To Pity the Fool in Love

No-one ever expects that they will walk around a corner and find the person that will become their significant other lingering there on the street before them.  How we meet our partners, our lovers and confidantes, becomes a personal legend shared between only ourselves in truth, embellished by time and by the ebb and flow of emotion.  Love can be a hard emotion to describe, to quantify or to qualify, to articulate to each other and to one another.  That drunken and passionate kiss goodbye, the result of a haphazard opportunity presented in all of its glory, sits side by side with the memory of a slow burning romance experienced in our youths when we fumbled anew under covers soaked in teenage sweat.  Experiments of connection and of lust, of two pieces of lego mixing and matching to form one.  As time recedes the flashes of faces become a Rolodex of past conquests and imagined hurt, often sitting uncomfortably close to one another.

Lust, as a rapid fire launchpad to the past, operates on much the same lines as those random encounters experienced during the vicissitudes of youth.  In moments of relaxation you are comfortably entertaining yourself, your thoughts ensconced on a particular moment and how it would play out in your mind, perhaps how you would make the move and seal the return of the love and physical intimacy as given in your affections.

Yet still, how the mind can shock and shake the very foundations of your core!

No longer are you in the throes of doubled or singled passion, your senses are startled and your hands are instead given to fumbling lamely against the body of skin and flesh before you.  No more thought is given to reaching the apex of sexual arousal.

You are instead seeing the failures of your past mount even as you have failed to.  The chances lost of forming romantic entangles in the freshly cut grass, of bridging the gap between brief fumbles on the sofa and maintaining long-term relationships.  The thought is half formed, it ghosts across the mind but briefly as you lie there on your bed, shivering in the warm night air.

To walk around the corner of the street you inhabit, to cross the road at just the right time, to be there to answer that question and to form that connection as the eyes meet, the pupils dilate, and the lips curl into a smile.  The heart that jumps a beat and resets into a rhythm of two.  To miss those opportunities.  To wait upon a table where the food of life will never be placed.  It can be a hard thing to think about in the moment of your greatest conquest, of a solo ascent.

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2 Minute Poem

Chairs or spiral stairs, hair stands on end at the thought of them.
Hands grip the sides ever tighter,
As I gasp for breath, feeling ever lighter.
I’ve changed so many times I’m not even sure
where I’m meant to sit, not even sure of my
place in this ever lasting race.
—-
I just want a comfy chair, computer set up
the way it should be, the way it could never
be, as if I were to sit still in silence, the music
still blaring.
Instead I curse the empty air as, once
again, my pattern changes, new dangers arise –
Are they an officer, an assessor?  What can I say or
cannot say in front of them?
Does it matter, are we ever really in one
place forever or are we always racing against the tide of change?
 —

The Corridors of Power

Tasks are always taxing,
Unless you’ve got greying hands and an unsteady shuffle
In which case you ignore them and secretly deplore them.
But you carry on regardless, steamrolling
Through the corridors of the company,
Your own private land of claims
Disregarded and abandoned,
Like so many lovers before you.
But now the sun is setting
On a broken dream of what could be.

The tasks are always taxing,
But they always wait their turn.

Surburbia Kills

I was the first born.  Before the the mountains had rose from the sea, before the clouds hung in the sky, I came first.  My brother was the tree, who provided me with its fruit.  Animal was my brother too, feared and respected, watched and observed.

The second born saw what I, the first born, had and craved it for himself.  The mountain rose with his anger, as did the clouds.  The water started to foam and has not stopped since.

No longer do we treat my first born brothers with the respect that we once gave one another.  Now we herd them, both for their meat and for their fruit, until we have destroyed utterly the life that we had always lived.

I used to hold the sacred mud in my hand, and I could feel the fertility in its wet embrace.  Now I weep as the mud has become sodden with black earth blood, leeching the ground and contaminating the green grasses and wild animals.

We herd the land now too, parceling it off into smaller divisions that breed anger and jealously, war and hate.  No longer do we eat facing each other, we eat alone.

Our music, once shared, has now become a singular pursuit in the contours of our identity.

I weep for myself.  I weep for suburbia.

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Photography by the author, if reproduced please credit as appropriate.

Reprise: An Experiment. Part II.

~ Running in the night , screaming at the light

of a thousand stars dying and the all engulfing love

and tyranny

of skin on skin ~…

…~ Of memories long since buried

beneath the ocean of the beloved

that haunt

me still ~…

…~ Pain is pleasure and pleasure is

gained through the experience, but

there is nothing

and no-one ~…

…~ We are the sum of all we are,

what bullshit do we seek, when

thrills, high or low, can be found

on every corner street ~…

Do words mean anything when there is no context, no fabric into which they are weaved?  Are they meaningless if they are spoken to the ether, scored into the sky, taking no physical form nor permanency?

Dispatches From The Coast: Quick Scribbles

There is nough so fair or ought so glum as word in print, prose or poetry,

Nothing harder won or bitter swon as a pill laced with poison.

The writer knows that his work carries less weight than the ink of his print,

Poison pen be it, subsistence by thought alone a long gone dream.

Oft gang aft aglay, even as we pray, wish and hope.

Wry smiles and token gestures seal naught but the contract,

empty of pennies as thy purse brims with hope.

Be here men and women, the thoughts of the many,

Dashed upon the rock of modern prose poetry.

Sinking further into a cold hearted coffin, nay thought spared for the writer.

Indifference strikes the many as disease did carry,

Those weakest, those first that voiced their opinion, on their shoulders be it.

Even as we swim, current against tide, sway even as we may

Dream –

Hold our heads high –

Even as our murky scribblings and manuscripts –

Sink beneath the wave of indolence, of innocence, of ignorant hearted bliss. (Try not).

I type these words with blood between my fingers,

Flowing over knuckle, bone and skin.

We have denied the value of the writer even as we write ourselves,

We have paid a penny more for our open grave.

Individual we stand,

But communal we fall.

Patriarch

The music, in all honest truth, could not have

been that much more dramatic,

As you stood and ambled towards the stairs,

and I held back, swayed by your gravity.

I loved you then and I love you

now, even though you are not the person

that I once knew.

A beauty grows anew, even as your body fails

and nature, in her folly, her wisdom, her

demonstrable lack of remorse for life,

threatens to take you down,

By bending your body closer to the earth,

as in an eternal hug, she slowly

reaches, but not yet.

Not yet.

I think of cowboys shooting guns straight up into the air, of Indians in their last chance saloon pondering their shared fallen fate, of the horses helping to herd the cattle and the desolation of the landscape with hard rock outcrops dominating the frame; the films that you love so well.

The music ends and the stairs ascended, you work your way to a deep sleep.

And I sit and stir, moved by your grace, your wizened and aged body battling daily the elements,

bequeathed upon this earth but for a short term of life,

A single tear, silent yet graceful, grows on my eyelash and let falls to the earth,

A slave to gravity, as your body was when I saw it fall.

To you, with who I would not be here, I thank,

For this blessed thing called life.

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Photograph taken by author with Pentax S1a, please use CC if reproduced.