servile

Fooled and flawed and proof of failure

How are you today?

I am not nothing. I know this. I am an entity, an organism, I am existing but I am cold. I am fooled and flawed and proof of failure. I am degraded and diminished - no, not diminished in the beauty of music. Like your cliffs papa, like your cliffs.


I am so tired, oh I wish for sleep. I'm just so tired. But I am selfish, so selfish.


I miss the air and the smell, the certainty and belief. I miss existence! Such a wonderful place it is, I see it now. Listen: ... - that is you! Papa, that is you! That is your voice. It's quiet. So awfully quiet, and in this quiet, we are brought there.

The wind swims through me.


Is this my own desperate loneliness? My desperate loneliness making me guilty of this awful caress. There is no solace in this, but there is honesty. It touches every part of me. The cotton I've always worn, has never been a heavy mask.

The dominant dance of an unseen entity. Violated. Violated. I've lost.


My mother would not approve; cotton is not to her taste, not at all. She prefers synthetics, still, despite her insistence and perseverance I will always maintain my impenitent belief that cotton is far more soft.


Yet afar the wind, there is something more. To claim, another. To claim. Then, there is the ocean.


I don't believe the ocean ends, it is unremitting.

Beyond this is more water and more. So we may die trying to find an end. A futile endeavor to find that which does not exist. It is to follow an atheist in his search for God.


But this, the ocean, it is much greater than comprehension, and this, the feeling of being near invisible yet a part of something so grand is unrivaled. It is life giving and it is pain but mostly, it is comfort. It provides a means for execution. It's submission of a different sort. Purely, defiantly an answer, penance, punishment and a sweet and tender joy.


How foolish you are to think so plainly, how foolish.

sitting, waiting, wishing

Hello, Mister?

I want to call him and tell him I can’t find the pen.

Call him and make him aware of the great havoc the loss of this pen has caused. How this pen, this moment of confusion, of loss, of pure and utter desperation will mark me for the rest of my life just like those moments of great tragedy or beauty normally mark a persons life.

But what would I do?

What would he say? He’d be kind and concerned, say all the right things, this pen would become alive to him too.

But of course – I was stupid.

Stupid and selfish.

There was nothing wrong at all. It was just a pen.

I could use the other that lay beside my hand. It was just a pen.

I’d be so sure then, so sure and embarrassed at my own stupidity and want to disappear. I’d hang up the phone apologetically, criminally as though I had tainted myself shamefully. Stand dazed for a moment. Lost in my thoughts and immersed in my own feelings of embarrassment and wonder at the pathetic situation I myself, along with my pen, had become.

Then I’d sleep. Immediate sleep. Just for a while. Short enough to have not slept the afternoon away, but long enough so that when I awaken I’d find myself wondering only vaguely about the pen – had it been a dream?

Undoubtedly, his voice, that must have been a dream, my panic – my, how pathetic that really was, it mustn’t of been real.

But I know, that the sickness I had tried to sleep off will surround me and flood me as I realize, it had all been real. So instead, I sit. I have a period of thought. Debate whether or not to call, whether or not I need this pen (clearly, I don’t) and then rise once again and search frantically for this missing part of me.

I’ve become distracted, and entered another room (why this room?).


The phone. It’s ringing.


I race to answer, but someone already has on the other line.


I place it down quickly; I feel intrusive and sordid.


The words I heard the voice speak are being sung repeatedly in my mind. What did it say? – did you happen to see.. no, don’t be silly, I mustn’t of for I wasn’t there.


But then, it wasn’t meaning me who they had been speaking to.


It is in these moments that thoughts must be gathered. I feel something is missing. I’m not sure what.


Did I get up to look for it? I can’t decide.


I return to my first room. The pen. I’ve lost the pen.

Kickin' the crap

I know someone. I think we all know someone. Somehow, somewhere. Not knowledge with notions of an in-depth skin to soul analysis, but just enough to be able to determine an answer.


We see you're looking quite lovely today, truly lovely, and for what reason?
Ah but you see, loveliness fades - don't you know?


I know someone. Have I ever told you that?


No?


It's obvious though, isn't it?


My someone; if she keeps on killing, I'll be able to settle and then I'll be able to move on.


Consider; how can I fight, if we are on the same side? So I really don't know what to do with this second chance.


I'm much better off the way things are.

Apple

Her Semblance

Inspired by ‘The Applicant’ by Sylvia Plath

Do you think you could tell me a lie?
Prevaricate
my truth, and fabricate your thoughts,
tell me a tale
of anything but.


Could those words pass your lips? No, no? Then
how can I give you a thing?
Leave it.
Walk away.
You should understand


the world is dazzling
when you are a saint and she is blessed;
the faces are smiling because you can.
You don’t believe me?
Look, there they are


watching and waiting for you
their neo-world miracle ‘child’.
Beguile them with perfection.
But you’re forgetting boy
you are a child----


Small and quiet, and oh so guilty.
Don’t you believe me?
Well, I am convinced; assured to be sure
there is another side and I do not doubt,
believe me, I will provoke.


I claimed no fault and screamed your name.
I wished it be your vice.
It’s true, my love, I shied away,
But perhaps it pays to compromise?
Now if taken from there


it’ll be of some use to explain
our current status.
A timeless piece, if ever there was;
it has your brilliance, it has my discredit
it has éclat to both our names.


Dear God, it works – that’s what’s wrong.
You have no flaw, except for this
you have no clue, except you know,
my boy, this shows her odium.
Just believe me, believe me, believe me.

(Aren't we all so terribly lovely?)

*semblance - An outward or token appearance: "Foolish men mistake transitory semblance for eternal fact" (Thomas Carlyle).

A passing thought

It’s peculiar (no, I don’t believe it is really so peculiar) how things may change.


It’s been a long while, weeks?


No, more than weeks; months?


I’m not sure; perchance – I don’t count anymore.


The world used to be at our fingertips,
nothing was out of reach and we were meant to,
(supposedly)
reach out and move towards everything comrades,
more than comrades,
lovers and friends the highest of high respect for one another
and that really, was all.


I saw him the other day.


We spoke about noodles. Awkwardly comfortable.


Microwave noodles that require only a few minutes to cook.


He said that they came with a sauce.


I thought that was lovely.


So I said so.


Then asked, "whatever happened to the toasted cheese sandwiches?"


They were from our time, you see. A mild obsession with the melted cheese and carbohydrate filled goodness that was these sandwiches.


He said there was no time.


Too complicated (too complicated? they were toasted cheese sandwiches..).


So I suppose, that is what happens.


Does everyone choose the simpler alternative? I believe so, we live in a world were efficiency is of the utmost importance and anything else simply deemed obsolete.


But then we begin to make fake promises, promises of words dearly sweet to the ear (of love, hope, trust), but we are no longer innocent. We are guilty of knowledge of the truth of our own lies. We try to fool ourselves, for certainly he’s not fooling me, but I’m comforted, I must allow him that. There is comfort in these lies (though I am disheartened) and thus I can only smile acceptance that this, is just that.

A perfect cadence V - I

Today, much like last night, restricts me with the damned view of hope and success beyond my reach; I have no part of it.


I feel incapable. I’ve sat here for what feels like hours.


It makes me think and forget.


I have to note: water is an element despite its disapproval by science.


Perhaps it is true that it is made up of two-part hydrogen to every oxygen, but it in itself, is elemental.


I think so anyway.


Just like a woman of power and grace is elemental or a tsunami perhaps, yes that seems more reasonable.


Today, burning water takes the place of fire running over my body turning me a fleshy pink. (I never thought I'd compare myself to such a thing, but it's quite like the colour of salmon.)


It’s not unbearable, but it is necessary. It cleanses me in the way a mother sterilizes her progeny’s bottle. I’m not blest with ‘Holy’ waters. Nowhere near. I simply want these thoughts out of me; I want her gone.


Sometimes, truth be told, I think she’s speaks to herself – is this who you are? – (yes, that’s what she said) I wonder, what, no, not who.


It’s just a thought (passing perhaps?); she will be my friend on that day.


The day we found her and mine as simply ‘ours’. Until then, I acquire comfort in both that which transcends beyond my own thoughts and in those petty occurrences that flourish in our lives.


There is so much love (and beauty?) to be found in the overlooked. So much beauty in the way the light falls on the carpet, to the couch, to the wall while the sunsets beyond our grasp and terrible love in a smile of one whom you are meant to belong. Transient thought it may be, there is something to be found.


Life? Maybe.


Are we meant to know?


It is these fleeting moments I believe we wait for, or atleast, I wait for, I can only speak for myself. But these moments are like people. I wonder if they can be trusted. Can we place so much hope in something, only for it to disappear?


It scares me sometimes because although it fills me, I know it’ll only make me all the more vacant if the end reveals that I was fooled by the colorful splendor of some masquerade ball. Though still I suppose, just as everyone else has already said, that this is a risk we must be willing to take for life.


But really, my dear, beauty has an ugly face. I hate it. (Sometimes). It alone is less than a false image; it is the epidermis of a false image and bears no trace of soul.

Goodmorning

I’ve woken into silence.

The mood is gloomy today. A gloom full of inexplicable lively exhaustion and oh, how my body begs for sleep. My eyes, my mind, every inch of me, wishes to lay down again and rest.

So rest they tell me – the others, that is.

Eat. Rest. You’ll be better for it.

But will I?

The sun is yet to rise and already these hours come down on me in such a way that a thousand years could only ever touch. I don’t wish to rest. Not yet. Not today. There are things that I must do, in an order that they must be done so that by the end of it, everything is as it should be, and I will not be deemed inept by my own condemning mind. I need this. Sleep can wait. I don’t think that they could understand.

Well, to be fair (we must always be fair), perhaps one could – for there is possibility in anything (or so my psyche has decided for the moment) – and yet, their questions to me indicate that they have no clue, that they do not understand; this is reasoning; my morning ritual.

It is reason for tomorrow. If this can be done now, it can be done again tomorrow. Perhaps there is purpose, perhaps there is hope. Days like these crawl, they drag and pull me back. It is as though there are a hundred invisible hands grabbing at my flesh demanding that I move in reverse. With each minute that passes, weighing me down and ridiculing me. Watching and laughing as these hands pull me back.

Sickly hands; withering yet strong, dark as night yet pale like a dead man, I hate them.

I hate these days.

From time to time it begins to show; the darkness under my eyes, my body limp and weighted, and so, they tell me to be strong, but they don’t understand; I already am.

So sometimes I hate people. I know, that these measures are not justified, but in times like those – I have not the heart to care. I reason with myself then – just as I always seem to do – until I find logic in my resent for the entire race, until even anyone who ever has smiled or cried or raged is guilty of lies.

What of us all then –? No one is real. Not I, nor him or her nor any of those faces we so surely believed. Yet still, I am but a child; naïve and weak and mostly I think it is merely a passing fancy I have (to believe in no one) and as gradually yet surely as the tides, I too, return back to my primary phase where people in essence can be excused.

But I cannot.

They will not (reason, overlook, forgive), excuse?

Excuse me never, never overlook for these words – they ’re fabrications – you were too perpetual in your trust for me. So you see, I may never be excused nor may I blame. Not even her or even these days, when I wake into a world in which I am alone but for the hands, the voices and her thoughts.