Another thought in passing

I walked along the shore and saw,
as I walked, many trees
that had been felled by gusts of wind
as birds sang in the breeze.

That's not really it, but it's a reinvention of sorts. The point is, I wondered how a bird could sit so contentedly in a tree during a storm strong enough to uproot the trees they built their very nests in. It actually goes like this...

How can it be
that a bird can make
to stay atop a tree
when a tree, itself,
is made to topple
over by the breeze

Meditations on Loneliness

There exists nothing that solidifies the feeling of loneliness quite like the gift of absent company. In their presence we may take for granted their humours and all other emphatic qualities, but as they ready for their departure, so then does our heart leap and send prayer past our lips: "stay...", so that we might not be alone. "Stay... or else, please, take me with thee."
Eyes search imploringly to find their way through labyrinthine defences, to penetrate so deeply as to stick and skewer those two passing bodies as one, and in realising their charms, finds the door shut firmly between them.
"... please stay, for I fear the approaching hours that I must spend without you."

And if you only knew the way I feel as you slowly prepare to take your leave... Well, just maybe you would.

Written during the storm

The night before Christmas, or perhaps, the night before its eve, I was sat reading in bed and couldn't hardly break away from tuning in to the sound of its passage. I was reading about ancient cities, their great beauty that had been all destroyed by time and conquest, but for their bones, and I wanted to combine the two things, the way they had been united within my own experiencing of them. I don't think I succeeded, but here is my attempt.

As it is
the wind does blows now
to set the sands
in starry flight
so that they reach
from dune to streets
to the far expanse
of this very night.

It is a wind
that's roared for aeons
see, how it's cracked relics
of past days like a whip;
war scorched and glory worn
this very same wind
once sent man across globe via ship.

It has carried our faith
and many a fear,
our love and often a tear.
This wind will yet blow
when we are nothing but bones,
riddled and burnt
into Earth.

Today, I have aged...

...... The celebratory self was welcomed whilst treading out, and now tired, but happy, I rest.

In beautiful, peaceful,
quiet calm,
I rest.
I lay my head
upon my pillow
and with complete concentration
I envisage my deeds;
those done and those
yet to do.
I consider my duties:
eluded
and the sins on my shoulders
are shrugged
as the silent repose
takes hold-
I feel the life of the world
around me
and am happy to be one
within it.

A thought in passing

I'm a man
who entertains myself
best
with thought-
though a fallacy,
I profess!
See,
they hold no weight,
it is shown
as truth,
but mere conjecture
for their proof
and best of all
is saved
for last-
that this is
no more
than damn
and blast!

Lilith

Life
is not life as we know it
but rather
it is sleep
for the life that follows
is our true life
and it is the life
eternal.

For the birds

I wrote this a few days ago, it was night, I couldn't give the particulars, but it was fairly late and I was, as always, suffering the cold of the front room for the purposes of some senseless distraction. (From what, we are all entitled to ask...) Sometimes I yearn for company, and sometimes it makes me furious. This was a case of the latter, but as every one else slept, the birds sang, and it was for them that I grew courage to write. Some other things were occurring within my mind, too, they shall not be divulged.

Sing, Bird,
sing.
Your voice fills
this ill lit room
and spreads about
the still strewn out carcasses
that have lingered here
since yesterday.
Idling by, they stretch
across sofa and chairs.
Though the sun is sank,
sent to
with the hearkening
of night-
Steady night
I look to you
for comfort
for answer
for escape,
and birds beckon mind:
"Take flight!"
as they lull me to them
drowsily,
alert to my exhaustion
I surrender
to the commingling
of the cold night and
the heat against my back.
   To the absence
and noise; to the
insular aspect of
company; to
feigning smiles and eyes
that search for love
and where they lock,
find none.
   To treachery.
To never being right.
For innumerable
pressure and sense:
   I surrender...
while the birds
yet call me home.

To you, to those...

I've been writing here and there, little things, mostly, on my way to somewhere else or during transient stages where I'm not really fully dedicated to my cause. It becomes easier to write lots of little then it is a little lot.

Well, I've not been on 'here', but here are some things that are little and may, one day, become more then they were. Probably not.

How can we get better

than perfection?

What more is there

than this?

The love we share-

the way we fuck-

and the highest aim

of our human race

is unity.

                                                                                   *

If you live

for a lie

it is for a lie

you die

To Hellen

This is just a work in progress. I wrote it rather quickly when an idea came to mind as I watched an old movie. The idea, is that I thought about the adversity of willingly looking upon the corpse of a recently deceased lover. Would our dreams become plagued with their face? The verb can be exchanged with the metaphorical 'looking' deeper into one's existence and will. The corpse does not necessarily need not to be breathing. The titular female is a reference to the archetype of all unfathomable/unreachable beauty, and also, a play on the phrase "To Hell and back"...

Do I dare to look upon thee?
What sacred cinders
remain
nearly burning deep
within your eyes.
To see the face
that will forever
haunt me-
the inescapable crutch
of your demise.
What love, for whom
there exists no fight
too great in size,
no wager, 'cept life
too great to bet-
and even then...
   How does one plunge
unto the very depths
and hold expectations
to return as was-
to survive.
I am no hero
-no Orpheus-
and fate would prove
too great
for even he.
There is no place
that yet remains
will be left
unperturbed;
no memory that holds
its one true form
of beauty
will ever be
un-marred, untouched
and left justly so
as always was
in life.

Purgatory

I'd been writing this poem intermittently for the past week or so- during which time I'd also been busy doing other things, and forgetting what I was meant  to be doing, finding life all a little too easy. Well, the basic idea I had was to describe a situation where an irksome young man wanders restlessly down the 'beaten track' until he loses his way; fascinated with the strange and eerie glow of his surroundings, he wanders away from his path, as though being led, to arrive at lake of excruciating beauty. Here he rests for an eternity, and never again finds his way home. I had to compromise, due to some time and responsibility constraints, to give what I have here, but most surely will go back to it  to add more of the feeling I want it to carry.

I awoke one day to find

the sun shone in my room,

with such a dazzling radiance

to penetrate my gloom;

that I had come to feel so much

since the summer was eschewed

and with its passing so did end

the innocence of youth,

for I had grown to know a love

that sullied as it bloomed,

resplendent as it ought to’ve been

the truth had it coloured crude;

and with the cooling of our climes

my passions also cooled

as I swore I’d never feel again

and sent them to the tomb.

Yet here I were so suddenly,

roused by warmth of  sun,

and so little perturbed by misery

I went in search of love.

Initially I ambled

to the risen sun in sky,

and birds, they did sing loftily

as they swept and then flew high.

First I walked along a path

and then encroached

upon the heath,

I passed through bush and bramble

as my mind gave way to feet,

as I seemed to follow a dreary route

walked before but still unseen.

And turning, saw that I was lost,

no trodden sod before me,

only misty wilderness

‘cased by intrepid shrubbery.

The path I walked had gotten so dark

that now no light pervaded,

and walking it I did perceive

I was trapped by a green

that left me jaded.

So with nothing more ado

but what it is I‘d done,

I set to a most determined pace

and simply carried on.

"Wrap’t in solitary thought

I walked

through the very deluge

of night

with a keen insight

and a prosperous mind

poised

toward beauty

and truth"

It all seemed to me

no mystery,

no phantoms did I find-

but only thick and thicker trees

and others of their kind

all stood next to one another

so many in a row

and hedges rose from in-between,

all this I saw as I did go

trouncing out my legacy

I was a pioneer

and though the density had swallowed light

I was bolstered by my fear.

I gave a laugh to think just then

how superstitious id become

to think the walls were moving in

or that id nearly thought to run,

and in their growing mockery,

or just to bring me down,

a branch id missed did cut me

deep across the crown;

the roots; they seemed more rigid

and the grass it did grow thick

and every once my clothes did catch

upon a grasping stick

as like limbs they did reach out,

and surely now were closer

so that I was again so full of dread

and the trees; they towered over.

Eventually I came to think

my way looked to be clearing,

exasperated, as I was

a weight was lifted as I were nearing

what I thought to presume to be

a lake that looked endearing.

Oh! Happy life

and grateful chance

to see such a lake appearing!

Addled and perspiring, I wept

then wiped my brow,

to see a break within their flanks

that I found, not knowing how.

Yet feeling it were a haven;

nestled away and safe,

there it was I fell to sleep

for what appeared to me like days.

First I dreamed of finer things

the fancies of infancy and grace,

never before had I known such peace

as when I laid down in that place;

in the arms of mine own enemy:

the persistent green that remained.

And as I lay, most surely,

my countenance did change-

for I felt as though I’d died

and died for such an age.

All such worries of my life

did rise and rise again,

and just as swift as they did come,

they’d sooner drift away,

leaving me to their successor

and my own indelible pain-

though every pain that came to me,

as numerous as rains,

did only last a moment

before their feeling was replaced.

I slept half an eternity,

and in that time did break

all of my thoughts and sufferings;

the little and the great.

And as each passed

I was reminded

how fickle they became,

still sleeping, so astoundingly,

as though the bed had been my grave.

Yet forever reassured I was,

though unable to awake,

that for every hurt

I thought to feel,

a greater one remained.

And in time they each became

 much smaller than my pleasure:

a pleasure sourced so strange;

a pleasure never known before,

as it were only carved from pain,

and so there sat upon my gait

an expression with no name.

There it was I grew so chilled

I screamed myself: “Awake!”

I gave a yawn and brushed myself

then finally did rise,

I looked about to get my bearings

the faceless mass did meet my eyes,

and I roved for a gap in the border;

the one through which I came

and finding it was nowhere

thought how I was trapped

as to be like game.

I travelled first with caution

along my perimeter to see,

and then again in reverse

but somewhat more quickly

this I did but ten times

thinking I had erred

but always left concluding

my way was deeply barred.

The path I took was overgrown

and now stood tall and wild

and just as dense as everywhere

they were as savage giants to a child.

Desperately. I pleaded:

“Will you not let me go!”

and there they swayed so silently

that I knew it for a ‘no’.

I walked myself to the edge of the lake

and crumbled to the floor

first I gazed out listlessly

and then with some furore

at how beautiful the water was

and in it, what I saw;

my wretched, limpid, exhausted face

scratched and beaten raw

and behind me, growing taller

stretched trees from sky to floor;

such was flipped my reflection

so that I knew it showed a truth;

that any way I looked at it

there was nary a way through.

And the water softly sparkled

with its placid siren’s call

blacker than any earthly thing

and I shone through its pall.

 Then everything was still

I clamoured for nought the more

but gave myself to purgatory

finally,

forever,

all.

Hello, to you...

Please remain faithful; I've been ever so busy trying to overcome my ennui- I find myself fatigued so very easily, but work is in the process and I promise you something wonderful soon!
X

Something of Pain

I have been, until very recently, experiencing a tremendous deal of pain in my knee, caused by what, I don't know. It now only afflicts me marginally, thankfully, but it had besot me with such discomfiture that it became present at all times, every day, and mid repose I wrote this.

I sit here

quite contentedly,

nursing the sore

of my knee.

Though it's pained me

for weeks

through the wet and

the heat

its origin remains

yet unknown-

it's a lingering guest,

a nuisance,

a pest,

that drives me

from house

back to home

and a tender touch

is a touch too much

like a frost

that thaws

in my bones.

Having read Bulgakov,

it reminds me of

the Devil, who fell

off the throne;

who keeps his leg straight

to ease off the ache

and so sits

remarkably low.

 

The Storm

A storm is raging
on the horizon,
its convoy is proceeded
by drips and drab
caused by the tension
that's released through the rain,
a hurtling, swirling, howling wind
occupies the sound
that is exerted
from the brass, hollow tubes
of the horns of war
that play faintly in the distance,
soft as a new morning
in the silent valleys
of the country of the dead.
Shimmering grass stood tall
never accustomed to the heavy fall
of the foot, or the hoof, or the paw
and spring waters never broken. Stones
never turned: nought left as a reminder
of the lives that passed before,
nought,
but the petrified stalks;
desiccated shapes of what civilisation
had been before the storm.

The Nihilist

I sat to dinner, a couple of weeks ago, with a friend and his family and their friends, and the dinner was good, and so too the conversation and wine, also, was given liberally. It was by all means a 'pleasant' environment, and conversations were piqued that were humorous and or interesting and eventually I was broached upon to read. It's not something I like to make a habit of, but for the whole nature of the evening I assented, for the wine I had drunk I felt a little less than my usual nerves and after reading a few their topics were encroached upon, my attitudes then, and lastly my desires. It ended with their agreement that I was a nihilist. I refused the title initially.

Never before has such pleasure been felt

as to those who, in despair, have knelt

and have cupped their hands

as if by brooks, or streams

to covet their face in the unreality of dreams

and here it is due, for any of those

who, in disquietude, should make their repose

and so forget, as if quaffed of Lethe,

that ever before did they beg of death.

Such persons, then, will be robed by the dark,

at home with the night, as with the sky and the lark

and the truths that they know

shall be bound deep within, so that

the seeds of all hope shall sprout nihilism.

How then shall we think to sigh or to weep

when our own suffering has buried the self so deep

that with everything obscured, we gain clarity

and overflowing with pain, happiness is replete?

How then may we think that it is any of worth

when we shall all become dust, and so too shall the Earth?

What then of our cares; so easily borne, when

one day they’ll be nothing, as will the dusk and the dawn?

Gluttony

There's a greedy ague
to the city;
guttural in its raw
trembling fat shakes
it leaves me two minded
with split minds
like salvaging a wreck
from the car crash
of last week.
Reoccurring thoughts of
"why want for more?"
when more
is a loose stitch
that you pull
to widen a hole that stretches
at the side of your leg.
More is the hole
that we fall through,
as we shovel
the emptiness from without
trying to fill up the in.
Stimulating thought
isn't as easy
as just taking more
Stimulating thought isn't as easy
as just taking more,
More is a pleasure house
where the pleasure never ends
and you're forced to
widen your horizons,
as you widen your maw,
roving eyes that search
left and right
from back
to forth
and I tell you
no man has ever been sated
who did not taste the bitter
Such it is then, that so
some will savour the bitter
to taste it forever
so that their dis-pleasure
may be all the
more.
More is the wreck
of the loose ride that
came off the bend
whittled away by the wind
piece by piece
as flesh is torn
from the face
that is burnt until crisp
like a cinder
to dust
unto diamonds.
What shall we want then
of more?
More
as from bones
our flesh is torn
as we grip the sides of the ride
as it plummets
into the very blackest core.

In absentia

In consolidating my notepad, which houses the past moments that I purloined semi-permanently from their passing, and all during my own vacancies, I found a few things that I don't recall.

And so it is
that as you flee
all of my thoughts
take flight with thee:
even unwilled
my thoughts do steep
into the feelings
of the heart I keep;
though I do try
to bury deep,
out of sight and
out of reach,
it always befalls-
the hand won't grip!
Rent, I am
with beating breast,
I carve a prayer
across my chest,
I solemnly swear it!
To keep you here
I'd write your name
did I not fear
that with the dropping
of my tears
you'd live again
to disappear...
                                                                               ****

I remember once
I knew a sound
so much sweeter
than the pound
of the slowing heart
that keeps me down,
as the silent ones
beneath the ground.
It filled me
with such reverie;
I loved for it
just that it be
so befitting you,
as finery-
you were no princess,
you were my Queen-
and I,
just I-
I were no king
not to command you
but to receive
all of the love
you gave to me
so when you spoke
I heard you sing.
Now all I hear
is a wailing wind
to accompany a dragging beat
that is the pounding
of my heart,
which since you left
is incomplete

Love between the inanimate

I wrote, a little while ago, something slightly similar to this: it was a poem about the conscious soul that could not depart the dead body it was belonged to. This is a little different, however- after reading 'A Scanner Darkly', and musing on the idea of the self without will (which is volition and the desire to live), and so being a live thing, but one that is very much unthinking and has only to stare and stare at whatever it does or does not see before it, unendingly. Well, so this is about that, only it does think. But  then, it's also about an objective view of mankind, and thus, seeing into the very nature of man, and nature, too- all as very cyclical and infantile in the grand scheme of our self-invented master/mistress time. And what more? It's also about how we can only learn to love our own ego, and thus, what we see of ourselves in the other, because even if it is the differences, we love their difference compared to our self. A mirror (which reflects backwards)  of what we are.
This is the sad story of a statue in love:

So long ago

I stood alone,

just stood,

as I were made of stone,

though tempest knocked me,

quakes would shake me,

never did I give up home

never did I know company

other than my own

my eyes were set in place

and I would stare

and wait alone

stare into such emptiness

for that is all

that I were shown;

staring so unceasingly

you’d have thought

I were just stone.

I was made

a figure of virtue;

with his hand

he craft’d me

and soon I did not just resemble,

but rather, I became He.

From thence, I never moved,

never cried nor made the more,

simply stood and stared at pastures

as they changed

and became as before.

Never moving, I saw the seasons

pass slowly, first in awe

saw Summer turn to Autumn,

Winter to Spring,

the seasons, four-

I saw those pastures change

so many times,

so what I once enjoyed

only became a bore.

An endless cycle

ad nauseum…

An endless cycle,

nothing more.

Wearily,

I came to perceive a change

on the horizon: industrialisation,

or so I thought.

Men had come to build up the land

and make towns and

churches, and their

city halls.

Strange, how I came

to find

no beauty in what

was no longer my kind;

all those fleshy pieces,

so fickle in time-

I were to them

as they were to I:

something there to look at,

but to love,

they were blind.

But in their architecture

I did come to see

something so beautiful

it was hard to believe-

brick upon brick,

upon mortar and all,

something so strong

that never could fall!

Those people that move

and are so quickly disposed

would never know love

as a statue does know;

though between two inanimates

no words are passed,

we yet love one another

for the fact that we last.

And over the years

what I did come to see

was nothing short of a paradise

erected before me.

But paradise is not meant

for us earthly few;

we are here to be tested

and tortured anew.

And it took no longer

than a short hundred years

until man was at war

with the man that he feared.

Panic fed upon terror

and the world was ablaze

with bombs that blew up

and fire that razed

and if a statue could blink,

in that time it was gone:

all of the beauty

I scarcely had known.

How I would weep

and shudder

if my bones were unfroze

to see there;

my beloved

torn asunder!

Deposed!

Still, I do stand

with unending gaze

at the desecrated plot

of my happiest days

and should ever you think

do not be alarmed

that the coldest of statues

may house a still beating heart.

What a crazy dream!

Life, I mean- isn't it? Odd opportunities, missed chances, curious reminders and drifting memories. Life is very much a watercolour where the shit blends into the serene sky. I've lived an odd dream-like life, dream and nightmare alike, in fact, where realities seem too good to be true and at once are turned on their heads. This is a description of a strange dream that I had, because I do not have the talent or patience to write the real life example that is fresh in my memory and needs the confidence of another day to become cemented in history. For now, I will hold on to my dreams.

On second thought, I reject the idea of allowing anything more.

Death

Here's a poem I wrote while I watched an old cartoon from my early childhood.
You may wonder where the inspiration comes from, more specifically, how it came to be. If this is the case, I assure you that we were not watching the same show.

Death:
my old friend,
the one to whom
I am most comfortable.
You are nothing
to be feared,
but one who can be relied upon:
on one we can depend.
You will never cease
in your love for us,
the one great certainty
until the end.

On Wine and Things...

It's been a little while since I were last on here. I've not been so faithful. I have my reasons; each as small and insignificant as each other. Nevertheless, I have been working, at times, writing short aphorism's and other little cuts of my thoughts for my novel. Wine played a fair part in the past week or so... Here's a couple of things on the subject of something or other.

 Claret
    the blood fills my glass
Claret
    I think of my wound
Claret
    it runs down my throat
Claret
    I think of you

There is so much in a name;
so much and nothing at all;
what is it but the whim of your parents,
and what you will
from thence be known and remembered for,
remembered,
or forgotten,
entirely and forever

Some Velvet Morning

Despite my age, I have loved as much as any other, older- which is to love so completely, that every day of separation brings pain. It was for her that I became so much, but with the realisation of her womanhood, she made need to grow apart. And Phaedra was her name.

Listening to that song;

our very elegy,

and your last words-

how you gave me life

and how you made it in.

Walking through the rain

my body was shattered

as if made of stone.

Wrapp’d in sorrow,

though I were,

I could not cry.

I made my vow

to the angels

and the heavens wept

for I 

Misery Chord

An act of mercy, yet what a curious connection can be made phonetically. The sound of one's misery deserves an act of kindness, in return. Perhaps that is the secret of it.

With consternation I stand

awaiting

for my way to be made clear

Only with your blessing

will my pain be abated

It is only you

that I stand to hear.

And should you wish

to show me sufferance

permit me now

your misericord

For, even saints

can find their spirit broken,

Yes, even they

can doubt the lord.

And as I am

no saint nor prophet

but just a man, this:

my confession-

permit me now

to lean upon you;

lend me your hand,

for my repentance.

'On the Suffering of the World'

Schopenhauer's a grand read, that I can't deny- his prose is not so prosaic, and though the more I read, the more I am conditioned into accepting that I am dying, forever losing sight or grasp of the present moment, his way of passing time is as good as any other; to remove oneself from the parade and just observe it a while, as if objectively, then to carry on with the march, until we reach the end of our own, subjective, promenade.
I've always felt that life was just a series of moments leading to our death. This is a rational view, I feel, but some may see it as a little despairing. But then, why despair over the inevitable? Better yet to find one's own way of living through it- coping- you might say, ignoring, might say others. Do what you will until the issue is resolved, patiently waiting, meditating, it's all just a way of dealing with time; or the end of time, until it happens and nothing can be done either way.
Given a long enough period of time, the chances of any 'thing' increases. What does this mean?

Schopenhauer tells me that life is worthless.

All this, I knew before.

All efforts in life are meagre

procrastinations

to whittle away our time

until we die.

And if we’re lucky-

smiled upon by chance-

we would have enjoyed just a few

instances in our life,

as a repose,

before the ceaseless struggle continues:

to work, to earn, to live…

… to die.

All happiness is eclipsed, in time.

All this, I knew before.

We try to make a name for ourselves

to reach closer to our limits.

What’s that we see in the distance?

Is it happiness? Is it fulfilment?

The question is, will you ever reach it,

and should you achieve it,

was it worth it?

Are you happy now?

Will you be satisfied tomorrow?

Tomorrow arrives, punctual as always

now what is contingent to your desires?

Do you not yearn for yesterday?

I seek only oblivion:

the pleasure of the fuck

and the following rest, where,

shutting my eyes,

I will blank out the world

taking a step back

from existence.

And the earth will yet spin

and all is all

as all is the same.

There is no worthy change in time.

All this, I knew before.

Ode To Autumn

I felt, with the coming of September, a change in the air as I breathed it in and felt the perambulations of the atmosphere about me, noticing the descent of dark had quickened its pace. I love Autumn, for the sacrifice of the leaves as they throw their bodies to the ground, for the smell of primal fires that forever linger, for the cooling air as it de-pressurises in density.
Perhaps this poem isn't very worthy, but this is an ode to Autumn:

Autumn, at last!

You divined your way

into my life

shadowing the season of Summer

as sure as the flow of time,

gentle as undisturbed waters.

You darken the horizon

with vicissitude in your very nature-

to bring about man’s instalment

of unnatural light.

You quiet the bird that sings

as you usher in your successor;

Winter-

our most frigid mistress

who opposes the gayety, opulence

and nakedness

of our great Summer

who, shyly, bows out

proceeding your advance

Of Faith

I just wrote this a few days ago. It's hard to say what compelled me, I think I had something of the insane, albeit benign, screaming to climb out of me. I wanted to write in nonsense, but I don't think I ever lost myself enough to succeed.

I believe

in the Holy Father-

I stake my claim

in the asylum

with the saints

and lunatics;

all of us

too knowing for this world.

I believe

in the communal sprit-

the blood, the bread,

the birds shall have my bones

and I will throw my body

to the ocean,

to be the shield,

the carapace,

of the tiny fish

as they gorge on my tongue.

I heard the word

and it was good,

far better than the world

too full of damned and dead

and those too foolish to realise

that we only aborted

ourselves.

The conjugal bond was signed

as soon as we were born,

the contract consecrated

upon our own conception.

Give away

what is not yours;

none of it is anyone’s-

we should not be made

of what we’ve bought,

but be one with everything

and our neighbour

be the sun

What is the Point?

In love there is the lover; there is also the beloved, many doctrines will tell you this. The beloved has the rare pressure of knowing they are the most sought after, and singularly desired 'object' of affections of another. Within such pressure, the urge to debase or humble oneself, somehow, often comes into place, or at times, the desire to hurt the lover, so that they may no longer be beloved, as they are, for it is no easy role to know that one has staked a most jealous claim over you, for the lover only can, and for this, there is little freedom for either. No, it is no easy job, to be beloved. For the lover, then, the job is simple; the duty is an unavoidable and constant will to please the beloved. Their job is also treacherous, because their love is unshakeable- it suffocates both lover and beloved, harming one, as it harms the other- to kill the one is just the same as to kill the self, and they will be tested so verily to prove their love for the other.
   Within love, the role of lover and beloved are often switched, as one soon learns they can love no more, and in no longer being cherished, the once beloved so wishes to make their sole desire the reclamation of the love they lost, and so they will do anything- through pleasure or pain, to keep their beloved to them, and so it is that they are debased, and in seeing their previous totem of love so sullied; the beloved then becomes humble, and takes the place, again, of the lover. The two can never love equally; there must always be disquiet between them; one must always love more, or less, than the other, for if they did not, both would die of lack of sustenance- both spiritual and physical, for they would do nought but love, as was the case with Narcissus, who was too full of self-admiration to have sense enough to save himself. It is a difficult relationship of swooping dives and climbing loops, beautiful and necessary as chaos, itself. But do not falter, this is just my opinion.

In collapsing under the pressure of love, I did so debase myself, and thus; debased the love that was so unrighteously coveted by me. I gave in to such fits of jealousy as do turn the other away and make them shy from their possession, knowing now that there are limits in place against them. In so coming to terms with this most sacrificial of loves, it does dawn on me then that all love is doomed. At one stage, or another, the beloved will always take flight- they will release themselves from your manacles, or Death will do it for them, and how, then, does one continue to live when that most precious organ that did make you so spirited, is taken away with them. Without the soul, the man is just a shell.

What is the point?

What is the point,

in torturing oneself?

Conjuring up such suppositions,

lowering morale.

Fantasising incidents,

despairing, as in Hell-

sitting in this solitude

is no good for my health;

happiness never finds a place

where depression is abound;

laughter has no melody

I wish to sing aloud.

Circumventing contemplations,

I tread on common ground,

 yet in languor I'm inanimate

while she is dancing, how?

And dancing she will find a partner

to lead or follow 'round,

and all of this I do so think

but wish to disavow.

Though once she did love me,

she will love another now.

What is the point?

What is the point,

in torturing oneself?

No matter that I wish to hold her,

she will not allow.

No matter how I cling to her,

she will only let me down-

though she tries to reassure me

there is no sweetness to the sound;

her words cut me with rejection;

I am slaughtered, like a sow.

As I die, I cry for mercy

but all she hears are growls;

in blindness, what I saw so fine

she only saw as foul.

What is the point?

What is the point,

in torturing oneself?

Since the day I gave my heart

to you, I've been slowly bleeding out.

What is love?

For a while, in the bedroom and company of a beautiful young woman, I felt positively enchanted. We were detached from one another, operating in different worlds at the time- she busied herself with communication and work, and I, with leisurely observations of her, admiring her figure, her dress, her exuberance. Love had made her shine- either in my eyes or without them, it matters not if what's perceived is only the same. As she worked she worried that she had been neglecting my attentions. I assented to confessing that I didn't mind. Happiness has no place in mind, but lives, and for that time, I lived throughout her, around her. Made lazy by hot weather and affection. What an entity she was! Complete in her many dimensions, an impossible object forever twirling before your very eyes, slowly, so that when you think you've seen all you recognise, so suddenly, there is a change that's eased in smoothly with no disruptions to your expectations, but rather falls on you with an invisible guile. It whispers in your ear, languishes your neck with petulant kisses and makes your bones ache with desire as it stabs you gently in the back, and raises the blade right to your heart. A soft shock, love. And when we are really in love, we are only too happy to be murdered.
   At turns, I kissed her appendages, stroking her thighs, raised her dress and kissed her warmly where her two legs meet, both forward and behind, around and through the material of her knickers, and so rare was her indifference, that it could have only divined from pleasure. So many times a day it is, that we love, so seldom it is that we're in it.

What is love?

To know there is no part of you

that is not loved-

no part that is not made erogenous.

Love is to know that you need not fear

dissection,

for every graze, every grain

every bruise, or hole, or mole

be as beautiful as the whole

when put together

in its not so motley amalgamation

with a beauty that be,

stripped of the flesh,

witnessed in the soul

and within the reflection of the dark pupil

where we find a love for the self

because we are beloved.

The Beauty of Sadness

It was Keats who wrote within his 'Hyperion' poem that the more sorrowful the gods, the more beautiful they looked. There is a person I hold dear to my heart who has always been told they looked so sad, and yet, most assuredly, though they may look as such, only some of the time, this factor of their appearance does most definitely make them all the more becoming for it. This is then, for them...

And should,

for any reason,

you find yourself

so dispossessed;

know that you become beauty

being all the more

lugubrious

On Adultery

This is a poem I thought to write when my mind was was torn between numerous ideals that I thought each as equally worthless and yet, worthwhile. There is no right way to live, we simply must have the conviction to believe in ourselves, in everything we do. I thought about polygamy whilst I was in a monogamous relationship, I thought about the pains of polyamorous relationships for those who wish for monogamy. I understand that monogamy is not monotony, and the thought of having to hold such affairs as secrets was one that was painful to the delicate soul that yearns for more of everything, but finds true fulfilment in singularity: a single body, a single consciousness, a single path in life.

It is in this bed

I lie

within this bed

and lie

and love, and fuck

with one

and then… another.

Another to lay

by my side

as I lie, another day

and I die.

What dies is chastity.

What dies is disillusionment.

Who lays is another woman,

who lies is only I

and then, another day

another lie

another day I lie awake

and softly shall I cry

to know that day

I took another

and on that day you died

in my mind, your perfection

I marred with my own venom

and so, to keep you-

keep you here,

and still alive,

tomorrow I will keep from you

the truth, and so, I lie

to ensure you never cry

I lie, and lie,

and lie.

So softly shall I keep from you

the truth, and softly lie.

So bitter will my tears be

that I’ll try to hide.

So heavy is the burden

of truth

of which I will deny

so cumbersome, it buries me

and forces me to lie

upon the ground and

slowly

I die, and die

and die.

To S.E. With X

This is the third, and supposedly final, chapter of a project that I had undertaken with my partner to detail our sexual encounters in such a way as could only be seen by us. The idea was to take turns in writing these same scenarios so they could, collated, give a detailed and thorough introspective, yet complete (for exposing both sides) account of the present case.With our rupture I don't see many more chapters being written.
   I put this up with the smallest belief that you'll see this one day, to know everything that occurred during this period of time within me, for better or worse, and for those who come by here- so you may see another side of my personhood and judge me as you will. For the unusually personal nature of this post and just as much for its 'crass' descriptions of a sexual setting, I don't expect to leave it up for much longer than the week, whilst I engage in the cathartic action of writing other things. The name, your name, has been omitted, as is only fair- though I wouldn't fear that anyone I really know knows of this page in any case.
This is to you, with all my love...

The last that I saw 'Her', our life of sex had been such a strange affair. In the time proceeding she had admitted her inability to achieve orgasm- either with me or by her own hand, a really rare thing, for since our start, we had been so veritably sexed that at times we mused it were unhealthy. Oftentimes I found that I would have liked it could we, she, hold out longer, but the way that she did ask of me, oh- how I did love to oblige her.

   As I say, the whole ordeal had been a ‘strange affair’- at once despondent, fragile, immense, alive, full of love and so much more that the whole of it was entirely mystifying and almost brings a tear to my eye now, as I recite it. The fact is, the start of our night began with the end of us…

   I had been unable to give her up, not as was, for, since her return from her voyage, we had hardly met, hardly spoke and not once did we lie together. I was saddened to think that she could, or would, no longer come, and all the more that she would not even open up her soul, in that way, for me. It had been I that first made her orgasm so many years ago, and thus, opened her up to a many greater enjoyments to be had within the world of sex, and likewise, it was her that had first inducted me.

   When I saw her, I couldn’t help but bring up this book. It had been her idea, originally, to collaborate on it- detailing our own stories, in turns, of such situations after she’d been inspired by her readings of Nin. Upon my expostulation, she retorted that I was never faithful to the idea! I retorted that I yet eagerly awaited her own productions, but they were too private, she declared, even for me. This collaborative practice, this combining of our energies, to think it would never be! And what direction will it take now?

   Together we made the bed, her bed, and sat to drink and discussion. The conversation of our ailing relationship could not be avoided, as much as I’d tried to steer clear, in such circular motions it ensued and I’d immediately known I’d done wrong in my being there, but I just could not end it as was.

   After her tears had dried, she arose from the bed. All the while she had lain there, propped up by a pillow, her dress down to her waist, her bra revealing her figure, her tan, her beauty. I could not stop staring, enjoying so much my entrée and not knowing how or when we would ever come to sleep. My body was listless. I wanted to be closer to her, to clear the gap between us and make everything right, anew- make our history irrelevant. She must think me delirious, how I wanted to claim her but knew I could not. Deftly, as she turned out the light, she dropped her dress to the floor, and seeing her there so wholly for the first time in so long, after all of my woes that she had shared the visage of her body with so many people, but not I, I could not help but to exclaim: “You’re not wearing any knickers!”, helpless and foolish as a child. Her own answer was quick and cutting, as if I had incited scorn, and with the room now darkened, I swallowed a few gulps of my drink and hastily undressed to follow her lead.

   In bed, at last, I ruminated on the things she had said. Whilst my desires for her were never dulled, she told me that she no longer felt the same need for me as she had, as though she were encased in glass. This was already so hurtful to my self and my conviction that I could ever hope to have her back. In the past, ‘She’ would always move to me, un-helped, unhindered, we always came together in such agile movements that never a doubt did ever exist that we were not truly so unavoidably, unshakeably, in love. In addition to this, she had made clear her intentions of not wanting to lose her energies to a sexual union; she spoke of the matter as Samson having his hair cut by Delilah, making me the devious women of the two. She was now, and had been, so keenly poised upon living a free life and so purely for her art that sex no longer existed, no longer had its home with her, and at first I was so confident- could I only get so close to her, could I only cause her to feel the need for me again, could I only make her come, would we not have a chance of restoring our faith? And as she continued to decry that she had no wishes to allow me that power over her body, (What power? What could I ever create that she did not willingly allow me to create within her?) I so humbly, mentally assented that I would not stir to make love to her, and with that, my hopes were crushed.

   As it was, I could not sleep. My hands moved about her body and always I was so taken by an unbearable lust that it almost moved through me (and very much did begin to) of its own volition. How surprised I was then, that when I asked to kiss her, she told me to do as I liked. I tried to stick faithfully to my vows, and so I tempered my greatest urge and kissed her neck, only for her to turn, and there I received her mouth. This was now as it always had been; she coyly moved her mouth about, evasive so that my next kiss would not find its target, all the while we grew greater aroused and we writhed, legs apart and over each other, towards one another unthinkingly, and forcibly I grabbed her head and planted my mouth upon hers where we embraced so fervently, fervidly, that in that instance I so believed that everything between us was no longer an issue, no more a threat, that her worries that we would rekindle our relationship if we fucked (As we always did), were waylaid; because at last her body cried for me, and here we were- she asked for permission to remove my underwear, “Of Course” I uttered in between exchanges of hands and tongues, and there, my great dick aching in her hands, I could have died, so happily, if it had all only gone so right.

   She was quick to put me in her as she climbed on top and it all, every reach inside of her, felt so curiously new. I ran my hands over her body, her breasts, and squeezed her as I pushed my hips further towards her and away. It had all been so new, so long since last time, I felt I had forgotten and noticed she didn’t move so lasciviously as she once had. In the past, taken by the promise of the orgasm, she would shake her hips from side to side, she would jitter, recoiling and pulsing with an electric charge that excited us both like eels, swimming finely together, against one another, in a violent torpor of waves and crushing ocean. Now she seemed to have forgotten. Though I could not escape how wet she felt, how easily I had slid inside her, she did not harbour that same energy that left us both so equally possessed. I beckoned to her to try for it, she grew close, but seemed afraid (or something so much more feminine and mysterious that a man will never understand, so that I can only suppose to think of it as alike a fear, though it truly exists in a realm so vastly different and so much the greater force) of pushing herself over the edge; of relying on me, a physical body, to achieve such satisfaction; of me taking something from her, like some incubus, and so, crying, she tore away and there I held her, ushering her to be calm, to not worry, until we fell asleep.

   In finally achieving sleep, I only dreamed of her.

   First I dreamt of roses. I dreamt of wild geography, volcanoes and hot lava that existed in the core of the Earth. It was all so clear- I dreamt of penetrating her core, of reaching the nucleus that made her electrons thrive and of finally releasing that incredible, spiritual, pressure that would again unite us and leave us conjoined. These were my wishes, but as I spoke to her, trying to make her anxieties subside, it became so much the clearer that these wishes were not hers.

   These dreams then took on new form: I saw her through a TV screen. She was so far away but we could talk through the screen, freely, and I saw her open herself up to take me, laid upon a fine, red, silken sheet- the walls draped just so, and all but her merged and disappearing. From somewhere (Taking hold of the impossible is never such in dreams) I had grabbed a computer console, and knowing the transference of data to be real, I opened the disk draw so that I could insert my penis into it, and immediately upon doing so, I felt the pleasure of being inside her. Direct to drive, as it were, her body was electronically mapped, so I continued to fuck the grey, cumbersome, computer like a black hole that bent my light and transported it right to her body. I was in such supreme pleasure that I really think I would have awakened to ejaculate if it weren’t for that I should suddenly have been teleported, right on the verge of climax, to a tent, on my own, where I merely found myself masturbating, thinking of her, and here I woke up.

   This deliverance was at the cost of my own actual masturbation. The shock of the transportation had made me realise that I had been justly thrusting forth and back at the crevice of 'Her' arse. By now I was so determined to come that I, hazily, contemplated raping her. I placed my hand on her pubic bush for my own tactile enjoyment and closed my eyes whilst I flexed the muscles of my penis to attempt bringing what seminal fluid I had to the forefront, where upon its vacating, I would at last, restfully sleep. This ordeal lasted a short while and slowly, ‘She’ stirred, turning her body and allowing me new vantage to feel her exposed cunt. If she were wet, I decided, I would put myself inside her and lazily shift so I could come as I slept. Shamefully, I began to lightly touch her, rubbing her clitoris and feeling for any wetness, always trying not to become carried away and wake her by being too vigorous. My eyes closed, my hand continued unperturbed until she shifted again and I, finally decided with reverence of my wrong, let her sleep.

   I was not long after awakened by a thunderous crashing and smashing of glass like a poorly piloted automaton demolishing a warehouse. Eventually the noise subsided and again I slept. It’s strange that with sex, acted successfully, one finds their place in such oblivious rest, but when placed sexless, or unsuccessfully, next to a partner, so often do both awake at different hours throughout, wanting something, desires waning, and then to rest again. Repeated, ad nauseum.

   So it was, we two often awoke, embraced and sluggishly I would begin again to caress her breasts or kiss her neck, only stopping when I would be too rough for the mood and she’d tell me it hurt, where upon I would kiss her softly and apologise. Then we would sleep, wake an hour later and talk a little, or change places and position. I told her my dream, “how lovely”, she thought, in all seriousness, that she was so close to being smeared in my sleeping come, and how unlikely it was- the practical efforts of trying to fuck without waking up. I spoke freely of it all because we often did, because I thought she’d be aroused by my desires, and because I believe she would never judge me of them.

   Again, we slept and when we at last did arise, she hastily dressed and we talked, I, still in bed. She made us tea, which I drank and she did not, and thinking it best I left, I went for my things. She told me she was about to lay down again and so I stayed. We were close together when she asked me to take off her clothes. “Oh!” I was abuzz again with love for her and I slowly stripped her, kissing her so solidly all in between. Before I could take off her top she had me in her hand and pulled me on top of her, and again, so wet she was that I easily slipped inside. We gazed at each other, heartily, I employed all my efforts in a frenzy; moving fast, now slow, pushing in different ways and from varying angles, kissing her, groping her, and always telling her how much I wanted, nay, needed, her come, her love, asking how it felt and where she needed it, vociferating that it was all in her power. I got close, myself, a many times at her request before, uncertain that it was right of me; I pulled away and thought to try something else.

   I put my head between her legs and gently lapped with the whole and the tip on my tongue, swirling her clitoris or applying even pressure to her inner labia but she showed no signs of arriving any closer, not even with my hand once more upon her breast while I worked with my tongue. All to no avail! She was upset again, though she had claimed she had come a little, I was in fair disbelief. Again we embraced and waited a while- my testicles feeling fairly upon the verge of exploding.

   Interlocked and kissing, we tried once more. She put her leg over me as she touched my cock with her spittle-drenched hands- what delight that was- and I moved one hand down to assuage her own aches. She shook as if on the precipice of climax, a most welcome sight, and then, still in her hand, she swung on top of me, her legs both wide open as she pressed her chest to mine and our lips together. I stretched an arm over her back and began manipulating her pussy from behind. There are so few things in life that excite me as much as the combination of visual, auditory, taste and tactile sensations during such moments when ‘She’ puts herself in this position, splayed perfectly for my entry, howsoever I should choose.

   Holding her down hard against me as I delved into the once familiar routine of rubbing, kissing and fucking her to bring her to climax, she asked me to come with her “Now… now… now” but as I sped up my lunges I all the while sensed that she had not come but “a little”, as before. Exasperated, she begged me to stop. At first I thought of really raping her this time as I held her in place and replied in the negative, but seeing her so upset, I grew instantly tender and released her. I held her, brushing her hair aside and doing my very best to remedy what sorrows she felt, as I saw them to be, but how bravely she smiled and kissed me back. How badly I ached to release myself and her too, with me.

   Another short period of time elapsed and soon her hands were on me. She brought me so close and then told me to get on top. I did as asked and all over was caught in the motion of it all. Like purgatory we senselessly fucked but never arrived anywhere new, but this time as she beckoned me, I was certain to deliver- yet all the time I was wrapped with concern for herself and my own sadness at her inability, which was then my inability, to move her so.

   It all became too much and there, painfully, I came inside of her as she had previously asked only to hear her words, too late, not to put it inside, (She was not taking contraception as she was before, when we were ‘together’) and there, pulling out, I came tremendously over her thighs, vagina and stomach- yet still felt so full and hard enough to do so again. Awkwardly, I apologised profusely, knowing what would entail; a trip to the pharmacist, like an ill-advised (or better advised, as the case may be) teenager and I would not be there to accompany her this time. We had split, and with severance, she would now have to go about such ‘shameful’ business alone, as if the single and sole cause of all grief.

   Then we slept, and I: only a little, but so restfully. We awoke a little before noon and bought food to share a lunch that I prepared for us both. She moved to eat on the stairs outside, and after I arrived, left me there with the approaching dog that she feared, that I was only too grateful to share the company and sandwich with. Finishing my meal, I joined ‘Her’ in her room. Silently, I thought about the issues at hand; leaving for good, and thought how I wanted to stay but knew the longer I waited, the more of her time I wasted. Reluctantly, I gathered my things, painfully, (and now regrettably) I asked for some trinkets and with a rubbish bag in hand, I left her indefinitely.

   Perhaps the greatest sadness is that I thought: “One day she will need to come again, and that day, she will not choose me to let her”, the sadness was of my own ego- a sadness of rejection for someone else, and then the only thought that occurred afterward: “If we could just try again, if you could just move a little like this… here… now, like this… this… yes, there… yes! YES!” and then all will be fine between us. But alas; the greatest sadness is simply that for all I want and all my own selfish desire, she did not want what I wanted of her, and that, I just couldn’t understand.

What luck

An unimaginable period of between 24 to 36 hours ended with a curious set of circumstances unravelling around me. Things that were dear to me were lost; when I most felt that I had become entirely destitute, my financial situation began to look more becoming; I roamed wild fields full of life to feel something more when all was bleak and I gained a new relative (of sorts), though in so doing, they replaced something more precious. I was told I did not do enough, made too little effort and was too disagreeable too much of the time. When I felt like things could not go worse, I was handed the potential for great opportunities. Though a heart became closed to me, I was nevertheless enfolded in most gracious arms.

There is no such thing
as coincidence,
there is too much of chance
to be any of it.
What more could lead
to such grand design
than intervention
that is 'divine',
as it is also
a blessing

Of Butterflies

We are not
like the butterfly
who elegantly dance a while,
free and flitting,
fickle;
they are gone.
We are much more clumsy;
we stumble,
we fall,
but our airs are truly astounding
we came away as we crumbled,
we came together
we crawled.
Our desires so much more complicated
and eternally,
beautiful

An extract from the Book of Pain

It is a strange fate, to endure the sufferings of a "broken" heart: to continue to sit and eat your breakfast in the mornings, to enjoy the many amusements and company of friends, to live each day, as always, as never before anything had changed- but to do all this and feel that each pleasure rings a little more hollow; as though the blissful purity of such enjoyments, and trivial matters, had been extracted. It is as though a shadow had settled on and swallowed what makes such little things grand, and the greatest: empty. To live with a heart that beats erratically; with a ghost for an echo of your own palpitations; a fractured mirror to receive a warm embrace, and at night; to sleep most wakefully- woefully- with hot lurid tears and perspiration like the throes of passion set to ravish the occupant who finds no home.
   It is a terrible fate: a broken heart- where even the most meaningful consolations only serve to sever the chords that free the torrent that follows: to engage the self-deceiving sympathies and render one lost in oblivious contemplation, melancholy, and hurt.

A mystery, now solved

What strange phantom that surrounds me… It lingers, this spectre, about my being, pressing firmly upon my senses like a mask. This heavenly veil, thin like a Venetian knife, cuts deep into my brain, skating across the banks of my memories before eventually setting on cool waters as an uncanny fog. A mist as seductive as Dracula’s own, it bears all the charms of Venus. Devil, or ghost, or God, it wafts through open windows on the breeze, trailing me with a scintillating scent of wild flowers. I breathe in, and in, and in, taking it deeper into my self, to wear as its shell, only to expel it at last because I am forced to by the crushing pressure that grows in my lungs… It flits pleasantly, and it is gone. Again, I breathe, luring and drawing it in with my near silent demands for more- I will not be satiated until the mystery is solved; until it takes upon its form, and I will hold it to me, cherishing it, as though its only purpose were to blanket me in love.

December

Only because December sees our year's cyclical end, and with it, the dawn of a new one.

I sit down and consider this day- “my” day- just as I do every day; reflecting on my self-imposed duties and ways of leisure to get around them, taking every day exactly like it is: by day; one day at a time; day after day, like some anthropomorphic herd shuffling unconsciously along, seamlessly and with no end in sight. I do not daunt on the future. I do not think of my problems or monetary concerns. I think only of the period of 24 hours and how it will be passed most painlessly, if I can: most pleasurably. This is my only plan- my only ideal. There is no quest for glory or salvation and no desire for the fulfilment of ‘dreams’, there is only the 24 hours, and sleep, reviving each time as a new season until I reach the advent of my own December, where I might then, sleep eternally

It's all Greek...

I've always enjoyed reading about the ancient Greek's; their philosophy, their epics, their pantheism. Excuse the pun of the title, for it's a cliche of a phrase, but I'm incredibly tired, and the following poem relies heavily on Greek mythos- a little touch of the Odyssey within it, about finding yourself in a place where you feel like you don't speak the language of those around you. So you see, I've always admired their language, but sadly, I've never understood it.

There are waves that rise between us
Rise and fall, crashing with tremors
that shake the rocks from the surface
of the Earth.
Through these waves I try to steer
like a helmsman of the ancient Greek
tied to mast, bound and deafened
and made blind by the spray of the sea
and the descent of the night.
I rely on my logic; my lexicon
and find myself awake in a world
of curious hieroglyphs
upon a shore of a strange people
whose language I do not speak.
I am kept apart, as if a leper,
and taken in for my sensibilities.
I sleep outside, under the stars, and dream
of my life, my love, my family
and my home-
wherever it may be.

I thank you, because I burn.

This is an extract from my novel- I've written it just now as I feebly attempt to stifle the urge in my stomach to scream and tear something apart. It is not the solar body that I thank, though it does burn, (and I appreciate that) but rather a body of a different sort. I feed myself into this machine, and this is my silent vengeance.

Pleasantries were exchanged, cordially, as he passed people who also lived in their fixed-state lives. They entered their cars or left shop fronts, walked their dogs and paid their mortgages, all as they had done the days and years proceeding. Perhaps they would go on holiday this year, he heard. The world is not a safe place anymore; best not. They were all like undisturbed liquid in a vast container, still and unspoilt, constant and savvy in their boxes whilst they slowly evaporated under the strength of the sun. That sun burnt like a self-sustaining, amber ball of rage. It ate itself to prove its own potency, growing fatter and fatter as it died away. It eviscerated any and all that got too close, just to make a statement that it was to be left alone to its own devices; left alone to burn itself away, left alone so that it could scream at the top of its voice how much better the world was for it, lashing out with a cancerous fury because it knew nothing else other than hatred, and still, it was loved. How we misunderstand that great god of the sky! How little we know how it feels, and yet how similar are our own fates… to consume and consume in a bid to satiate a never ending hunger for more. Our thirst for freedom, for identity, for power, wealth and knowledge: our thirst for equanimity! We burn like that sun, until we explode and shatter ourselves all over, and in dying, eradicate the futures of those who depend on us, in which, lies the fate of the whole world.

For love, for lies, for duty.

To some, that is; the inordinately perceptive, such as I, there can be pains of knowing too much. Not just a simple, surface matter of being pained by the intellect; its growth, or a ruinous piece of knowledge that damages one’s esteem, but of knowing a truth that another may attempt to hide or cover up with falsities or un-ordinary action. This pain is one that causes a physical manifestation in the heart and the stomach, like that of a fatty deposit or a ‘too-sugary’ sweetness. It is the pain of wanting to scream and denounce: “Stop the excuses! I know your reasons, now don’t be ashamed!” For, what reason is there to be ashamed of the truth? But the altruist begs that we cause no embarrassment for our peers and partners, so we allow them to act, laughing along in our mock sincerity as the dagger of unspoken truth plunges deeper into our gut and rends us inside.

   Live now, my love, for your lie and allow me to die, knowing your secrets- kept safe and secret, still.

Say what you think...

Oftentimes, we might stop, figuratively, and speak our wants or dreams- as in, desires, to a friend, or acquaintance, or any such being within our vicinity. Such as in my own case, where I fancy to venture to Asia… “I’ve been thinking of going to China, you know?” Casually, and attentively, our peers shall nod, in basic compliance, as if to say ‘Yes’- I understand- as we expel verbally the ways in which we could pursue our plans. Our audience’s admittance is simply a sign to show they have heard. Not just heard, but listened, and in listening, are conscious of what’s passed, conscious even, to know that what’s signified is only that all you are doing is saying what you think.

And finally...

It's been a long time coming. A few things had cropped up that kept me busy... Work, and then losing my job, and then looking for work, completing bits of prose and poetry, the reading of literature, menial tasks ad infinitum. So on and so on...

Here, then, I've begun to piece together bits that don't belong much else in any other place, but altogether in a motley compilation I've undecidedly titles 'Notes on the Author', because that's all they are: notes on and of. An example follows:

I consider my day; what a waste it’s been. Consuming of my time and money, and my energy- and how- knowing it’s cost me so much, I’m left only the more exasperated. My own furore, combining with the merciless heat, the ever-present noise, the diversions… I had never wanted to leave the house. The signs were against me. And yet…

And yet I persisted in my efforts, trying hard to accomplish something- unfortunately, a something that belied my own instinct and nature. Becoming something else for the preservation of others’ had only proved futile. Much as it always does, and leaves me far from home, sweating now and altogether upset. Where one puts themself so far out of harmony: when there is no equilibrium, there is only chaos; an intimate and minute chaos that entirely dredges one and dampens the soul. In our attempts at becoming, we lose only ourselves.

   But what lies these be… What treachery! Unabated, the torrent of excuses and miserable decries continues without wanting to relinquish the self-torment for truth. What is the truth? That simply, and only, it was the burning in my loins that heated me- that made me rage and make fire upon the page. It was I who stoked my own fires; and its fuel was desire. Wanton lust had made me giddy and when it found no vestige, it burned the pilot, himself, and through his eyes, on fire, he saw the whole world in a blaze.

   What can be said…

Our apartment complex is like a Hellish ground. Some may think that the furthest depths of that Dis-mal place must be wretched for heat, but they be fools for thinking such. The fact is, heat rises, though that’s not to suppose that Paradise, then, must be burning. Oh contraire! I imagine it be wrapped by a cool breeze, but here; in this high hole where we permanently leave all our windows and doors ajar for the wind to travel through like a tourist bus, gratifying passengers along the way. Here- atop the rest of the flats, I feel the warmth embrace me hotter and harder and tighter, the more steps that I climb. Here we try to make something of ourselves, falling privy to idol fancies and fancy fools of idolatry… Here we burn, half naked, in detestable, desolate, dirtiness as we fester in filth. Here, our home is like Hell.

The Hound of Hell

I wrote this yesterday, reclining on my bed, after a hard day's work.
Nothing in particular inspired me- I just thought of dogs for a while.

Dark as the blackest, ink-stained patch,

the hound of Hell will  howl and scratch;

running quick, leaving smears from paws

as a horror etched by Gustave Dore.

Snarling teeth like stalactites

meet enamel knives like stalagmites-

Crimson tongue and crimson eyes

to see one out and sniff out lives.

The hound of Hell is duty bound

to no-one, for it be too proud

but led by carnal instinct, it

should make a meal of what’s deemed fit;

Carnivorous! A cannibal!

Dog eat dog, for dog eat all

and all the more the dog should chew

only more its’ hunger eschews.

The hound of Hell be insatiable;

its name is Death,

and it comes for all.

Elysium; Our Earth

I wrote this a couple of days ago, the most recent thing I've done, and certainly the first in a while.
It carries on in the motif of the old Romantics, or at least, I hope it does.
It's just a short piece on the desecration of our planet.

I once roamed fields full of flowing flowers

and grass like emerald spires

raised high, like hands

to the sovereign lord,

who blessed us all with love.

But man is not long wan for peace

and soon a war, so fruitful, showered

us in fire and shrapnel shapes like snow-flakes

of hardened, hammered, iron.

The land; we scorched beyond recompense

and built so tall our concrete towers.

Though there reigns only one lord,

we wage our constant wars of vying power.

Who may say what makes war right

when blood is shed between brothers?

Following the steps of those before, the earth

underneath is marked and scored

as like with Cain and Abel- who legislated law

and as we grow rich, the planet poor,

so we forget where we came from-

we plummet, overthrow, we fall

at blinding speeds and so shall see

no more, the beauty of Earth as was once before