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