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  Feb 28 T R Wingfield
Rozana
tonight, i drank
i drank
but not to quench a thirst
was it to forget or to remember
everything was as it was supposed to be
late afternoon sun lazily laid
soft and golden    
and long shadows
was it after those steps up the stairs
when i walked into a darkened room
to the bed that i didn't make, but we had shared
and the smell of you that hung
h e a v y
              in
                 the
                      air
like you had never left but almost like you were never there
is that what betrayed me
the nostalgia mixed with the absence of you
leaving me in an empty room

w a n t i n g

it is a broken promise, or one that you never made
Drunk poetry. Literally.
I feel
like I died a
horrible
****** death
at the hands
of some great
and terrible beast
with razor claws
and gnashing teeth
that escaped its cage
and pounced on me
out of the shadows,
glinting eyes
reflecting
fire from
the wreckage left
by the mile-long circus train,
now derailed,
after running into me
full speed.
"Oh my god... I'm never drinking again..." He said, lying to himself, and God, in agony. "You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now."

Happy New Year!
T R Wingfield Dec 2019
How come no-one ever pulls for the bad guy. He's just out there doing what we all wanna do: Being self-interested, self-imposing, self-actualising, carefree, and ego-maniacle.

Really he's the hero- making destiny manifest by his own hands; the spiritual successor of the settlers and explorers, who just happens to have run out of room.

Is it not those do-gooder heros who are villians,  for real, by forcing these noble individuals to abandon their dreams and fall back in line, with threats of violence, persecution, and hard time. They are the very embodiment of fascism, through and through.

So lets here it for the bad guys who keep the world sane, by showing us were all humans, one and the same.
So three cheers for evil!
Hip hip hooray!
Hip hip hooray!
Hip hip hooray!
Seems like this is how all the world thinks these days.

A counter-intution for those who are interested
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1863686/the-belltower-tolls-midnight/
T R Wingfield Dec 2019
God, for me, is a selfish thing
I only want him there to blame,
Or to ask for things
that I cant seem
to produce by other means

But for me to disbelieve is also
A completely selfish thing.
To pretend that I have come this far without divine intervention?
How could this be, considering
The stupidity of my decisions
The risks I took with my own wellbeing,
The utter disregard

So it must be that god, for me, is looking out regardless.
There must be some plan
regarding me
or else I would have been disposed of.

Does this mean I am a chosen one?
Not just dust- but a favorite son?
I think it must...

There's no other logical conclusion.
Oh no!



I promise I'm not actually this vain. Words came in contradictions, and I waas obliged to pen them down from the ether before they got away.
T R Wingfield Dec 2019
The music that lingers
in my mind when I awaken
is the rhythm of a life
of which I dream to live.

If I could get these symphonies
unlocked from the rooms
in which they reverberate and boom,
I would finally be who I know I should be,
but the rhythm's undone when I do come too;
I'm only ever left with the conclusion
that made my psyche break through-
A conclusion without the question,
a harmony without a melody,
a melody without rhythm,
a break without a build,
a crescendo undeserved.

I carry with me back to consciousness
no evidence of the brilliance observed;
no tally or tale or the things seen and heard.
But I know that I saw them;
I know what I heard.
I feel the rhythm inside me
and I hear the words.
I remember the beats
and the lost melodies.
Never-the-less...
they are incomplete...

just like me.

A clip of a phrase left to rattle around.
An earworm set to unheard sound.

"Dont be afraid
to get too wild"

These dreams are the compositions of some other soul
The music and musings of minds not my own
but I wonder in the early morning grey,

Do the people that I dream to be also dream of being me?



I awoke from a dream and slowly came too with a rhythm and the words that broke through.
And I am always so frustrated because there is no way to capture the song that I heard.
And there never has been.
I am no musical genius, but I know a good song when I hear one,
And I hear a lot of music.
Less now than before,
but I still find myself hallucinating wild bebop jazz
with trumpets and strings,
big band ballad piano swings,
deep house thumpers and jungle themes
Heavy metal string burners
And flamenco beats
In my dreams they are full compositions, with layers and evolution and meaning.  
I just can't remember the words, and the music of mind is not the music of the world, so I have no means to recreate it.
Mostly because I don't know where to begin.
Because the inception of the song in reality or dream,
is always a fugue of some other thing
some music or rhythm that broke away from the meaning it has in the world
and echoed until it became a song I heard.


Maybe when I die I'll get the lyrics sheet in heaven.
That's the only heaven I want.
The one with the words I lost in my sleep,
And the music of my dreams and hallucinations.
The soundtrack to my subconscious.
It's something to be heard.

It will be my Magnum Opus.
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