It Started With One ...

Unfinished poetry,
Broken glasses - I've cut down on the drinking
To save myself, at least my liver
'Small steps to becoming a better man'
But still in my wake I leave, hurt - broken dreams
All in the hope of the ultimate.

'Hope'
Funny word.
The universe sees it fit to fuck with my mind
Dangling me like a yo-yo
One minute there's hope -
Next there isn't.
... The one thing I yearn for but shouldn't desperately eludes me.

Elucidation -
Blame me not for the man I am
I've chosen to walk a path entirely my own
False dawns are just a part of the script now.

Music

Burn the incense on both ends
No spirits here except J. Wray
Turn the volume up!
A mi chuuuune dat.

Newness.

The infatuation with wordplay has turned into full blown love
She completes me
With her innuendo - the innate charms of the fact that her eyes can't lie
She does though
Comforting me with the alliterations of her being.

Rhythm.

Her hips sway to the beat of life.
I know I can't have her
She can't be tamed
Just a muse ... Amused at my futile attempts to make this more than what it is.

Dangerous Affair.

9

A million.
Remember when that was the biggest number we knew?
So we'd make up other figures
A gazillion -
Dollars, years. Size.
We've always wanted to be bigger - stronger.
More than human.

A million minutes -
Sounds like a lot doesn't it?
Roughly 694 days, short of two years
A virtual lifetime
Millions of births, deaths
Heartbreaks - dreams
Who dreams in these modern times?

A million words
One conversation
Spanning a lie-ftime
(Pardon my grammar)
But who tells the truth anymore?
Well the whole truth - Like they say in court, nothing but the truth

A million sweet nothings
Eventualy the façade falls
The painful truth of lies comes out
Cliché no?

So new beginnings
Begg-ing to be understood
As a man.
Imperfect, but trying.
Making the million mile trod.
Alone.

Pen to Paper

Who the hell decides
Whether or not we're
Happy
Sad
Great ... Who defines that?
Really?

Take your destiny in your hands
-Everyone has problems
Probably more than you'd expect at face-value
It's not like faces highlight much
No - Feelings are mostly faceless

Fuckery.
Being human
The blatant imperfections
Saying one thing but retracting it once the situation
Changes

Feelings caged -
After all they're
Weakness
The destroyer of walls
There's no - security

Security! I'm not liking what I'm seeing ... Clear the premises at once!

We do anything to protect our
Reality
What is real? Really?
Living in a bubble

Hope it doesn't burst.

Frigid

Deception, blame, lies.
No beauty in this broken statue
Sword in hand, shield at the ready.
The maker? A fiend
With glib tongue and beautiful eyes

The 'creator'
A scoff -
His creations mirror who he is
Broken
Imperfect

They also show fear
Of creating something beautiful
So he limits himself
Through his work

Exaggerated actions only leading to
Anticlimax
Hope proffered as a thin string
Only to be broken whimsically

All that's left is to rebuild
Retool
And hope to create beauty.

Purgatory

Penance.
Standing in the not-quite-light, not-quite darkness;
Counting my rosary beads
"Hail Mary"

Somehow I don't feel the prayer lines are open for me.

Equal and opposite reactions
Except the catalyst is bitter
Bartender!
Gin and tonic, with just a splash of bitters.

I drink, therefore I am.

No, not alcoholic
My organs are steeled against these excesses of ethanol
Drug of choice?
None
Who needs a crutch when you can crawl?


On bended knee, only to hear the word
NO.
The slap of reality.
Except it can't be real.
Except it is.

Blood and Ink III

Blood.
It reminds me that try as we may to supersede human boundaries
We are but mortal
Memento Mori
We are all going to die
And then
What then?
Do I ask for my ashes to be scattered to the wind?

Will I beg at Heaven's Gate to be forgiven for my sins?

The Ink - It keeps me grounded
Giving voice to the
Desire
-To be happy
To be successful
If there ever were Great Men - Let me be one of these.

It tames and shapes the darkness into something resembling the caricature of an Angel
Albeit fallen
Broken Wings
Shattered spirit

It's easier to write about the macabre, isn't it?

Potential

Potential adj. 'Having or showing the capacity to develop  into something in the future'

The electricity emanates from my fingers as I pour my soul out into what I write;
Writhing through my neuroses the thoughts that nothing is going right ...
So what do do?
Take away the shell and the actions and what are you left with?
Doubt
One man, against the world.
Looking for Eden, reaching for my Eve
Extending myself over the abyss of the past ...
Hoping to pull her into the future.
My arms.

Not strong enough.

A sisyphean task
Pushing against this fucking rock
Getting somewhere before it rolls back
What have I done to ...
Nah, I do deserve this. So I pay my penance to the gods
Wherever they are ...
Mocking
Laughing
Making snide comments
Still I push

Alone for now ... But hope is unreigned

Only I'm bound by this chain
These ... Insecurities
So what of potential?
The ability of future greatness.
I hate this.
But ...
But what?

I'm but a man.
The butt of the eternal joke;
Giving your all for nothing.
Potential blessings.
A literal curse.
Cursing I mean... Endless arguments leading back to day one

Trust?

I 'hope' for it, even as I thrust my sword into the heart of our latest disagreement;
Knowing that for each problem slain, there are a hundred more.
So who am I?
A child of man. Sisyphean men.
I've chosen my battle,
Now to fight it.

En Garde!

The Walk Pt. 2

The trod.

A theme I keep on returning to.

My spiritual centre, the need to walk

To

New understanding

Hope

A future I can grasp with my own two hands

Away

From negativity

The darkness that aims to tie us all down

Mediocrity

I was born to be great

You can't take that away from me

It's the fire that drives my existence

Personal failings leading to professional success

There needs to be

Balance

Alas, the universe has other ideas

Pain the chosen flame to temper this steel

My mind against it all

But ...

What's a man to a god?

Or goddess?

So I hope to channel my inner bird

Soaring above it all,

Meshing with the wind

-Of life

Soaring to new heights of

Understanding

I crave it

But I still lack it

Maybe I need new spectacles

Or maybe a spectacle is needed

My ... Epiphany

Until then,

I'll do as we humans do

Trod

Vice

I have decided to prove myself a villain
-No, seriously, I'm the bad guy here
I mean ... Hear the dastardly footsteps
Eerie isn't it.
Evil, the cloak I wear.

So why be vice?
Well it's simple ...
Although I asked that question
Once.
Or twice.
Why vice?

Because no one wants to take the blame for anything that happens.
I mean it's never anybody's fault
Except when it is.
So I'll take the blame for you
I'll accept my blame
Shit, Akon, you can blame me too.

Burdens are there to be bore,
And since no one will step up to the plate,
I'll bat for us all.

Blindsight

Why do we feel compelled to share the things that sadden us?
The thoughts that our very psyches rebel ... against
All odds really point to the fact that misery needs company
And what better company than people who aren't miserable yet?
So we write.
Sad poetry.

Blank verse falling freely on page after page
We bleed ink... and feelings
Hiding behind innuendo;
(I'll admit, I'm a coward - writing out my feelings literally? Hell no)
Still pen to paper provides solace
Who knew a blank piece of paper could be so comforting?

We're all fools of destiny
We reap, what we sow.
You may
Gird your belt
Put on your armour (I mean those walls, haven't you changed them yet)
You may just choose to be accepting
Or not choose to acknowledge it

Only a fool runs from knowledge, no matter how painful the process.

Pain.
We put ourselves in the hands of others in the hope that they won't break what we give to them;
And if they do, the cycle perpetuates itself
Are we scared to break the cycle?
Or is it that we're unable to?
Rise above
Do something ... different
Trust in spite off the odds
(I was never a gambling man myself)

But it all starts with each of us making a conscious decision,
No one else can do it
We're each our own master.
For better. Or for worse.

20

Inspiration runs short.
Why?
Simply because I want to tell the harsh truth.
No double meanings - no misleading.

Instead I write of big words with short meanings like
Racionation
(Is there even a word that can rhyme with that?)
Frustration at being unable to write the 'right' way.

Is there a 'right' way though?
Aren't we all just shadows passing in the night?
At a whim, our lives can be extinguished, still we're secretive
Even to ourselves.

We walk a lonely path, humans all.
So we seek solace in groups.
But what group can save you from your darkest thoughts?
Who can save you from the nagging doubts that whisper into your soul?

(Dark, I know)

Find your centre, and you control your life.
-Your destiny in your hands.

So what's the right way?
There is none. We all chart a path.
A path into the light that mutes the doubts.
A vision, a passion, an ethos.

Just shadows passing in the night
I pray we all find our light.

*You know the drill, Google the numerology meaning of the title.

Also, check my other blog. nonpoetryposts.blogspot.com

Step

Stable n. not likely to change or fail; firmly established

Compromise n. an agreement or settlement of a dispute that is reached by each side making concessions

Choice n. the right or ability to choose


Where to begin?
Tortured thoughts.
What's right? What's wrong? It's all relative.
What's wrong with me?

I think the cathedral's fallen - revealing me
The catheter in my chest making a pathetic attempt to clear the black bile
It rises tidally. Threatening to sweep away all that I hold dear.

Which way is ... Up?
Not looking for escape just light -
The fight's just begun.
Hacking my darker self to pieces.

Our swords glisten crimson 
Only an idiot tries to kill himself

A solution must be found.

On introspection, it's immediately obvious that retrospect is a wonderful thing
"If I'd only done this ..."
"If only I'd never said that"
"I wish I never had hurt you"
-But choice dictates 
Consequence

The first step to maturity is accepting the fallout of one's decisions.

Fall.
It rained that day, didn't it?
As the walls that were torn down went back up.
Then the masks came out.
Masks of ... Joviality and impartiality
How ... Impractical.
The truth could have saved it.

Introspection again.

What's done is done (tell my heart that)

So what next?
Acceptance.
Renewal.
Reversion an impossibility.

Remorse's come.

First and Last

"The ode lives upon the ideal, the epic upon the grandiose, the drama upon the real." - Victor Hugo

I could write an ode to you;

The you in the mirror ... The you out there everyday.

I could write exactly what you think of yourself.

The insecurities, the fallacies you weave.

The limitations you place on yourself.

... In an ode to humanity, we'd realize that all our ideals intertwine.

-Is that a sign of intelligent design?

I could wax lyrical about your beauty.

Your inner beauty ... That force of character that counterbalances your insecurities.

I could show the world all the pain you've faced.

But what purpose would that have served?

- Just a loud boy crying for attention.

It could be an epic.

The tales of what were, what are ... what could have been and what could be.

So many what ifs.

Almost like our existences are predicated on the uncertain.

 What is certainty really?

"And so it came to be that woman fell for man, and in falling, she brought him with her ... he was willing"
Willing to give it all up for
-Love ... The undefinable force that drives us all.
Giving it up for an ideal.
The idea that maybe this time it would work out.
(It didn't)
-Right people, wrong time.
Melliferous sounds of love turning to shrieks 
Then silence.


"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." - Oscar Wilde

Love

Love.

How to love.

What is love, really?

Is the the "I love yous"

The endless talking on the phone;

"No, you hang up first"

Is it in the eyes?

His gaze off into the distance as he ponders

- "Is there a future for us?"

The look in her eyes - "They smile"

Is love in the endless fights?

Cause trust me, the fights are going to come.

-Peace treaties when they get a piece ... 

Is it in reconcilliation?

Is love in bearing pain for that special someone?

(I'm honestly asking, I have no clue)

Is love only love in the bedroom?

His sighs giving way to her moans ...

That twinning which we innately yearn for.

Is love purely physical?

"Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?"

Is love in the years together?

His balding head, her sagging breasts

- "I remember when I could count your wrinkles"

That mutual support, they help each other to climb the stairs.

So what is love, really?

Is it a lesson we all have to learn on her own?

-Life doesn't come with a manual.

Make of it what you will.

Parler

We speak.
But what do we really say?
Is it what's on our minds? Or is it the
Politically Correct
Watered-down
Censored
Less Profane
Dear-lord-don't-let-me-offend-anyone
Version?

They say free speech, but is it really free?

How could it be, we're trapped in a cruel system.
One of fear:
We are all in the quest of perfection.
So we keep quiet instead of speaking our minds.

Whoever put a premium on words?
- I mean real ones, with meaning.
"Meaningful words were never heard"

So will you let your tongue loose? (With reason)
Let's start a new season.
Let your voice be heard.
It's time for spoken word.

Remorse

Remorse, come.

No, not regret. Everything that's passed has happened for a reason.

Everyone that's come and gone, there's been a reason behind that too.

Growth.

Dear lord please stop us before we become like Icarus;

I mean, isn't in our nature to overreach?

Wait.

Wrong race. We're genetically programmed to seek comfort.

So we settle - for half-truths, for ... relationships that drain our substance.

Pathological short-changers ...

We seek in others what we're afraid of finding in ourselves.

Who are your idols?

Why do you settle?

Why don't I settle down?

Perennially unanswerable questions.

So remorse come.

For all the bad I've done.

All the bad I'm going to do.

Just a sinner, who's gonna sin again.

But I'll be damned if I don't help someone along the way.

Why do I consider myself among the helpless?

"I listened to your problems. Now listen to mine."

Remorse ... Come.

Looking for perspective.

On life, lies.

Honesty. (No whole truths here)

I mean ... You can't handle the truth. I mean, who can?

I mean... But I'm not. Generosity's the virtue I aim for.

Come ... Remorse.

But I can't.

I've already rationalized all my actions.

For-the-greater-good.

But what happens when the greater good isn't good enough?

Thoughts

We march along. To the beat of the same drum.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The pitter patter of different feet of different races pushing the same ideologies of;
Greed.
Lust.
Warfare.
Brother-against-brother.
Step by step.
Toy soldiers, hmmm?

We've been spoon-fed from inception. Not desire to create of our own.
So we gobble up their.
Food
Lies
Religion
Politics
No one questions - why?

So we're led.
By the
Hand
Leash
Contract
Dollar
But who's doing the leading?

Is it the
Politician?
Lawyer?
Doctor?
Mother?
Father?
Who controls what we discern as normal?
Who or what is normal?

Too safe in the reality that they've fabricated for us - we're afraid of what's outside the cocoon.
But shouldn't we be scared of what's inside?
Fear
Cowardice
Avarice
I mean, what is this?
What have you done with your choice?

We push away all the good things -
People who care
Love
Hold us in high esteem.
For those people who
Hate
Destroy
Malice.
We must be the only species who desire tumors.

Well I'm done.
Watch me march to the beat of my own drum -
Tap, tap,
Bang, bang, bang.

What will you do?

Just One Question

Who is a poet?
- Some would say "a poet is someone who makes you feel."
So is a lover a poet?
Is his kisses on her skin poetry?
The sweet nothings he whispers in her ear; the marks he leaves?
Is she a poet?
Giving her truth to him; letting him in - trying to get him to give?

Others would say
"A poet is someone who makes you think"
But does anyone really MAKE you think?
Your thoughts are all your own.
Or if they do make you think ... Can craftless men, with no vision. Only selfishness
-Men who destroy everything in their path ... Who make you THINK about your safety.
Can they be poets?

Could you say that
"A poet is someone who understands rhythm"
Can a dancer then be a poet?
Twisting
Embracing
Expressing themselves through music.
-Can musicians also be poets?

So who is a poet?
Aren't we all a little, writing our few words on the slate of our lives?
It's not all about craft -
What's important is what you're saying.
We're all poets.
So tell your tale.

Manna for Mama

What if.
What if we're all pheonices? Born out of the ashes of our parents.
We must admit that some of them do die when we're born.
Internally a little. May the souls of the mothers who gave their lives for their children
Rest
In
Peace
(Leave it to me to introduce the macabre into a Mothers' Day Poem)
-But the truth has to be told.
There are some who abandon their children - some who wish they were never born.
This ... Is not for them.

Here's to the strong. The women who've given it all for their children.
The women who go out everyday and make the world their bitch.
This - this is for you mama.
This is for those women who've had their security dragged from under them, repeatedly.
But guess what? The problems are gone ... Yet they remain.
To ... Wash, cook, clean. Help yuh with yuh homework then send yuh ass to bed.

Or maybe she had to leave for you to have it better in life.
This is for the mothers who've risked resentment to provide financially.
Mark my words - Your rewards will come.
(Might squeeze yuh a smalls every now and then - just keep it pan di down low)
- We'll never know what they go through to provide for us.

Single mothers who keep your head above the water -
We see you.
Stay fighting. Stay caring. Stay loving.
You weren't given a burden you couldn't bear.
Mothers ... Mothers all. We love you.
Well I do.

Muse

I've decided to try something new;
In the face of this sweltering summer heat,
I'm going to give her wings and let her fly.
She's always wanted to be free ... So consider this the breaking of shakles.

She tells tales.
Tattles even - making a mockery of my attempts of teetotalism
"Stop fooling yourself" she says ... You know your poison - now love it
-Love it the way you love me, with your deft touch and messy cursive.

She says things I wouldn't - She sees through me
The true me ... The one the public only glimpses when I'm doing something I'm passionate about.
-Passions only seen when I'm doing someone.
What does she do with this knowledge?

Nothing.
I think that's the slap to the face really.
My idiosyncratic nature means nothing to her. She's one woman who'll never give a damn about it.
She's seen it all.

So she presents herself as a vessel - to carry the voice of men.
I can't be jealous, she was here before me.
She'll be here after I leave.
So I'll be her muse - taking solace in the fact that I amuse her.

Maybe I pique her interest with the words I write.
Maybe it's my thoughts that get to her.
She could just be stringing me along, like a pathologically narcissistic bitch.
But eh? Worse things have happened.

Sneak Peek

I drink of the varied experiences of life ...
Then I write. I write because I am.
I am a man. I am a poet - of sorts... No Ars Poetica here
No cacophony of accolades here;
My fame is no fame.
Just a humble man.

I hunger.
For meaningful connections ... I live for the spark in other people's eyes.
They want happiness.
What do I want?
To be remembered, as a humble man.
-May I not lead you astray as I chart paths very few men will follow.

So I love.
After a fashion. Love fashion too.
Her high-heeled shoes getting her just up to under six foot.
She's perfection in motion. I love her.
Too bad she only exists in the confines of my mind.

Smoking my brains out through the burn of thoughts untold.
I play the fool, it's the easiest facade.
Dare you not tempt fate by looking past it.
No Janus here. Just a cracked representation the ethereal form.

So I run.
Ahead into the future. No considerations of the past, apart from the harsh lessons I've brought upon myself.
Who tempts fate and lives to tell the tale?
Who plays for keeps, with no consideration for compromise?
- Will it be me?

Her

She waits.
On him, her ... The next hit - Doesn't matter
She just wants to be far from here.
Tired of broken promises

So she watches.
People come and go;
It's an endless carousel, her life is.
When will it end?

So it's back to waiting.
Except things have changed ...
If someone comes into her life, they exact a higher toll for staying
Till she's given out.

Giving it all for nothing;
They said life isn't fair, but this entire effort is Sisyphean;
What's the point?
Less gained from more effort.

She waits.
Patience turning into painful numbness,
The world has moved on
No fairy tale this - Prince Charming isn't riding in on a golden chariot.

Till she breaks
-The mould
She realizes that she's responsible for her own destiny.
The paradigm shifts.

Her days get brighter,
The smile becomes real -
Daily reminders of how awesome she is;
Like a flame, she brightens everything around her.

She toils, and fixes ...
Herself, her issues.
Hope springs eternal from her bosom;
She is hope.

She watches - the change become real;
She likes what she sees in the mirror,
She is strong.
She is woman.

Destiny

My destination is homeward bound
- Home to me.
Home to mama. Mother earth I mean.
Look around. Wah kinda foolishness dis wi a keep up?

Brother against brother.
Envy. Greed.
Whatever happened to Ubuntu?
Didn't you all hear that it takes a village?

So I'm searching for a new hope.
Something tangible and genuine.
Tired of empty promises - Election or otherwise.
Tired of being given the Bible along with a gun.

Every man for himself got us here;
But to escape this mess we'll need to reestablish that basic link
Just think - of it... Imagine living without fear of losing it all?

So look inward and outward instead of upward
-God helps those who helps themselves
Join mi pan di trod.
We're building a future.

Blood and Ink II

My canticle.
No apologies will be made for who I am
- No fucks were given in the crafting of this poem.

Flirting and laughing come naturally,
Giacomo would be proud-er still if my intellectual pursuits matched my physical ones
But I'm still young - enough not to give a damn - about things like that anyway.

So who writes history?
I want to write my own.
I want to write yours, ours, if there's a you out there.

If not. Then there's nothing wrong with walking alone.
We were born that way.
We ultimately die that way.

So no apologies.
For the truth.
Apologies for the lack of forewarning.

We drink.
We lie ... down with strangers, giving them ourselves.
But to what end?

Boy meets girl.
Boy loves girl. They work. They break up.
To what end?

Till death do us part?
But someone may just leave.
So ... they End.

So we seek an escape.
Drugs. Seclusion. Other people.
No one wants to see their own mistakes.

But you write your history.
Only you can account for every single action you've taken.
Consider this a kick up the ass.

"The only person you control is yourself."

Tame

It started with a look.
I mean, if looks could kill - you'd have been dying with pleasure from the moment I saw you
But enough of that;
Sweet nothings have their place - Just not now.

I want to possess you.
Leave you so well marked that when I'm done people will marvel
... At how well you're getting it, and wonder who you're getting it from.
Pleasure? Check. Desire? Check?
Stamina? Come check me for a day and find out.

It started with a kiss -
Then a touch
Before you know it, we've descended into tangle of arms and legs
The mystery is where your body ends, and where mine begins.

Torn sheets, tears ... in my skin -
Scratches, bite marks ... Rope burns
We take turns
In pleasing each other.

Time pales in-significance to this,
Who counts hours, days, weeks?
Eternity envelops this moment.
We lose ourselves in each other.

VI

Six drops of ink - my personal Rorschach test.
What do I see?
Effort. Joy. Sadness. Strength melding into weakness.
All shades of ... Life.
We're all alive. Right?

Six doves.
An olive branch of sort.
Searching for a sign of life after the storms.
'40 days and nights of rain'

Six days of creation; one of rest.
So 6 + 1 = renewal.
The soul has passed from the earth in peace. No regrets.

Sun shines bright into my eyes
- A welcome respite from the cloudiness of my thoughts.
Looking around there are -
Just so many things worth admiring.

So I choose.
In choosing I realize the beauty inherent in all things.
My doves return.
Time flies. My eyes - they no longer burn.

Real renewal comes through realization of the need of recompense.

Lazy Days and Sundays

It's that kick off your shoes, walk-around-in-your-socks-or-barefoot kind of day,
The days where even time seems murky -
Sleep, wake, eat - back to bed
Lazy? Maybe. Proud of it? Hell no. Gonna change it? Nah.

We all deserve to break - each other off (that's for another poem)
But sometimes our beds deserve special recognition for our impositions,
The numerous (sleeping) positions we toss and turn into every-night.
So let's make peace.

It's Sunday. Time for the sun to come out (and me to ignore it);
Hug your pillow, close the blinds.
How many hours has it been? Eight? Ten?
- Who cares?

So here's to lazy days.
Hazy lazy days.
Mazy hazy lazy days.
Crazy mazy hazy lazy daysy.
Ladies - save your laughter.

Guess Who?

This is what we were made for ...
What we're made out of bears no resemblance to what we create;
Or disfigure - But wasn't there always beauty in sadness?
Melancholy music. The best kind.

Throwing caution to the wind.
Potential? Exploited.
Doubts? Kept in check.
Desire ... Ruled and ruling in equal measure.

This is what we were made for;
The beautiful eyes and mental manipulation betraying our vampiric ancestry.
It's glorious, don't you see?
That's why they want it.

These cycles begin, wash, repeat, hang
... Yourself. But guess what?
You can't die. Not yet.
Not till you serve your purpose.

This is what we were made for.
From the quiet intensity in our personae,
To the silent strength that our idiosyncrasies project.
The devil didn't know what he created with these ones.

We're the ones that cause addictions,
That inspire, create, seduce and destroy.
"The beautiful ones are not quite human"
-So, you scared yet?

Trod

Walk Foot.
Trod on and on and on and -
Is like more while I don't even know where I trodding to.
I see who I trodding past, who I trod with ...
Those who have trod before I ... Even thought about beginning a trod.
The trod from darkness into light.

Shake hand.
Meet, greet, kiss babies ... But I'm no holy man, don't expect me to pronouncing no blessing.
Unless you want to be blessed by great thoughts
Yes - I man dream, a whole heap.
But how to turn that dream into reality.

Look Round.
We have destroyed mother earth, the worst pickney dem you could ever think of is us.
We hurt each other, we hurt the land.
Out of many, I stand ... Alone.

So Trod.
Walk a path of your own choosing, we not using no excuses.
Those destined for greatness will find it.
Those destined to be content will settle for it.
The pursuers of happiness, will happily pursue ... Till they wear out their shoes.

Rain

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The final warnings before the clouds open.

Healing rain.

It pours ... Into my glass.

Colourless, odourless swirls.

WHAP!

Shards of broken glass as I hurriedly rise to see what's causing the racket on the roof.

(The first rain after drought often makes people giddy)

I see the wind, I feel the rain on my skin - even before I step into it.

Healing rain.

Taking away all traces of darkness in my mind.

Freeing my ... soul. 

Enveloping me.

Ever kissed in the rain?

Better yet ... Ever kissed the rain?

The true children of water experience renewal with each shower.

L'Theatre

Step right up!
Lights! Cameras! Action!
We have a something for everyone here!
Streamers of red velvet ...
The crowd roars for more -
Endless expresssions of life in this theatre of the dead.

Rain. Cleansing.

The crowd goes.

The actors are left alone.

Their grotesque poses possessing no more spectacle.

The paint on their faces draining.

The wind picks up. A chill.

The claptrap selection of boards that the theatre is built on start to fall-

A part ... Of a history long gone.

Virile bodies now stricken with the twist*

Night. Death. Darkness.

Nothing left but the skeletal remains of the actors.

Waiting for another crowd.

More red velvet.

More noises.

Sunshine.

"Did I not tell you we have something for everyone?"

The Twist - Another term for rheumatic arthritis.

Art and Poetry. Is Poetry Art?

Here's to you. Her I mean.

Chubby cheeks and all.

Red the colour of your anger -

Better to hide the fact that you were lost as to what happened.

Your initial curiosity highlighted by 'that' spark in your eyes,

The innate inquisitiveness; the force of character

Oh yes! Mama Africa found a worthy daughter in your skin

-Stronger yet than you'd expect.

Trans-planted, formed into something entirely new

Will you ever have a redemption song?

Will it be a shout into silence?

-Or shots ... Vodka. On the rocks. In those sturdy glasses.

Yes! Mama Africa's daughter.

Beauty untold.

Head held high.

Unshakable beliefs. Only a pause now and then to distract those who try to get too close.

Here's to you.

Carnival

It's ... faded
Dull colours, soft music. Everything seems washed-out;
It's probably just the gauze over my eyes,
Temporary blindness.

Vivid memories of brighter, louder times.
Are colours and sound intertwined?
They must be twins... You never have an abundance of one without the colours.
Red, green, blue - This adobe dwelling reminds me of summers past.

Laughter ... stamping feet.
Maybe we danced, I don't remember.
Did we drink? Or was the drunkenness caused by our intoxication in the moment?

I can't forget. Your costume.
We dressed you in feathers. Bright blue.
Times have past ... As the years have drawn nigh
Colours have faded - without even a sigh.

Raison d'être

It all comes back. Solace I mean.
Will history justify those who exist without justifications?
Are we responsible for the beginning, middle, and end of our stories?
-He who holds the pen, holds the world - what of those without hands;
Is their story written for them?

It all comes back ...
The smoky bars, shot after shot. Shit, he's been hit!
Get him a doctor ... Or another drink.
My mind's murky, it hurts to think.

It is how it is ...
Everyday a little more Sisyphean - are we all his children?
Is this fate reserved for those who choose to challenge the gods?

It remains so.
Live. Breathe. Eat. Sleep. Rinse. Repeat.
What comes of this ...
Are we wasting time?

It goes.
Broken glasses. Broken promises. Broken dreams. Broken people.
Tears. Bitter salty reminders that we each contain a little bit of the source of life.
From dust came life. From life, comes dust.
Where did the dust come from?

Acceptance.
I think. Therefore I am.
Well ... I drink, thereforeiam?
I should stop. Before the poison consumes my liver.
-Or my brain cells.

Renewal.
Washing of hands of those who have hurt.
Will they hurt again?
Time will tell.

Forgiveness.
All hurt which was caused must go.
What replaces it?
You chose.

Meditation on Orange [Dedication to ...]

It's funny the thoughts that peeling a mango with your teeth bring to you;
(We all know that a Mango is the most intimate fruit there is, you have to get into it, all sticky and messy to fully enjoy it)
There's protective skin,
Fleshy and juicy insides, and a solid core.

- Not sure if we're talking about mangoes or humans now*

But orange was the light that burnt in your eyes, when you realized that you were in love.
Was it a sunny day? I can't recall
So much like molten gold the feeling was, not yet fully formed
-But we all knew it was there.

Orange ... You're allergic, aren't you?
Always had a reminder to get you your Vitamin C from other sources ...
Sad though ... Cause I myself am addicted to OJ ... Not Simpson, of course.

Orange - the colour of 'that' lady, she not changing course, you know?
But we had to ...
Orange the cousin of red, for stop signs, or danger.
Was it dry like the desert the first time you knew it had to end?
Or did the rays cause water to pool ... And tears to fall?

Orange rind ... I remember discussing the use of it with you one day ...
We still don't know.
Orange was our dawn ... Orange now the sunset.
Let's drink once more from the cup... You know, for old times' sake?

Memento Mori

What will people say about you when you die?

Will they say anything really?
Will it be mum?
Yours I mean... Will she be the only person who has good words to say about you?

What are you living for?
Some of us chase happiness.
Some chase revenge.
Some ... Alter their lives to fit into expectations put onto them.
Others ... Push life to its limits.

What will be the mark you leave?
... Will it be in the words you speak?
Will it be the thoughts left in the minds of those who you hold in your arms?
Will it be your silence?

"You are going to die, does this worry you?" - Markus Zusak

Make of it what you will.

Convalescence n. "The period of  recovering strength and health after illness"

Not illness this, though.

But recovery needed nonetheless.

Woe be unto the man who deliberately shoots himself.

Why does he do it?

Is it beneficial?

Is it real? As in any of it?

So many unanswerable questions ...

'Guh ask yuh father' - Doesn't apply here.

Hearing sounds, whispers of the universe itself shaking to its foundation.

-It's as lost as I am.

Rally n. 'turn for the better'

Patience.

Selections by Friends

It's funny ... Who we surround ourselves with;
People who we can relate to ...
Members of the other sex we'd never date;
Or time and it's minions never to break the connection.

So what happens when you fall for a friend?
Undeterminable beauty, if you're lucky...
If you aren't ... You lose a friend -
Lose a friend either way ... Just that some losses are beneficial.

So is it worth it?
It was - It ... Is ... Not as it seems on face value.
But instead it's tied into the complications that we innately bring.

-"Sold my blood for money, and I love how it feels."

Echoes

The ongoing drone of silence.
They’ve always said silence is deadly;
Well it’s eating at what’s left of my humanity.
Still – Hope springs eternal, we’re in the Kingdom of Rust
… Revival exists for all that turns to dust.

Waiting on the dawn; not sure I can manage a long night
-Time passes lazily when you can’t sleep
No respite for the dreamless
The house is burnt, What’s left?

-Only to work the fields.

*Let’s be hopeful

The Butterfly Effect

I’ve always believed that life was run off balance;
“Give up something and you’ll get something in return”
So I’m off the pursuit of happiness – for now
I’ll stick to more tangible gains.

See, everything I’ve built was done by my own two hands;
Everything I’ve destroyed done by the same
-So yes, I take responsibility, but there are other worlds than these.
Who knows? It may have worked out otherwise.

Standing at the bottom of the hill – Shouting
“Can you hear me?”
It’s a bittersweet tonic of pain and acceptance that I bring.
Drink of this poisoned chalice …
Poison cures Poison.

Lift once broken wings … Not yet time to fly.
Only time will tell when I’ll ascend again.

It’s 95. It fits.

“In a healthy individual, a broken bone that has healed properly is strongest where it was once broken. You have not lost any life …”
- Yann Martel

The old intensity’s back; except this time I’m unsure from where the fire stems,
I’ll push myself to hell and back – it’s all I’m left to live for.
My next project? Complete subjugation then twinning of mind and body.

But projects take time; in the meanwhile I’ll appreciate the innate weaknesses that humanity brings …
Before the healing and return to strength begins.
Limits? What limits?
I’ll stop when I’m dead.

*Forgive the research, but again, look up the title under numerology.

XCIII

I don’t drink* any-more;
My choice of poison was never strong enough to beat the antidote.
Now the medicine cabinet’s broken
(Or is it that I’ve moved?)
Either way, there’s no cure for where I’m at.

“We each create hell for ourselves, we have no one to blame but ourselves for our demons”
The dying embers of coherent thought provide me with some respite.
Or maybe it’s just … spitefulness; that would lead me to drag my morose body to the dumps.
Repairs? Reparations? What does this represent?

I’d tell you – but I’ve already thought too much; the thinking’s gone and fucked my brain over.
So I’m here. Alert, but comatose
(Think I don’t use enough commas?)
… Only Heaven Knows.

*I don’t drink that much

[You know the drill. The title's 93. Look it up under numerology]

Broken Wings

I’m feeling all too human
-Like just born; clear headed
Just waiting on the slap to clear my lungs …
The cutting of the cord from mother – earthbound.
Wings cut, halo broken.
This is what it’s like when angels fall.

One thing sticks, the lack of fear -
I’ll cope, fairly well.
After all, I’m made for this …
Aren’t we all, after a fashion?

Fashioned by the universe’s hands – yet none of us can tell time -
Not to take it’s course …
So awaiting new beg-yuh-a-listen-nuh please jibes …
Or maybe just new beginnings.

Letter to a Friend

I’ve eulogised you already, you know -
“It’s often said that the very great die young – Heaven itself mourns their passing;
So here I am, holding your ashes, I know you’d want them scattered;
You taught me much – showed me a whole other side of life.
-Who knows, maybe like a phoenix, you’ll rise from your ashes … Are we still in the time of miracles?”

Then words fail me – You were always
A flawed beauty,
Too delicate for mortal men, it took superhuman understanding to start to see into you,
Man-I’d-pull-it-back-if-I-could … But the world is run off cycles
And ours was finished.

So here I stand – wings extended in one final salute.
You’d always had me; like a dream sometimes…
Goodbye … Friend.

In Pursuit of Greatness

Fallen angels all, we stand -
Reminiscing on the wings we once had,
Biding our time will old wounds heal;
Till we’re great again.

Locked out of heaven, still feared by hell -
The sad beauty of our perfections drives fear into the heart of the imperfect
We’ll fly again (hopefully we don’t meet Icarus’ fate)

Individually we strive, till one day we make the common understanding,
The sharing of minds –
The ascension which defies explanation.

Until then,
We’re just pursuing greatness.

Potion … Portent …

I’ve allowed it to drain my life force – my ethos
Gotten slow, lazy
Work getting sloppy -
Where’s the drive?

It creeps … like any good drug
The high blurs all reality … The crash brings clarity
Seeing life in HD now.
What next? … Recovery.

86

Cut my wrists, watch me bleed out; it’s red
The rage – that bubbles up and projects through our eyes
Like a tornado it spins – leaving us dregs, dead inside, but joined at the rib
-The Eve of our advent is upon us.

Open your hands watch the design;
The intricate lacework of your veins that reflect the bonds that bind us;
Infinitely – Is Eden our Aim?

Kiss my lips, draw a pattern – of your desire;
Wounded but still hungry, we sustain each other -
Your breath, my blood …
We dissolve into the source of life – water

Watch the scars – the crown; a hint of my former glory -
The veil – now black and discarded – your innocence no more.
Here we are – broken – disfigured.
-Perhaps when sun comes up we’ll turn to stone

The Golgotha of pain drains all but those who are already dead inside.

[For the title, look up the meaning under numerology - make of it what you will]

… Thoughts while Taking a Shortcut

Ultimate peace seems one step too far;
-Like that branch I could never leap high enough to grasp properly
So here I am; Winner in most things …
What have I lost? Nothing … yet

The proclivity to talk out of turn may turn victories into losses;
But what of silence; utter meaninglessness –
Or meaning … Full, but in what ways?

The rules of engagement remain thus;
Take all you can. Providence provided for this;
Victory has no meaning if Pyrrhic.

So … What to do?

83

A clown of sorts, if clowns made people sad
Washed out, faded … Picture this in black and white
Black … for the silence, the dead weight. The beauty in sadness of words unsaid
White … for the coldness; stepping into dimensions new.

How does it benefit a man to gain the world and lose his soul?
Well – he gains the world, doesn’t he?
Aren’t we all just soulless… devils and demons eating each other from the inside out?

Silence – the consent to do things unspeakable,
But it’s better than meaningful conversation, isn’t it?
… You decide

Second Lesson [To my unborn son]

Real men give hugs.

That my son, is the best advice you’ll ever get;

I took years to realize that true strength comes through vulnerability,

That’s how you realize who you are, and what you’re capable of.

So love my son, love those you meet, love them for who they are

-Not what they do

-Not what they’ve achieved

-Not whatever title they have

True love is unconditional. Don’t bother wasting time with subterfuge.

(You may need to look that up)

There’s no crime in being yourself;

There are those who will love you,

Those who won’t

At the end of the day, who needs to be in your life will be.

So smile, lad. I’m making my mistakes so you don’t have to.

So live every moment meaningfully,

Live without prejudice

-You’ll never know why someone is the way they are.

And at the end of the day remember.

REAL men give hugs.

Coma

Crisp, dead auburn leaves,
A chill in the air,
Sadness.

Change of Direction

It’s time. Time to stop wishing for more and just doing more.

Thoughts become actions, actions become legacy. Legacy is what goes down in history books;

Book upon book, thousands of pages turn. Pages of life, pages of those who no longer walk among us.

What mark will be left when you no longer walk of this earth?

Will it be blank; a whimper of an exit?

Will it be flashy? Or will it just be an exit? Nothing more, nothing less.

It’s time. Time to tell a story, a Iliad, a novel; maybe just a Haiku …

You decide; delve into your deepest desires to decipher your direction.

We all make the trod;

But where will I go?

Where will you go?

Will we go together?

Or is it a solo journey?

Read, Write… Speak.

In all of these, always remember your story.

Only you can tell it.

Afterburn [Unfinished]

Cigarette smoke;

Our bodies move in tune to the beat of our hearts; punctuated by the sharp intakes of breath

We die in each other, over and over again … till there’s no more left to give.

Hormones, her moans; raging- desire swelling up, to release in one giant wave.

We die a little at the end.

Climax; climb … back on- it’s round two … Wednesday night at the fights,

No boxers, just us; as nature intended; avant garde, au naturalle

Experiencing the divine-ss, which is inside you…r mind,

Your body ambrosia.

Internal Battles

Searching for ultimate peace, if even for a moment;

-Locked away from the world, as if the answers are all inside.

Fighting epic battles with the mental ghouls…

This won’t be a fight decide-

d; in a day, a week, a month – it’s an eternal fight

Sleep is as elusive as peace is, stretching the sinews of my being,

-Ripping the fabric of my mind to shreds;

Questioning the truth of what i’m seeing,

… What is reality?

Too many questions; not enough time to answer them all.

Is this how life was meant to be?

Are we destined to live incomplete?

-Do we find completeness in another? Or is it a journey trod alone?

The mind eats itself, dies, and eats itself again.

… A Contemplation on Darkness

Solitude.

The voices inside fuck with my head, magnifying every doubt

-They pull me into the abyss; the darkness where my soul once was.

‘You hurt everyone who cares about you, you selfish ungrateful ass’

-Have you not a brain?

This intense self-examination; the product of practiced mental cruelty…

It’s morbidly morose; the masochism which defines my being.

-I am my only critic.

Change needs to come, and quick; before I lose all I hold dear.

Where the fuck do I go from this?

First Lesson

History is written by the victors;

Remember those words my son, they’ll guide your path.

Win … but not at all costs, the man with too much success loses himself,

Knowing only the desire for more.

I’ve seen a lot my son; forgotten more than you may ever learn.

I’ve loved, I’ve lost, I’ve walked away from many things;

-A lesser man would have regrets. Regard disappointments as lessons learnt.

In all your dealings be an honest man; be as good as your word.

Love truly, but not freely. It’s a gift too valuable to waste.

Son, you shall be everything I wasn’t, or couldn’t be;

-Let no one trample on your dreams.

Live on your own terms.

Dry

-It’s days of summer, when hearts quicken with the heat,

When lips of friends and strangers alike meet.

The time for flings, Spring’s …

Departed, leaving us with the harsh realities that the sun brings.

All of this temperamental, transient … it can all end in a heartbeat,

So we bask in the moment, adorned in blissful ignorance.

Seeing life with the eyes of babes, hope springing eternal;

We are most alive when we are in each other.

Still … the sun brings unexpected clarity,

Shattering all preconceived notions of my platonic conception.

Magnifying all faults, highlighting all fears… the whole man is as yet scarce made up.

There is a journey to be made; I trod on with alacrity.

Wordplay

The complex contemplations of a concave mind,

The latest set of alliterative allegorical assumptions to be written on paper.

The mind wanders, then eats itself; regurgitating its constituent compounds,

The bile of understated, underused knowledge.

Visionless visages stumble along; the consquences of mind consumption.

The poet pauses at the paucity of hope, the perennial poverty which passes over once-green pastures,

The reaper is near, the reaping has come; time stands still, grimy grimness overcomes all.

Searching for the silver lining in this struggle.

Aluta Continua

The Gift

We are the chosen,

Chillun’ of god,

And all god’s chillun’ got shoes.

So we walk.

We are the chosen, the gifted few who push-

Ourselves, others, the fabric of the universe itself,

Far past it’s limits

Always seeking, searching, yearning- To be the best.

We are the chosen,

You pass us by every day, not realizing the greatness within,

The greatness without which the world would not be where it is,

-The greatness waiting to explode … Into a talent, a skill, PASSION;

It defines us. The chosen.