And so, goodnight!

But not intentionally forever. This is my epitaph as written by myself, as I contemplated suicide with no intention.

An Epitaph

And so.

I away to Death,

because there was not

the love enough within me

for this life,

nor for this world

that it was my life’s role

to play a part of.

And so,

for my ingratitude,

it is not with thee,

Lord,

to forgive my soul

which thou so kindly bestowed upon me-

You,

who are as great in your love and mercy

as in your supreme sovereignty,

must forsake me now

for evermore.

And so,

as I turn now to shudder

in remorseful solitude for my trespasses

against you,

I beseech thou;

 remember me

not

A trip through time

Before the dawning of this new year, I had been feeling overwhelmingly restless- dispirited with nostalgia and over burdened with what I only imagine to be worry. I hearkened for the freedom of summer- of late nights and easy days; drinking with friends and the labours of the sun at peak.

   For just a few weeks, spaced a little apart, I had become acquainted with a pharmacopoeia at the service of dental surgery and hallucinogenics, amongst other things. No opium was involved, but I did find myself under the sublime possession of peculiar East Asian wares.

   This poem is an ode, of sorts, to that time; the bonds made, the people forgotten and all things that were absorbed or ingested.

Long ago now

do those days appear

in Summer

where I flirted with a most

delectable madness

that drove me to the brink

of uncertainty

and all the while,

with new friends,

acquaintances

and a steadfast lover.

Come chaos!

Come madness upon me!

I hail you down

from your heavenly chamber

to nurture me once more

with your kisses

and sliding guile

so we may dance in merriment

to the rising sun,

the lofty song

and the blood be infused

with poisons and wine 

Of Shadows, Night and the Light

I wrote this late one evening when I failed to sleep.
I can't honestly say what it's about, other than as it reads... I must have been getting a little delirious.

Fall, Shadow.

Fall as you descend

in your attempt

to outrun the sun

and fall then

into the weary night

as you become one

with the contemptuous dark.

Take with you

my shape,

my visage in that

black mirror;

featureless and proud,

and sink with it

into the ground

so I may forever

roam atop the Earth

with only light

for company

A romantic tale of voyeurism

Being in this substantially unpretentious box-room of my most recent lodgings, I've come to see a few things of my opposite neighbours. In particular, their bathroom draws my eye when I see through the blur of amalgamated glass, the figure's of persons going about their most private deeds. I do not doubt they've likewise seen me in the act of particular motions.
   This poem is to that/those/her mysterious figure that I see/saw; alluring as always in androgyny.
But really, it's intended as an echo to a poem I wrote a small few years ago.

To the girl in the window:

I wonder if you’ve seen me watching,

trying to steal a glimpse

of your silhouette

as you step

from the shower

into a towel of mist

that’s trapped behind

a pane of glass-

and lingering deeper

through the pane

and the fog,

there’s me.

I’d love for you

to catch my eye,

share a smile

with my sinister glance

and allow me

to participate

in this neighbour’s

stranger’s love

where the only evidence to remain

is my shadow

on your wall.

...of roses and Fannies...

I had, a few months ago, read an interesting collection of essays; a psychopathalogical response to the various writings of De Quincey, which captivated me for numerous journeys and quiet days. I had written a couple of poems in my own response to those, (as orchestrated by the original source material) that were left unfinished in disarray for weeks after their semi completion. It took the tidying of my room and personal documents to come across them again, redraft them, and now month's afterwards; present this one just now.

Even the greatest of poets

from our western world

had a single

and ample fixation,

though they’d veil their truths

in thin robes, like lilies

with a perfumed aurora

alluring as all

the flowers of the wild-

they were twee with their words,

as most would see it now

but their sweet tongues

and keen minds

were never eclipsed

by such, largely bold, lasciviousness.

Yet still,

they dreamed of the kiss

and the cunt.

The lips, in bloom, and a drinkable lust

like blood,

made more beautiful by the forsaken

thorn of divide-

for when the blood is let

the beloved makes their morbid bed with death

and leaves the lover somnambulate

until what might make them unite.

Lest we forget De Quincey

and his inspired fancy

that paradise be full

of ‘…roses and Fannies.’

A return, at last...

My situation has finally changed with regards to the ease of connectivity- what I mean is, in less convoluted sense, that I have regular access to this; the online world, once again. So I'll again commence to attend more frequently, as I did before, and I hope to you who purvey, enjoyment at what I offer.

This I had written on the eve of my birthday- passed by no more than a couple of weeks from now, but in which time I had left home and returned. I had also felt abysmally lonely, and had my spirits revived. I have felt a whole spectrum of emotions with only a single friend, and now I  am made all the better for it.
It was a triumphant way to herald in the new year.

December 18^th

Another year has passed

in this shameful,

ceaseless

and shambolic

life of mine-

and what

is there to show for?

What merit?

What esteem?

What award?

What is there but

exhausting lungs

and the combustion

of ennui

                                                                                  *

The catechism of the big city

reaches its climax

on the eve of my birthday;

the penultimate season of pressure,

occurring on the very eve

of the annual event.

It drove me mad

as it drove me out,

driving me away with a rash decision

to jump aboard a coach.

The city and its dreams of wealth gave way

to a more desirous hunger

with an encroaching appetite

whereby I erred to appease it.

I certainly tried,

and consequently;

was usurped.

To walk alone

to the small city;

the prodigal son returns.

Here I breathe in the fresh air of the country

from upon the brink

of its parameter.

Here I reside, for a time,

exiled by poverty

again into poverty

on the outskirts of the wild-

the untamed wilderness,

where there is pace,

and space

and silence to think.

Here, one can stop

without the tax

that is imparted upon the apple

picked by your own hand.

Here the sky is clear and empty,

but for the stars and time has no measure

but by your own attention

or its divide.

I am away from temptation and the vice

of the city-

I am alone this night,

and I am glad.

There is relief to be had

where one belongs to be;

in good health

with poor family.

                                                                               *

My chorus has become

the sound of trundling wheels;

a small pair, of which,

prattle behind me

across whatever surface I am walking upon

and occasionally,

they lift

to get over what’s raised

whilst my arm falters

and my spirit:

breaks.

                 

                                                                                 *

Half a light show

What’s the point in seeing

half a light show?

Might as well be burning

half a twenty pound note-

rather burn it all and be done

then have half

shoved down my throat.

As though, I imagine,

I had half my dick size,

my lover wouldn’t be

half as happy,

I perceive,

submerging the whole of myself,

by the look in her eyes

and I'm left bereft

spending half my energy

just to be discontent

and left only half angry

what is left?

Is the glass half full

or half empty?

It’s all or nothing

I think

except for what I can see.