On Headaches

I feel heavy today-
unconsciously crossed
into bouts of dizziness
where my sense gets smashed
and dashed upon the floor
is my balance-
my understanding is flawed
as my brain is knocked,
spilled over
and spent
by tremors that attack
and eclipse,
and then are gone.
Instantaneous phasing
between realms of what
appears as straight
forward
but then again,
is not.
I feel a heavy mess;
weighed down
by my own, embittering
thoughts-
Why do I feel like this?
What is the depression
that I feel in my head
like a slurred bowl
in a drunken man's
hands;
the contents now out
that were in.
Every time I close my
eyes, I battle the cold,
harsh sense
of sleep.
Life becomes nothing
but walking into a dream.
Rigid sleep-
so long awaited
now you finally are
a part of me
though I find myself
adrift, as distant
seas
where I am seized
encompassed
and lost-
find only sensory deceit.

Meditations on the scent of perfume in my room

I wrote this a while ago, weeks ago. A poem simply forgotten and then found whilst I was looking for something else, but upon seeing it again, I thought to write it up now, (now that it is so very irrelevant in any case) just to pass the time, or else, because I am indebted to you- whomever you are.
   It can be seen as innocent, or bawdy, as you like simply by the play on words; my own intentions were very much to provide an imagery of both sex and prayer.

Lingering in my room
is the scent
of my lover, who betwixt
sheets had spent
her time with me
as we joyed
and we grieved, sharing
alms, and legs
and received
from each other with
heads bowed and bent
at the arm and the knee.

A Divergence from Certainty

Of late I've been feeling somewhat peculiar at turns and bouts; suffering feelings of complete lightness pervading my body and my mind's ability to perceive becoming dizzy and confused. Faintness invades my being, I enter moods of yearning to collapse as my head passes the motion for my legs to falter. Inconspicuous headaches lead to exasperation and denial of it all leads to superfluous stress- a day hardly passes where I don't wish just to drink.

Ethereal,
I feel unreal;
a silent part of
the great, moving machine;
just a vagrant phantasm
neither real, nor yet
a dream

Notes of the Author

While I think about moving, think about doing anything other than being sat here, I think about writing, but never do it. Here's something I wrote a while ago while I sat to write and also, never did.

I think to write. I contemplate writing, what I will write, for how long I will write, how and when I will fit the act of writing into my busy schedule that is entirely devoid of any plan. I scope the online databases for music to listen to whilst I engage in the awkward routine of ‘working out’, all the while, I consider my writing. Then, I shower, I breakfast, I dress, and still not a word is penned or typed. I go so far as to looking and rereading things from the past that I’d written, just to get me in the mood, I think. After a while of dawdling, I send out some emails, reply to a few messages; exercise the fingers in any way but the right way. Then I think about reading some more for an hour or so- I pick up a big book and abscond to read just a chapter before I can get down to some real work. Of course, the backbone of any solid writing is to have a compendium of good, solid, literature beneath you! I read, flick about to see how much nearer I am to the end, flick back and continue to read. I begin to contemplate my ambitions- a holiday, paying off my debts, rent. Monetary issues. I near the end of the chapter, overshoot it, and continue to read into the next. I send a message or two to an ex-lover, vain attempt to cradle the heart from its, still-fresh, pain. As I read I begin to get hungry, and there, I begin to think about food; what to have for dinner, what to save for later in the week, what will stay freshest the longest and so, must therefore be eaten last, and then, I begin to think about what I require in terms of ingredients, in order to make a more fulfilling meal. Some bread, an onion, lettuce. I think about my meagre finances, I think about a sandwich. I am hungry, I recognise, and how can I sit to write if my belly detracts from my ability? I think of cheese, ham, pickle. Cheese with mayonnaise. Do I have this with or without ham? And then; what about mustard? But still, I need bread! I think to venture to the shops, then I will make my sandwich, and then I will sit to write. I think all of this, and then, in thinking it- I think to write it down, here, but alas- this is not my novel- and so what I write is of not much use, at all.

'This is the greatest affirmation of life'

The city holds such indomitable assault upon our sense; sight, sound, smell… but look how it thrives with life! Look how those bodies- all so many of them- they move; they move with you, or they move against you, but- they always move around you. I am no spirit, I am no ghost! I have life, and so you shall not pass through me! And they do not- not even in their multitude do they think to pass through one, many as they are, an unspeaking legion, they stir and breathe in mind with one, as a thriving multiplicity that extends from one thought, much like we, ourselves, with our own thoughts who think alike the others to be moving with volition in our own unconventional and unique way. And as such, we become one with them all... 

For Sons and Daughters

It is the unbearable weight of all children to never be less than their parents, for, if we are to be no better than those before us, how can we ever hope to better the world?