Experiment. Prose and poetry.

That Time of Year Again

And I seem to be bouncing from the internal squash-court of my skull more and more as we approach the 'fustive' season. I am sure I am being a right arse with everything I do and say at the moment. It is embarrassing, but dwelling excessively on shame at ones randomness only has dire consequences. To be able to rein in, without the boltgun through the auld nag's brainpan!

Today is good though. Sitting by a fire, talking to the kids as they draw and make mess. Singing songs. Feeling that the glaciers of fate are slipping faster, freely, that next year will be easier.

This year has been both the best and worst of my life. Strange. Simultaneous heaven and hell. 2010 - a mixed-state year. Heavenly love and hellish love. I have had to become my own purgatorio to find some even ground for me to exist in. 

But the air is freshening.

I'm trying to find ways to be consistent. I am bloody awful at it. I feel like a bloody kindergarten child, being taught his abc, or how to wipe his arse, or something. I have achieved so much that is positive this year while going through hell, that I feel hope for myself and everyone around me.

But feeling that sense and sensibility are tugging, wanting to take a brief holiday. 

Well, I shall not let them.

And I seem to be bouncing 
the squash-court of my skull 
as we approach the 'fustive'.

Dwelling excessively on shame.
To rein in, without the boltgun
through the auld nag's brainpan!

The glaciers are slipping freely.
Heavenly love and hellish love. 
Being shown to spell, or how to wipe.

I, my own purgatorio, 
to try some even ground. 
But the air is freshening.

Sense and sensibility 
tug, want a holiday. 
Well, I shall not let them.

Dissatisfied

Searching for a voice unknown to me. Weary of these too-familiar noises. The great wheel is tedious. Obfuscation and stating the obvious, oh give me an angel to whisper in my ear. I train the crosshairs on Rilke's mumbling - bang! - away with ye! Away with all the millionthly recognised poses and songs.

A branch of olive: Herakles' club. Knotted. Black. Beware classicists bearing gifts.

Whereof we cannot speak, let us be silent, o so Witty. But his Wit forgets how like blind ones we fumble the shape of that unknown from the boundaries of language, learn its tension from the tension of paradox. 

Why? ask the wise. Because otherwise it is resignation and cud-chewing.

I don't know.

Just dissatisfied.

Our Dirty Little Secret (Coupled Sonnet)

Can't live together and can't live apart,
the indivisibileness of our heart
and the divisibility of our minds
poses a question: if this passion binds
us inextricably, yet makes us mad,
then some divine relation must be had
that gives us independence and rich pleasure,
support and strength, and sweet sustaining leisure.

Conventionality goes in the bin,
for being free is not considered sin:
souls that adore in freedom are so light
they make the very angels' faces bright.
Together and apart we'll make our lives
and be the envy of all husbands, wives.

Abandonment

You always were afraid of it, you made
me, mind-created, an abandoner,
who only ever stayed and kept quite true.

Why should I stray? Your sweet abandonment
was quite enough for me: no stolen joys
could substitute those rightfully mine with you.

Yet you abandoned me, you strayed, in heart,
in faith, in lust, the fact you did just grist
to your suspicious mind: "If I, then you."

And in the end I did abandon you,
in desperate hope I'd wreak some change -
alas, too much - although my heart was true.

Circe

The blunt wedge of the falcon, feathered cloak,
sharp eyes darting, a nest of knotted snakes
spell-fastened, grottoed in obscurity,

brimful of laughing danger, careless lover
smoke-curled with care, courageous unto death,
your warm enchantments swine me straight.

Despite my lust to be most upright, true,
unbending to these salty waves assault
my fretted tears keep proving me a fool,

hopeless, undone, a shipwrecked heart afloat
upon a boat of wounded meat, my keelbone
splintered, still floundering towards your shores.

Sphinx

Affronted eyes, dot-cornered like the stark
outlined impenetrable gaze in red
figure; your lion haunches bunched to spring

clawing, tail twitching as you wait your riddle's
glib answer; breasts hang slack below hunched shoulders
a succourless refuting of desire;

wings furled into a hump, a burdened back
sullen with indignation, self-contained
to brink of madness, so inscrutable

no passage in or out encourages
this dialogue. Man stares and sphinx blinks not.
Love twitches strangled in the dust between.