Naked and spectacular

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A Lucid Failure

This is the text of a performance I gave at the 2015 Melbourne Fringe Festival.  I was intending to produce a play called Lucid, but I failed and instead performed this monologue.  You can also listen to an audio recording of the final performance.

[I enter in smart-casual attire.]


Today I stand before you weak.  But I am not ashamed.  I have been strong before, I remember what it feels like.  I know how to get back there.  But right now I am weak, clothed, civilised.  I have no gifts, no riches, no joy or inspiration to offer you at this moment.  I offer you only a taste of my despair and desolation; my story.

You came here tonight to see something I was unable to deliver.  But perhaps my failure is as worthy of your attention as my success may have been.  You may have come for entertainment; and if so, I apologise.  You may have come for nudity and scandalous displays of humanity, and in this I will do my best.

I have come here tonight to stand before you fully naked, because I think the human body is a work of intense beauty, and that gentleness, vulnerability and honesty are the most powerful ways we can interact.

I wrote an intimate and challenging play, intending to assemble a team to rehearse my convoluted play until we could perfectly replicate it on cue, but I failed.  I wanted to present vulnerability and intense presence in an entirely contrived and artificial form; and I know, it sometimes works, I have seen some great theatre.  But instead, all I can offer you is the real thing.

I'm sorry, I'm just a person.  I'm not a character, I'm not a metaphor.  I am an immense and ancient entity in a delicate physical body.  I can dress for the occasion but nothing prepares me for the world like being totally naked.


I was told my power animal was a rat when someone saw how good I was at shoplifting, walking out openly with a bagful of stuff, finding cosy places to sleep everywhere I went.  But I was never very comfortable being a rat.  It's not very sexy.  I wanted a better power animal.
And one came to me in a dream.  I dreamed that I woke up, got out of bed, and went outside to find a fox staring at me in calm alert presence before dashing off into the bush.  A fox!  As sneaky and feral as a rat, but also wild and beautiful, with the luminous eyes of a loving dog and the potential for danger or gentleness.
So at our power animal guided meditation this summer I expected to see a fox.  I walked through the landscape I was guided to imagine as it slowly became more vivid, looking around for a creature I could relate to.  I was holding a staff, walking with it, feeling its power, when I suddenly thought of Moses.  I threw the staff to the ground and it became a snake.  I reached out my hand and the snake returned to my hand as a staff.  I had been carrying my power animal with me the whole time, always having that potential in my hand, to transform into a snake.

Sneaky, quiet, passive and yet potentially dangerous; sleek, sexy and close to the earth.  For some it might be terrifying to have a snake slither up your leg, bite you on your ankle or your thigh or your...  For others maybe it's quite thrilling, especially when at any moment, that snake can pull back and I am not a cold-blooded reptile, but a warm body with a pair of luminous eyes that reveal everything about my loving intention.
It was a snake in the Garden of Eden that tempted Eve to eat the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and she ate that apple, and the juice runneth over her lips and down her chin.
The Christians claim that the snake was Satan, the deceiver, but Joseph Campbell claims that in every culture except the Judeo-Christian-Industrial-Economy culture, the snake was always the primary deity of the garden and that Jahweh was a peripheral deity, though clearly trying to make it big, favouring one race over all others and spreading across the world with the power of genocide and agriculture.  Jahweh is still the primary deity of our culture, the atheists worshipping him as ravenously as the fundamentalists.  Jahweh supposedly doesn't exist anymore, but he's the same god of genocide and agriculture, now a secular god called The Economy.
The snake is still the deity of the garden, perhaps, its belly always close to the earth, a deity who is close to the goddess, the mother of all life, who gives the apple to man, Adamah, who is also of the earth, despite his lofty ideas and the strange demonic voices whispering in his head.
I grew up in a Christian Capitalist culture, a member of the chosen people, the pure whites, to whom the planet belonged, as far as the eye could see.  We already had satellite imagery, so we could see the whole planet, and so it all belonged to us, one master race under god, with liberty and justice for sale.
But I ate the apple and after that crude oil milkshakes tasted nauseating and I would argue in the street with evangelical Christians and try to undermine their numb-minded sincerity.  I would argue with evangelical Capitalists in uniforms at train stations, or security guards who kicked me out of my shelter into the rain in the middle of the night, trying to sow seeds of doubt into the idiot sincerity with which they were “just doing their job”.  We never know what seeds eventually sprout and grow, but we do know that antagonism provokes defensiveness.
I know I can shed my skin when I need to.  I can leave behind my own numb-minded sincerity and the idiotic culture I've allowed to leak into my psyche.  I can be a rat hiding alone in my little hovel and I can be a snake and eat that rat whole, simply upon deciding to do so.
And here I stand, appearing reasonable and civilised, but knowing that this staff in my hand can at any time be thrown down and I can become a snake.  I can shed my skin, I can change my name, the way I dress, the way I talk, I can become a new person, reborn into a new life.
I can leave behind a life of loneliness, antagonism, moral superiority and freedom, I can refine my words on the ears of the sophisticated until they are sharp and effective.  I can subvert the straight and tense by slithering up their muscular leg and biting them on their ankle, or their thigh, or their...
I can integrate, I can shed my skin, I can give up my values and maintain my integrity.  I can drink chlorine and my thirst will be quenched.
But I yearn for more, I settle for no compromise.  Nothing will satisfy me but total power or total annihilation.
I am who I say I am.  Nothing will come between me and the world but my inevitable death and the reliability of that death reassures me that I cannot take this too far.

I want to drink your semen every morning like a shot of espresso from your ecstatic ejaculation.  I want a new lover every day.  I want to reveal myself so they all know who I am.

Yes, I shop at the stupormarket now and yes, I keep my myki topped up, but I am not another hetero slave, I'm a fucking faggot shaman, you fools.


[Philip Glass, solo Wichita Vortex Sutra, over the following]

I claim I freely chose to come here to the city, earnestly committing to an urban existence.  I felt it was too easy to be free out there, under the stars, surrounded by life, in my secure sanctuary where no chaos or confrontation were ever expected of me.  Security has always made me uneasy.  So if I can be free out there in the wilderness, and in rural enclaves, perhaps I should attempt a type of freedom only possible in the city.  A freedom of association and a freedom of expression.

I told the story of my urban pilgrimage frequently and convincingly enough to believe it myself.  I signed contracts and made commitments.  Instead of simply standing up before a willing audience with spontaneity and presence, I decided to plan a profoundly unspontaneous performance, set in contractual stone, surrounded by real professionals who take what they do more seriously than I can understand.  I stepped into a tar pit that I felt unable to simply abandon.

I am afloat in a sea of paradox.  The paradox of human organisation, opportunity versus responsibility.  Make a commitment and the door opens and you are bound to walk through.  You cannot do anything without thorough organisation and even insurance.  Spontaneity is illegal and not financially viable and unprofessional.  You are doomed to oblivion and irrelevance unless you can integrate your offering into a season planned at least six months in advance.  Run away, little boy.  We know how scared you are of commitment and officialdom and contractual obligation and financial obligation.  You've known all along you've pushed yourself too far.  Run, you pathetic weakling.

Am I a hypocrite for envying this world I criticise?  I wanted the adoration, the legitimacy, the success; that I am finally making my own theatre.  I am a professional.  I am successful.

I must believe, and no longer in myself, but in my abstraction.  I have trademarked and copyrighted it.  It is successful and professional.  It is legitimate, it has been ordained by the deacons of Economy.  I paid for this venue, you paid to get in here, I have successfully delivered whatever meaningless distraction I promised you.  But I didn't deliver, did I, that's why I'm standing naked before you today.  With no character to hide behind and no success to hide behind.  I am sorry.

You came here tonight to see a success and I am a failure.  I somehow wandered into this city and this theatre and now here I am alone onstage without the veil of bullshit that got me here.  And no veil of entertainment to protect you from what I have to say.

I have no desire to be successful.  I do not want the burden of a career.  Money does not interest me at all.  I do not want to be an artist, whose definition of legitimacy is selling out.  I am real, I don't care about that shit.  I am a liar, I know.  I want your praise, I want your adoration.  I want to tell people my show was a sell-out and that I'm successful now.  I want to sell out on my own terms.  But I am compromised by my own integrity - What's that? - I said my own insecurity - Pardon? - My own instability.

I want to take all my clothes off and cover myself in mud.  I want to dance while you make music around me.  I want to do all this without it being weird.  I want to be spectacular.  I want you to love me.  I want to have coherent thoughts I can communicate clearly to you.  I want the most open-hearted and bright-eyed young man in the room to approach me and take my hand and look me in the eye.  I want to wake up in a world where I am strong and confident.

Why won't you let me wake up into my dream?  Why won't the world manifest my desires?  This mechanistic grid has been laid upon the world and our art and our love are the blood pumping through the veins of this grid.  We didn't make this grid, but we were born into it and we feed it every day with our passion and our creativity.

[end Philip Glass]

We are exhausted with the weight of language.  We are bombarded with it every moment we attempt to engage with our culture.  Advertising assaults us involuntarily everywhere we look.  Attractive young people harass us on the street for charity.  We seek it endlessly like addicts.  We drink it like wine when really it is language laced with poison.

I grew up in this noise and I barely questioned it for two decades.  I remember asking my mother when I was eight years old, “Mum, how come, out of all the religions in the world, we just happened to choose the right one?”  What a precocious question, you may think, but can you see the na├»ve assumption that our culture is obviously correct?  Because to consider that our culture might be wrong is not precociousness, and it is not cute, it is disillusionment; and like all sleight-of-hand, once you have seen the trick you cannot un-see it.

So why have I not withdrawn from this shitty culture I hypocritically condemn?  Why am I not out in the wilderness, gathering wild food, sleeping and making love under the stars?  Well, I am a hypocrite.  Maybe not as much as you all are, but enough.  And, I found paradise.  I found the most beautiful place to live and I lived there peacefully for years; a remote Maori community in far north Aotearoa.  I arrived there six years ago and the place and the people drew me in and healed me in a way I didn't know was possible.  The world opened up before my eyes and I travelled through the world with joy as my currency and the whole world embraced me and I felt no fear.

Eventually I went back to my quiet nurturing paradise, but I discovered I would need at least 50 people to live with me for it to be viable.  So, I shed my skin, I gave up my values, and I came here to Melbourne to engage with you luscious and vibrant people.

What a shame that I can't offer you the best of myself because here I am in an environment that burdens, stresses and suppresses my energy; where I must wear shoes and I can't get naked.

I'm sick of telling stories about the great things I've done while spending my days perving at guys in the public sauna and masturbating in the shower.  Every time a beautiful one smiles at me or bores his eyes into me I think my chest is going to burst open.  I want to invite him to get naked in the shower with me but I'm too fucking scared.

I used to be strong and confident.  As recently as Confest in April I was frustrated by not being able to kiss the man I loved under the full moon lunar eclipse.  Rather than accept this rejection I channelled the emotion into joy.  I embodied the drunken goat, fully sober, and played the fool naked for the perplexed and delighted crowd.  I was naked and unambiguously Man and fully totally Human and also, like my pre-colonised ancestors, I was Pagan and channelling a divinity.  I was Bacchus, the goat god of drunkenness, dance, orgy and ritual madness.  I tripped over people, I danced with them and I burned away their superficiality with the calmly intense presence of my eyes.

I was not afraid of the women with whom our eyes would share delight and we would dance.  I was not scared of the men with whom our eyes would share desire and we would fight.  I wasn't upset by the people who thought I was an arsehole and glared at me; and I wasn't thinking of the man I loved who did not love me back.  I was in my body, in my environment, in my tribe with a fullness of presence I would be surprised if anyone in this audience has ever experienced.

I wasn't drunk, I wasn't tripping.  I was channelling a fucking archetype cos I'm a human being.  Do you even know what a human is outside of this policed and sanitised world?  Have you ever seen a real one, unclothed, uncultured and unmediated?

Wasn't it your loving grandparents who systematically destroyed nations of real human beings to make this facile White Australia?  Have you ever considered that maybe guilt is not the solution?  What kind of threat did real human beings pose to your civilised educated culture?  Did their presence alone in some way contradict the thousands of years of religious, economic and political tyranny that has warped you into these monstrous post-human automatons of awkwardness and compliance?

Am I a hypocrite?  Is that enough to dismiss me?  Look at me.  I offer you to truly see me and look at me.  I am not performing.  I am playing no character.  This me is more real than any me you will have encountered in the city.  Cos it's illegal to be human here.

Is there anybody in this audience who claims to be a human being, despite your education, despite the trauma supposedly inlaid in your DNA?  I invite you to come down here and get naked with me.  I'm trembling with intensity too, but here I am.

So, who else is present tonight?  Who is alive and engaged enough to come down onto this stage with me and look me in the eye?  It's okay if you're nervous, if you're self-conscious and awkward.  You are safe here to be brave and to be vulnerable.  I will be gentle with you and we will all graciously accept you in the fullness of how you feel in this moment.

So, who is willing to come down and get naked with me?  Since when was it fun to get naked alone?

[I invite willing audience members to come onstage and we get naked and dance to The Bathtub, from Beasts of the Southern Wild by Benh Zeitlin and Dan Romer]


When I was sitting next to a strong young man this afternoon it was not just his thighs exposed below his shorts, but the heat and indifference of his presence that made my penis drip, as if it was salivating.

What does a man do with such a passionate experience of life?  Smoke weed and eat until those feelings are veiled in a bloated detachment, a borderline infirmity?  That's what these drugs are for, otherwise us men would be fighting and fucking each other constantly, am I right?

Or am I peculiar?  Merely a horny faggot or perceptive in the depth and intensity of my masculinity?

I demand communication in full honesty, with its complexity, its rejection and its earned calm peace.  I don't know when it's safe to be brave in rooms shrouded in etiquette, chatter and electricity.

For over a year I insulated myself in my private paradise, with food, with literature, with philosophy, with denial of life, denial of the intensity of life, denial of the imperative nature of this moment, that this moment demands to be confronted, that we know what to do in this moment.

I do not want to be entertained anymore.  I do not want to be distracted.  I do not want comfort or convenience.  I do not want to have my own space in which I can develop as an individual.

I want to be violated.  I want my body to be violated.  I want my space to be violated.  I want my persona, my ideology, my habits, to be violated.

I want to possess the confidence to violate the beautiful men who beg me silently to violate them, if only so they can reject me, make me realise I am safe in rejection because rejection is real and when I am rejected I know I must leave and find a place where I am valued.

I am not an individual and I never have been.  It is clear to me now that my life is meaningless except in relation to my tribe.

I experience this world only through the conduit of my body, because this is the extent to which I am manifest in this world.  My body is like a glove of total immersion in a world of total darkness.  In this darkness, as this form moving through space, I encounter warm bodies and realise that I too am a warm body.  Nothing is more compelling than this moment we discover each other in the darkness.

The moment overwhelms me with intensity and the scope of its possibility and I choose whether to eat myself out of this moment, or breathe into it.

I'm no monk.  I'm not citizen living in a constructed universe. My universe is chaotic and divine.  The divinity of the universe I inhabit is blurred and messy and beyond my powers of comprehension.

From here I know anything is possible, but right now only the next thing is possible.  Only what is necessary and appropriate.  In this case, getting the fuck out of the city.


I definitely consider this play a failure.  That's not necessarily a bad thing of course.  Here I am standing all alone on stage, offering you something.  Let's call it a one man show.

So my real failure was to collaborate.  What a beautiful connection it would have been to create this play of gentle thoughtful intimacy together.  And the individuality that I rage against was my biggest impediment.  Yes, I'm a fucking individual.

No wonder I beg to be violated.  I don't want to be a director.  I want to have a director tell me what to do.  “You, actor, kiss that other actor.  I want to see you both enjoy it.” What invisible barrier do I have to break down to be a part of something, to submit, to believe?  I say I worship the goddess of Chaos, but I refuse to give others control over me.

I like to think of myself as a top, to be in control, to gently and lovingly do the fucking, but maybe I'm secretly a bottom and what I really want is for someone to take me, to be able to relinquish control, to be taken over by someone brimming with loving desire.  But I avoid these situations.  Like when a beautiful woman focusses her intensity on me, I am terrified at the mysterious power and depths of her incomprehensible femininity.  That's where being a faggot is an easy excuse, an unforgivable abdication.

That's why I need to be violated: my boundaries are too strong.

Take me, my fellow humans, make of me something beautiful, because I want to join your family of open arms.  I will resist, but you're stronger than me, you can take me.  When I feel your throbbing cock pushed gently and firmly into my bum, I will be flooded with pleasure and pain and I will submit to your love and desire, I will become a body amongst other bodies, no longer a lone human amidst a fantasy of alienation.

You're real too, I know you are.  Meet me halfway, please.  I know it's a big ask, but I'm willing to do it too.  I have nothing else to hope for.  I have nothing more to hide behind.  I dream of nothing other than my body and my life melting into the social body, like in my death my body will melt back into the earth.


You fools.  Do you have any idea how full and intense life can be out there?  I wonder if you even have any idea what I'm talking about, sitting here in the city. When did comfort become better than life and security the goal in a world where you are guaranteed to die?

How easy it is to be a part of nature, to take off my clothes in public.  How good it feels to be fully present in my body, to feel every calm breath draw strength into my organism, to treat my organism with.  I care nothing for all the bullshit you call civilisation and consider progress from being an animal; convenience, sterility, abstraction.

I don't know what to do sometimes cos there are these rules that I don't always understand.  There are these fears and barriers and anxieties, which do not emerge from the nature of this organism.  They are placed there by the abstractions of this poisonous civilisation we have been speaking into existence for so many thousands of years.

That's all I've ever wanted to do, to embrace.  To maintain a clarity in my relationship with my body, my environment and my tribe; to allow that sustained clarity to take my life further and further until death relieves me of the tension of this delicate balance between staying alive and living as fully as possible, between ecstasy and sanity, between my rational mind and my irrational mind.

Because what's more irrational than staying alive?  In a world where our species is clearly destroying the planet, the only rational solution is to lay our bodies down to nourish the soil.  And so life itself becomes a ridiculous folly.


I feel most alive when I am on stage, in front of an audience.  Suddenly life is as dangerous and intense as I need it to be, suddenly my words have an impact, as if I'm a real person with a real role to play.

Up here I get to fully embody my complexity, I get to breathe adrenaline with my oxygen, and best of all, I am powerful, and I need to be powerful.  Maybe some of you know me as shy, but it is only a matter of placing myself in the right environment and I know I can be anyone I want.  Of course I want to be the strongest, most loving and most ruthless poet on the planet.

I want to actually have a purpose in this world, not just a career.  Something that is going to reverberate through human history like a shockwave.  I want to stand on the mountain and speak and I want the vibrations of my speech to destroy shopping malls and government buildings.  For human beings to forget their culture and the imprisonment of their beliefs for a moment, to deconstruct their lives and their habits until they are human again; Pagan; terrestrial.

My name, Christopher, means carrier of Christ, and I have considered that maybe I am the reincarnation of Christ.  That intuition caused me to realise that many of us are capable of becoming the Christ.  Many of us are called to be powerful, but there is one thing that Jesus did that most potential Christs don't; he was willing to die.

Are we ready for that?  Ready for no turning back?  Or do we want to spend a few more years in bed, watching TV?  It does nothing for me, that which you call comfort and security; to me it is vapid, tasteless.  I am not tempted by it.  I want to destroy it all.

Maybe I don't want to be the Christ, but the Antichrist.  I certainly want to dispose of Christianity, Capitalism, Civilisation.  But didn't Christ want to do the same?  Didn't he call the religious leaders of his day hypocrites?  Just like he would say to all today's so-called Christians, just as he would say to all you so-called artists, so-called activists, so-called anarchists.  You hypocrites!  Just as he would say to me.  You fucking hypocrite!  What are you doing here, trying to make a show for the Fringe Festival?  Do you really want to be respected in the Melbourne theatre world, or do you want to destroy the institutionalisation of art?  What are you trying to prove?

I stand before you a pathetic domesticated weakling, neither Anarchist nor Antichrist.  Neither a success nor a failure.  In one week's time I will be out of this city, running around amongst hundreds of people in some festival.  In one month I will be further away, naked by some river.  After that I'm not sure, because I refuse to lay my expectations down upon the majestic surprise and ambiguity of the universe and the life I am experiencing.

I do have a goal in life, though I don't know if I'll ever reach it.  I intend to empower my words with increasing clarity and density until I need speak only one sentence, or one word, and that word would reverberate throughout my environment and transform all those who hear it.  I will reignite the religion of my primitive ancestors and the power of their poets to heal or to curse with their words alone, to be an essential part of the tribe and for the tribe to live in harmony, without abstractions replacing the tangible ambiguities of life in the wild.

I am ready for real life as a real human in a real tribe.

And when I die I want my naked body placed right there in the moist dark earth and I want an avocado tree planted above me, so for decades or centuries to come worms will eat my flesh back into soil and the roots of the tree will entangle my limbs and crush my bones, and all the minerals in my body will be drawn up the roots of this tree and out into the beautiful luscious oily fruits, and those fruits will be eaten by humans and other animals, and will nourish and delight their tenuous, temporary lives.


I had a vision of Hell in which its most distinctive feature is that everyone thinks it is Heaven.

My first vision of Hell is a festival in the desert where everyone thinks everyone else is having a good time and so they should be having a good time too.  They wander around alone through little scenes where participation necessitates embodying a grotesque caricature of a human being.  Everybody around them is desperately intoxicated in hope of approximating the vibe of aggressive frivolity.  The end-result, of course, is a painful hangover and the feeling that it is somehow my fault that I did not have a good time.

My second vision of Hell is perhaps a deeper Hell, with the enforced illusion of a loftier, more desirable Heaven.  In this almost perfect Heaven we are entirely protected from our environment with shadowless lighting, air-conditioning and inoffensive background music.  There are people everywhere but everyone politely ignores everyone else.  Our credit card never seems to run out, but we know it could at any moment.

Perhaps there is a deeper Hell when you truly care about the Paradise you find yourself in, particularly the tenuous significance of your place within this hierarchical Heaven.  And of course the fear that you could at any moment lose your privileged position and you would be just like everyone else.

So if this was my vision of Heaven, what is my vision of Hell?  Hell is chaotic, messy, disorganised.  There is no sensuous technology in Hell to protect us from our environment, so we are exposed to the elements.  There are no bouncers in Hell, so everyone's allowed in.

In such a world, without cubicles or bedrooms, without entertainment or distraction, we must shit out in the open, we have nothing but each other to keep warm, and we must amuse each other with music and stories.  There is often conflict and no police around to solve it for us.  Everything is emotionally complex and intensely real.  There is real pain and real joy and no guarantees of anything.

There was one night in the rainforest in far-north Queensland with my lover.  We spent four days walking a seven hour trail and after two days of walking up hill we spent two days in the clouds, where everything became wet.  It would take hours to start a fire and we would rip fistfuls of leeches off our ankles every time we stopped for a rest.  On our fourth night, when we had run out of food, when everything was wet, we could neither light a fire nor find a remotely flat surface to put up a tent.  In utter discomfort we had nothing to cling to but each other's warm loving bodies and when we finally managed to drift off to sleep we dreamed of stupormarkets in which everything was free.  (I was a prolific shoplifter at the time.)  I remember browsing the brightly-lit aisles, knowing I could have anything I wanted.

I woke up wet, covered in leeches, the air mostly water, hungry, with my beautiful loving friend playing guitar for me while I packed up our sopping tent.  I was strong, confident and in love.  It was the happiest time of my life.


To be honest, it was such a relief when my second beautiful actress pulled out of my play.  It gave me permission to give up, and the burden of commitment was lifted off my shoulders.  My god, the disappointment was totally eclipsed by the relief.
I stuck around long enough to deliver this travesty of a “play”, and now I'm getting the fuck out of here.  I really cannot bear it any longer to contain my joy, my expression and my passion to organised and contained events that are sometimes days or weeks apart.  I must be free and loving and excited and spontaneous and angry and human all the time.

[I retrieve a bucket of mud and invite the audience to join me.  We cover ourselves in mud to Beethoven, Ninth Symphony, Fourth Movement, part 2]


Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain
Let it rain on all of us
Let it rain on the trees, let it rain on the grass
Let it rain on all of us

Let it rain on the women and the men
Let it rain on the roosters and the hens
Let it rain on the eggs, let it rain on our beds
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

Let it rain on the forest and the city
Let it rain on our greed and on our pity
Let it rain on the past, let it rain while we last
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

Let it rain on the ocean and the beach
Let it rain each for all and all for each
Let it rain on our love, let it rain from above
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

Let it rain on our clothes and on our skin
Let it rain on our joy and on our sin
Let it rain on the dust 'til the rain and dust are mud
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain
Let the rain strip us naked as a flame
Let the rain reveal our soul, let the rain reveal it all
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

Let it rain on the living and the dead
Let it rain on the spoken and the unsaid
As if the rain is our blood and the Earth is our heart
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

1 comment:

Claire Fly Flow said...

I feel you, truly. This resonates on a deep level and i appreciate you bringing authentic expression into the world. Keep on stoking the fireality, brosis. <3