Drink from loves wine,
so that divinity may be on your breath.
I told myself this when I first learned of a divinity so pure, you could carve yourself to pieces with it and not feel a thing.
I imagine myself to be that person,
only in a perfect world.
Alas I am not,
a lofty aspiration nonetheless is better than drifting away without sails into the obscurity of wallowing.
There is a truth in the most wretched of people.
Most don’t like to get their hands dirty though and that’s okay.
But if you like clean hands,
please don’t pretend to understand.
There’s musk and agar,
frankincense and amber,
a waft of patchouli and rose waiting for everyone,
there’s a breath in us all yet.
No one gets to go there,
these walls are not scalable, not saleable.
You can’t claw your way in,
you cannot pierce past this skin,
this pilgrimage is reserved for the hermit,
for the inwardly inward, for the withdrawn & within.
I’ve seen your eyes pan,
I’ve seen your desperation for man,
and this whole time you missed the essence of his span.
Wretched carnality, devoid of spirituality,
you’d eat my flesh and spit it out without so much a thought.
I’ve squandered women like you and all their triviality,
I’ve toyed with their insincerity like a sport.
The stench of the ulterior motived precedes them,
their actions are seen in advance by men, real men.
Foresight and experienced in the sinisterism of hucksters,
gypsy travellers settling on whatever soul lines their sack,
they’ll sell you a love story and break your back.
Burning at the stake is too swift and merciful a punishment,
it’s far easier to immortalise them with rhyme and meter,
and leave them to their ways in banishment.
They ask, “Where does it hurt?”
The reply comes gushing, “the place you couldn’t reach”.
In an ideal world, if we weren’t so impatient, if we slowed down to at least be able to appreciate the lather of people as they come to maturation,
perhaps we’d equally be as mature to accept their vulnerability.
HOWEVER, we’re not mature or developed enough.
It’s sexy, it’s trendy, it makes for good conversation fodder, but the reality is that dealing with a fuck up and loving them in all their insecurities, their vileness, and more so than loving them, but nailing an idea of loyalty into their soul, that you’re always going to be around is not something you find that easily.
In a world where flickering between connection and disconnection has never been easier, vulnerability remains taboo and I won’t believe anyone who says otherwise.
I’m abandoned more than ten times a day and that’s merely in basic exchanges, it’s no wonder I and others like me shut the world out to our innermost realities.
Maybe I’m too romantically inclined.
Is it too much to be asked,
to be ruined in mind,
wretchedly unfixed in state,
mad with inability,
scathing walls for a scent of the past.
Ah what a little neuroticism does for the soul.
If you can’t at all be haunted by something,
I fail to see how you could pique my interest.
It’s not that I want to heal you either,
but I do want my own misery to be reciprocated.
That kind of companionship,
the guarded chastity inspite of the allure,
wets the palate with prose.
Of what use do I have for a love that I cannot hurt with,
a love that leaves no scars.
How do I leave road maps back to you?
Knots in a rope,
a leaf trail,
footprints that return me into your soul.
I’m not deceived by a love that is sanitised and unwilling to scold,
smooth mountains never make much for climbing.
There’s nothing that excites me,
in a complicated face,
neither am I aroused,
by the curves and voluptuousness,
that makes a mockery of men.
I’d much rather the plainness of a woman,
who goes by unnoticed,
yet harbours a universe inside,
an outside wreck perhaps,
an inside wonder.
Some words are just so intimately dear,
I love the vulnerability of them,
and yet there’s an ache for reciprocity,
by the sheer fact you’re standing,
on such a tender branch of expression,
moving only so much as the breeze allows you,
at the mercy of your words being accepted.
That place is torturous,
humiliating and uplifting at once,
to be graced by a zephyr or swept by a tornado,
still, on that branch,
eyes closed and in another place,
lips still moist with your hearts empty,
unafraid and pensive.
How do you express intimacy without being meek,
and show your bones in hope she’ll hold them,
how do you conjure yet another way,
to assure, to inspire, to tell the truth of who you are?
I’m not good at anything but a slow release of my thoughts,
that’s why I’ll immortalise you with prose,
take my time one word at a time,
one thought a day,
and because she’s patient with me
the opus will be epic.
You’re music that drags,
a lyric that begs for the next line,
verse out of turn,
poetry that makes all and no sense.
You’re prose that doesn’t care for order,
rhyme that does what it wants,
you’re meter that causes hearts to skip,
allegory beyond conjure,
a dance of fire,
madness with no cure.
What have you left in all of this mess?
Chaotic and perfect,
disorderly, but oh so worth it,
who cares for things that add up,
where’s the fight in that?
I’ll take my chances with odd notes,
off beats and smudged ink,
a poem on you wrist,
a tattoo on your clavicle,
a beggars desperation.
The ruins of beating a heart until it’s frantic with love,
until it burns your mind to smithereens,
are the ashes of reconciliation with your soul.
It’s always love,
mad, one way love.