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Julian Delia Mar 2018
The fabric of human life,
An elixir of strife –
Passion is everything and nothing.
Passion
Is the sweat on my palms
Whenever I behold you in my arms,
Passion
Is the breathlessness I feel
Whenever my lips delicately caress yours,
It is the hunger inside
That I can only feed
Not with steak or fries
But, exclusively, with one deed –
The deed
Of opening up
Like a fresh pack of cards,
Exposing everything,
Concealing nothing.

I wish
It could be that easy –
I wish
A thin film of plastic
Was the only thing
Separating the cards I keep close to my chest
From your gentle fingers.
But,
It is not –
Beneath that spark of passion
Lies a great inaction
There is
A layer of cold fog
Swallowing everything up whole
And the only thing I can see
Is you, desperately
Trying to understand
Extending your hand
Into the void.

Sometimes I wonder
Whether I should build a dam
Instead of letting my river of emotions flow –
BUT
Your touch, your presence
Infallibly bring me back to that feeling you get
When watching a pyrotechnical show.
Spending the night with you
And waking up regenerated, anew,
Brings me towards this question:
“Who goes there?
Who
Is bold enough
To venture into this cave
This structurally unsound mess
This tavern of stress
That is my soul?”
The light of my heart intensifies –
Feeling, thought and action
Are easier,
If for just a while.
If you could only understand
How difficult it is to reconcile
All the anxiety
All the pain
With what I experience in your presence…

Imagine
Being in an art gallery
But being unable to see colour
Imagine
Being an unsung, fallen hero
A spent life, ended with no valour
Imagine
Having the mind of a genius
That is trapped in a minefield of anxiety, unable to speak.
All of this –
It is a mirroring of what I feel
Of who I am.

I am an individual
That loves the world and life itself
But walks through it warily
A shadow
Walking in the plains of the living
Aghast at the thought
Of permanently becoming darkness.
Stealthily
I am creeping out of this nebulous underworld
A process that will take time,
A tunnel wherein the light at the end
Is not yet visible –
I yearn
For your tender touch,
For your warm presence
To be there
When I finally crawl out
When I can finally walk
Steadily, on my own two feet
A man made of solid steel
Who will bend his knee to no one.

Despite my misgivings,
Despite all this maddening rage
I have towards the world
I also think of things like old age,
The crumbling temple of our youth –
In truth,
I do not see myself settling
I am investing
Not in a house or a bank loan
But in a better world for all
A sacrifice
That will only lead to immeasurable yet the noblest of hardship.
But,
Until then,
Until push comes to shove
And I am still willing and able to feel and love
I will just content myself
With waiting, and hoping
To see you again.
Deep from my soul, from me to you.
Brian Pickering Feb 2017
Sartorial

Not always conformed, to what was expected of me,
The sixties and seventies, exciting times, not what the older generation, thought it should be,
Sample new pleasures, sometimes on a whim,
New music, new stimulants, often, not what it said on the tin,

Dress code were informal, and often quite extreme,
Highly coloured loon pants, that the older folk, had never seen,
Time progressed, matured, and subdued was the order of the day,
Dark blue socks, pin striped suits, and some, a very, very drab grey,

Time sped on, identity gone, I tired of life conformity,
I’m a full grown man, so I hatched a plan, for my own, self autonomy,
I started with the socks, with colours so bright, I always knew where my feet were,
Like beacons in the night, a luminous sight, my feet, a pyrotechnical blur,
A very useful guide, when you’re totally pie-eyed, to know your feet, were still on the ground, beneath you,
If they were at shoulder height, there’s a good chance you’re tight, that things had gone, totally askew,
Panicked thoughts do abound, I shouldn’t be this way around, whilst a gentle thud is the sound, of your ****, as it’s striking the ground.

Ah the shirt, a statement, a provocative trait, with designs, you either love, or you hate,
The shirt is the thing, that should make every man sing, at the prospect of projecting an image,
Hawaiians are brash, the colours do clash, but you’re starting a new age, the old one to trash
Your identity is born, let the old identity mourn, be extravagant with colour, be flamboyant,
Burn the beige and grey, stand up and say hey, my colourful image, is my enjoyment.

Parrots and cars, palm trees and bars, and shirts with multi-coloured stars,
Brightly coloured sneakers, baggy shorts that features, a perfectly monstrous clash,
With your new image to go, step out and throw, your wavering confidence away,
Treat people with humour, especially those who are gloomier, and brush away that awful cliché,

Some people may think, it’s OK to link, dislike of your choice,
for unkind remarks, to voice,
Accept it as is, it can make you annoyed, but it’s only a mark of their schadenfreude,
To combat this, it’s absolute bliss, to give them the finger, then slowly depart, don’t linger.

— The End —