Birthday

Today, alas, it is that day.
Here is something written in retrospect...

As the 22nd hour is eclipsed since my last meal, I sit down to a late afternoon breakfast, enjoying a meagre portion and near immediately afterwards, feelings of sadness and rancour almost pushes me to expel the contents of my stomach from out my mouth. I feel about on the verge of a tremendous break. I see the date and check the time; nearly time to leave. Upon my return, it will be past midnight again, and with that, the eve of my birthday. This day which has come once every year for me, now, for almost 25 years- as it has for many others born on that Tuesday, so long ago. Many have now died, undoubtedly, and many others have gone on to greater things than I, who remains somewhere, obscurely, in the middle, and with every passing second, minute and hour, grow only more anxious, as has happened now for many years past. Always the slowly growing sensation of unsettlement, and always, after, the ever greater disappointment of my feelings being equated with nought; for nothing has changed. Dizzying, I recount the years I have spent this time pining to be alone, trying to bury my self in suffering on this day, and I recall how- aside from the alleviation of my stresses- how few are the things I feel I want. I wonder that maybe I want you; to ignore that day entirely, swept up in sleep, and have you held in my arms, subdued by the wealth of affections. I think of the smell of your skin and kissing the back of your neck; of feeling the slow rise and fall that's built around that beautiful, beating heart. I want, as ever, what is beyond my reach, an d knowing I have nothing, I tremble at the thought of leaving my house, of entering the day and of hastening towards my regretful birthday of disappointment and misery, dumbfounding.
   I put off going to work as long as possible, and upon my arrival, I am immediately fed instructions, each entirely in contrariness with the previous demand, and full of diffidence, I attempt to obey each as they are received, resulting in my overall failure on all fronts and an irritation at my inability on behalf of those around me. My head pounds and spins- my nervous system is shot, so that I begin to slowly perspire, and, in trying to open a bottle of wine; I slice my thumb open, again, and try not to smear blood on the glass as I hand it over. I ache; my head, my chest, my right knee, and all the joints of my arms. My thumb stings from lime zest as I cut quarters in preparation. I have a lunch formed purely of liquids; sugary juices and coffee, which finds a way to keep me going as I walk back and forth, pushing my muscles to carry heavy bags and heavier crates, loaded with bottles, to invigorate me and break the monotony of my hunger.

                                                                                    *

God is angry;
I hear the wind roar
a tremulant sound
like the hollow
of a diving bell.

Notes from the Weekend

I redraft this quickly and roughly on my short break from work. Nothing more than further notes on the daze of an 'artist'.

Today I woke, not hungover, but lightly drunk still; an evening of plenty of walking, jogging and drinking, preluding, leaving me tensely sculpted, lightly glowing, profusely sweaty, sticky- slightly- and riddled with ailments. Hungry, as always, ravenous as the figurative and literary wolf. My situation is a poor one- but I am not dejected. A beautiful, bright dawning day greets me through the open window, (I recall the late evening's spectacle as a patchwork of azure and amber, crisscrossed by my white window pane and am instantly glad of the fact that I so rarely sleep easily!) I am roused by a lighthearted and jovial phonecall from my father; I breakfast on a pot of strong, freshly grounded coffee and the recreational smoke. The day ahead of me is completely open and free; there are no expectations, and so, I gladly set to work:

Notes on the Author

Within these walls exists no God; but only man, woman, or child- who has made God "in his own image", and thus reflects the need to attain the 'Godhead', which sees and knows all. The Karmic shift places this with 'goodness'; for they that are good will reap the rewards: the good and the meek. But we, who are learning, are not so meek and so conflict arises. This conflict has existed for aeons; it was once sought as a form of worship, and the artist became an interlocutor between animal and 'God'.
   All journey's become essential to your arrival; there is no worth to mind until it is all, but lost.

Nepenthe

Nepenthe!
   Nepenthe!
I must have my
Nepenthe!...
My spirit; it yearns
but still finds no rest.
I chase sleep like shadows,
and dream only a breath
before it should vanish
and I am searching
again.
   Nepenthe!
Oh, Nepenthe!
The sweetest thing
to be wrought
by the hands that
made angels and
Fathered us all!
To know thee, is to fall
into sin, as I sought-
and be glutted vestiginously
of you more;
more all the more of the more
that I take,
and only more wanted
in my loss, so I ache
and seek you in places
where you are not to be caught-
Oh, my sweetest Nepenthe,
please don't leave me short-
   Nepenthe,
my Nepenthe,
must you leave me so fast?
For as you surely pass on,
I am stuck,
wanting the past.