Bon Fire Stories for Around My Tombstone

The bells toll to signal the end of a life characterized by failure.
A failure to reach ascendancy and win over his hero’s favor.
A failure to shake the darkness plaguing his broken soul.
A failure to break the suicidal habit that lead so many others to burn in the coal.
A failure to maintain a healthy relationship long enough to find a wife and produce an heir.
A failure who was never able to pull himself out of the pit of despair.
A failure who never achieved a decent career.
A failure who never figured out God’s plan for his life that the good lord laid out right in front of him o so clear.
A failure to rediscover himself and build himself into a proper person.
A failure who pushed everyone away and allowed and disease in him to only worsen.
He failed his entire life, from birth to burial.
A failure who drove his parents hysterical.
A miserable failure, isn’t he just terrible?
This will be a small, quiet memorial.

Only family members and a few close friends gather around this *******’ casket.
They shed a few tears, say some kind words but deep down, don’t feel bad for the rascal.
He was the black sheep of the family and not really loved by anyone anyhow.
There is an overall sense of relief that he’s gone now.

Everyone ignored his please as he cried out for help through is art.
Everyone ignored him as he walked around slowly dying of a broken heart.
Everyone ignored him even after multiple books were published describing his pain and inner turmoil.
Ignored he no longer will be as his body rots away underneath the norths cold soil.
As the bells toll to signify his end, a few close friends gather around his tombstone to say their final respects.
They understand the fallen man to have been complex.
They don’t judge him for never practicing safe ***,
or for losing his invisible war and getting ****** into a vortex.

The men and woman begin a bon fire and set up chairs.
These a sense of peace tonight in the chilly spring air.
They crack open a cooler and pass around the beer.
This is how the fallen would have wanted it, just to be clear.
They begin sharing stories of the man he used to be,
Hoping that now, from his inner pain he is free.
They share stories surrounding his dark times dating Autumn,
amazed that from his downfall there, he was able to climb back up from the bottom,
but was unable to do the same here today.
Everyone has an expiration date and his just happened to come out and play.

They share embarrassing moments he thought they had long forgotten,
and share time’s where his greatness really blossomed.
They rip on him for never using a ******
and say be belonged living in *****,
but *** wasn’t meant to be contained,
it was meant to be raw and natural, like he always explained.
The group shakes their heads at his crazy theories.
He had so many unnatural ideas he could have written a book series.
They shake their heads and laugh at the discussion of his strangeness,
always shaving his body when no man was meant to do so.
His feminine traits when he claimed to be a real man.
He lived a strange existence during his short life span.

One friend, his best one of all, takes out his books of art and begins reading them aloud to the group.
They all share their thoughts and opinions openly on what they think.
Twisted, tormented, genius, freak, he was all of them.
An outcast to many, but a hero to some.
His words are laced with venom and strike hard.
In person, you could never tell, he always had up his guard.
His friends don’t care; they are here to celebrate his life and do him one last solid.
After all, it’s the least they can do, it was a group promise.

As the group laughs, drinks and celebrates, a man watches on from a distance.
Even in death, he is still facing resistance.
His soul is charred, beaten and worn down,
but he’s not sad, his face isn’t even supporting a frown.

With the angels above him in the sky calling out to him,
and the demon’s below him reaching out for him,
he’s just happy to see his friends celebrating who he was while he was alive.
He wishes he could go give them all a high five.
Sharing campfire stories around his tombstone is how he wants to be remembered.
Drinking beer, sharing laughs all for him, it warms his soul.
Reading his art out loud, it how he wants to be remembered.
At least his death wasn’t all in vain.

The soaking ink
The doppler-shifted music
The refracting light

The gravity pulls
The magnetic-norths repel
The sticky vacuum ether

A falling stone
A drifting feather
A stationary wind

A silent name
A population disinterested
A common, universal secret

The sharp middle
The undulating plane
The slowly rising soil

Sensation and intuition
Without and within
Together in massive isolation.

she loved spaces
like fishes hated aquariums
and birds despised cages;
you will see it in her paintings
and writings
and eyes,
because she's always
somewhere else
right now.

but she hated spaces
like the moon loved the sun,
and norths wanting each other,
because she's far too deep
in her own thoughts,
that when she
needed saving,
there was no one;
she drowned.

and i sometimes why i have premonitions
of sorts,
one i found myself walking up arthur's seat
in edinburgh, converging on imagining
but not actually seeing fields of crosses -
which is the strange aspect of imagination:
you never actually see what you sometimes
imagines,
               and you never know
these these "visions" will precipitate to make
them real,
   i didn't know syria would become a playground
for crosses,
  the world has become too vast to prepare you
with a certainty of locality,
syria being one of these loci;
yet you still walk around three days prior
like a shadow,
morose, bewildered and rarely speaking,
only saying the odd hello,
   because, deep down: something is brewing,
and it will not be pretty,
you *****, take a **** about give time,
reaching a limit whereby you're left *******
a liquidated form of a body of a ****...
and still nothing feel right...
   and then being rudely woken at 3 a.m. in
the the night, left to scout the place and invite
the shadows into your abode...
    as i was once asked:
      let me die on the threshold of death -
fully conscious of the inevitable -
i'm starting to think that mort in somnia
(death in your sleep) is the worst way to go...
as i still can't believe that sophistry has evolved
to the extent that there are no dialecticians
at hand, simply because there is always
a mediating figure in the "discussion" -
i find that staggering -
   that the most eloquent speakers of our times
really do require mediators,
instigators of punctuation marks of a discussion...
just like i find it odd that the american term
pollack is deemed "offensive", actually,
it's quite complimentary,
   it's so near jackson and the randomness of
his paintings...
      between pole poll paul, i'd prefer the original
pronunciation of the term,
sure, the aesthetic of the spelling if
slightly odd, but at least people get
the pollack jokes - and no paul's lacking -
  polak is very much akin to the original spresch...
and i sometimes do imagines the idea of
anglo-swabians, rather than the anglo-saxons
settling among the druids, and calling boars:
wild hogs...
           it was never, and never will be
a degrading term, it will actually always be,
plus / minus the jokes
  akin to the picts inventing the copper wire
why fighting over a penny: stretching it...
a skint debate...
         at least we get be rid of the poles,
the polls, the norths & the souths,
                  and the (st.) pauls...
which brings me to a bilingual etymological
comparison...
   the germanic people see the ethnicity of
the slav as simply a people: shying away from
adding an E...
      let invite you on a little secret -
you that in slavic etymology
          slav ≠ slave, rather -
      słowianin = root word słowo,
meaning word - and that's just shy of
sława, i.e. fame?
what's that in irish? a short hand form of -
scrubbing radishes clean?
      it's just staggering that people require
a mediator to practice dialectics...
    people are so well-versed in rhetorical
techniques, that their supposedly well-versed
staging of elocution, perfected,
actually requires a mediator to calm people down;
i'd really love to see a take on dialectics
without: third party influencers,
mediators, barometers...
     the missing third limb...
     when at least one of the people in the discussion
could aid the cushioning effect,
  and always reply with:
      genesis primo - revertere ut primus -
momentum est in principium...
     all poetry reverts to a beginning -
     there has to be this reverting to a beginning
because only the beginning matters,
and like art, the beginning is an unfathomable
carbasus alba...
        or in scientific terms:
    carbasus nigrum, or the medium
          ex ditto - ad ditto - ad ditto in infinitum -
ad re - idem ditto - ex ditto:
which is very much the idea of a wheel,
worded -
         in more concrete terms, kantian:
a priori ad a posteriori sine ditto.
(without a prior toward an after without
                                     the prior said).