The love you share

 It cannot and will not always be easy; indeed not forever beautiful, exciting or bright. But through honest knowledge of what truly makes you and me, it will be truthful and kind. Love is not an oil painting, perfect in intention and design; it is not static and will not mean the exact thing tomorrow that is meant today. Just as the cells of our bodies are ever evolving, so too are our minds. You may see bright red, while I am sure of a burnt umber, this should not matter, for when we both agree that the colour is beautiful, we do not have to share the reason why. Through standing back to back, each with our own 180 degree view of the world, together, we complete the circle; we inform each other, we grow from each other. Love does not seek to control another.

Love is disagreeing, not always knowing the initial intention of the other, but accepting this with an open heart and mind and respecting another’s perspective enough to really hear when you listen. Love should not be blind.

We each live our lives to a unique rhythm, a kind of beat, like a drum. Love is finding someone who harmonizes, never drowns out or attempts to silence. Love is not saying exactly the right thing every single time, it is listening and understanding the rhythm and noticing when it changes. Love is saying no. Love is not pushing for a second no. Love is being with someone with whom it is completely safe to be exactly who you are. Your name is safe in their mouth. Your quirks are safe in their heart. 

My Eden Distorted

O America!

One hand controlling the

Explicit Del.icio.us this!

This may well be

Peripheral delight.

Don’t be tender about

‘His real rut and routine’ showing

A thousand acoustical

Fluctuations of tempo.

There is no time to listen, watch

no time to know. So

Pledge allegiance to the twat

Because we can’t talk anymore --

A snatch

Liberate libido.

Hot

And ready to go.

No.

Don’t go

Immediately illicit

Vesuvius ---                                                             

                       ---Revelation of Pompeii

                                                                         Endeavoured to hide

Moveable, metamorphosed

Psychodynamic child,

With martyr complexical

Diametrical fate worse than

The super-ego-id dilemma.

Always just a guess,

Oedipus.

A slap in the face

To the parts of humanity

Not yet discovered by sin

                               

                                ---Have you got the joke yet?---

Austerity fuels perversion

They said,

If not drowning in your face

“You are nothing”

In the extortion race

Not mentioned in the bible.

Two times,

Three times,

Four

Tablets at dawn

Keeps away

Cognitive deviancy

Monsters in the morning ---

---My Eden

   Distorted.

  Banana with

flesh reading

    velvet

masked kisses

that cannot escape

      budding

in superficial light,

like the pretend

       touch that

                                      extravagantly excavates

society’s tormented

      adolescence.

She wants to be proud ---                           

                                                                                ---Can she ever be proud? ---

I stay

Wrapped in

 My

 Paraphilia blanket. A voyeur

Object on the

Golden Urolagnia

Stream ---

                                                                                                        --- Miasmatic dream ---

Yet still I sit

Polishing memories at dawn

Like the A-bomb utopia.

Eccentrically, irrationally

Ideologically

Greener grass

                                                                                ---puff puff---

The hedonic calculus.

O America!

My wiser eye

Spits venom.  

Why I quit quitting things

"Only the man not rowing has time to rock the boat"

~Jean-Paul Sartre~

The boat is rocking;

rock the craft;  

there is a rather large rock at the bottom of my bateau. 

Who has the energy to constantly row? Whether fast or slow, you will get there when you get there. [Can't argue with impenetrable, cross Atlantic logic, sir]. We are occasional rowers, taking regular breaks because our limbs complain and don't you have to row backwards anyway? Sometimes it's important to just stop rowing and look the fuck around. There are bigger boats than your's, you know, and if you crash there will be no sympathy for a careless row. 

Other times we do the sharing thing, let someone else do the work for a while, although we secretly (or not so) criticize their shy, awkward row or are jealous because our rowing technique isn't quite as sleek and don't the uptight bastards know when to just go with the flow? Should never have let the crafty prick in my schooner:

Mayday! Mayday! 

Man overboard and I bid you good day. 

The easy way to go; head straight for land, the ceaseless row. Don't rock the hard place. Yet there is always, and anticipation of such is advised, an unseen, bitch of a wave, gets salt in your eyes. At the very least.

If it was never meant to be easy, and why do you need it so? In can at least be simple: just row sometimes and other times, don't.

"So I quit quitting things, just do whatever I want now." She smiled at him, a pretty smile, slightly marred by the smoke from a factory miles off in the Gobi desert of Mongolia. "Within reason." She touched his hand.

Stranger from a familiar land. 

The Internet

The more time I spend researching the world from behind a screen, the less time I have to live it. Experiential learning can now be done by the touch of a mouse and I'm in Rome. My body quakes for some sordid love affair and I am there, fulfilling any fantasy known to man. I have seen the Earth spin, I travelled to Africa on a whim, I watch celebrities grow fat and thin.

The internet has a pulse, the tiny wires like veins or brain stems or something of even greater weight. The whole world, all that was, is and can ever be conceived of being is contained here. I imagine a reddish bright light undulating, and if we humans tried to pull the plug it would not, could not cease from being. I imagine it looking at us and laughing.

Perhaps this is an alien invasion, crafty infiltration of the fuck wit population. All data, all knowledge, all passion, all vision; secrets your mama should never know and how many wars have been enabled, created, mass manipulated? Oh genius, you have played wisely to the vanity instilled within mankind - provided us with the means to be celebrities within our own shell. Pacified us, provided us with a brain so we only half use ours.

I can't live without the internet - I online order all of my food from Tesco and I'd starve.

Of Being 23

This is an old poem, but what the heck...

I believe every news,
the shadows in the cave
are truths like ice and water
have the same molecular structure.
I believe three words repeated
that the sound of the heart beating
is the most beautiful sound.
I can drown out my thoughts
with talks; with others.
To see a self reflected
in the eyes of another
and to know without
ever really understanding.

I believe I'm walking
when everybody sees
that I am running.

If I believe it
then it must be true,
for truth for me
and truth for you
can be two very different
views of one reality.
It won't slow down,
and up days are fewer
with too many expectations.
A self-constricting exaltation.
Nihilist, I am not so brave,
leave the cave and see the light.
Too bright truth.
Static merry, go,
let's get lost somewhere beautiful.

I believe every breath is a gift,
not the kind to take back,
every smile, laugh and every caress.
To know: I am here world. But I digress.

"Sophie, stop talking about it and just write!"

Writer’s block:

She stands on a craggy mountain ridge of her own creation. She knows the slope well. The feel of the clay, the exact shade of red, the way the foot prints follow a different path than originally intended, all are there because she is there.

She spun this world with no end in sight, as she has done with every world before it. There is no map and darkness begins to draw in.

The people below walk the same road, up and down, up and down. It is not long but it has many slopes and blind turns; it is not a safe road, the ground is not steady, the trees are not kind. The road goes nowhere, blocked on both sides by a giant iron wall that knows no limits, refusing exit or entrance; it stands completely mute, waiting for her order. The longer she waits, the more lost to their purpose those people become. She sees some who were originally unknown to each other speaking on the road, realising things intended for oblivion.

She wonders if she will ever get back to those distant wanderers. She gave them life but cannot remove that which has already been created. She has no power to extract them from that dark, half-lost corner. She turns from the valley, now encompassed by the shadow of the mountain on which she stands. There they will remain; haunting the place where she dreams.

Climbing Soap:

“My thought is me: that is why I cannot stop thinking. I exist I think because I

cannot keep from thinking.”

~ Jean Paul Sartre ~

He sat looking out of the window at the rain. The small gold clock that ticked the sound track to his life belonged to his mother. He thought of belongings. He had several in his tiny flat: there was the war memorabilia, ten medals laid out proudly in a perfect line on his dresser, other items stashed carefully in a locked suitcase under his bed. There was also the sofa with the colourful patch work quilt that had been here when he arrived and the shot gun mounted to the wall over the television that didn’t work properly. There was the kettle, the cups: three of them, with blue stripes; eleven stripes on two but thirteen on the third. There was a chip in the third cup, it was his least favourite and he refused to use it. There were spoons, five of them arranged in a neat row on the kitchen counter, their handles tilted left at 30 degree angles. Three of them were the only things remaining from a wedding set, he couldn’t recall which, or where the rest of it had gone to. The other two were likely picked up along the route of his life; he only ever used the second to the left. Used it, washed and dried it and put it back where it belonged. He had a fridge; inside the fridge were some milk and two meals on wheels meals brought in by his carer that morning.

He had a carer; he almost thought of her as his possession, like a pet but with slightly more independence. She came every day at the same time, purred around his foot a while, asked him, ‘are you alright’ or ‘ok’ or ‘how you doing love?’ Her name was Annie, it suited her jovial disposition. She knew his routine now and so she was fine, a minor annoyance sometimes with her questions and smiles on rainy Sundays, but usually she entertained him somewhat and he was glad of the company. It was when she was off sick or on holiday or doing something else that there was a problem. It was a big problem and an impending one, the cause of much anxiety and frustration over a series of consecutive weeks. He had calculated it: it was exactly 30 days since she’d told him that she would be in France for two weeks and that he would have someone else encroaching on his space,

 ‘She’s really lovely, honest. I’m sure you’ll get on great!’

The hour of her last dinner time visit was fast approaching and then in front of that lay 336 hours, maybe more if she was late back from the airport. He had calculated around 20160 ticks of his mother’s golden clock.

He went back to counting the rain drops that were falling over the streets of Brixton.

Shanghai

Flanked on both sides by binary code, the city of extremes preys on people like me. Every race, nationality, breed and face lives together; sometimes harmoniously, often looking without seeing, judging without really knowing. Understanding a world where everything is possible and yet for some, nothing.