poetry

Rom[antic] l{over}[s]

Let us disabuse ourselves scientific-

ally of all not-

ions of madly romantic love:

they involve being

swept along a tidal way of need,

and I do not want you to need me

for that is no freedom.

Such need imposes its will;

it ain’t you who’s doing the choosing.

 

Far better a love where the partners do

want each other: where that tidal

wave still exists but is hidden from

view and does not drive the choice;

where the liberty of choice

tells me you truly do value me in all that

I am: not because you see me madly

but precisely because you see me well.

 

I am at one with my past, just about

sorted: that past slowly is becoming that

other passed, and so I can now become able

to move onto another plane of my life

where sheets uncrumpled may one day be

no so, as lives do turn full circle.

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poetry

Con[science]

Imagine, if you will, there were a

science of conscience.

That people could typify and studify

and stultify and

enclose and pro-

se-

worthily pro-

po-

sails of considered and

magnificent experiment

on sees

of die-

namic movement:

think how much dosh could be saved with

the cash that people would stop

spending on evil activity if one knew

exactly how to nudge fudgy people

into behaving themselves according

to less-

es and mores stipulated by organ-

ism-

sssss various.

And imagine you could define,

theoretically at least,

how reactions would cause

chemical splutte-

ring of hearted exp-

lesion in the con-

text – whether true or not – of com-

plex paper tombstone, written on reams

which only served to sound

the death-knells of all free will.

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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.

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poetry

Belief / Belive / Befree

If I could con-

template my sacrifice,

I would con-

template my sacrifice.

I would con-

template my disappearance

in trance-like state of

final igno-

miny tiny magicked me:

the incredible shrinking

reliving of relief.

But I see that now

I have no choice: not

Hobson’s at all – something

curiously different: almost as if

I’ve been managed into a

space I needed to realise I had

no choice at all

in this matter I describe,

observe and recall.

The choice isn’t who:

there never was any doubt.

The choice is the what: whether

to make a choice or not.  But

I cannot live my life in the

darkness of imminent

discovery: I live in free lands,

green lands, hilly mounds:

the mounds of your beautiful

selves which all draw me, a peaty

charcoal-like precision, every

morning I wake up

from my terrible slumbers: a coma

I’ve been in of grammatical

nature: no longer do I want to sleep

in this way

but live in our home and bring you

my love and kindness and

ingenuity on a tray which I’d

love you with – and sometimes be

afraid of, it’d be so

good a way of being

and seeing

and doing, my love: but most of

all, loving my love

that you are.

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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.

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poetry

chOOsing not to

ChOOsing not to

sing out loud, or sing at all,

is a choice we make, can take,

and may pro-

ceed to nurture; tend; grow

where we can, and water without or

within.

And all that was needed

was a

better under-

standing of my own self

and being: that foolish desire to

sire a man who might lead through

a kindness or two; an empathy

felt for another soul out there.

But that isn’t easy; maybe isn’t right.

To take a de-

cision which breaks with the past

is hard work indeed for the kindly.

 

Or maybe the story was quite

another thing: maybe they’d typed me

as an unkindly man: maybe their

number-crunching crunched h-

orrible numbers: maybe the

truth is I needed to be crushed under-

foot of heavy clay and other

boots of concrete

nature.

Maybe it’s just fair I should end

up chOOsing nothing more than a

corner of keyboard and chair.

If respectful I remain, what train of

thought could I follow ever which might

leave me without the reason or rhyme

to wallow a tad self-indulgently in

queer questions and

queries

of curious about-

turns, and seagulls that flap noisily on

waters darker than stern

remonstrations?

None, I imagine.

None, I am sure.

Nose clean.

Democracy disengaged.

Forgetfulness reigns.

Forgettable, our fate.

 

And it’s not too late to re-

verse the clock of time but it is

too late for

this verse at least.

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