The serenade of solitude.

The psycho-social pathologies of people approaching relationships in any other way than completely giving of themselves perplex me.

You are given a chance,
to divulge your whole being towards someone and have them do the same in reciprocation and we still approach one another with amputated souls.

Bits of you and bits of me,
is a little too Frankenstein of a relationship for me to spawn life into.

Grotesque, is thus quite a fitting word,
here’s the most vulgar part of me, I care nothing of,
and here’s the remnants of what they want to share back, regurgitated traumas,
damaged and parts beaten to a pulp in the mind fuck,
in the mine fuckery of pseudo vulnerabilities,
everyone armed to the teeth with ego’s and no hearts,
awash with misery and toxic breath,
lip service to love and all that sparkles.

I’ve got a serious distrust of people,
it is tattooed in my brow,
it is heavily abated in my breath,
like a dragon I wait,
for anyone to try their hand.

Some say it is offensive and arrogant to assume so much,
for those people,
cut open your chest and they still won’t see,
let alone feel what you feel.

Alone, remains the most poetic living I have known,
solitude is the serenade of choice,
let the mundane and mediocre,
in their frivolity, rejoice.

W.E.

Introversion – seventy nine

Introversion – seventy nine

A floor,
a wall,
and light that leaks in.

At times, I don’t even want to share myself with furniture.

Solitude with all the groans of a house is enough,
an intimacy of unspeakable proportions.

Ghosts of longing that open and close doors as they wish,
secrets that don’t pass their lips.

This house has an echo of women who have clawed at my skin for a piece of my soul,

ironically making me turn further inwards to flee from myself,
stay somewhere that I can control.

This light that leaks in,
a reminder that I have fissures that open without warning,
bursting with unspeakable sin.

Let this be a warning to my heart,
don’t let them near you,
remain in that room alone!

Insist on your intuition over their appetite,
insist on your vision over their illusions,
insist on your solitude over their lust,
sit in so much stillness,
alone in that empty room,
and be one with the dust.

The souls that endear you will inevitably be near you,
without formality and necessity for introduction,

we were created from an ether in the pre-world,
our souls will always find each other in this world and the next.

W.E.

Am I selfish for not wanting to share myself?

The gist of tye above poem is an apology of sorts,

try as I may, I often disappear into myself,
ironically away from my Self.

That oft gnawing awareness of the faults you harbour,
that slip between your fingers of guilty frivolity,
drowns you in a tug of war,
of second guessing yourself,

and that’s why I recluse,
it becomes a bit too much to swathe in a world of ‘sureness’, people vying to be the first one to be right.

What does it matter who gets to the end first,
if the journey was filled with dishonourable disregard.

There is a way,
I believe it to be quietude and seclusion,
introversion and accountability,
a slowing down rather than speeding up.

I’ve found myself just as many times as I have veered off the path,
only in the cocoon of solitude,
only ever alone.

I have never read of a man of worth or a woman of magnitude that has needed the masses to prop them up and I think it is deep in that wisdom we can find what society so desperately needs.

I will put this post up on my stories as a poll,
I’d like to hear your comments below on the above, even if in private.

Love has a breath

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.

W.E.

dear grief – 27

Grief is a scent that never leaves your lip,
with every breath, with every sip,
ever the twisting knife,
ever the fleshen twist.

It hovers over you,
you walk, a carrion,
the parched beaks of time,
waiting for you to pass on.

Like love, it leaves wounds behind
anchors in your heart, holes in your mind,
ever the remnant fog,
eyes, left blind.

What if I prepared for you,
and black was my perpetual dress,
what if burned the incense of mourning,
would you be less of a weight on my chest?

What if I threw you like ashes in the ocean,
let the sea have its way,
cremated dreams and memories,
a eulogy with nothing to say?

What if your colour was grey,
and we spoke in mono-tone,
like numb and algorithmic bots,
or hovered like mindless drones?

At the end of this all,
you’re too platonic, too addictive a distant lover,
so alone I leave you, to have your way,
perpetually a cloud over me to hover.

W.E.

introversion – seventy eight

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”.

W.E.

The hue of desperation

 

Desperation is such an ugly dress,

beneath it is the reality of disloyalty,

gnash the silence with the opioid of your fetish,

oh what an incredible appetite you have my dear,

incisors and nails,

acting all frail,

your ego needs to set sail,

and there you are,

in the thick of men’s hands,

ever on demand,

and all it took,

was a rejection of,

a painting you,

a showing of,

a man,

telling you where you stand.

Be well with your dress,

or take it off,

you’re naked anyway,

why on earth would the pit of your fire burn with such rage,

if indeed you want this veil,

if after all, you indeed are frail.

Perhaps the frailty you express,

is a need to undress,

perhaps it’s nothing more,

than feeling the hands of your father hold you like you exist.

W.E.

Vulnerability

 

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.
W.E.

 

Intolerable

If I am at all intolerable,
it’s because I am in between reconciliation,
and choking on an apple.

I arrive at my slipperiness several times a day,
this dungeon has become all too familiar,
perhaps its stench has stained me,
and I reek of sin,
oddly an ever lucrative pheromone, or so it seems.

Why can they not smell it on me?
Why when all those years I’ve spent unnoticed do they now wish I was something they saw?

The more indifferent I was to them,
the wider their eyes became.

And deep in the pits of me I want to take a knife to their livers and make them suffer more,
“here,” I say, “taste your own bile, I’m already familiar with it”,
but those years alone not only make you outwardly cold and stoic, but inwardly abundantly empathetic and merciful,
so I smile and greet them instead,
with the same bashful innocence of a child who’s spent way too much time inside his heart,
inside his head.

I leave it all unsaid,
I resort to what I know best,
one step back, guard up and play rope a dope,
play hope a hope,
maybe, just maybe, someone will notice,
that I’m half in this world and half out,
and why I can give more of me at a tenth of who I am than others can with their full expanse, their full effort.

Even then, I have to filter myself,
water myself down as it’s too easy to fall in love with falling in love.

And echo on with war crys,
with quaking thighs,
with eyes and lies,
as we play this game of finders keepers,
allowing ourselves to be found,
allowing ourselves to be kept,
unkempt…. as it all may be,
some have less demanding needs,
a glance, an arm to lay on,
a kind word a moon apart,
anything, you can afford,
they sit like beggars at your door,
one more day, one more.

This poetry of dread and longing,
of insecure apetities that waver in and out of the bay of curling shores,
that can’t find its way through the swamp and withering of decay,
is all I have to offer,
the only oil lit niche in the wind of what does not and will not ever belong.

W.E.