The sponge

I am soft and full of holes,
Preserved by smiles
That host soirees in my belly,
Every once in a while.

Forest fires snuffed out
By the swampy stretch of shallow summers;
By the mountainous intimacy,
And the cold blood pumper.

I am the overzealous draught
Puffing up the wrong trail,
Where Circe’s shrubs grow dull
And Rosemary’s spell tickles your snout.

Their nymph dance clouds the air
And you stare, as the same shade of ash
Stains the ocean and sky.

I smile at your glassy eyed eagle eye –
You are at sea with my oddly set genes.

My two-minute love, I am
The train of thought you couldn’t follow,
The prospect turned to vapour,
Floating up to be a cloud
And raining down to wet your dreams.

Don’t expect me to bloom
Just because it is spring.

You amaze at the flowery insights
Budding off my frivolous tongue,
At the bleeding emotion
Ejaculating from my ripe fat fruits.

There is a pureness and ease
To this elephant happiness.

But the sickness, you see,
Has been breeding for months
And the worms inside are waiting
To rush down your throat and smother you.

As you press your feverish mouth to mine,
It is your weakness that will rot you.

I lie before you, truthful and bare.
Trust me darling, all I really am
Is a few padded memories of childhood,
Waiting like dew to dry up in the sun.

I have soaked up more than any barnacle could bear
So just give me a squeeze, and I’m done.


Photograph of view from Punta di Circe, San Felice al Circeo, Italy

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Post #4 Manic Confusion

Faces, sweat, tiny little squares.
It all fades and flashes
And you’re so warm,
so genuine…

A toothache and desperate desire.
My knees tremble
With hunger, fear and life;
With lust…of what?

And to think that just this morning,
my alarm clock was destruction!


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Rather confusing drunken/manic slurs from the past:

I feel things, hard. Not just about myself about everyone, about the world. I feel their pain, their sorrow and it hurts. The insignificance we dwell in is overwhelming and at times I feel like I can’t bare it. I feel the pleasure as well, the joyful silliness, the heart aching bliss of affection and tenderness. And it’s ecstatic but just as overwhelming, it doesn’t make any sense, is it weakening me or waking me? I can never find the right words.

My feelings are too unrefined and chaotic, and all I do is obsess, obsess, obsess… These human words and etiquettes make me feel so stuck. Stuck in inexplainable concepts and superficial dilemmas. Why does language make us special? All it does is make people feel like they should be able to communicate accurately, when they can’t. It makes me feel inept, and confused.

If only I could put my thoughts into words, so even I could understand them. I wish I didn’t seem so banal, normal and common, whenever I try. I want to be special and everyone wants to be special, and it makes me so un-special. I feel myself nagging at myself, wanting to be something, to do something, to make my life “worth living”. I’m so confused. I hate myself because it’s so normal to be confused.

I want to saviour sadness, not be miserable. I want to travel and learn and taste those moments, when you’re so full of life you could eat up the beauty of it all with a single hungry look. When everything is possible and even time and space feel like paper chains. When you sit in a bar with friends or strangers drinking belgian beer and you feel that glow, that light, when your face aches from laughter and companionship and silliness.

When you want to shout at everyone, how can you not feel this, why are we not all dancing and prancing about like lunatics? When nothing else is important, and the world loves you and your exams the next day fade away and your dreams fade away and your nightmares fade away. When you’re robbed of all you have, stripped of every care, and you still feel that tingle, and you’re alive, you’re everywhere, you’re infinite.

Yet all I find comfort in lately is mindless sex, violence, exhibitionism, stupidness, music, abstract thought and nonsense. I can’t feel, I’m trying to feel… Do I not want to feel? I can’t even remember what I just thought, or even if I did, and even if I did, it would take more than a lifetime to decipher.

Yes doctor, my “feelings” are slowly numbing out, my “passions” are slowly fading away. Yes, teacher, you’re clever and have purpose and the word surely must need your theories on middle eastern development and you where beautifully there when the room was spotty and your hair curled perfectly behind your ear, and I could feel your barely resentful thigh in between my clumsy legs…

I feel stale, human, rotting…

And I listen to Chopin’s Nocturne number 8 in D flat, and I feel that oh so common emptiness.