short short story

S[adness]

He’d learnt about love so much the past few months.  He’d realised the love he’d practised in the previous years had not been the kind of love he should’ve understood.

And although it was painful, and although he was sad, he knew in the future  – if love ever came his way again (he meant that a person he loved should also love him: freely, with liberty, without feeling imposed upon, without feeling obliged or made fast or tied down) – he’d be far better placed to be the kind of lover who made the life of his other much better than ever.

He still loved with all his heart the lover who’d parted his soul; who’d changed his life in ways he could never begin to explain.  But whilst he would always wait and whilst he would always be ready and whilst he could never forget and whilst he never wanted to forget and whilst he would now be able to do anything at all and whilst now he was prepared to run and jump and sing, and touch and caress and press and gasp and neck and offer up his soul and offer up his heart and offer up his body and offer up his life and his whole and his being and even his sense of bloody right and wrong, his understanding of love – the freedom and liberty and openness and gentleness and kindness and comprehension and comprehensive opening up to the needs and desires and wants of another – meant he could never any more consider that love was a matter of placing the other under the duress of an emotional pressure, born of a brutal ignorance – even when widely and casually shared – of the real place for humanity’s rights …

For love was not a question of making another sad, in the mad pursuit of a closeness to ensure one’s own significant happiness.  And freedom was everything.  And that was love.  And if sadness added adness to the mix that was two, then adness summed reality to the rights of them both.

And adness was the key.

And adness was the mystery.

And when you managed to understand adness, you finally understood love.

And that’s where he was.

And that’s where he’d arrived.

And never would his own need for love and self-esteem prevent him from trying to fulfil another’s need for kindness, first of all.

Standard
poetry

Be troo / Be too / Be yoo

 

I was a sad little man in ambition and

fact.

I struggled to express myself in physical

form.

I did have goals and aims –

objectives quite clear.

But my mode of operation appeared

lackadaisically un

dear.  As if I didn’t care or know

what I was doing: yet I did, I promise

you.

My responsibility to offspring and

spouse weighed heavily on

my being.

My sense of in-

te-

gritty led me to struggle against

coffee-

plagued meet-ups which

meant me to abandon

them to their own devices and

gadgets and ameliorations of

superficial society.

But I couldn’t see this happen: I loved

them too much.

My prime directive, as if programmed

by corps, was to do what I could do

to lead them to the independence I knew

they could battle with and take

onboard ship-

wise as if embarking on high-

sea-

d ingenuity to different country and

continent.

And all I’ve ever desired for them

all is the independence I desired

for myself.

Does that make me a selfish being?

Does that make me self-

interested and un-

kindly in my winding road?

Or does it, maybe, allow me now

to see that winding road

goes else-

where the sacrifice no longer needs

making?

 

Yes, I want my clever duplicities but

still do wish to be troo.

I want my independence but

not from yoo.

And I want to be me in everything

I might, but never with yoo

out of my sight.

 

Standard
poetry

Hoo nose / Hoo new / Hoo wants me now

Hoo nose, when there’s so much to win

and so much to lose by not coming

first: someone comes first but

in love either way is as loving as

seconds and minutes and hours.

 

And hoo new, when there’re so many dots

to connect: I wish I were necking your

body right now: I wish I could touch your

hot flushes and rushes and touching

muches: I wish I could wake up with

your long body

along mine; and, strangely, heer you call

for me, and then heer your laugh

with me, and then heer you moan

because of what I do to

you and your beautiful, beauti-

filling body of love and life and living

and chivvying and laughter out loud

and proud battles to be-

come in my heart like me in you: your

soul and your body of love and

life and living:

the person you’ve always striven

to be: you are my example:

I shall never forget:

I can never forget:

I have never forgotten:

I never forget.

(And I even remember on Facebook

one day, a long time ago,

a weird time ago,

when the system informed

me your offspring playing games, as

offspring rightly do, that – of all the

people in the world they could

choose from – it was me

they’d least like to see in naked pose.

Do you feel the same now?  Is that

how it is?  Me, battered by time and

sadness gone wrong, and the whizzing past of

hope and means to live life

as life was meant to be lived …)

 

And hoo nose;

hoo new;

hoo wants me now?

Hoo wants a battered battle-scarred

wearisome man who once proudly

stood on the barricades of future –

brought home to wisdom and kindness

and ways of making humanity a reality

for all?

Hoo needs all that shit?

Hoo likes any more to like anything which

can’t be unliked at the touch

of a button?  A button I’d undo

rather than touch: first one, and

then another.  And a woman I’d undo: first her

mind, and then her blinding body: the love

she found in almost everyone she met: the

caustic wit: the gentleness all the

same: the whirling wisdoms of

a lifetime and more.

She lives beyond any person I’ve known: she

lives beyond the edge of this rock, so that

stopping and not falling is no

longer an option: you’re the only thing

I think about; the only thing

I’ve thought about; the only thing

I’ve dreamt about; the only person whose

door of love I’ve wanted to enter

and banter with

and chunter with

and wonder with.

The only person I ever want to

be with.

My dawning morning.

My darkening dusk.

The musk of your sex on my breath.

And the easy afternoon in kitchen

exchanged: a coffee shared, a book

discussed, a sofa spread out upon.

And in the midst of normal activity, a

glance leads to quite some other thought:

we both begin to idly touch the

other: the sex is not separate but a

part of the whole: I love your

whole, I love its darkness, I love

being in love

with you.

 

Standard
poetry

“… love love together, for as long as forever lasts …”

Love love, and life will take care of its

self.

Love love, and life will take care of your

self.

Love love, and life will take care of my

self.

 

For without love of love, life will be nothing but

less than un-

lovely games, to and fro-

ings gal-

or-

e,

sexual moments snatched despe-

ratingly

to be measured in the cold light

of dusk’s special

in-

fa-

my slowly dying desire to even be able

to see.

 

But love love as I suggest, and life itself

will take care of our

self – that joining of

souls.

And love love, and life will take care of our

being

together.  And love love, and life will know

where to look

inside our hearts.  And love love, and love will

make

both of us one.

And once we are one again, the only loss will

come when life’s parting through death

wrenches our one into

two yet again.  But until that bad day, our love will

anoint and example a world:

for by my hand and yours, the rending

is ending.

The beginning is

starting.

Let battle commence.

Let loving life be our tri-

umph-

ing boom.  And let your skin and mine,

in candle-lit room, in ardour’s scents,

wrought fine by these minds brought

alive by their reaching,

remind us why love between two

was in-

vented and

ex-

claimed by poets and artists:

by lovers and

good people who

still popu-

late this rock, even though it’s

damn tardy

to stop all this pain … even though the

pain for some souls will still

rain like thundering belief of

injustice lying through self-

exa-

minating

over-

analysing

intellect-

u-

all-

wising the life and reason and

goal of this game: for it’s no game at

all: for it’s only because

we’re choosing to be: together

for as long as forever

is to

last.

Standard