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.