Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
When once I approach a bridge I mount my fear by extending my hand, as I did with my father years ago. We approached a grated expanse and I implored he catch me should I fall. Safely then on the other side, he having held me the entire way, I knew I was forever indebted. I still don't like bridges and I don't like admitting that something scares me, but I hate that debt most of all.
To raise eyes, maiming ageless weight and expectation. It is the inevitable rebellion of appreciation. It is worth it... To curse the eye and to press the light. And when the wanton nothing bristles as boldness refuses the lash... Oppression?... He remains the liar we despise.
Resignation to a certain fact
It's intrepidity, is resignation to a certain fact. But it's haunting, too. A countenance negated, when for once a blank stare lives as the mind in that moment, with all blood let and costly service rendered. There is no roadmap for spells concluding enduring sagas, and the intrepid know that. I'll admire from afar and wonder on the strength of those survivors as they quarter amid the spent minefield. They might say there is no strength in tattered ends, all life is a process of will and action. They might say that standing still in the face of the unmitigated is an admission of human frailty. Respectively, I say: Let me admire. Let me reflect. Stillness is strength especially in the hour of the unmitigated.
I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:
The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh-- and they who hear absorb the vibrant end of the birdy's sonic thread. Apart from the howl and hoot, in a parcel of ample space, the sweet bird embraces a rhythmic tufted bop and binds the living race.
Please enjoy my humble attempt at verse:
When wilted, wills collide and flesh tones sound unceasingly in love's great unknown. Sinful suplex, where harm's slayed, caught enraptured with limp limbs splayed. Post riders and chariots of desire bed down. Ceasing shame prior to well-earned rest, wilted now only in name.
Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm. It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing that is alluring and energized... And all resistance against the untimely death of a leisure lap. I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones, but the worthy object is the daily one. It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection, and owes itself to itself as pride would without the taint of sin. The happy norm is the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed and it moves on and on in this sullen world.
Yes he saw him and knew his intentions. Yes, Yes, of course there is an anxious flush. Handsome faces force their way into memories with a blinding speed. Sweats breed themselves like fruit flies across the faint worry lines of his face. He steps on high achievement like a laden stone, pronouncing something unintelligible, like it's history's forgotten place mat. All these indiscretions and distractions that agitate him to no end. To no end. That's the puzzling part of it all. Sitting and hoping on some, while others he bare wrestles and bleeds dry. Is this a coherent picture of a man? Is this a man who prizes a coherent picture of himself? This man is my friend and these words are all the best I can do.
Truth, poor truth
There's no reward in the unadorned truth. It stuns the nerves, levels pillars, and suffers manipulations. Truth, poor truth. -the unfortunate recompense of the aesthete. -a bane to cozy pleasantries. Point your light plain truth, toward the fog of human folly. Be the agent of our salvation.
We'd get so high, project the foolish and let the vapors run us ragged. Our incantatory howling an extension of iridescent smoke plumes. Parched and pining, we'd sip sublimonade from circus spouts and own up to the awful, as our tempers would allow. The act of incinerating barriers lovers never broach is wild work. Those days are of a kind safer minds may never know.
I spent my life wishing when, that spell whistling at my heart. A tug, a tear, and all the frosty drag it holds. That bitter cold a balm that numbs, and reflecting that a feeling is more than some quiet alone. I accept that ever after is nevermore; these things ourselves tell us that then shed rhythmically asunder. Each beat is a probe. Our heart, it's faithful prole. And tomorrow, as well as all to follow, will the frigid beg for friction and I beg alike?
Let no being carry the unearned burden, rife with the compaction of endless wrongs. Hoisted on hollow and growing bones, forcing their shape into something hideous. This hellish load, wrought of all those wrongs.
To be, to be, that poor weakness, to be. Starting each day anew seeking to be, but starting with deficits. And so, being only harshly. Farther down that road will they travel until being is defined by the detestable. To be devoid of fear or never to be at all.
That curious she
That curious she, lithe and in peace. Wielder of favor -- her influence one with the power of fitful beauty. She's afore me now. And through her will bound in supposition, enchanting on wings of fortnight fancy. While intensely convulsive during her paternal rituals; I, the target of her amorous charge, am infected. With her shadowy gaze she states: Dispense with your grace dear, for sweet speed owns this union. Tomorrow, as yesterday, brings new light and love. Stay regret, however, and stay passion. Brevity and honesty will the heart to a calm repose.
Starting line wonders
So I stopped and sat still as I saw the prime commence, And wondered on the possession of so serious a fact. the act presupposes an end. See, the mighty legs of the many runners fatigue upon the chase. The object lesson for all concerned? they run awfully hard in place.
Envy her, seated quiet comfort? The rigid fixed in fashion to extend meaning. At pains, conspiring, but bent on appreciation for all things them (us?). Would that work and worry were beneficent bonds. A recourse to rigidity would arouse such hope. As is, all days tar quiet comfort an ungrateful lot.
I wrote this piece in the spirit of fun, however, the more I read it the more it rings true.
Crab!, Shakespeare, faceless man. He is not a hero, but an ideal. The reservoir of all our dreams. The dream of the pen wielder and key striker and notator and all others who observe and record.
We would cuddle often together in mutual admiration, each inspired by the other. Plastered off our desire and nuzzling comfort to avoid the day. Well, what of places to go and things to see? We break once or twice but a cold vacuum stills the air and harms the void. No, no, no..we won't leave this; there's none other. What a picture of the future, this present, an idea I'd put into song. I hope that we might sing this song together, and let it echo through the chambers of our hearts.
Stripped bare before life's gentle cadence, sucked dry and laid limp in deference to silent rigor lives a shell of a man; a hearty hammer brought to heel. Once pronouncing distant dreams, folly's seeker floats unencumbered swiftly to a sleep. The proving ground of plenty and giving ground to those who purchase pardon. These battles having spent themselves upon the concourse of the day, a man may rest delightful in his stunning vulnerability.
The funny dread
The beast, it takes its fill. Mother frowns and shakes her till. And... there the mites are a'mourning. Trembling few, ensconced in warning. The funny dread of complicit rage be the muted distress of every age. And we, you and me all the while bear benefit and burden with lacquered smile. As for those who fight we may wonder on their lives: if their struggle be a light? Or but a flippant lie?