The evidence is piled in a glass bowl that follows me from room to room; little orange cylinders crushed and buried in their own remains. My teeth bare the stains of their little lives, each consumed at the expense of eleven minutes of my own. Precious minutes, sacrificed to make their brothers bearable. Poisons are expelled from me, trickling innocuously down deceptively pristine white porcelain. With each drop, further seconds fade away. I spend my time pensive, pondering over the last fleeting distraction, and yearning for another. What shall we do when the intoxication of business inevitably fades from our arthritic hands?
The Birth
Within the heart of a child, colours intermingle forming bittersweet shades and hues, both cruel and wonderful. A meniscus forms atop the prematurely abyssal vase of his heart, signalling the impending birth of something altogether magnificent. Anger froths and simmers, dancing with anxiety, love, awe and loathing. In falls a lone drop of motivation and the vessel is rendered inadequate. Colours stream as the banks break, enveloping his soul in brittle steel to harden and to crack as time listlessly drifts past. Hope adorns the armour of a new man, hungry and determined.
Little Thoughts
Little thought droplets trickle into the lungs; pulmonary edema via sickly molasses. Indulgent masochistic practices worm their way into habit and as paranoia whispers softly into my left ear, I fear that I may drown before I am struck by the epiphany: Cough.
Insubstantial
Soothing smoke weaves and curls in my blackening lungs. Sweet nicotine permeates my alveoli, coursing through my veins to my heart, already racing. The last remnants of a thousand warm lattes trickle into my stomach, intermingling with a hundred candle-lit dinners and a gallon of good vodka. I am a picture of simplicity, the leaf afloat a winding stream. Complexity tosses my fragile form from place to place. I awake at night in a cold sweat. A nightmare of horrifying implication: a lone leaf floats atop a desolate ocean. Aesthetics do not sway the heart, thus we are rendered insubstantial. (Is it so vain to at last invest my trust in such sweet words?) Red lips and tenderness are perfunctory betwixt the tide pools, finite yet engaging. (Am I merely to be examined and tossed aside?) I return to my cigarette, to ponder the lake that (perhaps) awaits me. I sigh; C’est la vie.
All and Nothing
A gentle flow of softened thoughts leak sweet vanilla into the cyclonic flow of intermingled airs; hot and cold meet mid-journey, swirling into great, invisible displays of sensual desperation. Pupils point into vapid spaces, casting lights of all colours, tactile sensations and masculine scents into a feminine sky. Flavours greet and are greeted, argue and dance, making love atop the moist cushion of seven tongues. Through a cloud of sensation and attraction, the mists and the haze of copulating hatred, love, and distrust you stand; A fork-tongued transsexual, bearing infinite attributes, in vain attempt to satisfy, appeasing neither this nor that. Your blur of limbs and appendages, your infinite collection of conflicting thoughts and emotions, your unapologetic homogeneity, dear sabbatic goat, ensures equal measure of abhorrence and obsessed (unrequited) idolisation. Flog and be beaten in equal, simultaneous, monotony (my love) as I walk the wastelands with two asymmetrical feet. Lonely eyes, caked in dust, do not suffer for lack of light when you stand before them, in blatant perfection. Carry on, dearest Atlas, as I sit encapsulated by the white isolation of an existentialist mind. Through blinding motion I see two soft eyes, peering beyond six phantom limbs. From them spill a vision of stillness and serenity, and as appears the soft skin of Salmacis in the curve of sparkling clouds, I see, pensive, my own image. My flawed form desires the gentle kiss of cracked lips, the sweet scent of vinegar and bhut jolokia oil; to be touched softly with serrated blades and beaten mercilessly with feather pillows. Requiring all resources, I am abandoned in favour of simpler pursuits. I am a vase, bottomless, and without objection to my contents. Neutral in my own affairs, I inspire the deepest loathing, lightly laced by the almond-scented poison of affection. Six arms reach for Salmacis, but are rejected by signing hands. You; never fulfilled, and I; never satisfied. Can you not see; how futile is the pursuit of happiness!
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Below is a brief explanation of the concept of the above prose. Please do not read it until you have first formed your own interpretation.
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I feel as though this entry, being of a more surreal nature than most of my other posts, merited an explanation. Without digressing into needless detail, this particular bit of prose explores the endless range of emotion and desire experienced by a moral nihilist and existentialist, with an endlessly broad intellectual and sexual palate, in relation to love. The type of love portrayed is one of perfect imbalance, a never-ending cycle of dissatisfaction, bitterly ideal for the two emotional (and physical) masochists here represented. A reference to transsexualism is placed in a negative context, (perhaps creating the illusion of bigotry) however this should not be taken to represent my view on transsexualism itself. (My views being wholly supportive of transsexuals / transgender people) Rather, here “transsexual” is used in aid of the representation of a behavioral, sexual, and physical accommodation on the part of the transsexual to the desires and preferences of multiple outside influences. I intend to represent, on the one hand, an individual who attempts to appease all, and in contrast, another individual who is never appeased, having an utter lack differentiation between pain and pleasure, fullness or emptiness, “sanity” or “insanity,” et cetera. The bitter irony of the situation is that the ideal partner for one who cannot be satiated would surely be one who, in order to feel valued, must feel that they are perpetually needed. Surely a person who feels that they must be, put simply, everything to everyone would be ideal for someone who requires constant change and movement to distract their thoughts from their own emptiness and dissatisfaction! The very nature, however, of our “transsexual” denies them of the ability to expend their energies in the pursuit of happiness for a single partner, for that would lead to the dissatisfaction of the many other people already acquainted with one of their many faces / selves. It would be against their very nature to appease one instead of many. Therefore in distant, meditative, objectivity our insatiable protagonist looks into the very soul of his ideal, seeing both himself as the object of a secret desire, and seeing the true nature of his ideal, witnessing true identity. Neither can ever attain happiness in union, by virtue of their ideally suited personalities. As a result, they are both doomed to waste away, one from empty despair and loneliness, and the other from exhaustion and the taxing nature of personal misrepresentation.
Prelude To Winter
Soft soles meet concrete
August, a cold wind blows
Scents of emptiness twirl
In cold, opaque skies
Streets, by darkness stilled
Trees, by evening stirred
Lone-man walking
Black trombone case
Many lights, small town
Alive, yet unmoving
Stone cold jazz may spill, echoing
At any moment
From any open window
Silent alleyway or
Cracked door
Smoke creeps from his breath
Slowly encircling
His face as he views
Dark, reflective windows
Thoughts echo
In empty places
“Looking thinner…”
“Soon it will be winter”
“What will I weigh then?”
Thoughts of numbers
Centigrade, Fahrenheit
Calories, days
Variables, strings
“It froze the system…”
“Must learn to make a GUI”
“BMR x 1.2…calorie deficit divided by 3,500…”
“Need more contact lenses…”
Contemplating finite concepts
Pondering controlled outcomes
Fixed knowledge
Knowing only that
Before long
Standing in the pub
Before the Christmas party
Straight faces, suits
Luxury vodka
Wondering in great uncertainty
What change the snow will bring
Retrospective and astonished, over
Monumental events, one year before
For nigh was the time of death, and of rebirth.
Winter was upon him.
Starling
She rides upon the morning breeze
Landing in the evening rain
Seeks shelter now, yet when all is well
She’ll never land again.
Love not the singing starling, lad
One cannot sleep for thought and fear
The day the sky’s no cause to weep
And your starling does not appear.
Cold, My Cilice.
Surrounding me, the angels
Taunting me
From Perfection
Cruelty hard to bear
Summoning mysterious
Feeling
From a filthy boy
Desire and guilt
Lashing until
I am clean
Until
I love it no more
Such bitter
Beautiful torment.
Sweetness
All that is good in my mind I rescind, as the faint scent of perfection wafts past on the wind. I reflect upon life, and the way it might be. My heart shatters as I come to see the living death that remains for me. Might life as it fares always be as it should? I mourn the sad truth; oh that it would. Will it persist and remain as I now predict; tattered, decrepit, tired and derelict? With each turn I make, I walk astride such gross imperfection that I cannot abide. With each breath I exhale I beg violence to save me, I curse my own mother for the life that she gave me. Sweetness is whispered where no one will hear it; shunned in such darkness that mankind shall fear it And within the mist, winding through the fog I hear the sirens call; to me the growling of a dog for through pain I’ve learned to hate them all… Yet this lush perfection continues to taunt me, I Sweat in my sleep as it silently haunts me. If in my life I should come to achieve it, I shall be ill with wonder, I shall love it and leave it.
Demon Spirit of the Moral Nihilist
I sleep upon a bed of coarse straw, clutching a pendant to my breast. As darkness descends, I fall into a slumber, of sweat and of tears, but of little rest.
Oh but the rain should fall, that thunder should crack, that the wind would howl! Alas, silence pervades as the night creeps. I sense something afoul as I turn in my sleep.
I awake in the dark (I pray that no-one may hear me) when I sense some strange presence drifting silently near me.
My eyes are now shut, although I did not close them. I am unable to move for my terrible fear, as something whispers into my ear
