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?

🙂

 

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trails of thought

Shards of life and person

 

Morning all (for me, at least; though I resist saying good morning …).

An early start.

Being disabused of many notions is very challenging, not to say painful.  Being taught so many lessons rather than taught to learn the same is so hard.  And the whole process is turning me into kind of a cruel and embittered person.  Which makes me sad, because if I had any virtue before, it was the kindness I strove to express. And when it was kindness I expressed, it was good.

So all that’ll be left, as these shenanigans finally reach their end-game, will be shards of life and a person who must remainder his life as tawdry book: unwanted, unread, undead almost!

I am no longer the person some people loved.  And I will, in the future, be loved by people I fear I will always find it hard to love back.

And so the circle of life does circle like vulture.  And all of us, in the end, become the carrion of an existence, which futilely we attempt to comprehend, and ultimately we fail in every sense.

 

 

And the answer is: no …

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poetry

How life passed me by

Life passed me by in a million ways.

 

And the ways it passed me by

are the million ways

both your loves did ignore me:

the million ways patterns repeated, and

stabbed me like cauldrons of volcanic

liquids, sputtering and suppurating on gas fires galore,

over so many years and yores of moments past that

as they rest in passionate embrace, now cold to

the touch of memory mine – memory yours I no

longer know – I can only go

on what I still recall: and I am fatally

wounded; unable to love again.

 

For the sin of being unable to choose rightly first, yous

chose to make a choice of me last

like ultimate disgrace and repenting at

leisure-

lying realities: that even the bravery I have fought to show

goes nowhere, anywhere, any more, now.

 

And life passed me by in a million ways.

 

And the choices I must live with and the effort I must

make, to take onboard the consequences

of never having loved in a way I would have wanted,

is more than I can even announce: I have lost

the game you chose to engage: I have lost the duel

as fuel to my fears: I have lost all desire, even, any more,

to battle forwards any more.

 

And that, precisely that, is how life passed me by in a million

places and ways.

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poetry

Ge[or]gina and [the dragon]

Had it really come to this?

Was this what it had come to?

 

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A battle of wits between a soft spongy

space of man jealous of woman

blind to failings and functions of her

other half, no longer bet-

t-

er in any form or shape:

what he’d taken from her past times

and what he’d taken from her joy

and what he’d taken from her capacity

to happily rejoin the species of spicy

people who made her life a life

worth more than sur-

viv-

all;

a revival of sense

is exactly what she was seeing now.

 

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“A touch-

[ch]in

-g up my love!”  It’s what we always

need: it helps the severe pain and dis-

dain of critic re-

main within a soul:

recount, my love;

recant, if you can;

time runs its merry course and

I do not want to see you go on

the golf course of life; leaving us all

bereft of what could’ve been.

 

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And you were created by mad

environments led by mad

people led by crazed

jealousies led by

pipes used to batter out of heads

of helpless childhood the kindness

and love and honesty and integrity.

And the reality suddenly presents

itself quite differently to him:

the dragon he’s been fighting

from within the man he never became

is the dragon she’s been fighting

all her life to properly con-

tain.  And her brain and  her mind

and her heart and her soul

and just being, and her ways of seeing

and doing and wanting

to be done to and seen

were all confused and

mixed up in that sad person she

once was in her shaky inside and

now is clearly becoming

out.

She’s almost completely routed,

and he doesn’t want this;

he doesn’t want to lose himself

but he doesn’t want the dragon

within her to overcome the

good person deep down; the person

he once did treasure so fully

and now can only examine so coolly.

 

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poetry, trails of thought

Being [be]loved

There is nothing I know

more than what I know now

about how I know all the things I know

about life: about you, about the people

who know so much

and who’ve done so much

to do so much for me.

 

 

And there is nothing I am

more than what I am now

re how I am all the things I am

re life: re you, re the people

who are so much

and who’ve been so much

and are so much to me.

 

And there is nothing more beloved

than how I am beloved now

because of all the things I’m beloved

for: this life, you people

who belove so much

and who’ve beloved so much

and who now belove so much to me.

 

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poetry

Cof[fee]

There’s a fee for almost everything:

almost nothing is free of

fees: fees for this, and fees for

that.  I’d eat my hat but my hat’s got

fleas.

But like unconditional love,

one thing in life is quite free of all fee.

When I wake up, don’t make up (still a man

who doesn’t do the lipstick he’d love to

kiss; the eye-liner he’d love to see around

those deep round eyes of love

and sex and burning ambition, and

wild neglect; the foundation that’d

lay the foundations for days

of glamorous outings and

nights of fabulous innings – not

cricket at all, but who cares any more?) …

and the wet wake-up call I most enjoy

in the absence of your damp skin touching

my skin is the smell and sound of

coffee that is made in my machines

and percolated like ancient water

through the granite of your heart.

And although the coffee does have a fee

where shop intervenes in

distribution and sale, where the

cost of coffee no can do is in its reverential

ritual of making.

The huge return, like sexual membership

of exclusive club, by now of dark and natural

hub, is the pleasure of the senses

that opening the tin and the din of smells

and the evoking of memories as yet unlaid down

(but is it possible to have a memory of

something yet to happen?  Maybe it is: your

love for me already seems natural as

patterns that weave in lives still unlived

but clearly on their way to experiencing).

 

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T[error]? / L[over]? / Fa[i]th!!!

Moments when terror bites just like a charming snake

of cobra-like proportions: I’ve never seen a cobra,

you see, so how could I possibly know what that terror meant,

or might look like to me?

Bent out of shape as I’ve been all these years,

that cobra snakes around me sinuously as I suppose

snakes tend to do (I’ve never seen a snake either, except in the

zoo near home; or at least the home

I currently am able to occupy …).

And that is my terror, when reversal in my mind takes over

the hindsight that bulldozes my senses

into flattened and unseemly defences which

crop, like Photoshop, the images of life I see and perceive.

Love should conquer all, and for me it’s everything

that ever kept my fears at bay: but what when

love is over – and you have no defences (neither air-to-air

nor sea-based ones) (a question of daftish analogy,

it’s true) – what then

might you do?  What then could you do?

And is faith all that’s left when bereft of the attachment that

virtual life eventually detaches you

from?

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