I feel stoppered, as if the profundity of my thought needs some epic outflow that cannot be mustered up as a random piece of artwork (which is how I normally create poetry) - or, if it could be, would only be possible after letting loose with poems that are comparatively banal and simple, so as to make room in the birthplace of my mind for a stronger, larger, and better creation.

But I could not abide that. The stopper remains until I express the inexpressible: a tangled mess of existential dread, a million moments of loss, and the silver-eyed guardian of hope that flits on the edge of all things.

Yes, that mess.

The loss is possibly easiest to understand. It's not only my own loss - though every sorrow I have accumulated becomes a constant companion, a whole host of them gathering at my elbow - but the loss of others, and of the world. And then there's faded cloth, chipped paint, and barns falling where they stand - sorrows that nobody grieves. I myself could weep, but I have rendered myself unable.

The ache of existing is a far more complicated emotion, tinged with all the loss I feel and colored by my own withdrawal from life itself. Perhaps the two are more connected than I suppose. It's a tangled mess, either way.

Existential dread is a phrase I have lost sight of, hurling it around so flippantly as I do to ease the slowly unmasking terror of my perceived meaninglessness. I use it, baldly facing the words so I can laugh at least once, if bitterly, and then swallow the horror of Edvard Munch's "Scream".

But that does no good. For once inside again, back where it began, that feeling has now been given words, shape, and texture. The scream then has a voice, which I must silence in some way.

I silence it by walking away.

My body is not quite fully mine (though I would **** to keep it). It's just the present vehicle through which I vainly peer, not bothering to wipe the window-shields or keep things tidy. In the silence of my own company the key turns, lights flick off, and I close the door behind me when I leave.

Of course, at that point, the roles are reversed and I carry the vehicle inside my mind even as I walk away; that is where the ache comes from then.

But there are so many places to go when you do not have to move an inch, and each of them has a color, smell, and sense of completeness that can layer over the image of my lone and lonely vehicle, parked under a single street lamp and swept by shifting dust.

By spectating those other things and places, it's like I want to become a part of them - to transcend myself and enter the image; meld into the experience. And yet I carry closely the constant anger of knowing full well that it cannot be. I knock my head against the glass wall of separation again and again and again, and every time the pain has dulled so I don't notice quite so much how very far away I am.

Some of those places are very dark. At times I am ****** against the glass as if it were against my will.

It is, but it isn't all the same.

Most of the others are simply there along the path, convenient because of their proximity, and yet demanding in their infinite extent. A bottomless well of experiences that cannot be touched except by proxy.

The last kind are actually beautiful places. Stories of humanity, divinity, and divinity within humanity. Stories of life, loss, joy, and the terrible tread of change that rips our hearts apart and smashes the pieces back together in a way we cannot fully comprehend - but need to.

These are the places that return me to my body. The wide-open plains of truth, with a breeze that tears through all pretending. The guardian of hope is there, flying on the wind. She lives in all the places where beauty is, and yet she is almost always mute to me. She opens her mouth to speak, but I have left my ears behind when I came to these places, remember?

So the sudden silver flash of her wings is only enough to wake me up. But it is not a gentle, happy waking. Every feather that I see is a sharp pang of agony, because it makes me feel again. No matter how many steps I have taken from my vehicle, that sight hurls me back to sit in the driver's seat with tears running down my face.

I must find a way to take my body with me into those special places, to fuse the two so that I can walk between worlds and hear the trumpet of her voice in each.

But for now I am stoppered, until I learn to feel when I am all alone. A gentle hand more quickly opens up my constant wounds and losses, true; but I must learn to weep for me. With no one else to see.

And if I learn to stare unblinking at the sunset of my soul, perhaps I'll see a new day...

...for tomorrows always come.

Love is not a symphony
to be played and danced along.
Not a musical soliloquy,
and not even, at times, a song.

My heart is not your violin,
to play whenever the mood is right.
There are no symphonies within me;
This silent soul's voice is stoppered tight.

Words are all I have to offer;
No songs beg release tonight.

Silver fanged I smirk,
snarl
at the bride's breath as it runs
from my stoppered lungs
in soured rasps of foul mouthed
male monopoly.

A serpentine wig, I don it
with gleeful mal intent
I keep it close -

as to look in the mirror
when summer comes to the frozen
heart.

With holes in pockets
Can we buy?
Gain truth from
The lips that lie?
Without ever asking
Why?

Is guidance in
A folded map?
Wealth within
Bottle cap?
Does fine champagne
Come on tap?

Does knowledge come
From books fast closed?
Water from a frozen hose?

Motion from a
Locked up gear?
Faith from gurus
Full of fear?

Can oil flow
From stoppered jars?
Travel made in totaled cars?
Peace be won from
World War?

Calculating sums from nil
For naught we pay
Usurious bills
No winning wars where
ALL are killed

The wind listeth
              where it will...

We beard the lion
In his lair
Close the pane

To breathe the air.


SøułSurvivør
5/23/2017

This Saint whose Letters bear Prime in Youth
Like that such my Verses appreciate
And Hand by Clock's Divination sprays Truth
Prevent my own Good Deeds depreciate
How Frequent be your Sprinkles for Good Praise
Which by Volumes soon Tampered for Debate
Yet as Pure Models breed Tolerance raise
Urge me in Trust extend your Honour's sate
Father from the Miles; By then your Heart plombs
What other Morsels must my Bowl offer?
Stoppered at that - Tongues inflamed by their Combs
Still Burst your Berries by Love, dear Elder.
It seems by now that First Names make Sense
Though Birth-Year's Stamp your Longevity hence.

‬

Little changes are adding up like the
Drip drop of water that pools in the bathroom sink
from a rusty metal tap not quite stoppered.

And I am glad it is opened.

I am glad to look up from the little pool of changes turned large
To flick my eyesight skywards and head on into the mirror that steams up with condensation as I breathe

and I'm me

I breathe, and I know I am alive.
I look in this mirror and just like all the water droplets I see all the changes

And they're in me.

The tap is gushing freely since the day I took control
I took residence in the drivers seat and found the courage to twist the metal between my fingers and let it be how it is to be

And I am healthy

I see lights in my eyes again
I see a shine in my hair
I see new length to it too
I see clothes chosen with flair

I see colour flood my skin and a smile that shows teeth
I see red painted lips and weight off my hips
I see confidence in my stance, upright and straight
I see peace and tranquility less smothered by hate

But most of all, and finally
I see what I have always wanted
I see, and I know that if I am not free
I am soon to be

(I see recovery.)

The lady in violet waits
by Arab candle light for the sounding
of twenty-one silver bells.

Seven white divisions led
by four black stars.

Her stories feed the drowsy
like a stoppered angel
in the axe-man's hands.

I see your name and a wave of disdain
Surges and breaks over my countenance.
I sneer and want to spit the foul taste from my mouth,
Though stumbling across you was pure accident.
No ill-intent, no malice on your part, only the hate burning,
That blackest brimstone smoldering away in my heart.

I thought it was put out - thought the fires extinguished.
I thought the pain of you was gone, but obviously I was wrong.
And as I look through my folio of writing, a thought strikes me,
A fancy which I follow, leading back to you.

I arrive, and not to my surprise,
"You would do that", I seethe inside.
You would still read my poetry and 'like' what I write, but then -
As a bitter little quirk of a smile grazes my face -
What does surprise me, is that other than you,
I am now your only favorite in this artistry.
And worse than anything else,
                                                              th­at hurts me.

Seeing this in the face of all that has been placed between us
Leaves me bare and rent, of everything, even my hate,
Which is revealed only as a stopper on this emotional bottle.
Only sorrow, a sadness that has adhered to my core remains when the course is run.
That last little bit that you never want to sip,
Those last drips you leave on the bar with the tip.

Long after I thought I could cry no more,
The tears return unwanted and unbidden,
Showing the true rebellion within my soul,
Telling me that there is still more hurt in store.
And when all I want to do is yell and scream,
To say anything to make you hurt:
To make you hurt the way I did, do,
To make you hurt how I do for you,
For you to hurt as I crush you heart as you did mine,
For you to need me as I wanted you,

And for me to give it all up, to turn from Love and walk away.

But it can never happen that way, you could never let that happen,
You could never be vulnerable the way I gave myself in trust and faith,
And in the end, that hate is not within me, I do not carry that cruelty.
I am too forgiving a person, but I will not forget.
So I live on, burdened with my pain behind these eyes, stoppered by a thin hate -
My only defense against you in my life.

there have always been words
stoppered up against my
lips that would ruin us
i'm so afraid to say
-that i would take a
breath- ruin us
with a song

reminded of my hurt youth
             that never did quell

reprimand the cowardly self

should have sought
    correction from the harm
                that stoppered me

but i was too embarrassed
            to be met in therapy

don’t believe in
divine intervention,
but all~so(uls)
don’t believe in the
accidents of coincidence

the Pandora Box gods eavesdrop on my mind,
looking to match the music to my mood,
(box to box, they cruelly smile)
Providentially Provisioning
me with inspirational food.
to collect and let
what’s brewing,
stop stewing,
and come out
in a you know what…

that old song,
500 Miles,
keeps
returning, unplanned,
auto play repeatedly
entirely accidentally,
(U believe that?)
my mind keeps on
knowing
I’m up~blowing,
there’s unfinished business
a-firing, a forest fire
of a 500 miles~s-acred blaze,
the firemen intuit ‘tis
of a kind,
it can’t be stoppered
until you and it,
self extinguish, (ex~sting-you~ish (1))
burn itself,
outside inwards,
reverse phoenix,
not sparks left,
until it’s dead

and the song,
and it’s power o’er me,
** ** **, is un~finished
busine business,
having fun with
my undoing

Lord, I’m Two,
both of us,
in words unspoken,
know that the/a fragmentation
grenade that is my brain,
dancing on the thinner
blackest
red line that asunders me,
twice, into two unequal halves,
is inflamed, infected, dejected

Both of us,
hear that dog whistle
loud blowing
one inch, a salty pinch,
or even
500 hundred miles,
makes no difference,
cause Lord, I’m two

reminding how far I am
from my owning
my very own
personal homeland security,
complete with self-sourced,
sovereign jagged glass pieces,
intended to jag, jog, tear, penetrate, break, annoy, till~this line……ends
,
the errata of this man’s
quasi, semi, repeating
mess-ups, that are
erratically invoking
benedictional confessionals,
of poems unwrit

those I dare not,
until and unlest,
you board a plane
to come to save me

Lord, I’m Disordered,
Lord, I’m Three,
a trinity of Myself & I & Me,
siblings who just
can’t along,
but can’t barely survive,
as separate human beings,
for one cord connects us,
keeps attached like on a bus,
though at a modest
moderating distance,
cause the fights are
frequent

Lord, I’m
(yeah yeah Four, say no more,
just rap it up son,
there’s work to be done!)

am I finished being,
an unfinished being,
will I ever make it to Five,
get home, even barely alive,
Lord, will I ever be One,
just like you,
put together,
a jigsaw complete,
a whiskey neat,
a whiskered gnat,
a graybeard bit
of fluff
with a wide smile of a
Cheshire Cat?

Lord,
give me sleep,
& poems born written
pre~complete,
so alls that required is to just hit
SEND,
a journey shelved,
ended before began,
a pieced together whole man,
give me rest,
eternal and blest,
make me an archaic kept,
in an archive slept,
and end this song,
with a fini
of
quietude & peace?


4:35AM
Sabbath Eve
- Av 12, 5784
- Aug. 16, 2024

Oh Higher Power please!
-Please tell me what I need to know.
Why does my love for him not grow?

Is it stoppered with a blackened promise?
A hateful word, an unfaithful kiss?
Is there something to which I am amiss?

I do not wish to linger here,
drowning in what seems unclear
while suspicion does provoke a tear.
Oh, tell me what I need to hear...

I shall take whatever you care to tell
in the hope that my tears such knowledge will quell,
for not knowing shall inevitably drive me to my hell
Oh Higher Power please...

~Please tell~