The Immolation Of Nikki Minaj

I don't detest the above named member of celebrity status- I just dislike her music and vehemently oppose whatever politics I understand her to be representative of, in as much as I know her.
Using the above named celebrity as a vehicle for, what I believe to be, illustrating the lack of empathy that such figure's feel for others outside of their position, for their shamelessness in accruing fame, intensity, etc, etc.
Well, the little of it that matters is that the above named celebrity simply filters through as representing popular culture iconography, and this is a story utilising my dislike for it, and my hopes for a better world- one where the dropping of her name doesn't guarantee an immediate curiosity and response.
But until then... here's a story about Nikki Minaj.

There is a steady clicking sound as I open my eyes and see an incredible space of encompassing dark about me. I stretch out my arms, slowly, and my fingertips meet cool solid walls before the full extension of my limbs comes to completion. I am in a box, I discover, that’s cold as my own sense of time and place in a child’s game. There is no idea, and the last I recall I had just left the office… I was on my way to buy some shoes. Shoes or a jacket, both maybe, in pink and white for the new video. What is that clicking noise? It sounds like the spark from a clipper.

   I reach into the tight pockets of my denim shorts, fumbling for a light that I know I have- it’s all I can fit in them, and it’s gone. No light, no idea. I scream ‘help’ or ‘hello’- I forget which; the words fall out of my mouth uncontrollably in a desperate bid for comfort. I shudder to think what’s going on out there, I hear mumbled voices but they aren’t directed to me. The clicking stops and the box lights up a little from underneath me; it’s the vivid colour of tangerine and the surface of the- what is this- metal? Steel? It’s warming up, thank god. I thought I was going to freeze to death.

   A grate opens above me and I'm blinded by an intense white as I stare into it, hoping to find some clue of what or where I am, and I see a dark eye look back at me. ‘Hey!’ He makes no reply; he just looks at me with that big, scrutinising, eye. Bastard! ‘Let me out! Don’t you know who I am?’

“We know, Nikki. We know who you are, unfortunately for us and you both. And we know your shameful deeds. This is your method of atonement, Nikki. You will die, unless you accept your guilt, and only then will you escape.” The grate closes and I’m alone, sweat pours from my head.

   What have I done? What have I ever done wrong? I shout ‘sorry’, I tell them I can pay, I ask, I beg, I plead to be let out- and then I threaten, my voice gets hoarse and still there’s no answer. I sweat so much I have to squeeze off my jacket from in this box. Maybe they’re perverts and there’s a camera in here? Is this what they want? I refrain from taking off my vest and shorts. ‘Motherfuckers!’ God, it’s hot in here.

   I say sorry again, I think of everything I’ve done wrong, and I talk to whomever’s out there. I say sorry for bullying that fat girl in school, what was her name? For stealing, for being a bitch to people. What more? I say sorry for not respecting my fans when they want my autograph. I say sorry for taking drugs at college. I say sorry for sleeping with my friends’ man. Then I just say sorry some more. I say sorry to God, with a hint of expectancy, like that’s the password and the grate will open, the light will shine on me, and it’ll get cool in here and the door opens and it’s all just a prank.

   It has to be a prank. I’m gonna kill those guys when I get out of here. I laugh, ‘okay guys, I get it, very funny.’ There’s no answer. ‘Guys?!’ What kind of joke is this? Why is it so hot in here? Fine you sonovabitch, is this what you want? I take off my vest, my bra and my shorts, struggling to get them off my sticky body in this small space. ‘Are you happy now?’ I wait for an answer and hear nothing. They can't let me die, I'm Nikki Minaj. People love me. People need me. What are they going to do without my music? It’s too hot in here. I bang on the sides and my hands burn. Ooh. I lay my clothes on the floor underneath me to avoid touching the hot metal, my knees hit the roof and it burns. I scream and panic, my heart beats faster and faster and I flap my hands around to flush cool air towards me. I breathe deep and heavily, trying to keep calm. ‘You guys?’ The words fall slowly out of my mouth, like a whimper. ‘Help’ I whisper, hoping they’ll hear me. ‘Help’ I whisper because my mouth’s too dry to shout. ‘Help’ I whisper, hoping it might come true… 

Long Awaited Salutations

It's been a little while since last I put anything up on here- don't consider that a sudden and drastic change in chance or choice of 'career'; I've simply been forced into taking a hiatus from utilising the internet. And what is there to show for it?

Ode To Moon II

Oh Moon! Moon!

Glorious Moon,

That hang there in the sky;

Bathe me in your marble light

And raise my virtue up

on high!

Take with thee

my sufferings, my sin

Yes! All my crimes!

And leave me just,

with happiness-

The way your beauty shines.

Oh, Moon!

If you should bear a voice-

Tell me what you know!

And as the man on laudanum-

Make my fancies grow!

Moon, oh! Courageous Moon-

For every night, you conquer day,

Still illuminating darkness

More graciously than Sun’s rays.

Inconsequentially indiscriminate  Moon-

if you could fill me

with your essence

then I shall truly write Apollo’s poetry

and not merely leave impressions!

Day One

This is all about a festival I had recently attended, written both there and back from it and attempting to convey the sentiment of an outsider entering a new land. It's supposed to be psychologically riveting and indicative of a discomfort, relayed through the atmosphere of the piece and the contribution of nature. It's tongue-in-cheek, but also honest. If you've patience to read it all, I hope you enjoy it...

My day had started as a slow one;

a snails’ pace in the early morning on a half askew bed with a hung over girlfriend who was baiting death.

She wouldn’t let go of me-

and I was enticed.

All of this, and I was already a day late.

By time I left the house, it was a hot mid-afternoon and I was fully burdened as a pack mule:

several pens, just in case, pads of cheap, flimsy paper to write on, a spanner- for god knows why… 2 packs of compress, -in case shit got real dangerous and heavy blood flow was inevitable- a gas mask, a pig mask and some tribal face paint to help me fit in with the locals.

There were a couple of bananas for potassium, a pillow, a tent with holes in it and other crap, too. I should’ve brought my trusty knife, just to be real safe, but then maybe I’d get jittery around the others and stab something.

Better to use a spanner. I can’t get arrested for that.

I had a friend I was waiting for, L. I guess he was in charge of the drugs ‘detail’… He was early, now he’s late, and the smell of sugared peanuts fills my nose with its rich sweetness and makes me hungry.

Not even on the train yet- and there’s still the rum, or vodka, or whatever, to get.

Real slow start.

Anyway, seems like I could be gone for weeks with all this shit, when really, it’s just 2 days.

And one of those is half spent already.

Nevermind. I look forward to arrival… ETA- what time is it now?

Let’s say 2 hours from now.

A lot of two’s… Too late- too bad, two days. Time to go native.

I’ll get there, stand atop some place high and scout the area, try and find a good place to set up camp. Once we’re located, I’ll begin to question the locals and let’s see if I can’t find out something about yesterday…

I know how my yesterday went- I spent it waiting around and drinking.

Would’ve rather been ‘there’. Would’ve rather been anywhere. ‘There’ will be ‘here’ soon enough, I should hope- and I look forward to the journey. I’ll stare out the windows and watch the countryside go by as we get deeper.

Give me time to set down a few ground rules, too.

Need rules.

This isn’t a holiday.

We might be going for a short weekend break away to a festival, but I’m a reporter, and this is my job. My job, and I’ll treat it as seriously as any other.

Playgroup festival. Playgroup… Sounds like something for kids, but I wont let that fool me and I wont let down my guard. It’ll be just as debauched as any other I’ve seen- I’m sure.

Let down your guard and they’ll surprise you somehow.

Certainly surprised me- I’d never even heard of the festival before…

Now I’m going.

Funny world.

Got to rendezvous with Emily for my ‘press-pass’.

We’ll see how she is…

The journey itself proved easy- fairly quick and hassle-free.

We’ve arrived- the air is just growing bitter as I witness my breathe condense before my eyes.

My shoulders ache,- the town is quaint and rural, it’s a pretty place to put on a weekend of madcap antics and young adults acting like children, dressed as bears and other animals- or soldiers, though they act like left-wing extremists to a tribal drum beat that resonates across the whole (small) expanse.

A land of green and grey.

Walking in, following the designated path, I noticed the dashed remains on the floor, of a blackbird. My first thought being that the poor creature was accidently crushed by a car.

There is no inoculation for tragic manslaughter committed to animals.

Walking further I saw another, and yet another, then a gull and yet more!

A trail of scattered dead birds that left an image of destitution that no car could cause.

Perhaps a large cat-like predator.

Perhaps one of the many attractive young vixens garbed in a beastly attire.

Perhaps they got carried away?

If I’m lucky, perhaps one will catch me wandering alone in the dark;- a sizeable treat to be devoured. Eat me, oh, please, eat me!

No? Just one bite!

You won’t regret it- kill me! Tear me to pieces, I am useless!

A flightless bird, destined to die.

Nearing the camp, I find a bag of marijuana on the floor. It isn’t much but I imagine it’s all they had. Well, sub-standard or not, it’s mine now, much to their soon to be found disappointment.

Finders-keepers.

Already I’ve been questioned for my lack of faith.

Apprehended for not wearing my masq…

I was further interrogated for my heresy by one zealous female.

I explained my invalid self (yes, I really utilised such debasement!) due to my poor timing, provisions, and lack of light. All truth.

But to no avail. She was not to be appeased.

I must do better if I’m to pierce in to the breast of my target.

I must go native.

I must prove my worth.

And so, I have prepared a cocktail of whiskey and rum.

The rum for its exoteric nature, and the whiskey because it is a reminder of my love.

I smoked.

I was immersed- I had my pad and pen, filling voluminously as my palpitations increased to their thumping, rhythmic drum- and then a bald headed drone in his sparkly t-shirt began to inquire into my treachery again.

He saw my pad and began to ask me a series of inane questions.

“Who was my favourite band?”

I answered all his interrogatives with my true head as he continued explaining how ‘this’ was his, and how he wore their name embroidered on his t-shirt.

I lost my pace and began to drink from my poisoned chalice.  Now greatly more so because of the recent free chemical acquisition.

I stood, arms crossed in the centre of attention- my merry band now in full swing around me,- yet, too, to have drunk from my brew. anxious and intrigued. curious, abashed, and appalled. Not yet as them and thrice now asked, as a young blonde gesticulated toward me in flirtatious, mocking mimicry.

I shrugged, she turned, and was invaded by another male, eventually.

I moved closer in to Pan- met… no, not met, but found myself quite appropriated next to a martian, and I was still yet to drink the potion.

We retreated back to base where I dampened my drink with cola, and took a swig to wash down some penicillin for my tooth.

Two beasts fight down the way.

My head spins and my vision blurs.

We sit- my companions act as salesman, the music, early begins to wind down.

Everyone talks about the same thing. The same drugs. The same shit.

How utterly inane.

I’ve never been to Bristol, but here, I have met the Bristolians.

The night got cold- especially cold, but my crew and I waited until morning, questioning and bonding with the locals, engaging in their rituals, recreations and dramatics.

By time of earl morning, we had all decided to head for camp, where the three of us lay, waiting for the rain to stop and growing only wetter with each passing moment.

Crowded together, 3 large bodies, keeping warm and getting wet. Rather with her…

I slept for a little time and then cabin fever took hold. The space so small, I felt caged, and so the canary leapt.

I headed back on my rounds and with the hopes of procuring some rations.

The weather turns apocalyptic.

It rains and rains in droves. A constant, flowing, downfall; growing more or less rapid at interments, like a floating, aqueous creature.

Submerged in a deep red haze- all of us damp, or drenched, and our belongings!

The base had capsized half to one side. We’ve heard news that a puddle’s growing since we’ve left and at any moment the rain could apparently never cease.

We had to return to base. But here we were dry- no, not dry…- warm though, and comfortable but most importantly, we were not getting any wetter currently, and any venture outside would prove the loss of a most precious ‘place’ with the others. And worse, I had smoked the last of our cannabis- my cannabis, with a friend who accompanied. It was a heady supply for one roll- but I feared ineffective as two, not otherwise, but in our un-slept state, we were ever so pert, and there was no reason to waste good smoke when it could put us at ease.

For all of the end of the world we were chilled, and laughing, too. Actually having a good time with our jokes about the place, until mounting fears began to climax.

Then D raised a balloon for L, and with the noise came others’ attention, then along came the inevitable bidding war.

Customers came, L got high again, and still the rain poured.

We’ve seen the tent and it was all for nought.

The condition of our base was laughable. I had always proven nothing short of always amounting to a practical joke before, and now…

L and I were stuck outside in the wet and the wind. All for now, we had hoped there might be a few extra layers to grab, maybe the beds could be salvaged… Every second was superseded in significance by the one that came next- it was a battle with the elements raging and as I struggled around grabbing for drinks, or anything that might’ve proved useful, I only got as wet as if I were out in the rain.

All our provisions that we’d left- even in the bags, were now drenched through.

It was a bitter battle, and one we’d lost on all fronts.

To find warmth, which was now proving equally as difficult as it was necessary, we pay a visit to a barn. Cold and with a smell in the air like slow boiled cabbage. The people in there bop up and down like chickens, shaking their rumps, (some wear the heads of other animals all the while- a lizard, a pig…) to cliché music played by a ‘bluegrass’ imitation band.

When they play a duet from the ever famous Deliverance. And so; first they dance like chickens, then later they squeal like pigs.

With the passing of hours, our faith and good spirits dwindled.

My clothes were all soaked through- even the spares I packed and had never worn.

The cold blew and every draft reminded me more of my poor condition. Even the base was waterlogged and puddles dispersed themselves across every surface imaginable within.

My sleeping quarters were now null and void. I had previously maintained every permissible sentiment to stay- hoping to penetrate into the core of my experiences. I wanted to really understand what it was all about; what profound truth they all had that I lacked, and to accomplish this, I needed to see my mission through.

To leave early would only secure a disappointment in me.

I would feel a failure as a soldier, or intrepid explorer, only a half complete job. But the weather…

If I had learned anything, seeing the provincial site slowly left- disbanded and derailed by its own followers, it was that the half converts could only bear it all so long as they could be besides themselves with their alchemy, and in failing that, when God and nature washed through their illusion, providing its true potency over their conjuration- when faced with adversity- many had left.

Simply packed up and went.

But I remained.

And so, too, did the truer believers.

I saw it was mostly the older bunch now. Some professionals stuck there for the sake of work, like I, and we exchanged intel with a profound resignation.

My comrades and I met in discussion. It was soon resolved that we would leave soon after nightfall- to see all that was mostly left on offer, and only escaping the terrible, cold and sleepless evening into the early morning. I was relieved, yes, but also distraught. I felt no closer to my missions goal.

We retreated to base and began preparation to get out of dodge.

The camp was lowered, levelled and all the provisions were checked for their worth and compared to the amount of energy and effort necessary to carry them on our trek through the thickage. The carcass was picked.

I left the tent, my bed and pillow and packed up my saturated bags with a grim disposition.

The mud was thick and the water fell so hard downhill, that the powerful streams managed to somewhat jettison the flow up the path, along our way.

The mud stuck and made slippery the walk, but I, prepared now with my thick army boots was blessed with my resourceful ease at the journey.

Arriving at the bus depot just on time, we were fortunate to catch a cheap ride to the station where our return journey would really commence.

I had passed, along the open expanse of pure dark enmity, a standalone generator powering nothing at all but a single floodlight, erected from the orange box below it. It was a cataclysm of design- a lone obelisk to commemorate the ingenuity of man, and for all it’s might only helped to further exemplify nature’s true magic. To see, through the invention of man, how wide and dense was the world. So varied in colour, all based on our own ability to perceive, and only ever as destined to better itself beyond our own knowledge and ability to appreciate.

The rain dazzled in the light; a cascade that fell as a whole, though we only felt the microcosm of it all. Each and every blade of grass, each and every leaf on a single tree.

There was an hour’s delay between trains and we attempted to make ourselves warm on a set of chairs. The cruel light from within the pale brick buildings only showed how wet we really were by the constant trail of moisture we left in our wake. We were all tired and beaten and burdened.

Home was now our only solace.

We took a cab to save us a short walk as soon as we touched down in the city. We exchanged only few words, said the polite goodbyes and sat down. L had a way further to go home, and so he came back with me. That and he was used to living off me.

As a home departure from the previous range of sustenance options available to me, I ordered a cheap and greasy pizza with meat and all the works.

The food before was good, but this, I felt, was better.

I cradled and spread out in my bed that night, the rain falling gently outside. Relaxed and warm in my bed, too tired to think of anything at all.

In two days, the storm will find its way to here and the night will rage and dance with the rain in the light and thunder.

A few things of late

I've not had much time to get around to writing on here- I've not had a room to myself, for a start, and then have otherwise been busy preoccupying myself with reading literature in attempt to get through an extensive list for the practical purpose of work.
   Well, here's a few things I've written the past week as I've trundled the city and got into various situations...

Sin is the daughter of Satan-
Death be her brother
and also the Son.
The two, with their father,
unite in a bond
of incestuous union
that furthers his spawn.
   Watch now,
as they breathe
and so, breed
fastidiously...
   They grow manifold in their numbers
hand in hand and
eye in foot.
An unspeakable horror
ad infinitum.
Won't you communicate with them?
Won't you bolster their ranks?
Ah, but too late!
You see, you will,
or you already have...
Do not doubt the power of the devil,
for you already tread
in his wake.
                                                                        ***

Oh my lover,

I want you to lower me

to the abject debasement

of an inert object

and no more!

Think of the copses

of full-fledged flowers

as I lie still,

underneath,

like a corpse.

Kill me!

Sit astride me

as a tyrant,

or a gymnast performing

atop his hobby-horse,

performing your beautiful ballet

as I lick my blood from the submerged blade

which will surely,

sorely, be

the cause of my demise.

My pleasures are heightened

as my death-bed be lowered,

oh, I long

to be an object in your eyes!

                                                                       ***

And it dawns on me then:

I am not one

suited for “life-drawing”.

I have neither the

 patience,

nor the barbarism

to objectify the silent human

who sits or stands there

idle

for our prying eyes

and fancy.

We treat them

just as ‘form’

for their inertness,

as though

they were truly

and example of “life”.

But pray tell,

what life does not move,

except for that

which is deceased?

This is no way

to treat life,

in such times,

when the naked body

is truly there

to be loved.

This/that/the other

I choked and gagged on the pills as they stuck in my throat- Tramadol and codeine- inducing a coughing fit and my spluttering water as I tried ever harder to swallow their robust shapes, cutting my throat softly as they slowly sank away. I became nauseated by marijuana smoke and the amalgamation of all noises and smells hitting upon me like a torrent, unrelenting. And with all my strength, which was not much, I paced myself to ascend the stairs to the bathroom where I grew cold with fever as the sweat saturated my clothes from without my pores.
   I shook, red as a cardinal, and vomited into the cleared, bleached basin before me. A white spew, full of floating half eaten grapes (that I had failed to ingest as breakfast) dashed about as I tempered my forehead with a cool pattering hand. My phlegm was mixed with blood and I felt much less a man of the western, 'civilised' world, and instead, a repulsive beast from some far shore. A barbarian, like the English cannibals.
Wretched and hulking, I headed for bed.

The Other

I suffer an inordinate and irrational phobia of answering the phone, calling another, maintaining the loose conversation across the invisible wire. The necessity caused by duty and obligation was a single factor. Now it is a physical pain. I'm feverish, again, with pain and only liquids to sate my palette. Caring for plants is good for your soul.

The girl awaits
away from her intrinsically intricate
and effeminate room
where there lies,
upon her bed,
a hybrid, half-breed:
man and tiger,
not so clear cut as alike
The Centaur.
   He is bronzed, like the beturbaned sultan;
an animal of the Orient,
but in place of their shared
full toothed and lascivious grin
awaiting the intercourse-
the meal on legs to enter the harem-
there resides a frown
for the fear he creates with bite from fang.
As like a man of thought he ponders
his place;
his true entrapment,
his skin is a cage.
For he wants not her heart
but her hand
and to receive only her love...

Something about the number '9'

Nine. I found nine mistakes.
Nine is less than ten.
It is more than eight, however, and all the numbers below it.
There are many numbers; an infinitesimal quantity, in fact.
Somewhere, there is a computer, and its only job is to count.
It counts; calculating faster than any human brain, and counting forever, or for however long it is programmed to, or else, has power enough to count.
Nine is smaller than many of the numbers that the computer will one day count.

Something about sacrifice

I had written this a few years ago while I stumbled around my quiet house hold, preoccupied with explaining my life and interactions with inanimate objects through an objective, omnipotent narrator's perspective, rather than my own. All in the name of becoming a better writer...

Everything is an art form. To reach perfection takes time, thus, the greatest art we can hope to create is at the end of our lives. We are at the peak of talent when all previous experience has led to that point.
Sacrifice is also necessary; in sacrificing all life, our art becomes the pinnacle of all experience...

I still agree, looking back on the remote scrap of paper, now. And this is something rather new and relatively unrelated:

Think not
to dwell on dreary things
Since all we are and know
are to one day be lost
as with our memories.
Not to worry
what may be left behind,
for all those left with it
are all too soon to follow
what has gone before.

To an admirer...

Or, so I think that's the case. You may well be an anomaly; an accident, a multiplicity of entities who just happened to be mis or redirected to here. Perhaps my hoping for the singular interests of you is nothing but superfluous vanity. No matter. This is for you, that I post this myriad of words, for your country that inspired me and further, for my hopes that maybe you are whom I'd like to think you are. Adieu.

Ode to Berlin

Goodnight,

Berlin

O!

How I loved thee,

though I fear you may never know,

So few things I said to

you;

your nature and spirit

but still,

so intimate we were,

how I held your earth

and spoke little your tongue

kissing your women

and those just stopping by

I loved you,

Berlin

and I only hope

that you enjoyed my staying

as I, my stay,

and even traversing

‘cross oceans and sky

we will be united

until that time so happens

we both, in name, shall die

                                                                            ***

Remember the promise I made you;

The one I too soon

forgot

That you should decapitate me

and prize yourself

upon owning my head

Or that we’ll swim out from two shores

somewhere in the middle,

we’d meet

and sinking there, together

Our union would be complete

I wanted something sordid,

I tried a little to create a poem that was as steeped in the beautiful mysticism that one would usually expect to find in poetry, but couple it with a despondency and violence that's true of the most passionate fuck.
I don't think I succeeded.

Bury deep your secrets;
Know that I will dig,
burrow and swathe myself
to explore your every inch-
the body and the soul-
with my fingers,
tongue
and brain.
Hide your shame
with lies and acts
and intoxication,
if you must,
but know I'll never wear
your embarrassment for you-
I'll be your picture of piety:
blissful ignorance
as I harbour submerged truths.
How I love that every performance
has brought you to me
this day
and only as you are,
which for all our treacheries
is unkempt and beautiful
as a child
in the maelstrom of time.
Now take me harder unto you
so we two, as one, may breathe.

The Age of Information

We live in such an age where connectivity has become near ceaseless; where those of us whom are happy to give our personal information to the many census' and servers will find that instantaneously we can bring our identities together, across platforms and countries- even whole continents. Via an 'app' on your phone, whilst you holiday in Tibet, why not connect to your 'facebook' back home that you frequent on your laptop and share where you are and what you're doing with everyone who wants to know?
   Of course it seems all very harmless, at first, but dig a little deeper. Now 'google' wants your email address, your picture, your profile, your time, your phone number... and what else? How many more companies will ask for information here-and-there, the button to 'skip' the process so small and out of sight that sooner or later, you will give in to the frequently asked question, and give away your details, and with it, your freedom.
   Online servers have amassed so much data on all of us that live in the 'Western' or developed societies that we can be tracked and pinned down to our exact location, and see how they know who we know and love and talk to, what our recorded messages are and now our interests and desires. Our relationships and intimate secrets are kept not so secret, after all. Stop the trend in sharing this information and you will slow down the progress of every large company and business in the world. How will they know what we love to buy? How can they know the right item or time to sell to us? The right dream to sell?
   We are told that our data is recorded for our protection, but truthfully, all we protect are the interests of the companies and governments. We hand away so much of our selves and our freedom with every instance that we remain connected, and yet, how foolishly we love to brag and show off what we have. The more advanced we become, the more backwards we grow, and what do we have to show for- with our fantastic new phones, etc. etc. Nothing worth discussing, only that we are now even easier to be hounded down and made into a marketable figure.
   One day there will be a war, and we will all be persecuted for our crimes. Freedom can only exist in the ensuing chaos of an overthrown state.

A frequent encounter

It's not always necessary to be so serious; life is a farce, but let's not carry our 'incorruptible' banner so constantly... our arms would get tired if we did. So while my empty wallet mirrored my empty fridge, it became a daunting task to not be tempted by the half bowl of butter beans that had been let to soak by my then-absent-for-weeks house mate. I did not want said beans; they were old, and hardly appetising, but my hunger and lack of everything demanded that I at least try.
No, I just couldn't concede...

How well you mock me,
Bowl of beans-
Full well of understanding,
full too of nutrients
and vitamins
that my empty belly lacks.
   How full still,
the irony
that you were deserted
though not by me-
 to sit there
forever temperate
and stare me down
as with every occasion
I open my fridge,
and seeing what I do not have,
see you so well again.
   I shall never be your slave-
O Bowl of beans,
that await my subservience
and fickle folly to fall
entrapt by your snare.
I shant!
   Though my hunger roars,
I am yet still a man!

Going back

I had said I'd try, clearly in vain, to only post what had recently been produced, but for my efforts of finding something of a gift for somebody else, it became increasingly difficult not to stumble upon the glass floor of nostalgia and fall in love with the surface, before it cracks, shatters and leaves one fundamentally cut by what they don't have.
   I wrote this at a time when I was in love with something very fragile; an instant that can never be replaced or relived...

She begged of me
don't let go
and I didn't,
not once.
For fear of having another
nightmare
and not knowing if I
were really there,
so I held her
all the time
through the heat and the cold;
the duvet so thin-
it was just a sheet,
and I scarcely covered.
Sticking together with sweat
the difficulty I had
trying to sleep
as I often do
Through it all,
I never let go
and when she began
to sob a little
I pulled her closer to me
kissed her so
gently
and softly told her
that everything
would be
okay.

With Love and Immolation

I awoke early one morn
to a most brazen heat
as I opened my eyes
horror reviled me so completely-
with no time to ponder
I saw my cracked pipe on the floor,
flames licked all around me
and made blockade of the door.
   It was hard to break free
from the grip of my terror-
but to have stood any longer
were a most fatal error
And through stinging fumes
I searched for a solution or cure,
screaming out at my hesitations
with an almighty furore.
   Then quick as a hare, I leapt,
smashing through the window
and running, I carried on
to the crisp air of the meadow.
But too hasty, as a fool;
from the house I heard screams!
How could I forget my children,
my re-entry now blocked by collaps'd beams.
They cried for their father
who was helpless with woe
and they clawed through small crevice
tiny hands, to-and-fro,
and I cried on the lawn
as their flesh was stripped from their bones.
I collapsed feeling wretched
for my cowardice and desertion,
but God almighty be just
for my poignant immersion!
   I awoke in my chair,
feeling I had learnt a lesson
I tossed my pip and kissed my children-
each one a blessing...

A blister on the surface of existence

I wear my bruise until it fades and dissipates in time-
the pain subsides until the mark on my thumb becomes so very much less that a simple spectre,
yet it becomes one of which should pain me so drastically as though the thumb itself were to cease to be.
It pains me so that I bite and tear at the surrounding skin until the qualia of a full blister becomes a burning and tearing sensation that I must bite and rip;
and as such, I shall tear the  flesh until the blood pours and then the pain will occur no more.

A taste of Milton

I'm too tired right now to say much of worth or wit; though that alone is oft of debate and the point of which is entirely redundant but to the few out there who accidentally, or otherwise, come across this page. Tired and sick. Full of yeast and wheat.
   What is the appreciation of others but something always envied, sought for and, ultimately, facile.
I'll try not to make a habit of quoting others, but here's something I couldn't ignore:

"For what is glory but the blaze of fame,
The people's praise, if always praise unmixed?
And what the people but a herd confused,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol
Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth
the praise?"

Perhaps it's time we do something of worth, or if not, consider ourselves no greater than scum.
And if the action denotes the label, or vice versa, then let us be jubilant in voicing our names and cause.
Happy label, that should fit one so snug.
Better than being displaced.
Better to be scum than one against all.

And the moths invade my room as though it were their own abode. Let them.
Let nature's thick branches grow and push the bricks apart.
Let blossoms bloom and grasses rise; the insects take their kingdom.
Let the ivy cling and pull me to the Earth's sweet breast, where I may have a deeper rest.
Drag me toward my true home.
For I do so tire of the mundane:
I do so tire of breathing.

Pain and romance

A little while ago I suffered from a mysterious collection of pains that spontaneously struck and soon after left, so soon as the cause (which was nerves) were detected.
Before this discovery, my own anxiety had created hallucinatory pains that for so long had held me a wretched captive of their infallible mythos. I was a victim of a self-created phantom, that as always, grew more brazen in the night.
   Shortly after I attempted to ignore the pain, to hide it, and then simply forgot it existed. I began to sleep again, with sleep became sated and then became dumb. In losing my pain, I lost inspiration and have since grown tired of  the sanity it provides. The pain makes me lose myself, and from destitution; I create.

Night- once loved, how I despise thee. Fear night for what it brings.
At night all pains rage with free roam and nought to temper them but a silence to hear them roar.
The pains increase and disappear sporadically so all pains are fresh and always bewildering.
There is no escape but the long hours ahead where the pains, glutting, await thee.
   And so I dread the night.
With no sleep, no freedom, but the company of devilment.
At night I lose my mind for my futility and beat myself for hope of forgiveness, forgiveness and a chance I may just lose mind enough to feel no more.
   Darkness.
With the encompassing night comes my despair.
Oh, pained despair- how you subdue and contort my reason.
I try all manner of futile performances to shield me from my avid pursuer: first water.
On my face, head, neck, arms and down my gullet.
Cool water to fill my hungry stomach and ward off the heat that I succumb to.
It fails me, of course, as I knew it would.
Next I have ice.
Cooler still so that it might fare better.
I wrap it and re-wrap it in tissue until I am content and begin to apply the pack to the affected areas of my head.
It soothes me!
Precious relief, at last, but there's never enough of it to catch pain unawares: Instead I lay only part way satisfied- which is no satisfaction at all.
I cover my head with a pillow and turn off the lights, retreating now into my cave where I  curl like an infant in mother's arms.
The darkness helps- my eyes burn less.
The ice melts slowly and trickles here and there but never permeates through the surface to quell my needs.
I moan in agony and pick myself up, just to lay myself flat again.
Logic leaves me and I pound my head, my face and the ice against me; through pillow and then with just fist or palm.
The impact offers comfort- it hurts little, and this delivers relief.
Strange, perverted sense of masochistic relief!
With each impact I fracture little, until finally, I break.
I plough my head into many folds for a cushion, shielded by my arms and cry and wheeze such tears of hopelessness as I've not wept in so many years.
They scald my cheeks as they run from my eyes and I explode like the rapture, alone.
I voice my pains to nothing and shrink to become less than I've ever been in the face of adversity.
My enemy is my self, and I have bested I.
   I create a hood of the remaining ice, to wear as a fool's crown in my emptiness.
Then distraught, I sit down to write.
I write to pass the hours until I collapse; collapsing in defeat, I finally sleep and tomorrow- with the coming of early day, I will wake again to the call of Pain, ready to start the routine once more.

The Host

One of my more recently worked on projects that I had started years ago with no intention of continuing was a book of horrible romantic poetry, inspired by Poe; about loving the dead, dying and being. I'm now one third through completion of this collection, with the most recent addition being the poem below; I feel it's not the best in the book, and it's not as good as I wanted, but it didn't take me long and it's enough that it exists.  Writing in an ill lit house, all alone, and trying to embody the sentiment of feeling like a stranger in one's own sanctuary can really cause a chill. I'm not superstitious, but...

Though I’m aged

I know, well enough

that I’m sane,

and certainly

no madness

is plaguing my brain

but now, as I walk

through this old house of mine

(it was my fathers’

and his fathers’ before, at one time)

I see strangers have invaded

though I see them so rare,

they move much like phantoms,

as though they weren’t there

and they hardly acknowledge I,

unless for long I should stare,

that were I slightly softer

they’d elicit a scare!

I asked who they were,

they gave no reply,

simply shuddered so coldly

and let out a sigh-

were my late wife with me

it should force her to cry-

and how rude that they are

that my trinkets they’ve moved!

These invaders are ignorant,

that’s all that they’ve proved

and they hustle and bustle

so loud, day and night

that they wake me from slumber;

in darkness, in light

and I try to be patient,

but how it does hurt my head

to be forced to their lifestyle-

they should wake up the dead!

They even called in the priest

and he asked me to leave,

with furious intonation-

he didn’t even say ‘please’.

So I’ll resort to stubbornness,

yes, I’ll bang and I’ll shout

and in the quiet moments

I shall scream:

“GET OUT!”

For I will not be pushed

from being in my house

and I’ll throw all their things,

I’ll be the most dreadful host,

for they are my guests

and I am no ghost…

An Ode to Wind

Overcome with tiredness, I put my head to the large and soft pillow that befriends the border of my bed, and  slowly succumbing to sleep, I heard a most fantastic sound; it was the shipping of wind, and in my state, so slightly betwixt dreaming and a lucid awakening, I thought of a fantastic myriad of movements, much like a dance that the wind had stepped or invented in flight. The noise permeated in me and produced, via the vehicle of imagination, this appraisal of she; the wind, who with characteristic vicissitude, beguiles, charms and makes falter, us all.

The wind moves through

the tops of trees

and the tips of the leaves

in such a seductive manner;

leaving lingering notes

and a cold vein where she blows,

and how she should blow!

And with what ferocity!

She makes her cry

that penetrates the stone walls

and lays with you-

wind, that she is;

mysterious and forever

unflinching in her direction

and desire.

Playful and indomitable.

Pray let your fury reign

through the night,

so I may be made to sleep

by your symphony.

And just before I sleep...

I'll think of the vicissitude that, with centrifugal  force, spins me around and tears me to a million merging pieces; the human cultural 'melting pot'; the many that's singularly defined; the spontaneous, synchronicity of a multiplicity. I beg, nay, crave your attention and desire. I spill out all manner of fictitious facts to entwine and entertain you, so that one day you'll really see me, know me, love me. And then, you'll bore me immensely, and wanting nothing but solitude, I'll tell you to fuck off. I dream of celebrity status from the liberty of anonymity. I enjoy my lonely ways, here I have the company who never need ask or pry.

What is this solitary life

I’ve garnered for myself?

A phobia to commit

in social circles, or,

just a reluctance?

Do I see no joy

in extending my many words to others?

It could be less-

a lack of effort, often mistaken

for arrogance, that

sometimes

finds its rest.

Does every example prove

there is no other soul like mine?

Alas,

those most like me are

surely hidden

within their own vestige of self,

and so,

those with whom I am kindred…

We shall never know

Milton will make me a preacher

There's much reverence for the Lord in my lineage; a belief in God that's never ceased, and with it a respect that never quite found it's way to me, at least, not entirely or until more recently. There is something that exists, however, within each and all of us; a like pantheistic spirit that ties and binds us to one another, more than just a unified existence or 'being', and more than just a rudimentary consciousness. And if you've ever doubted, or believed. as I'm sure every one of us had (yes, even the atheist, before he 'convinced' himself with reason- which is logic), then you'll know what I mean.
   You don't have to preach religion to want to teach this uniformity. God may be synonymous with nature, whatever that entails. Consider a world where love and property is shared between us all...

What is this Heaven?

Where is the vast infinitude

of Godliness

where man should dwell?

By life and deed alone,

it is Earth,

but Earth

by life and deed alone

hath instead succumbed

to vice and villainy-

the tempestuous nature of he

who hath fallen

and made a pit

of paradise.

It shall be

when all men learn

to better themselves

and their nature

that true happiness shall spring

in eternal wells

and fill the vacuum

within our selves,

and Earth be changed to Heaven

How I loathe thee

The internet; such a fascinating invention. Boundless and near impenetrable, full of horrors and delights, almost un-thought of and largely unconfounded. I dawdled on the internet to distract myself from sleep, and to take a look at the multitude of faces and people I might find. There's so many people more beautiful than you. But what of success and aspiration? Are they nestled deep within this? And less often than people do- I search for myself, and find I do not exist, under any moniker I might try. Will I find only fledgling success for my invisibility?

We believe in our precious lies

and consider they’re worth

telling the ones we love,

so we love to tell

and our faces beam

or hide,

in false display

and haughtily,

but we don’t exist

in person or conversation,

just whispers like myths

and notes passed ‘twixt hands

each one of us

lacking density.

Now our atoms glow and hum

like actors on T.V. screens,

we live to be seen

and the internet…

…Oh, how you’ve killed us!

Because I missed a train

My mouth draws tight

there’s a twitch

above my left eye.

My face looks mean

because I’m not

in the best of moods.

I’m thinking

of dumb luck

that plays against me

chance and mischance

and girls’ whose names

were written on clouds.

They’ve dispersed now

all the clouds have

but the black

that hangs above my head

and makes it rain outside.

The war on Paradise

And knowing

that one’s most pivotal role

is simply to be next

and constantly outmatched

in power, stature,

and supremacy-

despite forever owning

a near unequivocal greatness,

To rage, and wage war,

despite full knowledge

of false hope

and futility

can only temper

the all-consuming,

midnight hate

and fuel the un-repenting

lust

for vengeance

all the more.

The importance of oral hygeine

Every morning and night when I brush my teeth, I see before me a pretty pink and white mix of foam as I spit into the basin. At first it was a little shocking to see my own blood before me on such a regular occurrence, but in time, as with everything; my attitude towards it paled, and fear grew into an admiration and appreciation- it is so fascinating to watch blood spill in saliva; merging and fighting like water and oil. Then I press the tip of my tongue against the back of my newly exposed gums and let it linger to capture the taste.
Well, you learn to love what you cannot stop.

A dream life

I wish the world worked through the social-political means of a meritocracy. If it were so, perhaps a few people would have more, and a lot more people, less. We would all, in winter, eat the fruits we had reaped from our efforts in the summer, so to speak, and for that, we would all be the wiser and happier.

But we live in unconventional times, where work does not always get rewarded, and rewards may come to those who do so little work, and though millions, everyday, suffer for no aims or reason, we are sold the ruse of happiness, and global economic success. Or so I do believe.

I'm an angry individual, at times, and supposedly a little melancholic. I think too much, and through logically substantial arguments, conviction, and sometimes just a little coercion (for these are the tools of rhetoric) can often make people see as I do- if the 'truth' I see causes upset to others, as sometimes it may, than the lie that existed before is surely happiness. This transcends class, creed, colour, just as happiness and equality should, but does not.

The rich, white, middle class

take their pharmaceutical drugs;

they're unhappy to buy into-

the others take their own drugs;

cannabis, ecstasy.

Microwaves. Radio waves-

polluted air, polluted sea,

polluted food.

Flavour enhancers,

colour enhancers-

society has mass produced

unhappiness

and it's because we're all

fucked.

A dog may be content

to bark,

but it is just a barking dog-

hope is a ruse

when the only truth

is that there is no

equanimity.

And for better or worse,

rich or poor,

white or not,

we all

have reason to complain.

One must always remember...

...the last time we live will always be so closely linked to the first time we die.
There's so very much I've written; yet so very little will ever be seen. I'll try to update as I write from now on;  so the most recent piece for every day I choose to add to this... whatever it is.
This is for a girl whom I wanted to use me, and yet to whom I could only show such dissatisfaction when I felt I got what I had asked for.

I'll be your footstool;
kick up a fuss!
Stamp and stomp,
so that you kick up dust,
and bending slightly,
upon one knee,
I'll stay stable
so you can use me,
won't you change into
those pretty shoes?
Rest your foot upon me,
just a while,
It's bliss to see your leg
as you smile.
And I'll be your ladder,
won't you climb upon me?
I'll take you higher,
so you can grab
what's out of reach
or pin, or hammer,
do as you please!
Know I won't drop you
unless you ask,
but I'll lower you gently
upon completion of task.
People may think
we look a little queer,
but to be pressed
so close to your body,
between your legs,
I hold so dear.

I'm a bit of a cunt

The title doesn't exactly make sense, now, does it? How is one ever only part of another's anatomy? How can a person embody a particular area of oneself, or anyone else, to such a degree that they are, effectively, only worth a segment of ones entirety? I'm drunk and rambling. My food is ready. I'm an arse-hole.

To consider myself

in any way,

I would consider myself

an arsehole.

To some,

it is a thing of beauty;

a grand source of pleasure-

and to others,

it is simply foul

and of only the purpose

to defile.

Whatever one’s view,

there lies a truth;

Shit passes through it.

But do not hate it

for your own interpretation of it,

but consider,

it has its use

within the natural body

and only does

as it can,

as it was made

to be.

To the girl in golden hoops

With a rather wry smile, I write this to you, assuming (with such epistemic luck,) that you should read it, one day. The poem I wrote another time; about a whole Summer ago, after you had left to somewhere else; and feeling now how I did then, and being in largely similar circumstances, and once more; finding the hoop, well... What else could I do...?


Next to my bed
on a small wooden stand
adjacent to the lamp that I
familiarly use
there lies a crooked,
golden hoop.
It’s not much of worth
in terms of gold,
but it’s yours.
This hoop is all yours.
And it’s there,
always
in the same place
by the lamp I frequent
and my pillow; my head;
your golden hoop,
that lays by my bed.
You told me to discard some things,
they were yours,
a sock
some knickers,
you put them in my bin
and they stay there, still,
just like the hoop,
that you left and I placed,
I put it there,
next to my bed
and it reminds me of you,
as, of course,
it would.
There are slides and pins
for your hair on my ‘sil
I gaze out of the window and see them
they, too, are still
and I’ve left them there
in case you return,
you might need or want them
if you ever come back
and I used to think
I’d have nothing of yours
but there you are
right where I can see
whenever I need a light.

Crawling across laminate floors, cleaning, on my knees

-May I ask you a question?
-Positively! Why, you seem to have just done so, right now, without my permission...
-Ah, so you're right, then allow me to postulate a while, (that's an imperative) while I consider how better to rephrase my inquisitive.
-And so you may
-May I ask you three questions?
-In which case, you have another left, so be it!
-And if only I could, then I would...

It isn't really about the question; it never really was.

I didn't understand...

Be still
my aching heart-
you move too soon
to break,
full of remorse
and deep infatuation.
Do not begin
to think there is nothing
else left
because you have lost
all that you had,
and know,
before you jar yourself;
it was your own desire
and so relish
in the sour spell
you have created.

And here's something more...

...A small bunch of a few things I wrote at different times, in different places, as I drifted along different planes of thought...

About a bus:

The 171 is a familiar bus

that I often got

when I was in love;

it took me from one place

to another

to a next,

both early and late

though I travelled,

I remained never scared

for happiness lay in wait

for me, in her bed

and the person

with whom so many

times

I’ve shared.

About a girl:

There is an odour

that drives me insatiable-

a ravaging lust

that makes one bego all calm-

the typical expectations of decency

are lowered,

because there is no

more perfect time and place

than now.

I think to pry;

to find a place to rest

where I might just gently lap

at the sweet secretions

from the walls,

none but I or the gods

could tell you where ambrosia

were to be found,

but it were to always drive men mad.

The body is a beautiful thing

if tended to, properly;

with light nurture

and a kindling love;

it grows, blossoms,

springs…

There is something to lovely

in letting it grow the way

it was always meant

to be.

About a chronic headache:

Fingering a twitch

on my temple-

the pulse beats finely

but firmly-

quite proud-

it bumps underneath

as the blood beats around

and drives deeper

a pain in my skull.

And it feels it’s been aching

for weeks

Picture me Dorian

I'd been considering some of the things I'd done or been doing recently, and I hypothesised for a while on the hellish fate that was likely to proceed from my misdeeds. If one were to know that they were destined to suffer forever, would it be worth being any different, or do you just continue to do the things that elicit your constant burning? On top of all the aches and pains of my body that have all been physical, I've caused a great amount of emotional pressure to boil and evaporate through tears, laughter and misplacing my effort to 'preach' lessons of a better and more effectual life to friends and strangers alike. Through all of this I've had to feel nothing but empathy for the civil society who had to share this elucidation of mine, with me, on the trains, or the bus or the streets, and even, in some instances; their own homes. It's been a queer two weeks and in which I've only ever been assured that I had felt always so very peculiar.
I wrote this as I began a slow transformation, though I never ceased my own changing to take in the lesson

One must stop

doing such things;

they take from light

and submerge us

in darkness

and into the Gray.

The rot of our souls,

our steady decomposition-

into mortal Sin

shall be expressed

in our faces,

our minds

and our gait.

In sickness

and in health.

Uxbridge

I went to a party last night; it was a rambunctious affair and the faces of the majority of guests appeared to blend and merge like puddles of oil. One man looked alike another, their shapes and posteriors morphed as they moved; to compliment their natures, that were heated and libidinous and aggrieved the cool night air. I went on a journey to sojourn  with the company of others who were ill-fitting upon myself; my friends and I, remaining ever debonair as we transcended sense, and in the days and nights before I read Keats.
Hyperion taught me that the Gods could feel a magnanimous sadness, I wondered if the Gods, being what they are and capable of so much more than man, could feel so much greater the sorrow; being that they experience so much greater the loss. It took me to become what I was not, to see what I could not before see; and then I saw the stars and life for all it was; which was nothing more than an inebriated ride on a train to a place I did not know.

I heard a wasp...

Or, at least, I thought I had. It fluttered below the mattress where I lay, though my partner confessed she could not detect the sound that raised so much curiosity and anxiety within me. I searched for it all abound the room, under objects and down the sides, and though it always sounded so close, it never came into sight.
   The next day I was back at home and that night as I attempted to sleep, again I heard a wasp. Such treachery. And so, I penned this...

Hear that?!
It is the sound of a wasp,
both near and far-
an inevitable threat.
Hear it in your head
and flittering somewhere
under
or inside your bed.
Perhaps it is the sound
of my inevitable end...
Hear that?
Or else...
I'm losing my mind.

A small piece of childhood

Growing up as a child in the nineties, I was, rather unknowingly, subjected to acts of behaviour by my peers that I truly believe would, by today’s standards, be considered as none other than racist. These were not isolated events, and I do not assume I was alone in this, but rather, that I found myself in a situation quite ubiquitous where any non-Caucasian child were to be considered.

By myself and also, my peer group, these acts were never until later conceived as being ‘racist’, because the acts had occurred for so long, and often, so subversively, that any ideological alternative (that is, to be free of such queries, accusations and belittling) was, itself, never conceived. An example of this behaviour would be that once, in my youth, I was informed that I was sure to have to marry a near mute (by her own choice- and one she could hardly be blamed for) Indian girl from another class, because our skin tones were the most alike. The other children were all curious- I suppose, and mis- or rather- never informed otherwise by their parents, (and we were failed by the establishments supposed to teach and protect us) because it was taken much for granted that they were at an age, or a destination in life, where such information was necessary or relevant.

These children, and their misdemeanours in relation to others, were all products of a supremely racist society that had tried (often in vain) to hide its feelings. The children were a product of the up-bringing’s of adults- now parents- who, when they were children, were the product of a racist, or otherwise ignorant (which is the true origin) parentage. And so on, and so on, and so it is.

The Romanticists...

...they believed the act of writing poetry to be a calculated act of spontaneous inspiration. To have some truth or beauty illuminated to them, and so, with a careful hand and keen mind; depict the vision they had received so that it could be better shared with others. I often find myself acting 'spontaneously', and equally so, with a disposition of calculation. But rarely can one be said to act upon instinct of both.
   Whilst I acted upon a meditative, fleeting, patience- I conjured this:

This virtue that we share

by nature of being

patient,

makes our most sincere

thoughts

be alive with desire.

This beguilement of ours

is so pure:

Sanctimonious,

as the pleasure of

virgin lovers

Something about sleep

It's a peculiar thing how time appears to be the overlord of all that exists within the scope of mortal existence. Time is how we govern all that is to be done, we do this by creating deadlines, or else, hours in which all work is to be abided by, and these become set like the word of the Lord into tablets. Perhaps it is to make our own 'deadline' seem less sufficient; it becomes but one of many, as opposed to the, theoretically, only.
   I find I was once very punctual. Very good at 'keeping' time. I suppose, perhaps, in time, I had ironically learned that time cannot be kept, but simply passes along in the way we have attempted to make it do so, best. Now time escapes me. Constantly. Time travels without my noticing, and before I am asleep, I must be up; similarly to the situation I find myself in now.
   There are ways to better handle time, or at least, to manipulate our perception of it's movement. Drugs, 'fun', etc. We can slow down or speed up how often we choose to take notice of time, but never time itself.
   As I lay, attempting to sleep, in the late afternoon, my father said a few simple things to me. I did not reply, but his words, to me, (which were of a considerate and indelible  nature) provoked some thought, and a framed recital of what had passed...

You need sleep, Jez

if you don’t

it leads to depression,

anxiety and anger.

How do I tell my father

how many sleepless nights

I have had…

The last of today...

...Until some other time when I remember my self perpetuated dreams and obligations, here is another piece of writing for your (and my own) enjoyment or displeasure.
   A situation befell me, partly by my own hand, that left me in such a predicament I could have felt, in utmost vanity, it was the cause for a word such as 'irony' to be invented. 'Dramatic Irony' is the term coined for a situation where one such audience becomes aware of the details that will despair a third party, caused by a second. The God(s), then, must be the greatest spectator(s) and contributor(s) of such an irony. I, and all involved parties (other than you, God, if you exist) were unaware of the ensuing details, and so, my case was one of regular irony; but its method of delivery was justifiably poetic as any.

The poet suffers from poetry!

Cruel metaphor and the twisting irony.

The humour of Gods;

our tragedy’s their comedy.

Through dreams and drunkenness

we see their signs;

solve their riddles

and accept to be belittled

so we might make something of it all

where others refuse to look.

Where others have more sense,

than to be the instrument

of their own guileless destruction

Because I am, like all of you; greedy

As a favour to the anybody(s) who may never visit here, and because I've so much to share and never be seen, I'm going to post some more work that was written, probably, long ago and is still waiting to feel the hot press of the publisher. This piece, particularly, I wrote after reading De Quincey's Confessions. It's marvellously written, and through the beautiful lyricism, that borrows both from the Romantic and Gothic conventions, one can see how the opiates affected De Quincey; intensifying his most irrational fears and fascinations of the Asiatic. If I could only dream and write as well as he...

De Quincey had his crocodiles;

Alligators and the asiatic.

How sublime!

How silly, then,

what should I fear?

The contemporary scholar,

lacking prejudice (in vain)

I have my existential crisis.

Am I living?

What is life?

I cannot know it

if I’ve recourse to know it.

O! I have suffered.

I suffer myself.

I suffer the history of all

of those who came before me

I suffer for those

who are yet to be.

I suffer for death;

that it has not come for me.

And so,

I suffer yet.

Fernando Pessoa; how unkowingly you are loved...

It's been a long time since the last time I had written anything on here. In truth, it's been a long time since I last wrote anything of much substance. I had recently spent some time typing up my collection of poems that had filled one of the many books I have. The content of which varies in tone, and style, voice and content.
   While reading a book of Pessoa's, and admittedly, one that had most highly influenced my own creative process with regards to this 'blog', (its title, especially) I had come to fall 'in love' with his own visionary process and methods. As a man, with many facets of character, I find him quite fascinating. As a writer, I find him captivating. Here is an ode to Pessoa...

Love has struck,

No, not love,

it is deeper than a union

forged and fused

by the chemicals within

two bodies.

And how I am compelled

to admit the physical properties

that beckon my heart.

My love is genderless-

it is no woman,

no man,

it is a mind made known

by the appeal to consciousness.

Pessoa wrote his book

and as I read

I read myself,

know my soul,

bound by an intellect

greater than my own.

I read my thoughts,

my words,

as I may never know the truth

and wisdom to write them.

But I know love.

Two persons, overcome with solitary nature,

the greatness of everything, and greater still,

our loneliness. We know this both,

the each of us,

and though we will never meet,

never know one another,

I feel the harmony of our souls

which will always

never exist.

Modern man

I wrote this a long time ago, as such, I can't recall for what reason or what I thought to make of it. I like it, all the same, perhaps you will, too...

Modern man is an effigy,

of science, arts and poetry.

Incomplete, inconsistent and widely undefined.

We fight and struggle for our survival,

riddled with perplexities created by our minds.

Unbeknownst, unaware of just what we may find.

And here we are, down the line, clinging to our lives,

To keep order, stay from chaos:- married men with wives.

An ode to all that was before, our fathers would be proud

And here I am: Modern Man, wrecked with wrath and fears,

 But none shall tie me down, still I persevere

The piano

After seeing the film of the same name, and further, writing a short essay on it, I felt compelled to write something more that addressed the voice (as it had become something of a fascination that transpired from my writing of it). Though the title explicitly speaks of a piano, it had originally begun as something relatively vain and autobiographical. Subversively, however, I believe it to be true of all artists in a sense.

My music is my voice,

it leaves my body

as I talk,

revealing what of me

I had kept within.

I construct my metre

with my mind

extending vowels and

consonants.

The songs I sing

are of many things,

and I articulate

at length

in a way

that only few

could ever do the same.

Is it my song

that keeps my company

enthralled?

For when those few

talk to probe me

and my voice is let

to fly,

my compatriots applaud me

and my lovers feel

desire.

Ode to the Cuckoo

I wondered if the cuckoo had ever thought of the hurt that their offspring could endure, at the whim (and wing) of another bird; or whether, perhaps, the bird could ever long for the voice of their mother, that they knew they never could know. Though this poem addresses the mother, in many respects it's a love letter to the child.

Had you ever another thought

about the displacement of your brood-

had you ever to think

of the heartbreak

that could occur

in such a fragile chest,

such a little bird

and left alone

to flitter

flutter

an unrequited love

for the mother

that never laid to nest

but in the hearts and minds

of all your future kin