poetry

Unpredict[ability]

Macarons-lagrandeepicerie.JPG
By User:roboppy – EN WP http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Macarons-lagrandeepicerie.JPG, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3142295

 

My battle, most primal battle, all my goddamn

life has been, I see now in fairly fearsome

hindsight, and yet with favour and flavour and

even kindness too,

never to be the predictable being I knew.

And I knew, just knew, I was predictable as they

come: that life would move on for me just

as it moves on for everyone; and I refused to

give up on or share the love of a mother

who abandoned me for birth of next-along

brother, or maybe this was illness,

or maybe confusion of culture and

mucher

other

things that intervened in my life.

And so I remember, quite clearly,

at the age of sixteen, demanding to

myself never to find a happiness out there,

because I was a survivor, and survivors

remember victims, and people they

went and left way behind them.

And then I was predictable; I went and got

married, and the physical love I yearned for

to assuage my pain

of existential curiosity and existential

wane, waxed violently out of orbit so

I never was able to love the woman I loved

in the way that I actually needed.

And then something came along – you came long! –

and that’s when I realised I was made for love;

I was made for predictability;

I did just want to be another bird or bee.

Because the love of your skin, your heart and

your touch repaired a pain of lifetimes

spent resilient and cocooned, like marooned

macaron, all coloured and round and searching

for a mouth that only wanted to eat me my

whole, my very sweetness, my very own soul.

And if the kind of art I’ve begun to practise

is the kind of art that number-crunched by

you and your machines is just about as

predictable as anything anyone ever

drew with pen and ink, in fairly kinky

sectors of fairly kinky lives, unbolted and

uncovered like few people have ever known,

then I am now happy with being predictable:

for I have known a love which releases

and frees: and I have known a life of grand

satisfactions: and I know a wife who

loves both me and my children in the only

giving way she is properly able: and I come to

realise when change must be made – and the

change can be kind if that is what we choose,

and the kind I desire is the one that I do choose –

that whilst terrible return to terrible days

is no longer permissible for me or my

loved ones, my expressing myself openly about

the reality I have is already making me

a hopeful soul of love.

And where it is within my grasp to make others

hopeful, including my dearest wife and

wonderful children, I will do all I can to

sustain such a life:

I think this is good, and I think this is right.

 

And moving on is not only my right: it is the

right of everyone who is sovereign to choose their

destiny; and where terrible pain has been caused

in the past, the only possible connection can

last out of love.  And love doesn’t mean connections

can still be made firm; to be firm, one needs the

hurt to wander away so that

any path taken is free of emotional rift:

or at least is in the presence of the gift of

grand forgive.

 

I look to the future; experience the present;

and, ultimately, remember the past so very fondly.

To see these photos and read these words again –

photos of people and places all over my senses,

and places I lived

with family and friends,

places and moments I myself

have forgotten, places I really

would much rather manage to

remember and recall, in the clarity of sunlight

not the dark of fearful fall.

 

So I bear no grudge nor unkindness at all.

And maybe, if it is right, I can remind myself now

of all the good,

of all the faith,

I ever did trawl from my curious personal dark

blue sea of curious personal understanding.

Standard
short short story

Cellular lover

She once told him, his caped crusader as she was at the time of telling, that every time she changed lovers, she changed phone numbers.  She’d learnt to her cost that her love was so overwhelming, that her being was so astonishing, that her way of touching the soul of another was so absolutely dumbfounding, that no man she met or ever knew – in almost any way at all – ever forgot the person she was.

Thus it was, they never misplaced her phone number either.

Which, equally, led her to realise – in the inevitable madcap pursuit of a now-ended once upon a time – every old lover meant a discarding of every old phone number.

This also meant, of course, that the story once told – in the main, to lover of current practice – was never to be forgotten, nor unlearned.  And once the recovery process in question, long and arduous (and why not?  Better to have loved in such amazing circumstances than never to have experienced them at all …), found itself properly begun, no way would respectful ex-lover ever find it in themselves to make the call that a loving situation might require.  What was the point, after all, of phoning a number which years down the line only a stranger would end up answering?

That was just dumb.  Actually, very dumb.

As dumb as could be – and not dumb in the sense of geekily, crazily, warmly dumb either.

Standard
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.

Standard
trails of thought

Sur[{r(end)}er] or …

I read a post in a supermarket cafe this midday.  It almost had me weeping.  I’m getting a bit better at not doing so in public.  But even so, I almost went and did.

You can find the post in question here.

Its winding tale is summed up by this phrase:

Surrender is expression not suppression.

Now my life has clearly become a battle of wits, and all I want of life is the wit to be loved.  And when I say loved, I mean not just that kind of love which is burnished and proud, and never needs to speak itself out loud: and that love is fine, and maybe enough for many.  But the love I really need, on top of that love, is the love which involves a person I love wanting me physically; finding me good; seeing my being as something they’d find so essentially attractive they could spend a whole lifetime not knowing exactly what I was.

But even so, even then, even in confusion, still being able to pursue the tail of the tale of my lifetime, and thinkings and beings.

To be in the physical presence of a person that physical: to be able to transmute my love of the world into the golden silences of skin upon skin … to that I would surrender in the way we could surrender: not as a giving in or a giving up but as an entreaty – a delivering – of oneself to another: yes, use me as you will – I trust you that much.

And I don’t want any more to hurt myself with people who see myself as something which physically repels – which disgusts – their very being.  And I know it is hard, and I’ve spent such a long time, and I’d love to find out, and I’d love to know why … and more than anything I’ve ever wanted, I’d love to be able to help … but if a person, a being, a human of social love, is refusing to help themselves, what else can I do?  Where else can I go?  Who else can I turn to?

Who else knows enough to square the circles I find above me, of awful vulturing realities which soar and fall and drop to carrion – like stone thrust onto an unforgiving savannah?

That’s how I feel; that’s how I’m living; that’s how much I’m needing another way forward.  For any way which repeats the past is destined to repeat the past.  And either way, suffering shall ensure.  And either way, I’m in the grip of a fate I claw with tooth and fight.  But the fight and tooth I have chased madly to date is clawing my soul from my body and heart.

Yes.

I surrender my all.

Not because I have no choice.

But because I want to be free.  And that freedom is me.  And if I am to properly surrender, and that surrender is to render me a different kind of lifetime – in the time that is left of the lifetime that is left me – then let it not be a lifetime where rendering rends an end.

Let it, instead, be a lifetime where rendering rends a beginning …

Standard
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.

Standard