From Exhaustion

After a few days travelling around the South West (is that right?) of the country, I now reside back in London; wearied by my lack of sleep and lack of a few other 'creature' comforts, but otherwise quite full of zest. In the basement of a cocktail bar that felt very much like a boudoir, I had been sipping on absinthe and discussed with my friends how the spot could (and should) have been used as a cool place to exhibit art or jam to jazz and poetry. Finding none of this, I flicked through a pad that I had on hand, and read to myself a little. Here is such an example, which I was reminded of last night, as I sat on a beach and watched the rising of an orange moon:

Daylight breaks
through a docile mist,
the trees keep a vigilant grasp,
keeping ties linked like a 'finger-trap'
between sky
and soft ground; fingers
splayed like roots advancing,
raw, exposed, nerve synapse
then the bright blue
of morning explodes
into being with a
lightly falling spring
rain. To go from the
dark fuzz of an adjoining
night, into the newly
sprung glow of morning
in an instance. I put myself
towards a perpetual death
and am left lucid to see
what others may miss:
the ascent of a god
atop his throne.

Something old... About Cleaning.

In wanting to keep up with the habit of posting; in lieu of my rekindled appreciation of my previous work (apologies for narcissism), and in keeping with an opportunistic approach towards life, here's another poem, from my Blue Book, circa 2010. Much of which seems festooned with romanticist eroticism- this piece less so.  Enjoy...

I spent a while, cleaning my room

as its eventual

need to be

dawned.

I spent hours, barefoot

in my bathroom,

working tired muscles,

sinew; verged on snapping.

I scrub,

polish,

rinse.

Eroding, so slightly,

the skin from my hands,

and fingers. Probably toes.

Some stains never go.

I didn’t spend so long

changing my sheets

or the pillow cases, upon,

which I lay.

I didn’t change, at all

the dirty, rich, duvet

or it’s cover, coveted,

with sweat and memories.

I allow my heads’ collapse

upon it’s many folds

and exalted,

I breathe in

a history of which,

only I know.

Hello, Cruel World!

I kid... All I mean to say, is; 'Hello again'.

I've not been here for a while now, occupations keeping me busy; administering spiritual medication, a stint in a relationship, some light travel, work, leisure, et cetera, et cetera....

Today, I spent the large part of the morning awake, in my underwear, in bed- reading for a few hours, listening to the sound of the rain and putting my mental faculties towards the effort of the organisation of my life. Curiosity impelled me to review some of my old work- now, mostly, forgotten books of poems that I'd written during my maturation and travels across the period of my early twenties. Occasionally, I think I was a much better writer then then I will ever continue to be. Perhaps I had a much greater 'feeling' for life, or maybe I just felt more. Truth is, as I've grown, I've become a little dejected about the subject of the 'word', and it's overall futility, removed from the wider scope of the futility of all things. In thinking, I weave my way through words that never go uttered, and expressions that never find their airing; I realise all the things I think I know and understand that in my vociferating; nothing changes.

I am compelled to leave this place, for somewhere where I do not speak the language, to be forced to learn anew and find worth in all the simple things again- the successes of finding a roof for the night, of feeding and resting well; of, overall, yearning for something of the more rural pastiche. Nature learned all the hidden meanings within the world, long ago, and decided they were better kept as secrets.

In solitude, language takes a more somber turn. It becomes as a song in a mausoleum.
Here is a poem I wrote (speculatively) four years ago. Perhaps it loses its meaning without context, but the leaf, or 'Objet d'Art', was stolen from me, many years afterward.

The most excruciatingly

beautiful message

I had ever read

was passed to me

on the side of a floating leaf.

I cried because I knew;

with the age stricken Autumn,

I never could preserve that leaf

just as I never

could preserve a true love

that it spoke of.

They both would wither in time.

I will hold on to that leaf

until the day it dissipates;

it brings some solace to my grief;

knowing that once

I was loved by you