conversation
of the morning yesterday –
But bad manners don’t matter
on a building site, Miss. Listen
for words that will inspire a whole
generation of mates, calling out
the calling out. I am calling
to my spirit, Miss.
Back to the lotus striving,
notice the breath.
Have you marked it yet?
Haven’t you left yet?
Meanwhile, the flower’s dead.
Picture yourself planting the baby
cactus into the larger pot
out on the deck. I am willing
to embellish my spirit. Give away
your old Faludi and Spenders
to the young women about to leave,
yeah, rattle the seed out of stasis, man,
breathe in the Mammilaria,
blow out the candle.
What truths?
Your spine is a stem
marked with spines,
a porcelain mug hot
at the sacrum. Check
your computer screen
and the top tab of 17 you left
open last night. Open your eyes.
Watch as the Sophie Elliott PledgeMe breaks $10k.
