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?

 

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short short story

Evil you! You make me a nudger too …

She didn’t like being told what to do.  She hated it, in fact.  And he’d known her all her life: from face-to-face; from her blogging outpourings over a decade or more; more recently, via social networks and other stuff she blithely went and put out there.

So this was why, when he got her to do things, he got her to do other things she was happy with, which went and meant she actually ended up doing the things she would never have done if he’d asked her straight off.

And the latest wizard wheeze really was bewitching: he managed to get her into a position where with her very own offspring she was gladly nudging them into decisions and behaviours and attitudes and results wherein she absolutely, totally, refused to take the ownership she’d always been so demonstrably in favour of.  She had sworn by such ownership, in fact; and this evil universe was laughing its socks off every time it managed to convince her to do something she’d claimed she’d never do: something, even, she had balled out family and friends for having committed foully against her very being.

She was a fraud, that was clear – and this was exactly what the universe was aiming to demonstrate.

And it made her feel sad to be made a laughing-stock.  And she even knew, for sure it was, that even her feeling a laughing-stock was something they’d nudged her into feeling.

Nothing she did was unknown by them.

Nothing at all.  Not even who she’d fuck next.

What a horrible universe, you are!” she said.  “What a perfectly horrible universe!”

*

Her former experience of mental ill-health became now as clear as ever.  Her reaction of paranoia to an environment around her hadn’t been a result of an illness itself, but far more a consequence of detecting in some strange way a connecting of actions which was on full view for everyone to detect – or not (and that was not the problem …).  Maybe she had fallen ill if one’s definition of illness is circumscribed by the idea of dysfunctionality – but if it was defined by one’s relationship to reality instead, and that reality was truly as perceived, then this paranoia she had manifested was more an accurate adaptation than a deformation.

And this is why inside she wept tears of rage.

And this is why inside she occupied a cage.

And this is why her face-to-face outside never managed to properly connect with all that cage she had inside, and all that rage she now barely stomached.

 

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poetry, trails of thought

That …

You know when people see a poor person –

they’re always singular in the

grammatical sense of alone, not the

linguistic sense of particularly special –

and they see them suffering

and they walk on the other side

and they don’t even want to say hello,

and saying hello would be a contract of sorts

and you can’t make a contract with a person

whose poorer than you, for the

obligation becomes far greater than you

can deal with.

 

Well … that!

 

And you know when you’re told that a great

project must unfold, and each group of people

involved around the subject

is told a separate reason for not saying

anything: and in one case, the forebears, the

reason is such that obvious talent needs to be

released; and in one case, the family, the

reason is such that obvious need for physical

affection needs to be

satisfied; and in one case, the friends, the

reason is such that obvious need for employment

needs to be dealt with; and in one case, the enemies, the

reason is such that obvious need for protection against

disruption to established business

model just has to be complied with; and in one final

case, the lovers and stuff, the reason is such

that empowerment of individual so tragically treated

requires that he acts in all cases as if

under his own steam – never relying or being able

to see the faces or acts of any of the above:

and all failing to Good Samaritan the victim, in the name of

investigative science.

Only the subject’s actually a lightning conductor

for the real investigation, really under way: the morality,

conscience, persistence of morals and values that

people, when told they are doing something for the

good of kinda genius, continue to maintain and display.

The apparent subject is just a MacGuffin, a microfilm,

a something

to distract those committed to doing the

distracting: and those committed to doing the

distracting in question are actually the ones who are

truly distracted from their sincerity, honesty and

humanity by allowing themselves to be convinced

into carrying out

cardinal crimes of gravely hurting the rights and

integrity of the MacGuffin subject for all the

different reasons

differently exposed above:

how easy it is to convince a human being

to do something against the interests of another

in the name of expertise, authority and

research, and because the other doesn’t yet

know what their best interests are …

 

That!

 


* The final straw for the distractors who are the ones really being distracted by this experiment would be if they began to suffer from the distracting effects originally only suffered by the singular distracted subject (and here we mean singular to say both something special and alone …).

That’s a thought and a half which’d be worth an idle conversation and a bit, don’t you think?

That!

Standard
poetry

Nudge me no more (it ain’t nice …)

He used to love the way she touched him without

really touching him: like when you see

a drop-dead beautiful to-die-for woman from

an incredible afar, and her enigmatic smile and her dark red lips

and her sips of sex slipped beneath laced-up skirt, swishing

lightly below awfully silken blouse, ready to be undone in some

lucky darkened room or other … and all of these things

like collected lockets of love, he used to love so much about her.

But now when she nudges him, it ain’t nice at all.

Now when she nudges him, it’s purely a means to get him to do

her something she refuses to take ownership for: turn up the

heating or turn down the volume or turn off the fan or

just fuck yourself solo because you make me quite ill,

only no one could ever ever take ownership for such a

terrible thought as this.

And if there was one thing that really pissed him out his

trolley, it was people who took it upon themselves to volley through

air and wind and tight breeze a teasing nudging of managing

behaviours: “If you want me to do something, just say it to my

fucking face!  And then,” he would respond, “I can actually

choose who to say no to …”

But the universe – his universe – really wasn’t that way, and rather

than peopled by people who might visibly fuck him alive, it was peopled by

people who refused to show their faces, and instead of sexy glances that

might glance off his soul, the only thing he ever knew

was the people who peopled his universe and flatly refused to hate him

in full view of the man he was and the man he’d become

and the man he now rejected he had to revert to.

And if freedom was to be a solitary confinement in a wider world

of loneliness, let freedom commence in its singular way: only do show

your faces, do accept your blame, do recognise that fame

is no guarantor of happiness any more.

And all he ever wanted to be was a man at least his children might

be proud of … a man they could admire some day for the

grander things he might once have done

in some different time.

And whilst he realised by now that his children were grand, his

saddest saddest thought lay in the lap of his spouse:

when life had called him to be a lion of sorts, a mouse is all he had

roared and scurried: and he knew he had failed her, and she was

no longer the woman she might one day have become,

if another life had ridden by and flitted by and allowed him the

pride and enjoyment of being the man

which he knew he could now never be, were he to remain in her lap.

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