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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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.

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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

Be[in]g a hu[man]

In man there are many sides to the question:

what we need,

what we want,

what we do,

what we waste …

only four sides to the question are these.

 

No multi-faceted diamond is

life.

 

In man choice exists, but rights do not:

what we need,

what we want,

what we do,

what we waste …

only four sides to the choice are these.

 

In man love appears often, but struggling to rise:

above the desultory nature of dailyness,

above the weary nature of reality,

above the questions that nature poses repeatedly,

above the tiring nature of nature itself …

only four natures to love are these.

 

And in man it’s so common that in breaking the rhyme

of wordage and vocabulary and verbiage and time,

we discover the truth about ourselves:

in truth, in reality, in fact and right now,

we are forged of grand selfishness

and our memories do battle to support us in these views.

 

We are nothing but self-justifying tools of our

own weaknesses; our

own pain; our

own self-contained anger and even fury; our

own frustrations so awkwardly drawn up:

my lies serve only to justify my being …

 

… and my being knows only how to believe in itself.

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short short story

Es[caped] crus[ader]!!!

She was a gorgeous wonderful woman of tall slim constitution.  They had once flitted one by the other in languid quick-step along Liverpool Road.  That moment of recognition never left the either of them.  That was the moment they crossed that curiously delicious frontier between knowing each other in mutual respect and wanting to know each other in total abandon.

She was the kind of woman you never would mistake for the kind of woman you’d mistake for anything.  She was firm in her thoughts, her way of thinking; she was firm in her hold, almost manly in its power; she was firm in her opinions, but never opinionated; in the end she was firm, as were all her family, in taking life and meeting it head-on, and never forgetting the knowledge and wisdom it might offer.

And for a few intimate days – and then far more distant months – she was the caped crusader he’d never heard of: almost a woman of unearthly superpowers: at least, with him; at least, on him.  And maybe it was magic; and maybe it was more a weird latterday chemistry; and maybe it was something he’d still not worked out.

Then it collapsed under the weight of his indecision.  And things like that do not get remade unless both parties remain under the heady parasols of love’s summertime haze.

After eleven years or so, for him it was the case.  He did remain, every day of his life, in the haze that were the ways they had lived.

And although he could see he was moving on slowly, his life moved on much faster than he’d liked.

He realised now, for sure, that home and love would need separating.  It was a curious thing to suddenly believe in: he’d been brought up by a mother of devout Catholic belief.  He couldn’t quite rid himself of certain spasmodic actions, which temporarily incapacitated him for broader and braver and more coherent behaviours.

It didn’t happen so often these days, mind.

Nor did he really mind either, any more.

And like some DC fan, he imagined her sinking one day from the sky, her cape fluttering around him and embracing his frozen soul: and then warming him up until within his very core an explosion of light might bring to him some semblance of the roar of victory he felt that time they walked together, arm in arm along Liverpool Road, as they found themselves crossing that curiously delicious frontier between knowing each other with mutual respect and wanting each other in total abandon.

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poetry

M[od][us] v[i]v[end]i (I)

He identified strongly with hearts for some

reasons: one, the first, the most elfishly imp-

ortant, was the love they re-

presented every time he saw or touched one.

Second, his heart was white in-

stead, at home, on his hearth: not black by

any means: he never meant that harm that

black cruelly re-

presents in the tongues we kiss and

speak with.

Although black – in other re-

spects – he identified with strongly,

he hunted not, and was no hunter of black.

So a white heart he was: neither black nor red.

Third, he felt that maybe love

was sacrifice after all: a heartbroken heart both

described itself naturally and de-

scribed itself using itself to de-

scribe its very entity.

Fourth, he now needed a mod-

us v-

i-

vend-

i

so much, he was prepared to sub-

sum-

e in electronic life, maintain

his being only in that false

world he realised had been

assigned him long ago, and reach plac-

id-

[under]

lying agreement to fake what was left

of life:

for what was life if not an act-

ing profession?

 

As that terrible man so long ago said:

“The art of communication

doesn’t lie in saying what you believe

but in believing what

you say.”  Hey-ho.  Ho-ho.

 

And he would now communicate this way,

and the modus vivendi would be lies

all the time, and reality

would never quite match the truth, and the

truth – like him, like the love he would

no longer wear as a badge of collect-

i-

ve c-

our-

age – would diss-

i-

pat-

e in digital stroking: a stroking of ego

not sex.

 

And love your memories dear people: for they’re all

we have

left.

 

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