Stares at him a blank page
Stares at him a blind rage
Stares at him a maddening pause
Stares at him an indeterminable cause

It seems so unfair
Before him is only laid bare
A taunting silence
Tearing into his patience
Dragging him down to bottom
Raising him up the cliff
Tossing him in the storm
Showing him no relief!

And it’s precisely then
Over the shattering pain
Emerges a newly born light...

He feels a palpable might.

He rejoices in its voice.

Past the night’s turbulence
Would be revealed at the dawn
The hidden shapes in the silence
The picture fully drawn!

A picture sans all flaws
For you drawn on the canvas
Making redundant a cause
For effects that far surpass!

All it took was three steps up
Doors swung open before me
I approached Him, who sat still and unmoving.
unaffected by Time but ravaged by the pain of doubt and ignorance

All it took was three steps forward
Then, strength and courage left me
Worn-down
Beaten by life’s merciless hand
My knees sank as Life’s hand grasped my shoulders and I felt his burden
My whole being collapsed upon the marble floor
The sound echoed and cruelly dealt a strike to my ears,
My senses and my soul

As if Moses struck the rock with his staff
The water came forth
Flowing freely from my soul against sallow, weary skin
Hands trembling
Body aching
I closed my eyes
I saw darkness but an image appeared
****** and bruised
It took all my strength
To utter three questions:

Why (to the Father)
Why does the grass grow, rich and fertile
only to provide for those that destroy it?
Why does my neighbor strip me bare and steal my coat
To leave me unsheltered from the cold wind’s bitter punishment?
Why must I walk this lonely and sullen earth
While the black crow pecks violently at my flesh?
Why? For I have loved but have been despised in return.

Who (to the Son)
Who is the snake that lies?
The brother that prays and the brother that kills?
The husband that beats and the wife that endures?
And the ****** Mother that reigns over all, even you?
Even me.
Who? For I know none and all of them.

Where (and to the Holy Spirit)
Where does the sky end and the Earth begin?
Is it where the body ceases to be and the soul takes over?
Is it where I made my first steps
And tumbled right after?
The indeterminable line between sea and sand;
Truth and lies
Where? For I have looked and looked.  

My lips, salted and mad, trembled
Pain pierced my soul
I felt it all
And felt it again
My body began to thrash
I felt it upon me
Misery, sadness, death, despair
I became Samson, tearing down the pillars upon the accursed Philistines
I raged and roared
For hope, wisdom, strength, and faith

I opened my eyes

And Light filled me

I would like to think that by the age of 6, i would have turned deaf, from the hands being placed on my ears to escape bullets of words. Shattering around me, i wished to grow up. By the age of 8, i knew my place and, my place knew me. I lived in a minefield, during a war i had not realised was going on. I had unbroken bones which bled from the inside, my mind was torn in to a million pieces and at 10, i didn't know what childhood was, and wished i was alone.

By 16, I fell into a man, a man who's hand it took 2 years to gain from his mother, as she sat there smoking and drinking hot water with lemon to be diet thin. Trimmed the fat a bit when we both left the country, and he got a girl pregnant in India, with twins, which she later aborted; I was in Canada, and 18 when i wished i was blind.

I followed through, travelled the world, til i was 21, became a university student, a best friend, a lesbian, and went to a foreign country were you are forced to use your goodness to be a force of good, which no-one sees as good, but as a hand out, and i lost good friends and saw bad men lose theirs, at 21, I saw the world and i was i was emotionally devoid in a climate of acclaimed peace.

By 26 i was a mother, uncontrollable love and grief flowed through me, like rain is dissolved by the streams in the hills. I picked up my smiling, beautiful child, which had became my night, noon, morning and day, and i wished i could repair the tear within my soul, to encompass all the love i had for my son; and the tear remained patched up with sellotape; I wished I had been a better child.

I lost all consciousness from 27 til 28, love turned to hate, i lost my love, and picked up a young one, if only she was to physically show me what my ex had not been telling me all along; what my ex boyfriends mother made me feel for 2 years, and the way my father left, whilst my mother was pulling me up the stairs, by my hair. At 28 I realised i had made the wrong decision.

From 28, here on out the wind blew, and it blew down to the valleys, and there i found the love of my life. We found and created an indestructible friendship and love, the first only and ever to support me and our goals, she helped me stand up to my father; who then ended our own father/daughter relationship. And not 3 months shy later, when myself and my son mouthed our love and said goodbye. We returned to an empty house. I sacrificed my grief for a small boy who cried for a non-existent person. At 29 my heart was destroyed in a slow burning bonfire.

I replaced the love with the lost, and gladly filled up my tank with lost souls of lost girls, who had lost their souls from some other lost soul, and so the cycle becomes fully reborn. I became someone i knew not of. I had a best friend, who i solely loved because she was the vat of hope i desperately needed in the darkest hour, my biggest cheerleader and my ***** compadre. I remember at 29 celebrating a birthday with 2 friends, and looking at the stars and thinking, is this the meaning of my existence? I remember feeling like the winds were about to change.

30. I had moved house, abandoned my son and old life, for a new job, for new money. I sunk like the titanic who did not see the epic gigantic proportion of iceberg that was about hit the ******* fan. I lost the best friend. Slowly through another relationship did i gleam a sensation of love. It was love, but it was demanding and childish, and i pushed her away before she even asked me to be hers;  in i might add one of the most romantic pursuits ever. She became my sons best friend, my dancing partner, she loved me so very very much, and i hated her for it, i hated her so much for loving me, because i was rightly wrong and she was wrongly right. I just turned 31, and she walked out over an argument over bike helmet. I realised, i was a product of my over endless pursuit of love perfect.

At 32, i am single, broke my back at work, i was then dismissed by that work, moved house, began recovery, had a car accident and here i am beginning again. Yet i am in love now with a man, something i have struggled with for a year, i am at my most humble, deep, profound, sense of being in love, without reciprocation than i have even been, and why........?

Well....

When i was 16 i wanted to be 30, i wanted my life to be over. I wanted the dead years to pass. I wanted the hard work to be gone and done. Not because i didn't want to live, but because i had lived so hard before i was 16, that anything else seemed to exhausting for words to even begin to create.

Except i lived it.
I learnt that love is not words, love is words.
Love is the words of your favourite song, emblazoned on a 8ft wall, that you come home to, and see as a surprise.
Love is someone letting you read your book.
Love is not the voice, the meaning, the tone, the perception or allegorical meaning.
Love is not the abuse, the abuser, their demons, their guilt or their silence.
Love is the unspoken word, the deep stare, the knowing glance, a tender reassurance, that this is ok.
Love is your hand holding mine. N.B Handholding is underrated.
Love is not possession, greed, want or desire. They are not yours, you are not theirs.
Love is invisible, yes it is, red balloons don't mean **** on one day a year.
Love is not perfect, but imperfect.
Love is ruthless, and cut-throat.
Love will burn you to the very last core of your being because you cannot contain its power.
Love is not lies, deceit, untruths, stories told to the naieve because you cannot be a lover and have to be a storyteller.
Love is truth, truth that so bitterly hurts, that you want to be porcelain and break into a million pieces, from the chest .
Love is walking, talking, and laughing, always laughing; love is a smile on a face.
Love is hard, and intolerable, it is passionate, and persistent and it is consistent. It does not break, it is not flimsly like a kite in a storm.
Love does not take offence to personal battles and rebukes of deadly warfare.
Love does not change its mind, be unsure, lack responsbility, or drinks you dry, til you are dried out and up.
Love is not ***, love is not lust, lust is not 'go on, you know you want to', love is not sorry in the morning.
Love is not the ***** all night *** sessions that keep the neighbours awake, but it is in the glory of two bodies where love can be found.
Love condemns. Love is a silent recommendation from Disney, Cathy and Heathcliffe, and Ring of BrightWater.
Love is a minefield and a forbidden playground; it is a secret garden and a theme park.
Love is not alone, and it is not together; it is not your children, or your childrens, children; It is within them and without them.
Love is not to be found on the praying may, in the clouds, in a the pew, or in the incense.
Love cries, love wails, love beats at your very chest, love is in death, love is in the birth.
Love.
Love.
Aaah, hmmm, Love, is an indeterminable force, by which, because of its very nature, no-one can define by logic, except that they will, because, what they cannot understand, they use perception of their blinded sight, deaf ears, and lost senses to put into words, something their heart cannot.
You have everything and you have no-one.
You have reason and you have none to be afraid of.
You are your past, and unfortunately, you are not.
You are your damage, your hurt and your pain, and hardest, your own responsibility.
You are worthy, and you are worthless, you have been shamed and you have been glorified.
You are your own future, your own today, and the yesterday.
And despite all the crap ******* memes,
Love is you, and you are love.

By 32, i had learnt to love myself. Inbetween the grieving, there is a silent knowledge, that by 32 i am in love, with myself.

*I wrote this as a very open outpouring of grief i am currently going through, and also an open realisation of the love within and for myself. It is one of my most open and explicit short stories of my life, and even within that there is lots that has not been recognised, because it has been shortened and reconsidered somewhere else. Thank you

submerged in a life with no todays
a submarine dive in dank water
a muck and a murk that can’t be shaken
awakening to a déjà vu
unviewed in an era or two or ten or when or
then but not now and never next
electrical fences building themselves
unyielding as we scale
flailingly failingly toward
a date and time and place indeterminable
subliminal signposts spray-painted by
anarchists railing against awareness
obscuring and obfuscating
translating into languages undocumented
concocted from alien metals and foreign shrieks
weaknesses in the armor show like
rusting bruises on the intangible
cruising through an imaginable maze
while memory like a rabid wolf bays
submerged in a life with no todays

Today, I watched a heavy insect of
indeterminable species
repeatedly slam into the wide picture windows
of my college library’s
third story as I read a book
analyzing one poem
Teilhard de Chardin wrote
after carrying casualties
on a stretcher
all day
from a war for which no name is presented
to me.

It is inferred de Chardin's time tells of world wars,
yet his poem deals with virginity
and mothers
although of each he was in just one.

Resistance to our ****** urges
and the potency resistance drains
was compared to
minute prosperity provided by the pursuit
of retaining 'innocence'.

The book was named "Eternal Feminine"
and its author's argument functioned
as a double victory for remittance
to a cloud kingdom
and shivering loneliness
seen through invisible barriers
on earth.

Hooray!

He seemed to be
rationalizing the struggle
with sickly pleasure
from repetition of denial.

But I lost interest in his foolish, war-time words.

Watching the flying thing reverse directly,
then continuously speeding ahead
into various windows
which were thought to be bare air,
confused and jolting with every attempt
and frantically circling in my sight,
I was led to thinking of a
demolition derby
at a fairground to which
my parents brought me
each year
of childhood
in the Autumn.

I watched, fascinated
machines stave-off
self-induced decimation
until the very last collision, after which
their motive force removed itself
rushing off to pilot
some variant of bumbling insects
and stretchers
in the form of French theological poets
throughout the past
carrying bodies
into the hands of a college student
backing up determinately
to burst through, toward the one who bares
no sons, who may become warriors
or demagogues.

This kind, secular Hannah
crosses my vision
walks out
beyond frames and doors,
clothes flowing with her
body, like a
sweet corona
sweltering with unseen heat
the fading horizon
of my day.

He sees her reflection on the moon.

Now he may not see space’s vacuous expanse
while
she may not be able to touch time’s clear fabric,
although they each feel
glass’s frozen liquidity
in silence.

Each
continuously strikes their head
against motion’s transparent barriers
with force
stubbornly flapping
into matter
with passion
and wings pulsating
toward a new direction
which does not seal them off
to the outside
of a building
in which they would be swatted,
punished for what they are.

Then the moment passed
and the sun’s thousand year combustion
had reached my neck
and penetrated matter
to massage me;

for eight and a half minutes
it travelled
toward a shadow I pushed
across the table
when the sun suddenly was helpless
to tell me where I ended,
which windows I flew through.

I was on top
de Chardin’s stretcher
as he looked at me to say I shouldn’t
charge in that way,
but I fell down
when he let go
or he evaporated
when I doubted he had lived.

Pressing my cheek against the glass
I reversed my propulsion
like the flown insect
and sounded again
my body's tinging
reverberation
on every surface.

Find the hardest possible thing
you could do,
and do that,
the heaviest possible thing
you could lift,
and lift that,
the most taxing responsibility
in your grasp,
and take that on.

Do you think it is by pure chance
that warriors are forged in fire?
What of their blood sacrifices?

Challenge your barriers;
do not let them sit indeterminable.

Life is not the pursuit of happiness;
life is the pursuit of the cessation of suffering.

Do you think love is a blessing?
In some ways, perhaps,
but let's not forget the responsibility
we must bear
when another soul is entrusted to us.
What greater compliment is there than that?
To say, you, no matter your faults and troubles,
you are the person in which I will spend my life with,
come hell, come the high waters of the flood,
you are the only one I want.

And to bear children, to bring children into
a dismal world such as this,
filled with wretched suffering and anguish,
such a thing is not an act of foolishness
when undertaken voluntarily,
it is an act of supreme courage.

We are not meant to be happy in this life,
we are built for struggle,
to strive and to break through the top soil
and reach the light of day.

We must bear our cross,
however heavy,
however unfair,
and continue on.

O Human Evolution
of indeterminable joys
This is the first era in History
Where the Girls behave worse
than the Boys.

Young Irish Women
Finally free of the past...
In the heat of the City,
At the stroke of One-Thirty
The truth emerges
Thick and fast.

But don't put me down
as some frigid Boy shrew
You need to put yourself out there
to know
What you're getting yourself into.

Her, never having known ‘her,’
the idea,
‘her’
becomes an irregularity for me.

it is not part of my schema. that vantage of man,
as the synthesized post-******.

nevertheless,
her frame rises up stairs,
petaluma sad wink
watch her disappear behind the half wall.

furtive glances into you.
lone, and left wandering.

when we travel along our vectors,
we fail to consider that our bodies are not whole, complete entities,
they are porous, and the closer in,
do we realize that borders of flesh and air,
are indeterminable.

Have you ever had a dream that takes up twenty-three hours
Of your daily twenty-four?
And it follows you to work, to get-togethers, to school,
All the way back home.

You want it so badly, would give your heart and mind and
Your uppermost third of your leg on the left side.
And it makes you smile when you think about it because it's amazing.
And you think, you hope, you know you'll make it happen.

And then you come down and remember who and what and why you are.
And that dream is mocking and jeering at you.
That dream is picking at you and you don't have the energy to bat it away
So you let it and it picks away more than you would have given.

You wake up in the morning thinking your whole life's been wasted and,
From the other side of the bed, that dream agrees.
You look at all the people who did it and have it and made it and,
From the other side of the bed, that dream is still mocking you.

When you go to work the dream drapes itself over you, broken and nasty
And no one mentions it because they all have their own dreams
That are doing the exact same thing.
Neither do your friends, or strangers, or family.

When you go home some indeterminable amount of time after that dream
Broke you,
You wrestle it to the floor and fold it three hundred times until it's barely a
Speck.

And you pop it into your mouth and swallow it whole
Pretending you can't hear it screaming and fighting all the way down.
You digest that dream but it's still there, ready to be taken up again but you won't
Because you won't get it now and you won't have it later.

On your way to wherever and whenever you see children laughing
And they hold their dreams up high. They love those dreams and those dreams love them.
And your stomach twists and turns as your dream beats at it
But you keep walking. Keep driving. Keep moving.

You close your eyes and scream and cry but you don't get your dream back
Because it hurt you before and you're not fool enough to try again.
When you go to sleep, it will haunt you.
When you're home alone, it will torture you. You know this.

You go home anyway and it stabs a knife through your abdomen and
You don't flinch at all, it was expected.
And you go to your room and lay down to stare at nothing for an hour or two
Until you think that, maybe, crying will ease the emptiness.

So you think of the saddest things that would send the hardest heart into waterworks
And you wait because, two hundred and eighty-eight hours later
Because one million three hundred and sixty-eight thousand seconds later
You still haven't shed a tear.

I’ve gotten pretty good,
at tricking my self to sleep,
make believe i’m really tired,
and how i really want those dreams.

Everyone else is sleeping,
or trying to be awake,
but here i am now,
consciously alone.

The ambient noises,
and vibrant colors,
of shapeless existence,
and indeterminable wealth.

somber scents,
and weightless thoughts,
about heroes dead,
and gone.

As time slips by,
i am only aware,
as best i can be,
of these breaths.

As it is,
Inspiration being,
the only thing,
which hasn’t left this eve.

epithets ethnocentric, writ or summons, the birth
and beginning of pataphysics, dreary ideas set aside
and conditioned, concurrently indeterminable, evils betide
man, noises and bones ossified, the mirth
of cheated demons frequent places, papers roseate worth
reading seven times after millions of chancy exasperation, qualified
soldiers groping in darkness, towns allied
with veterans, read oceanic maps and maps of the earth
are complied, pious assumptions of diverted water, patchy
knowledge of metaphysics coupled with slaves'
science ravaged, rulers' sacrifice reduced and sacrificed
rulers mediocre, rusty straps of metallics hold stones, catchy
choruses are mere repetitions of no one craves
dignity, waives privileges highly priced

Backed into a corner.
Folded over four hundred times.
"I thank whatever gods may be"
for my indeterminable mind.

Thrown about like little Jack Horner.
I've never cared much for pie.
Christmas either, for that matter.
"If you are me then who am I?"

Somebody sent on a suicide mission.
Grand plans of livin' but doomed to die.
She smiled wide after I delivered that line,
and a small part inside of me died.

I'd be better off if I could get paid to cry.
I'll try not to be so stubborn about it.
In forty-two seconds I'm bound to forget.
Wait, what were we talking about just now?
How much of this have I already said?

If there's bliss in ignorance then there's sadness in truth.
I once loved a girl whose mother's name was Ruth.
It's a Biblical thing.
She was mostly Adam and I was niEve.

I sometimes get lost when walking down familiar streets.
It may not be the greatest thing,
but hey,
it's still pretty neat.

I have become the cartoon of misery. Meditation only goes so far before western medicine is needed, before old Johnnie Walker comes to visit me at my desk. He does nothing but sit and keep me company, faithful friend, whilst I go about polluting the internet. I have let myself go. I think Johnnie helped with that, for better or worse. I bid him goodnight at my bedside, faithful friend, knowing that I'll not want him there in the morning.

I have become something wasted. Old pill packets pile on the side, ailments beyond cure or at least, beyond care. Hats scatter the room, never to be worn but optional costumes for future selves. Change collects in big proportions in a coffee mug, left to waste in rust as another day passes in daily interviews with the mirror and no plans. It's crazy, I know, spurning vital energy in not exerting any of it all.

I have become the morning after. Eyes buzzed with new light, temples now ruins of Dionysus, I search for the window of perception. Roman blinds flirt truth in waves of indeterminable information and so I call up old Johnnie to help me understand things again. He flavours ice with half-truths and old, old cravings. I dial in old numbers, old, old, old, until I feel new again, once I realise they can't talk to me anymore. I have become the teenage dream realised as I take to independent waste and whiskey slur, long-shot attempts at fame and periods of silence with the family.

I have become the cartoon of misery with no audience. I can live with that.

the way out now
is only through the dawning
of the darker dream
the twisting of the spiral to
an indeterminable point
the realization of a magic balance
whereby opposites are well
positioned though never gaining
sight of one another

doomed to drift in undulating
furies ever further from themselves
never to escape
the way out now
is through the collapsing
kaleidoscopic  door of time
the biological rhythm of a
living universe whose name
is indecipherable except
is on the tongue of each and every
hungry soul who's ever tasted language

preserved breviaries Catholic, properly categorised
plenty of answers many questions added to, juxtaposition
of many images, a precise definition
of antagonisation, sycophantic normal positions despised
totally, military misers accused of ensnarement orderly memorialised
properties properly improved, revealed superstition
and suspicion, doubtfully splendid spirited perdition
distinguished, heirs of documents are identified, minimised
images and boors' occupied regions, grandiose
sciences are indeterminable, safely secured benefits
for runic understandings pretentious
obstinate beasts acquire in disruption, types of otiose
considerations ill-prepared to deal with credits
and debts for answering questions licentious

I sit idle,
awaiting
life – life
on a loading screen
inching forward
at indeterminable increments
one fraction at a time,
waiting for the screen to load.

What
could it
be – be-
yond the loading screen?

404
object not found
please return home,
your mother is waiting
for you
there
for you
to become
something

or other. Or other-
wise – wise
guy – you would have wasted her time.
For God's sake what is living for
– loading
?

You can
abort program at any time
and stop the loading
the result,
in
the end
is
the same,
it's
the end. The end.

Waiting, impatience, nervousness.
Imagination too broad to bare with this moment.

The sound of sirens ringing in my ears,
announcing awful news.
Vehicle passing, rising filth,
indeterminable urgency.
Drops of sweat, one by one,
drift down my forehead, cheeks, neck, back.
Paranoia causes dark horrific stink of blood in my nostrils,
goose flesh spreading rapidly from head to toes.
Burning ache around my heart,
every throb seems like the last one.

*
Five minutes after agreed time, you came running to my side under the Central square's clock.
"Sorry I'm late" you said, hugged me and kissed my cheek.
At the last moment, I stopped tears from overflowing.
Worriedly, you asked: "Is everything okay?"
Sheepishly smiling, I replied: "Yes, of course. My brain's just playing tricks on me."

Like nothing ever happened...

she is beautiful when she is in love
with that smile on her face of hidden meanings
a unspeakable glow that can only signal someone above
eyes that glitter with private dreamings

when wanted and wanting of not but want
the desire flares and surges an aura undetected
granting beauty undescribable
one description of which writers find daunt
ages and years persons attempted
the love she exudes markedly incredible

indeterminable and fantastical
she loves with beauty and grace
that fathomless smile upon her face
beauty of which cannot be placed

To move as one and surge in mutable state. To act in flow, as one is all, and ever shift as pressure calls you to rise and fall. I can cleanse, or hold your bile. I've been here for quite a while. I'm seen as blue, but clear through and through, and I bend light to trick the eyes and show fancy colors. Associated with emotion, as my nature is indeterminable, but equally complicit: I am the life force which wills Earth's kin to reason. I am the essence, and the beauty of survival.