poetry

And my best wasn’t good enough; and that I have to accept …

I tried my best, in the absence of a best

man: and in the absence of a best

man I sensed what was slipping away.

It was no reality that escaped my grasp

because

the reality I dreamt was only ever

a dream I dreamt, and never some

thing I might one day have really

touched.

So what I sensed was slipping away,

in the absence of better man I so wished

I might – maybe – have had,

maybe some day,

was the hopes (not reality) I had held

for a better kind

of life; a kinder sort of

better; a lifely wifely

class of just aiming to be myself, where

learning was daily, and love was

eternal until that tragic day of death

do us quite journal.

 

Standard
poetry

F{at.her}ho[od] / H[us.band]ship

 

Fatherhood was easy, a dod-

dle like Google, compared with the

ca[l]va{l}ry that is this rushing away

from clear routes and path-

ways which be-

witch and confuse: I know what

I’d do, everything being eq-

u-

al, and yet the es-

sence and sens-

abilities we con-

tain-

t within this i’m-

perfection I exhi-

bit right now, a tad and slight-

lying I run like a child to con-

template and wizard and run around

boldly.

Was I ever made of boldness?

Can resilience be used to describe the man

I’ve been?

Does strength of purpose inscribe the

love I’ve shown – or is weakness my final dis-

membered leg-

acy?

 

(And what about you?  Why remain so

si-

lent and borrowed – like second-

hand book?  We shook each other

so fab-

u-

loosely free of convention.  I need to hear

your voice this one day soon.  I need

to hear your voice of swoon-

in-

g-

ain-

fully gently tinged northern-

ess-

entials of lacy sauciness: as saucy

as heart-

y good food on the table, next

to salad chosen uncertainly that day

we braved CCTV: or, at least, that was me –

not you my dearest breath of

walking glory: every morning to

see your face by my side, and me forgetting

the charger behind the bed we made

right: I clearly never wanted to leave

your brave side: the pain and the gory

natures of

love: I wanted them all, and still

love the juices the body I

know refuses to allow me to suck

and nourish and nurture and

row, like couple making up on

trips on boats out of reach, into serpentine

lake within our reach – and our love as that winding up

revving down of

sex, where sex doesn’t

suck … but, then again, will – if you

see what I mean-

t: and we saw each other clearly,

we always looked closely at the feelings of the

other: and I so want your window open and like

pussy carefully entering, to investigate

as foolish newborn the wisdom

of this [uni-

{qué]

verse}.)

 

Standard
short short story

Falling out with love

“It’s a weird sensation,” she said all of a sudden, as she tried to get comfortable – her back squirming and squealing slightly on the leather couch.

“What is?” he asked, in his theatrically psychiatric voice.

“Well.  Ever since we’ve begun to talk again, both of us we’ve gone and fallen out with love.”

“How do you mean?”  His voice expressed real interest.

“I dunno.  I mean I’m not sure about him, he never was one for love in the round – but certainly in my case it’s pretty much something I no longer think about.  We’re becoming like sister and brother, if you know what I mean.”

“Hmm.  Go on.”  He was clearly paying attention now, in ways he often obviously would not.

“As I said, it’s really strange.  I just don’t miss it.  It’s as if, after struggling so hard and long to get what I thought I needed, really after all this time there seems no point in struggling any more.  Almost like a kind of trance I’ve fallen into.  Almost as if Zen was my motorbike.”

He smiled.  He frequently did.  She had a turn of phrase that quite regularly made him think he should be paying her.

“So do you feel there’s any downside to this … peace?” he asked.

“Well.”  She thought for a moment.  “I guess so.  I mean I used to have tons of ideas in my head, and wanted to conquer the world and be someone different.”

“And now?”

“No ideas, any more.  They just don’t flow.  So no desire to conquer either.  And being different?  We’re all different and then again none of us are: and since all of us are, or not, I guess that makes us all the same, right?”

He smiled again.  “I suppose yes, you’re right.  So what now?  What do you plan to do?”

“Nothing.  Be sister to his brother, and wait for life to muddle through.  What do you suggest?”

The buzzer buzzed gently.

He paused for a few moments; waved his hand slightly.  She was already up from the couch.  She knew what the buzzer meant.

“Here’s the bill,” he said gently.  “You can pay on the way out today … the machine’s been sorted.”

Standard
poetry

Reconsillyation*

 

Our world in its wis-

dom-

in-

ating-

ness clearly states it’s smart to be

smart: well-dressed of course, but clever-

er than wise too: and who’d want to be wise

when you’re able to be smart?

Being silly is for the be-

es and those who believe in mind-

ful-

ness-

es: those who would rescue a life of

confusing graft from the

draught and currents of undertow.*

 

 


* This …

Standard
poetry

Modus vivendi (III) (REALIsaTIon)

You make of what you’ve been given, but making

can end: it’s too late on occasions to

change what-

ever may have lasted in previous e-

poxs: illness and happiness in equal pro-

portions are layers of experience

which essence our lives with flavours

and saviours we’d love if we could:

but hubr-

is

is there: in darkness and light, and light

but mainly darkness: th-

is is all there is.

 

REALIsaTIon is tough.

I am not.

I have forgotten what

living in love could be.

And what you forgot really does not

hurt that much: if at all; at all it does

not really hurt.

 

Who are we convincing?  No one,

I guess.  But the necessary mot-

ions must fly apart and attach to other

ways of being that one day

will for-

m: for you and for me, luv.

 

REALIsaTIon is that.

 

Standard
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.

 

Standard