poetry, trails of thought

Wisdom / Desire

A man I once met,

a man I met recently in fact,

asked me – by the very by! – which I valued more:

“Wisdom and its logical progression, dear man,” he enquired

not a little stealthily, “or

the emotional explosion of a desire properly expressed?”

And it’s true that in that instant of its initial bad posing –

and posing he clearly was,

this man I met then –

I might’ve been heard to reply in favour of the former:

for which sensible, rational man like myself

would dare to decant for the irrational?

 

But I then had a real, a very real,

opportunity

to reflect in profound intelligence, as more and more lately

such reflection is my thing;

and precisely via the rational processes

this man had clearly suggested

were infamously disconnected from the desire that

drives our crazy sex,

I came to a new conclusion, quite radical

in my mind; radical at least

for the man I have been to date.

 

For it’s become clear to me

that without the drive of desire

the reality of true wisdom can never be acquired.

And whilst – for the minute! – my opportunities to express

my own honest-felt emotions

are equally radically truncated

by curiously unsubstantiated circumstance

and expectation, even so

I no longer will ever give up on the thought that has

emerged today:

in order to achieve a state of kindly wisdom,

all human being who wishes to remain the human

we’ve always seen and been

needs a full and honest, even as gentle, channel of expression –

an expression as much of their fine and unabashed sexuality

as of the content and texts of their undoubted intertextuality.

 

And whilst it’s just as true that we never can know

when love will touch again

the skin, surfaces and depths of our souls,

at least let us stay open to the fact of its former reality;

at least let us remember when the stories it told

so fine and

handsomely

narrated our daily lives,

and led – as they did! – to wonderful moments

of such fabulous cool.

 

And who’ll be the next to embrace our still

shivering, tender bodies?

And who’ll be the next to hug hard and soft and

then everything between, and then

kindly and driven, and then

passion-

filled of scream,

and then slowly recovering

and then boldly returning,

and then finally becoming of both sides of this equation?

 

“With the right support everything is possible, ” they tell us.

With the right support,

and the wisdom of this

honest, never tiring

desire of a very humankind 

… which finally we recognise to be this grandest of the grand.

 

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poetry

Ex[traction]

We extract from life what we need

to extract, not what we

want to extract, which is quite a different

matter.

And what we want to extract is the love

of another, freely given by the other,

no violence between, no horrifying

machine of hurtful disgrace,

no rapist, no papist, no hate-

lists for us.

And what we need to extract is the pure

and simple confirmation that what

our ancestors did do was

what our ancestors did right,

and the hurt and the fright that our

forebears did forge was correctly gorging on

the innocent love of the innocent child.

And there was once a real day of

beautiful feel, where sunshine glanced on

skin of wonderful real-

ity for me and you, around picnic-

basketed outing, where routing the fears of

people who lose their loosening grip on

love and its paragons of

virtuous clarity was everything this reality

afforded: and that’s all I ever wanted

from you, all I ever wanted: but all you ever gave

to me was all I ever needed.

And in extraction’s pantheon of infamous

history, primarily we aim to remove the wisdom

of awkward cuss.  And re the interests of worlds of

civilisation, that’s a pretty fair analogy:

who’d ever, these days, miss the wisdom of a tooth?

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short short story

“… when an inside is outed (out of love and affection) …”

 

She was uncomfortable, so often, with the thoughts she had.  She thought she ought not to have them, for starters.  And that was bad.

For precisely the thoughts she had, they so often remained at the forefront of her beautiful mind … the whole day long, too; from dawning to dusk.  From the early morning when she opened her beautiful green eyes to the end of the evening – that time when, exactly when, the shadows of memory reflected in shady red wine would remind her of moments where lonely remains of love were the main (by now) desperately vultured carrion of her most inner hopes.

She wasn’t a morbid person by nature, either – let this be clear.  It’s just that the kind of life she’d been obliged to live had meant the very best of her being had been inhibited from showing itself to the outside world.

They say that what’s truly of value of any person out there is what hides inside the hider’s inside.  And so – through the loneliness imposed by the circumstance of confusion – she’d become a fairly professional hider of the inside she could’ve shared with others for most of her life, clearly lived more as a survivor than a living human being; clearly lived more as a now quietened soul of a humanity of the lukewarm.

She didn’t have less than others had, of course.  But she could’ve had far more: for precisely her inside was the most astonishingly wrought forging of ingenious and loving patterns that pattered like toddling feet in their innocence and gravity: she was such a gorgeous entity, too; the real crime was that no one had realised the reality in time.

Or maybe they had: maybe they’d said: maybe they’d told each other: maybe the grapevine had already spread the truth about her hider’s beautiful inside, and that reality it contained.

And so in truth, it was all she needed right then.  Some real living love and affection to out the inside that beautifully adorned the inside she’d hid from the man she had loved the entire section of her life she’d only survived (never lived, my love – believe me; never properly lived at all).

 

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}.)

 

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