Paradise Preoccupied

You know how it is …

Some people see life as a roller coaster; they thrill with anticipation on the way up, love the gut-lurch at the top, then piss themselves out of fear on the way down and spend the rest of the time embarrassed about the wet mark.

Some see life as a banquet; gorging themselves on the richness of the spread, they pass on nothing tasty, but often end up vomiting all as a consequence of their indulgence.

I see life as a convoluted tale … or tail, perhaps, as if it’s the ass-end appendage of a lumbering beast, which is a good explanation for why shit happens … so I don’t wet myself or puke, but follow and pay attention, and what erupts or leaks or spews from me as a result is verse.

Unlike the professional work I am paid to produce … unless for a very good cause or a lover who gives me a good deal in trade … poems aren’t written for anyone, not even me. They are just written, as a convoluted tale must be. If any sense can be made of twists and turns and whorls, crafting them into letters/words/phrases is the way I deal with confusing complexities.

Although it often seems poems pop out of me, the actual process is more like a slow ooze. Yes, a first line or a phrase can surprise me, but a suppuration process must happen before any actual popping happens.

I never know where I’ll end up when starting on a verse-strewn path and don’t set out with any destination in mind, but as a metaphor for life it simply follows the convolutions and ends where it ends.

In answer to some who’ve asked, I usually work a poem for quite a while, tweaking and fiddling until the wrong words are gone and the right words are where they belong. I have no way of explaining the process. Yes, studying the intricacies of meter, rhyme and stanzaic structure is as important a foundation as learning correct punctuation is to writing in general, and any cavalier rejection of the need for rules results in way too much crap writing in the world. But composing anything must be more about what happens in the soul than what can be taught if it’s to reflect more than someone else’s idea of correct.

Because the tail I ride has been whipping around way too much lately, I’ve been splattered with shit that’s prompted efforts to transform random excrement into something a bit less messy. What follows are a few of the sculptures I have managed to fashion as armour …

Mr. Moon

The full face of the moon
looks upon me tonight
and I can’t hide away from his gaze
He says: ’twill be soon
you will turn off the light
but you’ll never escape from the maze
you have woven so tightly
you must face it nightly
whether I’m dark or I’m bright
In fear or so hopeful
with a love or alone, full
my presence can make it all right.
Goodnight …

Input Reaction

I need to stop reading the news
and not just cuz it gives me the blues
So much is just stumpin’
it sets my head thumpin’
I should just settle down for a snooze …
or some booze …

I’m wondering what I’ve got to lose
if I really gave up on the news
I’d for sure miss the fodder
but in some ways I’d oughter
be grateful to say, ‘please excuse’ …
pass the booze …

Say What?

What? Now?
They’re sneaking up again
those damned emotions
make me spin
Oft times I think I’m doing fine
then … BAM! … it all goes
outta line.
Through each and every thin
and thickness
I find myself the only witness
A mess it is this puddling
and bloody fucking muddling
Tis simpler to see things done
And, sure as shit,
this isn’t fun
They come with every chat on Skype
a plea for words,
a bit more hype,
late night IMs into my phone.
No wonder I am still alone.
Oh, yes
they’re sneaking up again
those damned emotions
make me spin
What now?

Cheep Bitch

I feel a finger on my switch
but, dammit all
ain’t life a bitch
It’s not the button
makes me cheep
but just the one
puts me to sleep …

Never Quite Done

I can’t turn love on and love off like a tap
In my world, it just doesn’t happen like that
It may come on quickly
but no matter how sickly
it ends up
I’m stuck with the sap

The depths of my heart are at least what’s at stake
when I stand on that cliff deciding to take
that leap into faithful
no matter the fate, full
of glass shards
I’m left with the break

I’m never quite done with a love I have known
and through all the pain I’m aware that I’ve grown
accustomed to heartache
but, though it’s an art, take
the bit that I own.

I treasure the leavings of love that is past
all some of my future that’s coming too fast
there’s tenderness in it
I hope I can spin it
to something that lasts.

Ack! x 2 = WTF?

There’s nothing quite so maudlin
as a man who do come daudlin
with his ego on a string around his neck.
A sack of “I am great, me”
and a plaque that reads “Come mate me”
is nothing but a warning, read:
Train wreck.

****

That light of the end of the tunnel is not
the end of an era, some happiness bought.
A new narcissist git
with a slim chance to hit
on a woman too heavily fraught.

Moon Shine Supine

Moonbathing
supine on the Equator
Midnight
Cool argent light
dims the Leonids
Silver breath whispers
my skin deciphers:
You are one with all,
luminous

Moonburnt
supine on the Equator
Midnight
No shadow falls between
cool argent light
nor interrupts silver whispers
my heart deciphers:
You are one,
solus

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