Slumber and Fantasy sound the hunt,
Three blasts upon their horns,
A mighty peal echoing through every consciousness.
I know of your wishes:
That I refrain, that I not partake.
You hear it’s call carried by vibrations in the air,
Not through the core of this world like all the others.
The void yearns for my return,
My sun quest finished—
Though not quite complete.
Do not beg I stay
For I have become so weary.
So weary.
There is something deeply satisfying about being sad.
Why else would we hurt & maim our bodies,
After we have subjected ourselves to heartache—doom and gloom?
Did you ever feel the desire to hurt him just because you were able?
What will you do with your free time now?
And whom will next bring you that heartache?
Our letters—words and ink are so lovely—are lost to ourselves,
I have yours, you have mine
And how will we ever know what was really said?
Don’t you desire romances and affairs?
Of course the answer is obvious: We desire nothing more.
The actions found myth—to never see truth or light of day.
And the tales invent themselves, for one show only!
In our worlds each night.
And to whom will we cling next? That glorious deity
So wonderful and cruel. To prostrate ourselves so fervently.
Twinkling: That’s what you are.
And I’ll never be the same,
with your husk
or the other ones.
Their grave pit spheres
hang agape
and follow the construction of the web
as the loom moves
to and fro.
They no longer speak to me,
what did I do?
1. Preamble
Hazy and warm,
A soft velvet thou art —
Alone, solitary sentinel of the dawn.
Sat there
For all them to see, up on high,
Care not – you did not –
For such trivialities; for them, no threat.
2. Thoughts stray
A pleasing embrace,
Is all that is craved.
It has been many a long watch –
O these solitary nights,
How they stir the thick quagmire –
A mire of stagnation,
Of defunct reconciliation –
Of squandered time.
3. The fall
Now languish, evermore
In twilight shades.
An infinity to reconcile:
Confront thyself
And seek not shelter,
But whether the torrent;
Harsh, unforgiving.
Eyes bleed –
Salt brine falls freely
And souls ache.
Pain has crippled,
Wounded and humiliated.
4. The transformation
No longer a sentinel;
Now a wretch,
At command of base needs:
Desire, lust, –
So hungry.
Driven by necessity,
And self-pity.
5. Metamorphosis
Stronger now, forevermore.
Rebuild an aegis of defiance
Against the wretch,
Standing proudly
In glory.
Watching in return,
Knowing now
Their dangers.
6. Coda
Alone, solitary sentinel of the dusk.
A soft velvet thou art —
Hazy and warm.
I creep back into my bones, having drunk my fill of those other ones.
It appears my skin has vanished in my sustained absence.
And I wonder how this will affect my life.
The whirlpool flushes, stars and their satellites gurgle downwards through the spinal drain,
Emptying into the cosmic gut. Awaiting the time when the many faced rat comes.
But for the time being I can not worry and I must believe that everything will be fine.
I remember to practice my breathing exercises,
But lo and behold, it seems I’ve misplaced my lungs too.
Upon closer inspection it appears I have entirely misplaced myself.
For when the world begins to grow concrete
and I can no longer stand it
there is a certain freedom
gifted in substance
that many approve
many more disagree
and for me it shelters
a burgeoning desire
to escape all that is real
and float down a river
not out of fear
but of boredom
and my need to feel what is new
and previously undiscovered.
I went to the zoo recently. It was nice. Watching the dangerous and exotic animals move about in their little enclosures, not looking particularly worried about much. There was something comforting about knowing that if these animals can be placed in a small area to live the rest of their lives, maybe my problems aren’t too bad. Can I please be placed in a small enclosure with a few other members of my species and have strange people come and stare at me as I chill and pace about?
I did feel sad that the animals had to be confined to such small spaces to ensure visitors would have the best possible chances of seeing the animals. But it did make me wonder what it would be like to have such a small world? Perhaps it would be terrifying? Knowing that there is more beyond the walls of your habitat, but never being able to experience what is beyond.
I’m sitting on the toilet typing this and it’s simply because it’s secluded in here and once I start typing I feel if I stop writing I’m going to implode and be left as an empty human shaped husk, devoid of any knowledge or emotion.
I wrote a poem today, but I lost it when I didn’t save my draft. I can’t remember what it was even about really. Something to do with not wanting to live in a sterile world.
Maybe I should spend some time doing album reviews? But what do I really know about music and what makes anything good? I suppose it would be less of a review and more just my thoughts on the album.
I’ve been writing a D&D campaign again recently. I don’t know if I’m cut out for it. I want to do so much; maps, monster stats, detailed NPCs, intricate plots, sub-quests, and it all just ends up being worthless in the end.
I want to go to more music gigs. And I want to go alone, but I don’t want to offend anyone by saying I went to something without inviting them. But another thing that stops me from going is that I feel out-of-place. I feel like I’m dressed wrong and I don’t know how to behave so I stand at the back and stick out like a sore thumb.
I’m going to get off the toilet now. It’s probably for the best, my ass is starting to go numb.
And now I’m sitting outside, with a cigarette, my laptop, The Underground Youth playing and the rain drumming its little beat against the plastic roof over my head. I always told myself I was only going to smoke when I drank, but I’m not drinking anymore – ‘for now’ corrects the young addict. Truth be told I’m enjoying the cold out here. I feel like it’s the punishment for my sins. For the smoking I suppose. I wonder why I want to be punished this way? Nothing severe, just a mild discomfit.
It strikes me that this is all just words and I don’t believe anyone will ever read this unless I go out of my way to show it to someone. I think that this is all very amateur of me, that I shouldn’t be worried about who will be noticing me, that I should be creating something worth noticing. Perhaps all I have to offer the world are my thoughts?
I was just reading through one of my old notebooks and what I have written there seems, to the me who exists now, like the work of a different, more inspired, person who lived only to write and record their world through words. And it made me realise that recently I’ve only been wanting to write for the sake of being good at it and not as a medium to express my world. Furthermore, I realised that my mind itself has been shifting into more structured patterns of though in an attempt to create less structured patterns, but there shouldn’t be any pattern at all. Just existence, plain and beautiful. And I realised why poets and writers commit suicide. That once your purpose to express is gone, and your muses have left you and your works have been completed, you are no longer required by this world. Perhaps Hemingway was one of the few to understand this. Perhaps we misunderstand their actions as those of the depressed and the sick, but perhaps they are just the actions that are necessary?
They say nothing will last
And that all will crumble to dust.
No matter how great your legacy,
It will all be forgotten.
“Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
Said Ozymandias.
And though his city no longer stands
We remember his legacy. Don’t we?
Oh, I don’t know where I’m going with this.
We lay in your bed; you and I.
Two intricately wrought menageries of conduits
For bile, for blood. Embraced as we are—as new lovers,
As old—entombed by the veil of Stygian gloom.
My hands; they quested, they caressed.
I wouldn’t know why, except to test.
I wouldn’t call this love, but a blissful content. Content to know…
Content to wait.
After you, everything is pure and crisp again.
I notice things I otherwise wouldn’t: A pocket-full of blue daisies
Sat in the nook of a fence.
I think of you—how would you react if I gave some flowers?
Will you allow me this moment to indulge;
“I touched her thigh
And Death smiled.”
I have yet to see the Reapers marks that tattoo you so. Though I have felt them.
I have felt your warmth and shuddered in my cold.
My lament for yours is infinite.
I’m a hypocrite. I thought you should know.
I tell you one thing, then feel the next. “I don’t have real problems,
But then I do, but then I don’t.”
You have dancers legs. You turn and tumble through my thoughts even now.
I love to watch you rest;
Face, half shrouded in pillow, eyes at ease after the long day at attention.
There is a painting of a beach upon the wall of your flat.
It’s marmalade rust sands are flanked by a troupe of chill salt blue
And a brigade of lush greens, that hide their dry grasses
And swarms of black full stops that dart madly through the hot current
On slivers of glass—no wider than a child’s tooth.
They have no eyes to watch for obstructions in their patternless dances
And fly head first into any who enter the flax bush ballroom.
“I touched her thigh and death smiled.”
I never knew how true
Those words would be.
I never knew how true
Those words would be.
I never knew how true
Those words would be.
You have this curious way of playing with your hands
When I fail to hold your attention—
A feat that is nigh impossible for me.
The way that you pass your open fingers across the light
In front of your gemstone eyes.
Or how you place your palms together and snake your fingers
In a sine wave through the air.
Dime a Dozen Tales 