Written for dVerse: Poetics, and National Thesaurus Day, celebrating Peter Mark Roget, born January18th 1779, who collated synonyms extensively throughout his life, to use in his own works, and temper his depressions – first publish in Rogets Thesaurus, 29 April 1852.
Baring it all, I feel I’m not in my natural habitat. I lack the wherewithal to fight the internal pelting frost. Bearing it all, turns me into a snowball packed tight and melting slowly lost. It can be difficult. - I can be difficult. In a state of tumult. I don’t mean to be grizzly if my mood is black. When my skies are drizzly I brood and crack. I’m delicate. I mean well I know how to be good. And try. Still, that boy from childhood always asking ‘how?’ and ‘why?’ who watched Care Bears and, dreamed in Hollywood sparkle.
but, here I am, in this poem, narrating, coexisting with my half-witted, half-hung-over self, writing in half-baked-prose, wholly-cogitating over the clogged sink, woefully ruminating, thick as I think, imitating a mind, and lips, moving in sync,
Im alright, mate.
Liar. This is your internal voice, manifested, who’re you tryna kid, kid?
You’re barely opening up, from the eyelid. You’re not some battle hardened warrior. You’ll let down your guard like a lead balloon.
Dropping armour, and shield, you’re jelly in a pot. Jiggle jiggle.
I could tear you in half with a spoon.
Why we don’t rhyme much anymore, no one knows,
when did we forfeit rhyme, for half-price prose? It’s a giveaway.
Im only human.
Did I just giveaway the plot? Or, did I lose it …
I can be anything here; wise, beyond my facility, inflating my own sense of ability - I do fear.
Can you confirm my sanity? Im stuck in a feedback loop, attending to the fermentation, of novel ideas, confirming the bias, refracting the spheres, bending the sourdough, oozing out of my ears, into little wreathes, ready for the oven.
The words have risen, they must be removed before they burn. Yet, they must crisp a little longer, if I wish to learn …
eat up, masticate, and churn …
grow and develop.
Oh, the irony, finally, I see. Open me up, an autopsy. With me, alive, screaming and flailing, all the little gingerbread men, come marching out, entrails trailing, spilling truths, from within, fresh off the pan
… can’t stand the heat of the kitchen.
It’s near time to sling my backpack, and, up and fly to Japan. Non-fiction.
Running through neon streets with my stomach stitched, laughing deliriously.
How did I get here?
Now, let’s see … let’s see you try and live, without the host. No more intrusive thoughts, just butter and toast. Staples.
They love robots.
These emotions do not compute. Troubleshoot. Troubleshoot. Trouble, shoot, shoot, shoot. We need to hit reset - reboot.
Wake up. One sleep hasn’t cured you.
Who’re you kidding, kid, you just can’t shake em’, can you? Stress, anxiety, fear, nervous energies, self deprecating tendencies, all crazy, up in yo headspace - Robin your content, and, his band of merry fuckin’ men following behind, singing until they’re blue in the face.
The English call it a ‘French Exit’, to leave a party without a goodbye, and surrender out the door, in lieu of trading novel pleasantry, as socially conservative mercantile,
prudent in saving seconds, let’s Frexit, no need for pomp, it’s not Versailles, though, I admire your buildings, Monsieur, for their historic architectural integrity, you may consider me a Francophile,
you’re still my neighbour, despite Brexit, we share a narrative; rival, or ally, spread our lingua franca; Hello, Bonjour, and in an affinity to avoid pageantry, the French call it “to leave English style”.
December, ducking out the back door still drunk on holy merriment bondsman, and the warrantor dangling the carrot of sanity turkey carcass martyred in teeth good sense, crying from vanity the oven cooling
slinking to a lonesome end the apotheosis of twenty twenty one naive eyes watch truth bend with the other eleven wounded souls skin particles in the bell jar beyond fickle hand at the controls the oven calling
ashes to ashes, dust to dust ringing in the new year beached and bloated, trust to trust bullshit guidances mockingly spoken fireworks silenced, we shuffle forward sand in the wild wind life, wading shoreward us, crawling to the hereafter, unbroken.
He was lonely but it was painless January came silently in the night a carbon monoxide libido pill to kill any drive he had left
Women spooked him February was scary he, awkward as a bad wig secluded himself to work from home with the ghost of Valentine roses
March marched in, goose stepping he feared the fierce footsteps from the attractive neighbour bringing in spring, passed the mat outside his flat door
The skeletons in his closet rained bones when he got himself dressed old jumpers, and jeans bought by lost loves April brought showers so, he wore his birthday suit all month, instead
The nuns take pity they serve a greater purpose in chastity yet, he tossed his chances in the ocean a pilgrim abandoning his May flower for the savage coast
There they crossed in the hot corridor, in June the kitten heeled führer at flat #5 and the hallway acrobat Spider-Maning by, as an inverted introvert
the weather lady kept him informed of the July sun he obscured by blind in good company of the tv yawns poured over cereal risen to eat on the stroke of noon
August-us stunk like a dirty engine the street greeting the window, ajar stuck to his skin an uninvited house guest ruling his sanctuary as an emperor
A knock at the door! sheathed phallus in waistband morning glories hidden point toward terrifying beauty bringing baked goods Septembers harvest was bountiful
Visiting his vicinal Valkyrie with favour returned October ousted an oven fresh “Octo”pie tentacle fingers burned on the baking tray apples, currants, sugar, cinnamon, butter, flour, egg and angst a magic eight ingredients, wriggling in the heat
The first Saturday of November erupted he blew compliments like budget fireworks dry, between sips of velvety Syrah her tongue of Egyptian cotton spun chat his thoughts were hieroglyphs
Jolly and red faced, with festive breath artificial mistletoe of flashing neon street a kiss to fruit their flirtations juice of his veins, sweetened December ended with something new.
A present wrapped tight with family ties chilled brandy butter on warmed mince pies nowhere else I would rather be maced stuffing from my Granny’s own recipe her voice in the steam rising skyward living on in spirit and by word for all, a full belly and heart.
At 1 years old as babe in arms sweet as cotton-candy Mummy from blushed lips blew dulcet lyrical jingles spun sugary rhymes they purled in the the air fingers in pigeon tuffs of hair
a runaway train on piston knees so innate she stood tall and proud bouncing on firecracker feet o’ bliss at 2 she stuck to Daddy just like glue
turning 4 Mummy went to “heaven” so, she smooshed the frogs with a unforgiving stump scattered at her mercy on the muddy banks where they sat
years later, she killed a tomcat with an air-rifle she was just 8 her nerves were cold as winters hold on the trigger a crusading knight she lined him in the sight felt a righteous charge as if she had found her religion Daddy lost his temper though, she played coy
she would kill a boy at 16 years young she fired a different gun one made of disloyalty but he, her boy-love, had two eyes to see; duplicity with the truth his heart came in two black and blue
she fit the glass slipper an immoral Cinderella to her prince, harming the ‘c’ transparent no charming cuteness care just … heart shaped petals wilted crashing made of chalk to colour his pain across the floor
if boys are from Mars she ate all the stars and planets in the galaxy whole swallowed in a black abyss the hole who commits all that who enters to the belly light churning obedient wolves learning it’s not safe even in the pack losing their nature become dogs crippled three legged mutts hobbling chasing tail to her whistle and call
before the fall at 32 she carried another mans child nine months, concealed beneath a thin film whilst doting husband built the cot the lies and deceit grew so heavy cradling the confession itself became motherhood
swollen and rotten - driftwood washing in and out of life secrets unholy and inconsolable she tended to its silence with fury, and violence ivory cheeks dead as the elephant in the room ethereal fingers on piano keys to play in the newborn
thorns to adorn the babies crown piercing his innocent skin for her sin
when tales made their way back to ears fatherless, and too young for tears the infant grew to know no different
she felt vacant inside as she stood beside her Daddies coffin doubled over at 64 she captained her conscience fought for the right emotions to portray a struggle and screech cats tied in a hessian sack clawing and catching one another
her psychology would smother authentic sentiments in lieu of surrogate soothsaying forecasting the necessary sensations for the benefit of others
a cerebral tactician posed for the exposition friend, or foe alike fall by the wayside dragged through the performance as heavy stones around her ankles
her limbic system liquidating narcissistic personality dominating her vision she saw only the silver lining shimmering in the bleak church her fraudulent left face fearlessly crying in view of all
inheritance glowing beneath a lazy sob smug in the burial of an inside job
Days dropped away - a countdown in maddening mid December
running toward some prophesied narrative where everyone is grateful
in my naivety I had come to think that meant in my heart, too but, the nativity of another unwanted child-hood trauma re-emerging rears its bald and bloody head
winter had been generous, however with its spirited yield of white powder falling, and disappearing at the tip of my nose
whiskey, or some cider coloured piss to wash it back alone in my smoky, magnolia dungeon
it was all ok, until I lost my teeth now, I’m lonely, toothless, and there’s no fairy’s or, white bearded philanthropists creeping to my bed in the night in some-sort-of state sanctioned home invasion
the fat man in red visits, occasionally he works for Royal Mail
I used to order myself gifts from Amazon just for the human contact now they just choke-slam my parcel into the mat like it’s Saturday morning wrestling and run off before, I can even trip over myself trying to get my stained underpants pulled up and get to the door
those were the days not as in: the dreamy, rose coloured sense those were the days, it all went to shit it all started one cosy curled-on-the-carpet duvet draped morning
days dropped away - a countdown in maddening mid December
sheep sheared for the season counting reindeer to fall asleep daydreaming of sleighs elves and stockings
the morning smelt like cinnamon the sky was marmalade on toast and, the river Thames was spilt tea down the side of a porcelain cup
it was 1976’ we had a new television Andre the Giant was slamming men to the canvas like they were Amazon parcels all whilst wearing a little black leotard
I couldn’t wait to pull my wellies on and make a snowman with Dad
he told me to eat my cereal and watch tele until Mum came home
he made me promise, I would
“Dad?”, I called out
“When are we going outside?”
with one red left footed wellington boot on my right foot and the other in my arms I pushed his door ajar to where there were two bare feet suspended in the air
he was just there …
just there … like some, appalling Christmas angel
a grotesque decoration hanging without a twinkle
I never understood why
it was so easy
not, to do it but, to leave us
I thought I never would understand …
I always did what I was told obeyed the rules until, I didn’t until, I opened that door in a way, I blamed myself I imagined if I hadn’t opened that door if I had just waited with my cereal and tele and excitement like Dad told me then, none of it would have happened I knew it wasn’t true … but, I couldn’t help myself
so, since then I alway do as I am told but, it’s not working everything around me is burning and I’m just sitting here doing as I’m told
(unavailable) please take a step back
days dropped away - a countdown in maddening mid December
smouldering charred from the inside out with a bucket of water on the doorstep - I’m told it’s contaminated with pathogens or, was it the PH is off? I forget
days drop away - I tell myself not to worry they’ll be more; that comforts and scares me in equal measure
a countdown to a time when I can breath freely, again
in a maddening mid-life crisis persistently preserving the jarred pickle of my quarter-life crisis and my beginning-life crisis - between my pre-adulthood and post-child-who-should-not-be-dealing-with-a-crisis-crisis
I passed flat #5 today on the way back from getting milk biscuits and long skins
the old girl was out she must be in her maddening mid nineties amazing women she is mind is near completely gone she wouldn’t know her son from the delivery boy double leg dropkicking her mail-order knick-knacks down the hall yet, she always got around like a twenty something even in her nineties well, until, yano
I said hello she smiled and, I smiled back
like an old friend not the stranger, I feel
it’s been so long since I saw her I wondered if she was still around
With the picture provided by Shay, at its base, I tapped into the Slavic folklore tales of Baba Yaga, the infamous witch with the taste for children’s flesh, who is said to live in a hut on chicken legs.
What is life without community? I would love to connect with other nicecissists out there. Reach out, let me know what you think in the comments, and of course, give me a follow for more – nice!
II. Light, warmth, sound, darkness, cold, shape. Finger tips searching. Finding. Impenetrable shrouded shield, protecting, as muslin sentinel. Fours on the carpet. Food on the table. Food on face. Food for thought, everywhere. Hope, promise …
… expectation …
III. … hands up, who knows? Gold stars. Pink cheeks. Red knees. Stabilisers stabilising. Imagination emanating. Feet on the ground, running. Pencil shavings on the table. ‘Kiss, Chase’ worn on the face. Investigation, anticipation …
… impatience …
… 4 wants 5, 5 wants 6, 6 wants …
… 12, 12 wants 13, 13 wants …
… them. Her. Him. Him. Her. Whom the heart desires, beating heavily. The first taste of their chewing gum in ones mouth. Tongue warm inside, exploring. Candescent adolescence. Green steps on uneven ground. Heartbreak. Heartache. Some give, some take, most all will shoulder it …
… a disco ball of sensory stimuli reflecting off every surface. The panacea of tomorrow’s promise. Contemporary conscious, wading into future, forecasting …
IV. … Friday, grafting, gasping for liquid salvation. Saturday, groggy, rasping for a breath. Sunday, snoozing, stealing a moments moratorium. Monday, moving, moving, moving …
… Friday …
… foundation building, counting digits in the ether …
… Friday …
… tripping over shoes in hallways. Picking up articulated objects of mass distraction. Pygmy packed lunches for little priority magnets. Focus, commitment …
… sacrifice …
… the treasury of the heart, opulent, abundant. Candles burgeoning, twinkle beneath bright eyes, reminiscent. Belly full of cake, trying to keep ahead of the game on a full stomach …
… chasing something, always something to chase, trying to catch ones breath. Wheezing through the weeks, drawing in the decades …
… sudden was the creeping tiger. A quiet house. Empty rooms. Plethora of flora and fauna, lively beyond the window, by the comfy chair - an orange, black and white tail, disappearing into the long grass …
V. … the jar of pickle, shelved, is from 2008, forgotten, beneath settled dust, and lassitude. The children - children no longer - used to visit on Sundays, now so infrequently, it’s been surrendered to serendipity. The joy of of the grandchildren’s laughter, echoed on the walls once more, added value from the absence …
… rediscovering long lost pleasures, one admittedly wishes they’d have spent more time in the occupation of. So much time for leisure, and so many options, it’s difficult to get much of any done …
… reminiscing is chief conversation. Television is company …
… speculating how well ones faired, and benefitted from all they gave. Wondering what could have been. Scared of so little. Scared of so much. Embarrassment parted ways many moons ago. Now, a graver companion strides beside, pointing to the endless horizon, looming; the knowing, the not knowing. It is humanities torment. The fear of finding out, and the irony of not finding out when …
… what does it mean to be human? Complex, transitory …
… mortal …
… realising the trade off, for everything we get to see and feel. We know the consequences, ventured regardless. The pain of loss, weighed against the the fruits of love …
… sun through the window, sweet as summer blackberries, dappled on the skin. The door ajar lets in an polar draft, sending the grizzlies into early hibernation …
… knowing what one wants, needs, and will accept is a wizardly talent. One can wield the tongue as an artifice of considered dexterity for personal gain, or philanthropic pursuits. Knowledge is a precious commodity. Wisdom, expertise …
… recognition …
… lazy Sundays, lazy Mondays, Tuesdays …
… lazy Fridays, Saturdays. All days flowed and merged, in a confluence of time …
VI. … seized joints, raptured long ago by some unknown numen. To move about the room came with great effort …
he felt on precarious footing as they trespassed the mournful walls in the hotel corridor
it clutched the cigarette smoke as withering keepsakes she surrenders
leant against the doorway she blew smoke rings through an exotic red lassoing his dilated pupils
she stole his liquorice heart an acquired taste; whether she likes it, or not she has acquired it
they fell through the technicolour wallpaper
mouth dry as Spanish sun dark-haired, onto pale sheets oil slicks on virgin snow she took control and rode him as he struggled to regain grip
slip sliding in her sherbet kisses
the many faced chameleon curled on the tip of his nose
he could see the colour of her soul hear her skin move
composer of thunder classical, as black on white romantic, as red on red - the irony - to all else in the world he grew as deaf as Beethoven
a synthetic symphony no. 5 rained out Viennese skies crystallised they fall and rise fall and rise in the room
he felt her love surround him astound him confound him he tried to take her heart, too to find his fingers in the meat grinder
it dangled in strands the severed flesh of materiality haemorrhaging black as crude oil
sudden as the Venus flytrap a snap flashes of reality he buzzed and swirled within
a feverish delirium the sand cloud that enveloped scathing his eyes worked to mop up the mess slowly - unsteadily it confessed its ceiling the parting storm revealed the edges of the room pockets of rational thought between the hillocks
he tried to recall the details as they hid behind a gauzy wall; sequences of a lucid filament, muted
his acid was wearing off and he was alone with nothing but tremors
nothing, but the colour of sound illuminating the palisade that kept his inspirations repelled now, free to be leapt
with Hermes boot he kicks the sheets clean off left naked and exposed a flash of her hits him with a dagger of discomfort
alone - with nothing but, himself
nothing, but fire for the forge to paint, to write, to craft to take that ‘nothing, but’ with him, as muse
nothing, but himself
now, he must sleep - sleep it off
there was nothing, but the morning and a peculiar dead cigarette propped, half smoked, in the ashtray lined with rouge.
Thirsty, he took up his best crystal glassware from the cupboard
ready for a mouthful to quench the drought
valuable dedicatedly displayed elegantly shaped and perfectly formed delicate ornately arrayed and decoratively adorned
opening the fridge he grasped a readily available bottle of something fizzy
glowing from within on the backlit row she lit a skinny cigarette beneath his eyes and hung on beside him
S. Pellegrino, of Bergamo, Italy the natural partner of prime position to any course of banquet
the corners of his mouth frothed with the sticky white of dehydration parting under duress with cracks and flakes as a disused wooden window frame his seized lips squeaking open for a curious tongue to fly out as chubby robin dampening the borders, expectantly before they smacked shut
unscrewing the cap he tipped her round bottom skyward and watched her glug loose sparkling mineral water showering into the glass
he placed the glass on the table and fell into his chair
excitable bubbles gyrated up
raising a finger he dipped it in
effervescing tickled him with formless subtlety
moistened he dragged the finger around the rim of the glass freeing a vivacious ring
pleased with himself he sat back and dropped off to sleep
in his dreams he saw her bouncy and young on the Italian cobbles she poured herself between each suitor a single trickle of something satisfying to wet the whistle
when he woke up her sparkle was gone
the glass stood flat stagnating before his eyes
he dipped his finger de novo and grazed the rim she whispered her sweet nothings one more time
taking the glass in his hand he upturned it in the sink and poured himself a whiskey.
Day 13, since you moved back in and we agreed we’d give it us “one last shot”
working from home I’m sat in this swivel chair twitching like a downed deer
perhaps it would better to put the last shot in my temple
you’re across from me laptop set on your knees headsets drowning out the silence between us
your mother thinks you should leave me I heard you on the phone earlier she never liked me much “too old, and too soft to start a family”, she once said Merry Fucking Christmas
Things with no emotion; • This swivel chair - although, it gets more screws than I do • My coffee mug, stained with a bitter residue - we are kin • The potted plant, sat on the windowsill, which casts a shadow that looks like a thumbs up, across my desk at 3pm, each day. Don’t you fucking patronise me, plant. • Your face
fluid feelings found flooding the pockets of his parchment shell super soaking the contours of the cavities where his headaches thudding from the night before
the retrofitted facade of a man barely holding back the impassioned puddles forming on his brain the episodic attack insecurely trickles in droplets of consternating rain seeping out of his ears
he, the paper water pistol purpose built for living wondering if this is all there really is as his soggy sentimental self slumps unforgiving a pulpy mulch upon his mattress built to fulfil - to feel he has a purpose
yet, it all seems so… pointless limp and jointless a completely random animal instinctually protecting himself from anything that scares him vulnerable to sharp objects blunt objects projectiles objective objects of all styles infectious diseases and all trials one must face to be a complex creature of the human race
thoughts turn with a regrettable tinge to the flashbacks which make him cringe dismounting him from those worn tracks he tries to stay on a runaway mirroring his a departing youth the mirror always tells the truth when he stares it stares back
he digs his pupils in to the landscape of yellowed skin crows feet perched beside ashen bags trashed by another boozy night a sickly sight down the road from the bright lights and flashing signage of adolescence he can’t jazz it up he’s faded perceptions, jaded writing off his character the Bleeding Gums Murphy of evanescence
not good for his health or, his happiness he knows (them) as if they weren’t the same thing nosediving the quivering white (k)night who serves the king (of impulse) “Has't thee cometh to saveth mine own soul?” or, scratch that itch drawing his sword to get a whiff of the green pastures on the other side
“… and so, we celebrate the triumph of our hero…
Arise, Sir Knight the alarm is about to blare and you’ve been lying there feeling sorry for yourself for far too long this isn’t the chivalric romance you were after
and being somewhat of a crafter of poetry I will confess to thee it doesn’t get any easier to be a paper water pistol…”
he, the paper water pistol impaled by the spear of his alarm manages to disarm his combatant and peel his pulpy piece from where it’s drawn to (e)merge on the…
Mundane Monday morning crack of dawn behind the yawning and the night dreams are laid stillborn in the artificial light stirring from a broken sleep to an effervescently frothy top adorning the bitter coffee stirring the spoon in the cafetière purring like a waking kitten
he fills his mug half full “…another mundane Monday morning” thinks the fool who feels his mugs half empty
to percolate the silk thread he wishes to weave he adds a dash of milk and let’s it leave his lips, gratified he sips it slowly to taste the flavour of the day a spoonful away from ever truly being satisfied not on porridge and poetry, alone alas, it will have to suffice to sustain his flesh and bone and stand in as his vice
staggering through the week to the promised land staggering on weak will willed on his own command staggering on willing legs or, dragged by hand to drunken releases
the cycle ceases in amusing only increasing his self abusing tendencies getting lost among familiar brick in the loneliness of a crowded room just cold, steel-thoughts to cut the thick jungle of voices
he stares into their echo dancing on the inside of the amber bubbles he drains the vocals with a greedy gulp to calm his nerves and drown his troubles
steadfast at the bar he knows what he wants - another beer but, has never really known what he needs to be content whether sodden beneath the wetted whistle dampening the fires of desire first, to flatten the thirst of wanting some sort of “something, something” higher whether a purpose or, a punch up to make him feel alive in the here and now that’s the sort of sorts he’s sought in the rights, and lefts he’s caught just to feel something else something other
broken bottles reflecting shards of courage or, principle to stand his ground … stupidity some testosterone scented candle to illuminate the foregone vigil hormones of self destruction from which he used to function “drink up!” he presses on hoping to pass that point so he can disjunction
dowse that burning seduction to reckless and impulsive pursuits one can dive deeper into the intoxicating abyss the grassroots of this organised chaos; those flying fists fleeting fits of self-sabotage - they stem the barrage of normality
it’ll be a lie to say he didn’t miss it - enjoy it - the fighting maybe… maybe, that’s just his nature to find conflict, exciting
when he was born to feel life; with a frightening sobriety unfazed by the taser of authority yet, thrown off by the phases of the moon a swooping anxiety mourns the death of ignorance the misanthropic magpie to the amygdala a odd bedfellow who, pissing on all reason will let it mellow where he lays, restless
sights and sounds shiver through the veins of reality more real since the birth of his precept to percept its afterpains lingering, still
a wound which will never heal
why does he feel - so deeply?
is it imprinted in his genes or, a blueprint administrated by algorithmic machines
rolled on gears out the womb soft-witted built to hold these feelings pressed in the mould all parts, factory fitted packaged in pretty pink skin and shipped out
The old grammar school in the centre of town her bricks came tumbling down as felled trees
concrete rising rapidly from the rubble quick growing silver birches which burst the suburban bubble they nest new neighbours
outside the window their worry perches squeaking at dawn in some unknown avian song
“they don’t belong” said Mr Quo, to Mrs Quo, reciprocated
“first, this, then that. Soon, all we know - gone.”
… and still the sun shone through the room but, nobody noticed
the rosey hues around yesteryears anecdotists overwhelming any intervention
live - whilst you are! cried the April rain when she speckled the skies to remind us, again to appreciate the coming season
it’s nothing new - change happens it doesn’t need a reason
we don’t own a thing but, perhaps, our bodies - and even those, we borrow
do we truly even own our joy, and our sorrow?
Or, is it a fantasy we experience fleeting just chemical pathways in our brains meeting?
we leave as we came in judged in death not the pennies in our pocket or, the wrinkles on our skin
she, the earth best we charm her, not harm her
we, merely her sentinels and our bodies, our armour glistening in the sun as we gatekeep her bounty till we return to it
and maybe, just maybe we have a skeletal claim to build more than memories perhaps more than a name etched on some stone or, in hearts and minds
the war on mortality goes on
in this vanity - is there any wealth?
why do we battle to be remembered?
a deathless self
what does it tell us about ourselves - our wants, and needs
in building pyramids to our field of reeds?
the search for immortality goes on
we can conquer flesh in passion love, or lust regardless the one thing never to die I trust is our urge to bring an Alexandra to foreign soils
what is the essence of our existence the sum of all we are everything we have ever explored, felt and thought every emotion questioned, and answer, sought every moment passing before us - to us every moment passing before us - after us?
as buildings rise above us where we lie
in the timeline of the Earths existence am I - are we - good gatekeepers in humanities contingent subsistence?
A poem in free verse, with a reading from the author
I am the dreamless night without slumber without silence
shadows lumber a deafening hum fill the walls till it becomes numbing I, to it all but never numb enough to find stillness
a lively mind a blessing and an illness
tuned into the world beyond beyond the window pane -
creatures of the night buzz and swarm toward the bright lights and warm embraces
bushy tailed foxes dip in and out of sight whilst the tods snarl and fight vixens squeal to lure a mate
we animals with beating heart what sets us apart? us sapiens us sentients
we have a world beyond the vein which pumps and circulates
beyond the world of atoms
ideas percolate free of verse and unpredictable spreading knowledge circulates imbedding in pockets of peoples creating culture
in the world of essence before disappearing out of use to a world of evanescence
nose pressed against the window pane shatters letting in the wonderland Alice and all the Mad Hatters
a circus of characters trampling winding in the belly this winded pain that leaves one breathless restless
I am the restless mind that’s wanting
ever wanting wishing in a sea of worry fishing for some unseen promise
rocking the boat in calm waters anxieties keep me falling flailing drowning
washing up on the shore of reason soaked to the bone I take myself home muddled amongst beached words thrown overboard like an imperfect rhyme
it lingers the worry dropping in unannounced
the wanting wishing it could be hung up at the door like a soggy coat instead of dragged through the house dripping sodden trodden into every square inch of solid, saddening ground tarnishing
I am the tarnished tale imperfect scrawled loosely barely legible unrhymed
written in many different colours of ink often blue often dark that bleeds out when pressure is applied to leave it’s mark flawed scruff beyond the straight edge of the line the impressions remain rough and real
scribbled in the margin between black printer pressed type otherly
the books a bestseller “don’t believe the hype” writes the child in war torn Afghanistan
It’s an often confounding composition life for many barely fitting in in the confines of the page the cage - the boundary - the box which we find ourselves in from birth
a story with a plot a protagonist you
drafting out a manuscript - conventions which skew our personalities likes, wants and needs to fit into the systems that be - the creeds, factions, institutions that we accept, embody or in their grip succumb proliferating and often become
I am the narrative changing unfinished
no one child passes undiminished of their truest self configured continually by their cultures
still, here we are with all its wealth beneath the circling vultures
who pick the bones of the earth
but they do not have hands to brandish the knife which carves the oak of my resolve
or hold the weight of the hammer which judges ones heart and can absolve
dexterity to move the pencil toward where the flowers of creativity bloom
in the darkness of a dreamless night tracing the shadows of the room
filling space with our annotations
… until the end
bending the will of our poetic voice till the poems penned
I am the pen which writes I am the fingers which type I am the restless mind I am the dreamless night.
The challenge today, I which I particularly enjoyed, was to compose a poem without putting pen to paper – in this way, we explore the Oral Poem – now written, attached is an audio recording of the work in spoken word.
I decided to play on, and continue, the ‘oral’ theme in my poem, taking inspiration from the inspiration.
Resting softly on my side on the side of my non-bruised ribs I ponder where is my muse?
the irony is not lost on me searching the atmosphere at my fingertips
the taste of the room on my tongue
the smell of summer from the garden
a forever garden blossomed that circles the circumference of my imagination unending
the irony that there’s no obvious vessel who carries the seed of creation
rather airborne as wildflower birthed of a unfamiliar soil each cycle
where is my muse? deepening breaths inflate my lungs mind make me wince remind me of the body I abused the ribs I cracked the blood I spat from the contusion most recently reminds me of my mortality firms my feet to the ground heightens my senses awareness gratitude to wake living for life giving
my muse is my body at rest recovering with time to spare I work out my mental muscles with ink and paper gratitude for this yin
my muse is my body at play unthinking is my body in motion following a sensory trail of breadcrumbs to my gingerbread house salivating at simple joys and grand experiences with vision and adventure gratitude for this yang
and every now and then my body will hit a limit tumbling into the cage laid out by the witch within who plans to feast upon my bones
till foiled by my Gretel my creative falling petal freeing a seed a yin which grows tall blooms blissfully in the forever garden
and kicks the witch into her oven burns to ashes whilst I stuff my pockets full of jewels to live happily ever after
we grow up on fairytales - fantasy
grow old on reality - truth
actuality is; theres still room for fairytales beyond youth
youth beyond age
age beyond now
now beyond then
then, where is my muse?
and find within
there’s still room for fairytales beyond imagination
imagination beyond dreaming
dreaming beyond sleep
to dream with eyes open
every week every day every moment
beyond an open mind and open heart
to seek a muse which moves gracefully amongst the atmosphere in the room
I would like to drop a notable mention to Rob Kistner, whose style, free of commas and capitalisation, I have recently fell very fond of, and employed today.
I adore the way this extension of poetic licence sits on the page, and flows.
They say, imitation is the highest form of flattery – well, I suppose it’s fitting to extend my appreciation for this poets work, and style, in a dVerse prompt, which asks of the writer to summon their muses.
A large part of my quest here at this blog, is to expand and develop the breadth of my knowledge, and ability, and sharing this platform with so many talented poets and writers, is a real privilege and gift.
Thank you for reading.
What is life without community? I would love to connect with other nicecissists out there. Reach out, let me know what you think in the comments, and of course, give me a follow for more – nice!