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.