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

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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poetry

An odd reality / Making love

It’s odd when love conquers all – not to gather

together but to spread out

our certainties: not to jealousy guard

a control over other but lead both the other

and one’s self by the long thin white hands of

kindness and love: oh, how I love to be touched,

I do.

 

I love the hug of odd reality, too: an embrace so

gentle and wondrous in its entity: where

those – around and about – do roundabouting

roads, and ways of winding

paths and forking junctions, and

fucking junctions that provide that

pleasure which we who do not gain a

leisurely stretch of agile body and passionate

soul and the rolling of sex like drugs of decades

way long past, find it so hard to

unharden our perspectives in time; find it

so hard to see that life is neither

truth nor untruth: for life does vary from

moment to curious moment: the reality may

become an entity which

becomes us all, or may quite sadly undermine

our [be]coming together, as fear of

what the next moment brings makes it

impossible to make love.

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poetry

“… why the only way forward is the hell that is lies …”*

Let us be quite frank again:

no one deserves any reward for anything they ever

manage to do any more.

That is the way of brownie points at school, and we

all know that gold stars are lies worn by liars of a perfectly

criminal nature.

And that is what good people pretend that children do need:

to grow up well and happy we offer them the reality

that is telling the truth to the

little people they are, so they’ll grow up fully trusting

in the criteria they acquire which require

them to see the world through honestly peering eyes.

 

Except there’s no point because the bastards who run the

world have plenty of time

and money to make the world a place where grand lies

do win over truth.  And anyone who believes

in telling the truth will be beaten back foolishly by

the bastards who do this running

and jumping and somersaulting of morals quite casually,

quite wildly, quite inhumanely.

And that is the truth I need to communicate today:

when you want to get something

done in your life, do get it done by telling a lie.*

 


* Mind you, I’ve already broken the cardinal rule – maybe that’s committed the cardinal sin (and don’t think I haven’t already thought that this dumb game as it’s turning out was little more than a dumb demonstration to show me – goody two-shoes me, that is! – I was capable of committing all seven, all along …) – of telling the truth about how we need to tell lies.  I should really have said, if faithful to my new creed, that the most important thing – even in the face of the rank liardom which presents itself – was to continue striving to tell the truth …

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poetry

“… why hell’s a good place to find yourself …”

First of all, let us be frank:

the great thing about hell, about knowing you’re there,

is it can only get worse, it can’t get

better.

And so given this fact, and accepted this truth,

it then becomes a game

of spotting the others you see all around you

and then wondering why they

find themselves in hell just like you.

And the reality is that: it’s a game where they call you:

where they beckon and seduce

you and reckon and consider

you and flatter and receive

you and gently attempt to pursue

you until that very moment

when you lose all hope.

Which is when hell does really become

the place you should be:

without hope you just begin to play the

game that the rest have been playing all this time:

the rhyming without reason of

the pain of cruel denial.

Don’t reject me any more;

don’t make me believe.

Just heave me offshore in a curious little breeze:

I’m flotsam to your message

lost in a bottle: don’t forget that too readily,

mind: even flotsam can stain

the pain of a beach where lovers once walked hand in hand.

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poetry

“… when [what you love ain’t what you get] …”

… when …

ever you wondered

… when …

ever you wanted

… when …

ever you sensed

… when …

ever you squandered

… when …

ever you realised

… when …

ever you hoped

… when …

ever you didn’t

… when …

ever you cloaked

… when …

ever your feelings

gave you away

… when …

ever you were damn

foolish enough to say

what you say

… when …

ever you believed

in what others

did promise but

never cared finally

to deliver at all

… then …

stop wanting the stuff

you wanted so long and

needed so hard and

loved to little bits

and just slide into the

hell the bells

now do ring for.

 

… for that’s …

the world you inhabit.

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short short story, trails of thought

Ho[me] t[ruth]s

Definition

ruth: (archaic) Sorrow for the misery of another; pity, compassion; mercy.

Appeal

The word I most despair of in today’s world is “ruthless”.  I see ruthless behaviours around me all the time.  Maybe, after all, I see them where they’re not, but if I do that’s my loss – the world is OK without my confidence in you, and you seem to bumble along quite happily without needing too much confidence in me.

So anyways.  Here’s the appeal I’d really like to make today.  I’d really like to recover the archaic word “ruth”, and for as many people in the world as possible to use “ruth” instead of “ruthless”.

Where ruthless thoughts trip out of your mind at twenty to the baker’s unlucky dozen, replace them with ruth whenever you can: you never know, it might do some good.

As a name, it would appear it translates into English as “Companion”, which – in terms of my appeal today – doesn’t half seem bloody appropriate.  And that this word “ruth” forms part of the highly maligned concept we bandy about so casually that is “truth” is of as much interest – to me at least – as any other matter on the planet right now.

It seems a pretty damn curious example of synchronicity, that.

But then I always was engineered weirdly in ways which confuse even myself.  I always was too you know.  I just want people to be kind to each other: for kindness to motivate us together as a society instead of ruthlessness serving to drive us apart.

Reconciliation

“Home truths,” you say.

“Yup,” I reply.

“What about them then?”

“I guess I’ll just have to work out how to ignore a world which I consistently fail to understand – or appreciate in all the apparent wonder others find so easy to comprehend.”

“Huh?”

“You heard.”

“I heard.  And listened too.”  You shake your head.  “But that doesn’t mean I’m any the wiser.”

“I guess I got to give up on attempting to connect with others.  It just doesn’t work.  There’s always something I see that is wrong.  In content, in meta, in life and its forms.  You’re better off without me.  Find a man and place and sense of space that makes you happier than I can – oh, and doesn’t question why.”

“And if I don’t want to?  And if I want the question why just as much as you do?”

“Do you?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Me too.  I have been all my life.  From a kid.  Did you know that?”

“But human beings were made to fight fear,” you say, sort of ignoring – as you sometimes do.  “And bravery only ever exists in the presence of fear.  Anything else, after all, is easy ruthlessness.”

 

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