Something that has become lost on my brothers


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.

W.E.

 

writers block – 4

 

If you need to win the conversation,
you’ve lost the art of communication.

Most people talk at,
instead of to people,
over,
instead of into,
through piercing arrows,
instead of soothing aloe,
and they wonder,
why they are not heard.

And it is no different for a writer,
how can anyone receive your words,
if all you want to do is be read,
if you don’t want to run your fingers through the mind of a reader.

W.E.

introversion – fifty seven

Who would of thought,
they could make a commodity,
out of introversion,
quiet folk lucratively gaining traction,
learning how to hone their art,
monetise themselves,
until they’re just as loud as extroverts.

Awkwardly unsocial,
conveniently clickable,
viral, marketable,
shyness and meekness,
now acceptable.

Everywhere I look it seems that there is no stone they will leave unturned with their data mining. No small corner of anyone’s world that they won’t bring up to the surface, magnify, amplify and like a multi-level-marketing ploy, spread it around like a fad until they have milked the life out of it.

Fuck I feel so out of place and more obscure than ever.

W.E.

loving with your bones

Some words are just so intimately dear,
I love the vulnerability of them,
the pouring,
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.

W.E.

Homoeostasis is not an option

It daunted on me,
we’re all seeking reconciliation,
this thing of balance,
that has fascinated me since I first learned the word;
homoeostasis!

The state of perfect balance,
what else is it,
than stars aligning,
breath,
syncopation,
harmony,
hormones,
things that just work,
everything making sense.

We slip in and out of chaos,
attempting to find meaning,
perhaps in extremes,
testing waters unknown,

But all I want to do is write poetry with a piano,
paint happiness with my fingers,
caress loneliness with branches of an olive tree,
I know I can make things work,
vital things,
I have an uneasy truth in my lungs burning,
and it billows with rage and crackle.

I have waves of jealousy,
watching others throw things off,
it’s the imbalance that hurts so much,
people wallowing in it,
people reluctant to un-smear the mud off their face.

I just want to give my eyes to one person,
and if that’s not enough,
my mind,
and even then,
my heart.

Then they can feel this engulfing,
and incessant need for balance,
and why I strive so hard,
why at three a.m. I’m just beginning,
and they’re deep in waters,
drowning in mediocrity,
I don’t need their normalcy,
because that is anomaly from brilliance,
and brilliance is a stretch of possibilities,
a promise to the universe to make it work.

I have given my oath to truth,
to musk in the air of the forest,
to the oft return of spume dancing,
and to grace in the pegs of a mountain.

I’ve given my oath, means I’ve given my oath,
and I’m the most persistent subordinate you’ve ever seen,
you’ll soon wear yourself down,
in disheartened vain before I conjure a pause,
I’ve yet to see commitment like mine to homoeostasis,
a warrior,
a poet,
a healer,
a man uncaring for the discomfort of others,
if it means they’re happy being mundane,
so be it!

So be their offence and disbelief,
their pursuit of an apology for relief.
I’ll give them ten,
and they’ll still find a scapegoat of victim-hood.

I’m uninterested in it all.
I just want truth,
I just want homoeostasis of fine, fine things,
intimacy with the marrow of me,
until it’s my marrow that manifests on my tongue.

Because in the end,
that’s what it’s about,
this oneness,
this wholeness,
this balance,
pursuit to one.

The more you love,
the slower things move towards you,
and that’s not bad.

You want to be able to scrutinise,
synthesise,
accept with maturity everything it is and isn’t.

Slow things are observable,
fast things are tunnel visioned,
and I want them both.

So that with the speed or surety,
I will accept all I observe.

I love the world,
all that is in it and the One who created it,
He knows balance,
and I just want it all to equalise,
under the purity of its primordial nature.
ITS NATURE,
not ours.

I can handle a truth,
that manifests on the tongue of my challenger,
I can’t handle a lie,
in the heart of my loved ones.

Slay me with truth,
and I’ll give you my neck,
comfort me in lies,
and you’ll feel no end to my wrath.

I welcome rain just as much as I do drought,
nature knows what to do,
but we,
ever so ungrateful,
do not.

How then do you return,
to this delicate scale of equilibrium,
but to let go of the measures you assume,
the metrics of your comprehension are limited,
to preconceived rituals,
to blind worship,
your mind an altar,
your soul the sacrificial lamb,
your heart,
the one that pays the price,
for seeking anything other than balance.

W.E.