Gobble Spiders

I wish there was a ghost
who would walk beside me,
gobbling up spiders
into the ether, quietly.

I don’t wish the spiders to be dead,
Okay, it’s complicated,
but maybe
I do.

I know they eat the other things
that are too small for
us to see.
I also know that centipedes

hunt them, rather–
rather gleefully.
I don’t want the ghost
of a centipede to walk

with me.
Maybe just an arachnologist
who isn’t finished her
work quite yet.

It would be harmony
and synchronicity,
and there would be less
spider corpses

hiding under
the spines of
the brave books
that protected me.

Yes, I wish there was a ghost
who would walk beside me,
Then my cold hands,
Would simply mean

our hands were interlaced,
and the shivers of my spine
would signify a spectre
of warmth hereafter.

 

 

 

 


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The Bad Dream ; The Night Mare

WB / Tumblr

It was an island. A temperate climate may be assumed. Caribbean? Perhaps. Maybe farther north? south? east? west? Perhaps. But there were no people there. It was warm, but that’s only unnatural in the extreme climes of the world. A sandy beach shrugged its disillusion with the world. If the beach were full of people, the sound of the waves would be drowned by the sighs of relief gasped by its patrons. As it was, I lay there alone. Like a stingray, I buried my body into sand enclaves waiting for movement to pass above me. Everything seemed safe.
Lonely, yes, but very safe. The sun hung in the sky, but I was not bothered by its presence. I felt neither burn nor squint affect my being. The generous mist from the water did not cling to your skin and burrow into your bones. It generated life and feeling, but it did not overwhelm you with the beingness of living. I lay my head back and allowed my head to mould into the sand bed around me. My arms extended and nonchalantly buried, as I opened my hands to the universe absorbing its micro-vibrations.
Pulsating through my body, I could feel life. I was alive, but it was the second thought. First I felt life, then I felt alive. They are two different feelings. Their order depends on your connection to your inward being. Life stirs in you, gently nudging you into existence. But feeling alive, those are the explosions that abrasively thrash you into being. The sweet pleasure of biting down on a sore tooth. A sour orange that causes you to shrink your face in delight. The feeling when a lover lingers over your face, slowly, tantalizingly, teasingly leaning in to kiss you. The passion. The delight. The love.
It was calm and slow-moving. An eternity had passed, yet it could not have been so long. Without clock, calendar, or sooth-sayer, time was immaterial—as it always is. Hah! I could not awaken. I lay there feeling that eternity within me.
A disturbance caused me to stir. A small beast, asleep nearby, hiccoughed in sleep: yelp! yelp! yelp! The frightened being twitched at the resonance of each yel- and fell into deathly stillness at the p. I rolled over, hair falling into my face, sand raining from my body, and I placed my hand gingerly upon the heart of the beast. Suddenly the fear was snuffed and a small smile could be felt throughout our bodies. Gentle, operatic snores replaced the fear within the beast. Smiling, I moved back to the imprint of my body. In a mock outer-body experience, I smiled at the negative space. Appearing much larger than my form, I confronted the duality of the space. Here I gazed; there, I no longer was.
As I nestled into the comatose reality of being and non-being, a sound recalled me to the world-as-it-is. A familiar voice called my name. Ah, the friend-of-a-friend, for whom I nurtured a soft-spot. His mouth curved over my name and butterflies soared. Actually, they soared. A canopy of them swam from the sea and entangled themselves in the affairs of our hearts. He ran deliciously across the beach towards my unrealities. Suddenly, questions of being and non-being were throttled back as the physical world of doing overwhelmed the tenses that confused before. A new verb, if you will.
He grabbed my hand. “Hello!”
“Hiya!” I softly cooed, happily.
“I didn’t think anyone else was here.” He said. I didn’t reply. Sometimes, when you have a lot to say, nothing can be said. He looked at me, expectantly. Still, I said nothing. “Hm,” he mumbled, “so, have you heard from Agatha lately?”
“Actually, yes. We spoke yesterday about this book I was reading. But, I’ve been changing books faster than a race car driver shifts gears. Only difference is that I never finish one. Weirdly.” It was a poorly statement. Indeed, inside, I had retracted my promise to live in the present. Before my eyes Huysmans’s Paris swam before my eyes, little cafés filled the air with the merging scents of frosty white wine, freshly ground coffee beans, and petite madeleines. How does one share those thoughts? How do they become communicable?
“Right,” He said. “So, do you want to come run an errand with me?”
Compelled, I responded in the affirmative. He guided me towards a vespa. We climbed upon it and began our journey at a comical pace. Yet, now that our bodies were so close, conversation flowed easily. Is there a relational proximity that dissolves self-awareness, inhibition, and fear? Does physical presence reduce the desire to slip into the cognitive abyss?
Recently, he had been on an trip over the hills and under the mountains. He detailed how his travels had shaped him, changed him, altered his senses of reality. Now, he was different. Before, he claimed, he had just been a shell of a being. Of course, these claims always sound so mystifying and intoxicating as the speaker says them. Magical. A spell is cast over my soul because I covet growth. Growth shows passion and love for the world, an intrinsic curiosity that sparks my soul.  
I gasp at all the right places, laugh and giggle, and flatter. I share my own stories of my travels, unsure that I’ve grown at all. I feel slightly un-dertraveled, un-knowledgable, un-worthy. Occasionally, I discuss things I’ve read. Is it still my life if I’ve read these things from another’s mind? No, stop it. Pay attention.
The scenery unwinds into luscious valleys of trees. Gentle and rolling hills push and pull our bodies clumsily into one another as we drive on. This all feels safe. We arrive at a set of storage lockers. The island felt uninhabited, how can there be storage lockers. As we dismount the vespa and check our teeth for bugs, we walk towards the lockers. A key glimmers in his hand.
He looks down at me from his tall, graceful stature. I lift my hand towards his with the key, but he pulls this one away from me. He opens his palm and shows me the key.
“We have to deliver a package. We’ll have to go into the waters and swim to our destination,” he says. I do not question this. We walk into the centre of the maze of lockers. Fearing a minotaur, I keep track of the twists and turns. It would be ludicrous to start unravelling a ball of yarn now! We arrive at the locker. He attempts to steady me with a meaningful look, but I am not prepared for what is inside.

A sea of white.

Package upon package of what seems to be a drug. “Cocaine,” he whispers. I am not sure I can back out now. I swallow and, eyes wide, I nod. He does not tell me that he has to do this to save someone. Nor does he tell me he is doing it for the money. He just does it. I do not question it. Remember? We changed verbs. He lifts the package and places it in my arms. He grabs another package. I sweat and suppress a soft chuckle—the yarn seems less ridiculous now.
The journey back to the beach seems less easy-going. Of course, everything has changed. That is glaringly obvious. A cloud of being trapped eclipses all earlier feelings of freedom. To be or not to be is irrelevant. He tells me that we’ll both swim with a package to the next island. The waters are free from any threat and not cold. In fact, he says steadily, they’re quite warm. I don’t ask how many times he’s done this. How many love-sick friends he’s tricked into this. But I wasn’t tricked, I didn’t ask. I never asked.
I dove into the water. The warmth of the water immediately warmed my soul. One cannot continue to feel overwhelmed by fear and anxiety when they reach their element. Submerged, I swam. The water parted and played with my hair. Gentler than wind, the water kissed my skin and urged me forward. Swimming was beautiful. Fear was an unrecognized concept.
We reached the next island. An island surrounded by choppy waters. Inhospitable. I wondered how cocaine could serve anyone on this island. But the thoughts were short-lived. The water powerfully jostled us as through we were in a bowl of jello on changing fault lines. We arrived, and he took the package I brought with me. He left me, and he disappeared inland. He returned. He brought coconut cookies and coffee. We sat in silence.
“So,” I choked out, breaking the silence, “are we going back?” He studied my face for some time. Perhaps it was too indefinite a question—leaning towards abstraction. How do we go back from that? He answered my question in the practical and literal sense:
“No. We go home.”
***

We arrived home. It felt broken. Everything. As I walked through the front door of my house, hair tangled and free flowing, I saw them. The police had camped outside my door.

Reality. A real location. Real consequences. Cops stood in lines…endless lines of donut-chewing cops. Coffee cups littered the street. A true crime, I thought. Surely, not what I did.

I walked into the kitchen—sobbing. Barely able to breathe, the pressure of the truth collapsing my lungs. I tried to explain as my parents stood around me. I could not speak. I saw it all spiralling into nothingness. Negative space triumphant.

Again, another outer-body experience. The scene played before me. The music of the scene was full-bodied, like the taste of a rich-flavoured chianti. The actual sounds of the scene muted, as the violins wailed their truth over all. Slowly angelic voices cried their sorrow. Their implicit judgement over badness telling the audience how to see the scene before them.

She deserves this.

Where was the beast who would awaken me from this nightmare?

—end.

Fear; A Love Story

Source: Tumblr

Our feet moved slowly through the centre of the road,
Our eyes stared star-ward, we watched as they glowed,
The moon hung, suspended in our deepest belief,
As the signs of autumn wore away with the last falling leaf,

Darkness engendered the fear that tugged us to stop and glance.
Wondering, if, in the face of danger, we stood a fair chance,
Apart, but together, our minds crawled doggedly on,
Inwardly guessing how long those stars actually shone,

A stalemate of stillness awaits the mallet to sound,
Withal, reticence persisted as, in silence, we drowned,
Onwards and inwards we search for nourishment, 
Sought after dreams of smiles and encouragement,

I cite history as the source of my displeasure,
Awaiting the sign, which, of course, is your leisure,
Recall, that time flees the scene of the crime, 
Just as the poet chimes perfectly posed rhymes,

Intellectualize and sexualize the words on the page,
More often than not, this is our calamitous plague,
Equilibrium vets the provocateur and jets the esoteric, 
Monotonous ages of desire, thus, eclipsed by a titillating philosophic,

The brightest body we see is a reflecting body, mostly cast in shadow,
Reminding us of fairy stories told oft once, long, long ago,
Truth is obscure, abstracted, and loftily denied,
Morals are clear and craftily contrived.

Once upon a time, they reached their happily ever after,
The crowd cheered, resonating their lust to the rafters,
Fairy stories make-believe the love we wish to be,
For, only young artists sing songs of such courage and bravery.

Scenes laid before the humble philosopher-queen,
The jouissance of questioning what it is to have been,
To be, to we, we are, I am–the syntax, the grammar, the allegory,
Couplet and Capulet, troubled and toiled, tell this duel-householder story,

The visions collapse as sisters disperse to quaff coveted goblets of brine,
Whilst, above, the suspended apparition of the sandman shines,
Reminded of the laboured movements that idle our hearts,
Wondering, still, if it is us, who Eros eternally thwarts,

The noise in the shadows leaps forth from our throats,
Equal in horror to no other sound this author had wrote,
Fretted in terror by things of the hoary night,
Reminded, in banality, that this fear, I did write.

My Freedom on Wings

<<Read here>> (click here to hear me read it)

I used to sing out loud, waiting for you to hear, 
I used to write sweet words, to draw you near,
I sang a song that only your soul should have heard,
Even so, I was lost in myself, gravely self-interred.

It took me time to push the daisies from this earthy burrow,
Rising stiffly, just under the surface, from six feet below, 
I stretch and groan, a song to salute the sun and skies,
Slowly opening long-closed and sight-forgotten eyes,

The world is new and full of rich abstract colour, 
Awoken from a deep slumber, where senses were duller,
Apprehension and anxiety that once burbled steadily,
Dissipates as my mind eases to the calm of the slow sea,

Infinity may not be compromised from the mortal abode,
Endlessness consumed as digesting time slowed, 
You delicious curls rivalled the Odysseus’s godlike brow, 
And you snarled and hissed, face resting in scowl,

The tears that flowed from your eyes were laced with hate,
For a many an age, I deluded myself to lust after fate,
When we danced, my hand met your hand, your hand on my waist,
Always expecting, always demanding my smile remained chaste, 

The years past us by, dust settling like snow on those curls,
Tears dropped from my eyes, more precious than pearls,
You pushed me and pulled me, I was a doll on a string, 
But I’ve finally grown them, my freedom on wings,

In, I breathe, Out, I breathe. Snow melts at my pyre, 
Spring suspires life from the putrid, festering mire,
Towards the depths, I feel my body contract and inflate,
This is the choice of a lifetime—a pearl or fiery gate.

I am free now, after all of this time; 
Saddled to lyric and many a rhyme;
I bellow the fires that alight from within,
And cradle the pearls as I begin again. 

Tessellated words; Mosaic thoughts.

I am afraid of not being heard.
Not because I am not speaking,
but because no one will listen.

You have so much courage,
To talk, to express love and emotion,
Even if there is no one else around.

You show what you feel.
You breathe new life into the world.
No one has to hear—you just feel.

Not only do you feel, you share.
How do you do that?
How do you not feel the world compress
your soul, your voice, your heart.

Do you feel it?
Do you just keep breathing?
Where do you draw your strength?

I’ve tried stick figures,
You know? —to stick it to it,
But I just got stuck.

I am going to keep trying.
Trying to sing to the birds,
Hum with my soul,
Dream with love as my guide.

It is so hard;
But laughing is so joyous,
Laughing from your toes
Snorting through your nose.

I might stumble along the way,
But, from time to time,
Sing with me,
Try with me.

But most of all… dance with me.
Show me how you love
That the sky is blue,
That it rains and it pours,
That the sun kisses just as it runs away,
Show me how you love the possible

Show me how you love
the impossible.

I’ll stop being scared.
I’ll try and stop being afraid of
not being…
not being…..
It’s too hard.

I’m clawing against my own mind,
I’m retching out the emotions that make me up,
I’m reorganizing, re-categorizing, redrawing.

Not withdrawing.

I’ll try and love,
I’ll love.
I’ll not offer the world fear
or contempt, or jealously, or hate.
I’ll love.

If you catch me as I am laughing or
being too loud
Please laugh with me.
Let’s just be ecstatic to be.

 

Spiritual Debut of the Murmuring Heart

Pressing thoughts deliberate their untoward will,
Crashing relentlessly from wall to windowsill,
Rays restrained from filling dark fissures of thought,
Expanses of desert drinking up all I have got.

Level the field that engulfs the sea of squandered souls!
‘Don’t do that!’ they brazenly chide and they scold,
Leaving the empty unconnected—like stars with no signs,
Expecting us to forget the agéd power of the divine.

Warmth is a feeling often served to the bitterly numbed,
As our limbs pine and our dreams needle to overcome,
My fearless hero! Brave the storm of abject ignominy,
Mending the broken walls of shame by nurturing dignity.

Remember dear heart….

Love is a phantasm that swims into the depths of the bay,
Just as it soars infinitely, farther, up, and away,
It refuses to be held in the palm of one single hand,
For there it has little room to stretch, grow, and expand.

Like the pressing forces that mark the point of no return,
Hand in hand, the meaning of love is less easy to discern,
Fingers interlaced, woven together so they may never fray,
Palms pressing into one another, as fruitful souls sing and sway.

Cherish the crosses and noughts that expose your fears,
For it’s easier to live a life without love that’s austere,
Miserly counting the affectionate dissonances,
Instead of writing one of the world’s great romances,

Whisper your secrets from the depths of your murmuring heart,
Erratic, muted tones that, together, morph like abstracted art,
Let it be seen by someone, without further ado,
All you can do, angel-mine, is bring love to your spiritual debut.

 

-fin

edit:
To hear it read… click ME

On Reading Camus’s The Plague

To begin with, I decided to read The Plague in connection with a project on which I am currently working.  I was highly optimistic, for some unknown reason, but I am now realizing that reading this text is contributing to my high blood pressure.  I cannot explain it, but I have an (ir)rational fear of the bubonic plague.  Ever since I was really little, I was afraid I could catch the plague just by reading about it.  Even then, I thought to myself, “if I read books from the period…can I catch the plague…what is the incubation period of the plague?”  While, of course, the plague is not something that is held static in history, and, in fact, it continues to live on and infect, I always imagined it as something frozen in time.  I remember walking out of the room when a documentary came on the television about the plague.  If my memory is correct, scientists were unburying dead bodies in order to see if the plague had laid dormant, and, in fact, it had.  I cannot be too sure whether or not this is true, but the memory is quite vivid.  Scientists digging and white parkas.  A seemingly innocuous image is also terrifying beyond belief.

I am currently reading The Plague.  It seems like a bad idea, but that cliché of having to face one’s fears comes just as clear to my mind.  Reading this book is highly distressing to me, but there are certain things, not the horrors of disease, that I intend to extract from the novel.  Perhaps, that could be the very basis of my own mantra…using Camus’s existentialism to get through this horrifying novel.  I am on page 17.  But, I intend to make my own meaning from this book.  I am looking for what is not obvious, and I am looking for, not redemption, but a moment of meaningless meaning.  Perhaps, it will be fleeting, and even worthless to my project, but it seems foolish not to try.

I am reading The Plague because, while this feeling is not addictive, it certainly is catching.  One only has a few days before they are taken captive to the plague and its particular necrosis.  In this case, I am not looking towards death in a straightforward way.  Not at all, but just the way ideas come and go, eat and fester, cure and humble.  While my reaction may seem melodramatic, perhaps setting down on metaphorical paper the apprehensions I face is the only way I will Pester on and make a new meaning out of something with which I have been, largely, uncomfortable.

 

–fin, until next time

Antidotal Anecdotal; Medicinal Maternal

When I need it most, the words escape tangentially,
Sanguineous emotion yearning to surge expressively,
Trapped in eternal damnations, buckling under shame,
Ravenous lamb astounding the lion you’ve tamed.

Excreting words without meaning, and meaning without purpose,
Trembling troves of buzzing elocution secreted by the nervous,
Nightmarish apprehensiveness colludes with the power of fear,
Making it impossible, improbable for my words to hear.

URGH! What message is there hidden by this muting potion,
Rapidity of death as sharks prey upon me in this unending ocean,
Tender organ racing as I am beaten by life’s brutish, bloodthirsty fate,
Deluge of alarm as I succumb to this foreboding sensuous spate.

Riddled with meaningless intent, puzzled by intentioned meaning,
Anxious that the absurdity has taken away life’s silver gleaming,
Up and down; down and up–broken but mended by verse,
Ceaseless, unscrupulous unsleeping are the tell-tales of this curse.

The antidote is the poison by which I am drugged,
Rendering me engorged with polluted yet cleansed blood,
The sweet scented day-dreams are filled with passions aplenty,
But the same mind’s eye desiccates the heart, leaving it empty

[whispered from afar]

Remember, my dear, sweet-tempered child,
All my love and joy is within you and riled,
For when I first looked upon you I was beguiled,
All you ever have ever done, angel, I always smiled,

The skies are but filled with efflorescing long-lost souls,
Awaiting the moment when they’ll become again whole,

Glittering stars that sacrifice existence and give tranquil respite,
As if only for you they dance and twinkle all through the night.

Fluttering worries begone from this sacred ground,
For upon this face a jubilant cherubs’s smile is crowned,
My angel, you are strong and beautiful and powerful yet,
Because of your vivacious vitality, I will always be in your debt,

No, do not think these are just words to fill a page,
Or actors carousing upon an imagined pantomime stage,
My love is a storm that changes the face of this earth,
I’ve felt that since the moment of your birth.

While life feels difficult and so very severe,
I have every faith that your goodness will persevere,
So smile, my sweetest delight,
And show the world your brave might.

~fin

Whereupon I was Abruptly Awake…

It was safe and warm; languished and determined.
The darkness was omnipresent, and it was welcomed,
Lo!              A start from the heavens cracked through the air,
Throwing souls into Styx without the slightest care.

Towards the skies fearful voices shrilled,
Awaiting irresolute dark prophecies to be fulfilled,
Moaning mothers with lost children cried,
No tears; no wet faces; cries with eyes dried.

Fear enveloped slumbers that were comfort thus,
Crackling ice; relentlessly giving away Nature’s trust,
Warmth ebbs at the door of tears and wretchedness,
As though we were waiting for God nonetheless,

Bellows of water crash through the scene,
Ice crystals like diamonds shimmer and gleam,
Sublime; maleness; sweat and desire; 
Piercing my heart with a soft-whispered fire.

S t i l l n e s s …

with warmth

Notes spring forth; birds of a feather,
Freeing our minds from fear’s heavy fetters,
Grasping to hope and clinging deftly to bravery,
Submerged in the now gentle waves of imagin’ry.

Sweetness to taste the Dionysian  phantasm,
Angst and serenity divided by frightful chasm,
Hold my trembling hand up to your reflection,
Telling with touch and tender distraction.

Sleep sweet angel, who fears the starless night,
Whose wings won’t melt as you fly without fright,
Into the heavens, towards Apollo’s first light,
Mirth filling your soul with cared-for delight.

~~ fin