Something about...

...Love. Or sex, if you want to see it so blandly- though I do believe the two are quite united, though, admittedly, (and certainly, for the best) not always.

It is national Poetry Day, after all- so tell someone you love, just that you do.

Stood on our knees

hard-pressed

one behind the other,

conjoined,

both inside and

out, by hands and lips

and mouth; somehow

feeling like a martyr,

I swear I almost could have said those words

but you held my tongue

and so they circled

through my head

like an endless refrain:

I love you… I love you… I love you…

In Lieu of the Weather

Here's an old something that I wrote a couple of years ago. If you're currently watching the rain, the swaying of the leaves, or the play of light- artificial or otherwise- and the glow throw shapes on the streets... Well, how could you be- you're looking at a screen.
This one's for you.

Rain fell in petulant drops

like a soft flurry of snow;

the leaves of trees,

in textured, patterned, veils

rippled like the waves

amidst the glimmering

dancing light that weaved through

all the while,

the jubilant moon

stood still.

Look who just got...

...Instagram!

Yeah, I'm usually against the techno trend, notwithstanding a few posts here and there... A blog, twitter...

So, if you're tired of words; here's some pictures to sate your appetite.

A link, directly:
www.instagram.com/jeremiahtayler/?hl=en

Heavy

Mental health issues exist as a thing that has rarely, until more recently, been considered as a substantially important issue, or else been regarded with its due levity, least of all in popular culture, or therefore been appreciated, for want of a better word, by the populace. Perhaps more and more, of late, it is openly discussed, as 'depression' becomes not only a commonly found phrase used among everyone of all ages; to describe even school children as much as doctors, dentists, service workers- woe, the fathomless depths of the artist...
   Jokes aside, it is an issue that has moved me to some length and is something I have 'entertained', as much as embraced, at times. It becomes a focus of my work, to some extent, and I believe there will be a time when societies, at large, will be capable of openly discussing all relevant and personable- even animal- issues with a peaceful and serious accord.

I suppose the idea is, we should learn to shrug off our old lives in favour of a new life- a new identity to befit a new way of thinking and living; one that includes a shared and divested sense of worth, for self and all alike.

Anyway- this piece, in particular was written, what seems now, a lifetime away- and one (anyone?) need not fear any implication of deed through word.

Peace.

X

I am oppressed by all of my
belongings; I am oppressed by my
thoughts and feelings. I think, often, of
relieving myself of my material burdens; of
shrugging off this life.

The Bear

In the time I've been away from my books, I have been playing around with paints, instead. Completing a small collection of annotated gauche paintings and poetry, I had also found time to work on this: the accompanying partner to my earlier abstract work, 'The Cat'. I give you...

Fabric of Love

Something old, today made new!

This fabric called love;
I make a rope of it,
I wring my hands, and I
mope from it,
and when, at last, it seems
that it just might end-
I step up to the noose
and fall right down again.

A Thought Composed by Candlelight

As suggested by the title:

I was reading Mayakovsky's
paintings- I was sat down
in my room; I was photographing
flowers- with my mind- and
sending them to you.

Existenz

I've been doing some reading of a critical analysis of existentialism, most recently, and, most latterly to that, sat down and found an old notepad lying about, which, in leafing through, led me to an old- four or five years now- poem, or written piece, that succinctly surmised the notion of  'Sartre-ian' existence. As follows!

The words escape me,
as they escape all,
who struggle in vain
to glorify
that singularity
when man at once
acknowledges
he is no longer
whom he once
thought he was,
and at that moment
cannot comprehend
whatever it is
he is to be.
 

INRI

Stuck in a room, stewing in sweat and alcohol, I was reminded of my ‘boxing day’; where, figuratively floored, I lay with my back pressed against a hard, wooden bench and the anguished face of Christ staring down at me in mocking consternation of my self-inflicted suffering. I conjured a narrative, evinced by our silent deadlock, on the subject of God and his self.

God gave his only son,

to be crucified,

to the world.

Saturn smiles,

watching,

Jupiter’s blood dripping

from his teeth;

and the weary giant,

Goliath,

Slits the sleeping

David’s throat.

The pain is excruciating:

the body lives

but the spirit dies-

the knell rings with the

echo of a church bell,

dwindling, it speaks:

“Suffer in the grip of Sin”

Splinters stick

underneath the fingernails-

it means nothing to me;

I am not there.

I am born soft,

so the hardness of

the wood

may bind to my

supple form.

I delve into the minutiae

and am lost

to the devil in the detail.

I adjoin to the

microcosm

and am given to the world.

Though I die,

I do so with no

displeasure-

for I am the

crucible

through which all

life passes

and I flood with

tears and happiness.