End of life

What happens when you lose all reasons for living, when existence seems meaningless?
Why does this happen?
Is it simply the result of a set of circumstances, or is it inherent in the person, something that was always there and only needed a trigger to be set free?
And when you begin to go over the things you want to put in order so that your death will not put others in distress over the things you may have left unattended?
And when you solidly believe that even though you maintain the ability to laugh and enjoy certain aspects of this world, that your existence is worthless and noncontributory to the betterment of the community, in such a way that you feel there will be no loss, but surely a gain for others, as you leave space and resources for others to make better use of?
And even when you formulate these feelings, a part of you remembers something you truly wanted to do, and already you want to postpone your end in order to accomplish this one thing.
The result, though, is no less sad, for the depression remains, and joy is only fragmentary.
Ending seems so more fulfilling than constant mediocrity.

Underneath their nails and on their skin

Clouded brain
Tears welled and drowned this cheek
Live without life
Vanished and vanquished
Years of delusions
Awakening to nothing
A last knowledge of time wasted and wasting away.

Alcoholic stupor headaches vision blurred
Distasteful renderings of a former life
Senseless heartbreak of minds wasted
He stood above the rest
Reason to walk this ground, this earth, this gift of God
Until the end of days envelops and darkness wins.

Love gone, lone death, lost again

I turn and he is not here
Cannot remember
I stumble time, time and again, the memory jolts me awake
He is not here.

So why I, in pain, do I return home?
Is the bother of living worthwhile?
Cannot you see that all is misplaced?
If not for him, then why?
Myself, I am obscure, irrelevant.
Contributions to the face of man escape the scribe’s pen

Will time erase the pointlessness of days passed in dreary acquiescence?
Pain dulled by daily drink
Drunk by noon-day light
Slumbering till morning light
Pretending that day is night.

Why is existence so perverse that life cannot itself erase
stupidity of man’s footfalls
that deemed by others are acquired of gifts and glories
not deserved
And go beyond the grave
Imbued by all to be the virgin’s gift of glory everlasting?

Wronged, wronged, forever wronged!
Downed, screaming wronged!
Break my soul that I should live beyond this day, this time
Knowing misery creeping through life’s decay
of mind and spirit. Of rot and putrification.

Take kindly or not at all
In this, in that
Your mind it would collapse
But for the curtain drawn and closed
The daily play that would unfold
Is shuttered under hasp.

A thousand cuts

Death by a thousand cuts.
A sweet and gentle wish that you would soon reply
to worried inquiries about your health and happiness.
No one would write as you have done without a fearsome demon lapping at mind, souls’ edge.
Take care, and know that someone waits to wrest those demons, ease a heart constrained by hands unseen, by misconceptions of a life’s reward, of waiting for release from things you were always free from
And so you know I wish to hear your plaintive tones against the winds of nature spread so softly that I would even tread to heaven to release you.

Life, filled with discord

Oh Jane.
Your life, filled with discord, rolls by
A paranoia unprotected
Your life
So convoluted you cannot know
What pain is real and what is not.

Jane, you are a true and beauteous moment
Of god’s own glory and nature’s bliss
Of loves’ lost and loves’ awaiting mist
Of minds beliefs and minds believing grist

You can surrender, though you would not admit
What your own mind tricked to assist
The venomous regions
Of life’s beguiling twists
That you alone have seen the coming end
Of wife and husband
No love, I can assure.

Your name, insane!

Oh Jane!
Insane!
Each time he writes your name
His heart beats out a flame!

A fire in his loin
A flutter that doth spawn
A rare a beauteous morn
Awakening of dawn
A veritable display
Of nature’s way to say
Good day!

But lo!
The day draws quick
The spirits unrestrained
Return to rue the day
That turns itself to night,
And man’s abode abides
With heartfelt feelings more.
This day we have adored!

Your Pain is Sorrowful

How is your life, by the way?
I hear your anger in the way you write
Your life filled with fear and doubt you cannot figure out
Are those around neglecting what you need?
As blindly you subject
Those who know you not and never see your face,
With mindless rantings, cannot assuage your
body or your mind, as slowly laid to waste.

Oh sweet! Oh soft!

Love, sweet, soft, gentle wind
Swept across my proffered cheeks
Heady love, a sweet, sweet wine
Cloves and nutmeg
A mead to mine
Own love, I do profess
To love and never to regret
That you I held to heart, to breast
That you I loved the very best.

for love

I long for love to linger on the breath I take, take swept away, swept under and around, through limbs and branches, fallen as the leaves of autumn, woven through the white of winter.

Gone

Oh, Work!

It’s four o’clock

And I’m awake

I run and run before dawn breaks.

The coffee’s made

The dog is out

My body sighs “Shall we not nap?”

 

But on I strive to ready lunch

What’s there to eat? Have you no hunch?

I look and look, nothing I see

I fear that I may starve, poor me

For error grave, I have succumbed

And cupboards bare, I am undone!

 

Ah well, all cheery, smiley me I am

A grand adventure is in store

For me and several others more

Notes to take

Lives to unfold

Tales of winter to be told

Those who found the southern sun

The rest who waited till snow and sun became as one.

 

I know the calendar still says Spring

But just this morn it was declared

September’s date would soon appear

And so I do begin to wonder

Where did I put my scarf, my hat, my gloves from last December

That casually I tossed aside while dreaming

Of August’s heat and swimming pools

Of days where gin-and-tonics rule.

Ode to Work

Oh dear!
Alarm not set
The hour is late
And dare I not to hesitate
Abort all plans! Rush! Hurry!
Turn on the lights and dash
What? Did I forget what day it is and what to do that I so quickly undermine myself
And slip and slide across the floor, rushing to the outside door?
Oh my! Oh lunch! Go back you foolish girl.
Your stomach rules your mind; you’ll lose it quickly when entwined in knots and rumbles, on emptiness it lies.
Oh, hurry, scurry, in a flurry, activity abounds.
For once arrived you’ll never care how quickly you have gotten there
And start the day with ease and grace and fall asleep in your small space!

Every breath is petrifying.

As your end nears
my loneliness increases.

Where am I. One day you will die.
And I will be alone.
This understanding is not yours.
Perhaps you understand how limited time is
Perhaps you understand life is ebbing.

And accept it.
To accept end of life.

Every breath is petrifying.

Lives unbearable

Lives unbearable
Mine, not yours
There is no place
turn to nowhere
turn to no one
turn to the dark
the dank
the distrustful
around and around
murder and self immolation.
To rape
Violence all around
Near there is no peace
Far there is no life
Far and near, adrift
Killing of the self
Not death, but maimed for life
Without a mark on the flesh
The marks imprinted on the mind
The mind constricted with the web of fire
A web of pain
Probe the flesh
probe the mind
violate every orifice
till the crimes scream out
but the voice is silent
the tongue ripped out
the rights wronged
traded away
given up
given out
taken
lost

Wasted

Oh, how I have wasted my life
How ordinary I became
How readily I accepted it
Doomed to a life not worth living
Buried in disappointments
Shame upon shame
A life not lived
Dreams never dreamt
Years piled on years
Doomed to disgrace
Disgrace to dishevelment
Broken bones, broken minds
Awaiting nothing
Save end upon end.

Empty, guiltless, liar

I was a ghost
This emptiness
There is no reason for it
I will love you till my body is ash. From it I came, and to the end I shall be.

Do you love?
Corrupted, you deign to protect
Against my enemies.
You say you would die for love
But you know nothing of love.
You have cheated and lied to four women.

Peace is for the women and the weak.
Agamemnon, Menelaus, victors of Ilium,
Trojans at their feet,
Slavery of their women,
Murderers of the child prince Astyanax,
What humiliation to your soul;
Your mother would deride your actions.
Brought to this world, imbued with humanity, imprinted with morality
Could you but cast aside a parents’ teachings, a worldliness, a decency?
Their’s was a lesson you unlearned, a rightness to your kin, a kindness to womankind
Your needs are not alone the ones to be fulfilled
Others cast off and trodden upon
You are despised and despicable in eyes that thought you better.

Your flesh, a venue of pleasure, is marked and barren of humanity
Ungodly actions, unmanly and no less unwomanly
You are rank, the evil seeping through your pores.

What ails thee?
Lifeless, brainless?
Devoid of conscience?
Guilt is not enough.
Past pleasures mire you in temptation.
Your world is more than you
Yet you deny it, resolved to only satisfy the one.

Long dead your heart, no matter your mighty protestations.

father of your heart

A dad is a father. A father of your heart, a bastion of your dreams, a stalwart of your beliefs. My father is the one I loved, to hold me in my times of need, to comfort all life’s cruel injustices.
Oh god, how have I failed! My father is deceased and I have not rendered him his worth, his truth, his justice. I am unconsoled, for no other knows my failure. Remiss in this life, will I pay for it in another? Can you degrade a father, diminish his worth, devalue his existence? Shall I genuflect? Oh God, should I but honor his life, would I release the longing in me that prevents it, the need to tear apart his self, for his was a betrayal of mine, a denial of another’s life. Forgive me, padre, abba, father of my dreams. How often have I longed for your attention, and fear prevented me from asking, do you love me? Do you know I exist? Do you know I need you? I am but a frail child, alone, adrift, filled with self-loathing for being unloved. And you, yourself unloved, how could you know this? Were we not the same? Alone, apart, we could not touch, there was nothing to say. Controlled by others, by our concepts of others, by our convictions of others deeds, we were silent. How I longed to hear your voice in concert with mine. Would we not have been so perfect, a perfection to God, an understanding between father and daughter? You have betrayed me as much as I you. Strike me, strike me dead that I may know the pain that crossed your path, that ate your soul, that forced you from forgiving those around you. Love I have now, as then, but I would not tell. Can love be hidden so long without it bleeding? So dark is the blood of my tears I cannot tell you the horror it sees, the pain of centuries of unforgiving. Why cry? Ask yourself a thousand times. And a thousand more, for it is a waste of time to think there will be an answer.

Love lust

You watch as he pushes—up, down, up, down—repetitive movements—each time the arm and shoulder muscles define into chiseled shapes, then soften; a form without excess—solid—chest, arm, head, neck, torso, thighs, calves—solid. You, 20 feet from him, think of those enveloping arms as he thrusts into you. His breath, even and paced, as he enters his love, his muscles hard and then a glimmer of sweat and breath quickens as he pushes his arms into the bed—you underneath—this massive solid structure that could crush you, slowly eases down and presses his head into your shoulder with soft murmurs of thanks. You breathe in his scent even as he breathes yours, for what else in this kingdom smells as fragrant as a man after making love?
What defines that first attraction—the musculature, posture, stance, sway of his hips? Is it the smile, voice, eyes? Just the idea of the tips of his fingers grazing your skin, his hand lighting on your shoulder. Is it the color of his skin—warm brown—soft white? Is it the fit of his clothes” Or the memory of lovers past?
And what is repulsive? Body art? Excessive flesh? A body too well fed? And age—both repulsive and attractive. Youth that thinks too much of itself, age that has not accepted itself. A grace of time upon your face, a joy of each hour in your life. So I search for your pleasure in this passing existence.
The curves of woman can be as seductive as of a man. Nay, even twice as. To touch such flesh (without being touched back) is as exciting as the idea of being touched (without touching.) What is it to see pleasure in another’s eyes that derives from you? Your very existence is validated, your life expunged of all wrongs and evils by the pleasure your presence gives another.
A life of too few joys. His flesh caresses mine, soft sensuality weeps to my heart. A presence against me, I am succored by him in sleep, in dreams I avail myself of all he is willing to offer and will deny him nothing. So I am whole, so I am one.

till habit do us part

It becomes a habit.
As though habits are what makes one.
To have it done out of habit.
Is habit contentment or confinement?
I habitually strangle my inner self by succumbing to the habits of a lifetime, defined by others.
I am a creature, yet habit is what irks. It is not virtuous, this world of habit. This necessity of action and thought that closes the walls, shuts the doors, blocks the light from my eyes, the wind from cheek, breath from chest, terror from mind.
Aye, habit, thou cruel and formless thing, stealthily approaching to steal away my life, contort my mind. Thou makest me, and at the same time shears me asunder. I am your victim, your lover. I genuflect before you. The weight of you is inconceivable. I have no other before me. It is you at my side, in my shadow.
Off of me. I beg. I command. Leave go the weight that drowns what little time is left, carelessly relegating my soul into meaningless perpetuity. Leave the mortal drown in her own demise, not yours, not others.

What say you?
My thoughts, whose are they?
Contrived and bitter, lost years and desires, eaten by habit into emptiness. Turn round, and by habit I am content, even happy, in the small accomplishments of my life.
But these are walls I never scale, that block the world beyond. Repetitive actions. I accomplish the same thing, over, and over, and over, and am content that this one thing, this least of all actions, has been done, and my happiness from it is all that is needed.

It is but a screen.
A tactic to hold me back.
A habit that keeps me safe from exposure.
Exposed from what? From whom?
From myself, of course.
Without it I might succeed or diminish, but I would be me. I am neither.
And so I write to tell you, to warn you,
There is no time left
We are close to death
Always.

Then love me

Did you not know me?
Then how could you love me
Who was I that you loved without knowing who I was
Without knowing what I was
Was it because I knew not myself
Not who or what or why I was
Not when or how or if I was
And so to love what is not is possible
Open, undefined, unconfined
Is all that is not
Take it and let it go
It is the sustenance of life

the longings of my life

All the longings of my life
reflected on your body
When did you leave me?
You would say I left you.
When did my life turn into one. long, run-on sentence?
Let me see your body and pieces of your life together.

Your life. A smile deceitful.
Standing next to Her.
No love.
Can I see it?
No.

I see what you desire of the camera.
Appearances intact.
Of life divine.
You languish on the limbs of barren branches.
Trees devoid of life.
Humbled.
Waiting.

I wait.
I have always waited.
In the back roads of your life.
A movement, a shadow.
My ghosts have haunted
Threads of time
Behind the eye I move
Between the cones and rods
A darkness clouds the vision
A faltering step and all is lost.

Do you wonder what control is
What it is to lose it?
Control is the conformity you align yourself to
The role your family plays in contorting you
Their vision.

Would I be a murderer just to find myself
Allow a luxury of self-indulgence?
A surfeit of needs exploding?

Revenge.
Behind the eyes it is shuttered.
Oh God, how it festered.
Without the light it rots
A mold, exquisite in its putrid transformation
A pus, of green and yellow
An ochre.
The colors of earth in shades of abomination.

Sing to me
Sing of death, of threads cut
Knots loosed
A tune off-key
Song of God
Son of God
God willing
God able
Oh, sing of God
And through God of life
Extended
Eternal
And through God of death
Everlasting
And through God of love
Requited.

Love
To touch
My mind to yours
My body desires.

Where am I as I fall asleep, in God where am I
In tears that are not wet
In grief that is not borne
In terror of my life.
In nothingness.

Love, beloved

It is about love. To wake up and feel warm, a warmth only bestowed by a beloved, the one who lies next to you, though still asleep as you leave that bed, that haven in the night, that place of repose, of comfort and consolation, of quiet both mental and physical, to beat the morning light, to challenge the day anew.

It is love you want, I want. More easily given when gotten, bestowed on the bestower, revealed to the revealer. Love me and I will surely love you. How I can, how can I not help but love you, creature of my soul, whisperer of my dreams, husband of my heart. There is no band upon my finger that could bind as hard as that which lies within me. Is that not the greatest test? Can a sheaf of paper have locks and keys more quick than my soul? A soul, a heart, a dream, all you are to me and I to you, all that life is meant to be, cannot be shoved into a drawer, confined, relegated to be filed away, meaningless if its signers have given up, acquired disdain and disregard. If the paper has more import than the love it meant to bond.

the door that opens and breathes

And so another week is past and with it comes a return to a way of life that was quickly diminishing in reality. Adaptability is so deceiving. A species that can close the mind to pain as well as pleasure, can start from dawn as though none else existed. Who am I that I can toss off one life easily, cavalierly falling into step with another, chasing ghosts and dreams simultaneously? Would I give up everything to be warm? I would. The pain of cold lives in my mind, the door that opens and breathes in the morning air, a chill of October reminiscent of November. Long winters looming, with empty beds and firewood to be hauled. Can I remember being a child? I have dreams of fulfillment, of a life rich with love and meaning. Tears well when I wake. Who is this person whose life in sleep is sweeter than the life awake? Oh to reenter one’s dreams, to live there forever. Are there others of my ilk?

What we do is superfluous, destructive to wellbeing, beyond a genetic need of survival, a crime of humanity, a crime of environment, a crime of God. Belief is unnecessary to comprehend the crimes committed. You understand yourself as criminal, conspirator, rapist and raptor, devourer and devoured.

Flesh laid open, a feast fetid with generations of flys, maggots, larvae, bones of the dead reaching to draw you nearer. Bones of the living, rotten flesh, your nightmare borne of reality. Eaten even as you live, segments wasting away before eyes laid hollow from multitudes of lies, deceit, denials.

How do we fill our lives, and as we fill them, do we deny the existence of others unable to participate in the frivolity of our existence? Even this, even now, even I conspire to forget. I forge an existence made of vapors. Thus I render myself untouchable. But I am made of this place and am dependent for my needs. Were I to fly free, where would I go? Were I to be free, what would I do? Were I to understand that I am already free, would anything change? How am I so useless? Is it by comparison? Can I say, “I did not do that, therefore I am nothing?” Or, “Look at his/her accomplishments—they are not mine—I am nothing.” What I have done, what I can do, I see as being selfish and useless, of no consequence to a world peopled with pain, parented by hunger, housed by the homeless. I am the rain that breaks the dam, flooding the lands, being cursed by the righteous and the damned. I am the mid-day sun, parching the field destroying the crops, killing the inhabitants as I consume the earth. Where is my beauty, the smile of my youth? Buried. Buried six feet, with earth and stone upon my grave, unknown in death as in life. Why do you visit him? You have loved him as did I. But I know it is pointless, this ritual of burial, this memorial of headstone. And so what first I did not do out of confusion, I now will not do out of grief and guilt.

My dearest Love,

When have I ever said my dearest Love.

If I have not, it has has been my misfortune, for you are, indeed, a person who makes my heart race, my mind do double takes, my sense of reality check itself at the door, along with a great deal of self-recrimination, though God knows, it is not my conscience that has been challenged.

Love, talk of love, and one talks of a life of longing, a list of desires, a looking for a hero, a stanchion in a world of crumbling realities, a heart in search of itself, a physicality created by mind, body and soul, of human warmth, both mental and physical, and trust, the ultimate in human recognition, of lasting connection, of one’s desires so intimately entwined with another’s that you would will your life to their’s.

And so with all the love, and hope, and warmth and human understanding, the desires of years past, the thoughts of time not taken, of life lost and lust surrendered, such that can be relinquished is done willingly, with expectation that this will not be cast asunder, abused or discarded.

It was a day of fleeting remembrances, of flights of fancy, of leaps of love, of leaves of longing, and in its wake, a hope that another is to be.

Twilight in the Mind of a Dog

Home again
Home all the time
Without home nothing matters
Take me home
Don’t fence me in
But don’t leave me out in the cold
I need familiarity, longevity, consistency
You can’t imagine what happens inside me when you leave
I wait
And wait, and wait
A battle of thoughts, of fear and insecurity
Return to me
Now
On my knees
Begging
I do love you