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.