trails of thought

A footnote to five months of creative writing …

After a conversation I had with a journalist yesterday – a person whose opinions I value highly – as well other private conversations I absolutely treasure, I have decided that I shall no longer continue to post public poetry or writings for the moment.

I need to sort out my private life before I do anything else.

This will require the greatest concentration and effort on my part.

Writing parallel to that process would not be in good faith any more.

Where change could not take place, and was frozen by an impassive – where not impressive – lack of collaboration on the part of others, I think an argument could be made in favour of my going public – quite out of desperation – re the difficult situation, specifically the lack of physical affection, in my life.

But if I am now to contemplate that such change can take place, and the reason it can is because I am feeling empowered and finally proactive enough in myself to do so, having come to a better understanding of myself and my wants over the writings that have come out of the past five months, then it is no longer easy to justify a free and easy (not easy, but you know what I mean …) public tongue.

I have considered password-protecting the two creative blogs I have written since December, or even deleting them; but I was shown yesterday the zero wisdom in carrying out the latter action of an impulsive nature any time in the near future.  Meanwhile, the former would be foolish: the Streisand effect would kick in, if indeed anything of value might actually be missed.

So the blogs as they stand shall remain online.

I, however, will no longer document what happens in my life until I can reasonably attest to its stable and sustainable way of seeing, doing and being.

I hope you all understand me in this, and appreciate the real love I have sensed out there whilst I have reached this point in my existence on this rock.

And if understanding is difficult to come by, please accept that my real love and affection for those I most treasure – and have done so for years – is far greater than any desire I have for continued misery to be documented continuously, even where (perhaps) an argument could be made that some kind of art was being developed.

So be gentle with me, when you judge my actions.

See you all on the other side, right?

🙂

 

Standard
poetry, trails of thought

[Echar un] {im[pulso] / In[tuition]} / (Underground)

I’m reaching the conc-

lose-

ion, slowly it must be said,

that I’m not much more than a churner of

juvenilia.  And yet all I have writ-

ten, the best I have do-

ne, I have

written

with an aye to the truth as I saw it,

and the circumstances as I truly remembered them.

 

And when life gets to the stage that it challenges

you to im-

puls-

I’ve action – when its very lessons are

that intuition gets you know-

where; that seaing the

underbelly is ugly bad show; that wanting to

no the truth of

stuff out there will never get you to places

you want to

be – you realise in the end that

all you have left, and it is not a small matter, no,

it’s one of the grandest yet,

is the love and affection that others express: the love

and affection that uses a dis-

course of racy thought language,

and thought.

 

To have lived a life of battle-weary struggle

means giving way is no longer giving up.

And so my battle against those who

would challenge me in such conflict is now

coming to its end: this time for sure.

And the intuition which led me here I would

much prefer now to share in the privacy

of email and

coffee shop and

human touch and

physical contact,

which the people who really know

how to make me well happy, know full well

what’ll make me weller than hell!

 

 

Time to move on.

Time to move on.

Time to stop writing life,

and go back to living it.

 

Standard
poetry, trails of thought

Riding, say, “Hi …!”

 

Running like water slipping through

hair; lining your face as it turns to mine,

and eyes remind us of

times’ remembering, as

moments burn holes of wonder

in holes of wondrous

sex.

 

 

Times’ mist and dew of landing, and ages of

forgetting the pain of undeciding,

and all I remember was the nature of your

beauty which mirrored like slivers of

silver backdrop the background of

birches standing up tall and

proud in their belief that this was

exactly

where they belonged.

 

 

And I hide my sadness so bloody often, and it

springs up treacherously at any sign of

redemption, and I so want my life to be re-

deemed in some way as worthy of your

love and affection and touch,

and so much is riding on just saying hello.

 

 

And the circles I failed so badly to square

have made it impossible for me to

square any more: and this is

exactly

why I have excised my life from the life

I was leading, because the life I was

leading had no right to be led.

 

 

Even so, even yet, I hope I may still see the day

when I’ll look into the eyes you look out of

so proudly,

and onto me, too: that grazing flitting laughter of

sombre truth and beautiful soul and the

whole of your stretching me, encompassing me

mindfulness: where the moment

is love

and all I want is to love you

back as much as I can, as much as you

do:

as if rabbit from top hat, by some art of

magick: the pain which destroyed me

only drives me once again to realise that

without you, everything’s

so damn plain: a train of miserable thoughts in

wagons of third class, and there is

only one class I really want now: the one you

impart,

with all your heart, soul and love: the one

you’ve always wanted to teach me so well …

 

… just be yourself!

(And let the rest … go to hell!)

Standard
poetry, trails of thought

Fudge [or nudged and budged (but not yet beloved)]

 

For people of my caste –

and cast I am

on lonely sees

where nothing is herd-

ed to any desti-

nation or state of mine-

d

I know of clearly enough –

the stuff of snuff-

ed existence overpowers my

sen-

sis to the extent that being

an object-

or of inconscience fa-

mi-

lying homily of grate-

r Gouda: the pungency of

food records its pass-

age through time.

 

And a fudged budged nudge

is not only dishonest on your

part: it is also that awful symptom

on my part: my failure to extend

myself honestly without artificial

tool: I can be no individual soul if

all I am is the ownership-

less sum of the support you provide

(neither ownership-

free ever and a day;

never and a day;

no freedom I know of;

no joyous existence I knew of …).

 

And this is why fudged nudge is such

a fiddle for me: for if I can only achieve

what I do by fraudulently, hiddenly,

unattributedly, unauditedly,

riding on your backs, on your wisdoms, on

your beautiful thoughts, on you ingenuities,

on your genius … then what am I

but a …

… cheat?

 

Standard
poetry

T{he} (bast{ar}d) ga{me} of l[if]e

If he be me, then the game of life

is truly a horrendous game.

And so they pepper your perceptions

with nasty connections to show you

how untruthful and fraudu-

lently bent out of shape your conclusions

really are.

 

And from an invasion to aliens to clones

dropped casually as incidence, all with the

intention of

making fat laughing-stock of the he who be me;

and the fact that even dearly beloved offspring

are cruelly playing games of the mind

without a second’s consideration

leads him to suggest you really are all bastards.

Standard
poetry, trails of thought

Needs / Wants / Freedoms / Endings

I always did use to argue

that needs were more important than wants;

that wants were a luxury; that needs were

a necessity; that your needs should outweigh

my wants.

 

In a sense, however, I now realise I was wrong:

I was wrong as soundly as the sound of a

gong, ringing out brightly above latterday

music, composed to ennoble the streets and the

cities.

 

In terms of physical needs, and survival at the

limit, your needs at first must have priority

over luxury chocolate; my dark and

mysterious liquids; my desire for the unusual,

the unexpected and the de-

natural.

 

But in terms of other emotional realities, if you

are to burningly need me as in romantic

love, the attachment you profess is not a choice

you make but an action you feel violently bounden

to follow; and whilst this is grand, and

whilst this makes love a wonderful unthinking

act of generosity, since tidal wave of emotion

does drive it all, we cannot say you’re

loving me simply because you have chosen

such

a way.

 

And if you are to love me as I would have

you love me, and if I were to love you

as I would have me love you,

then in such a world of ideal circum-

stance, we would want each other always –

never need.

 

There will come a day, a day of helpless

sadness, when the job of a lover will not

be to love with ease, but rather

to spend their significant time, caring for

another who no longer can jump and dive into

love with the grandiose joy of unbridled

life, a reigning over of senses –

a reining in of opportunities –

in a way we never

knew and can no longer recall.

And that day of sad forgetfulness will

pursue us all quite gravely; and the aim of any

love right then will be to assert its sacrifice,

so bravely.

 

But until such a day arrives – if for you and me

arrival doesn’t already begin to present itself –

let us enjoy if not the practice at least the memory

of loves, physically exchanged through touch and

mind, reminding us courageously

of what might once have been.

Standard
poetry

Somet[im]es [a] [quest]ion [too far]

There are times that slice one into almost desperation:

try to sort a perfect phone contract is one case

in point-

ed reflection, for this morning at

least the man I should’ve been; confused and be-

mused by the people who lead me.

 

And sometimes a question too far

becomes a quest too far.

And I realise this morning spent chasing down data,

I must change what I some-

times do: yes, there are

moments for data, but there are also more

important moments when to go with a person in

the pleasure of the second, no second-guessing

the future, just living an unending present,

is far more significant than getting it right.

 

For getting it right is not optimisation;

for getting it right is love above all;

for getting it right is the kindness of attraction

when we lose ourselves in the tic-

tac-

tiled love and touch of

another, and care so very little that simplicity

rules.

 

And just because we are predictable in

everything we do and deny

does not mean that simplicity says we are simple.

We are not.

We are complex beings with extraordinary minds:

and I am happy to include myself and more,

and more

than prepared to include yous, my loves.

My extraordinary mind is easily distracted

from love: your extraordinary minds, meanwhile,

know exactly how to let love

bathe you in its

liquid

entirety.

And that is why I admire everyone who knows

how to let go.

And that is why I want to learn how to let go,

just as well.

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