Wednesday, 8 October 2014

Necrosis

As he stood, in a stolid pose, watching the blood trickle profusely from the severed skin, he wondered whether his mind had been more deeply dissected than his own vein. Trilling blood marinated the floor as he started to sway. His sense of the self had shivered and decayed. He contemplated the world - always a particularly damaging practice. Opening his eyes and leaving his darkness and converging, remorsefully, into the world through its discernment - "I found my world" he murmured. His place in it was an unsavoury one. "Is the world my world at all?" He tried to compose himself, gathering his thoughts as he began to feel the asphyxiation. "Think clearly!" His mind deviated to engendered thoughts and feelings - many of which abided in places he dare not speak of. They would ferment and fade in his introspection. This was the reason. This was why, soul-searching bred despair. "Man is prone to disassociation", his therapist once uttered. Whilst gazing at the approaching plash with its sorrowful hue of red, he pictured his therapist embroidered in the thick currents of the pulpy, sappy blood. The image surveyed him - or at least he thought. "No, that was definitely him" - he squalled, with echoed cries of shame. He knew that smile from anywhere, with its orientation askew and its somewhat listless impression. He could see the face peer at him, now, in amazement, with contempt, leering, wincing, with resolute bafflement. "What do you want from me?!" - he exclaimed, convulsing slightly and dropping the knife as he swivelled. The sound of the metal pummelling the ground lasted for an eternity. Its sound was melodic, feathery timbered and sublime. Its soothing cries endeavoured to atone for its sins. As its echoes faded, its movement waned, relenting, obscuring. Its warmth mercifully lapsed, it howled and groaned, and it started to shiver, sleepily, drowsily, as the coldness kissed its contours one last goodbye.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

Mr and Mrs Wallbourne cordially invite you

"Balle officielle de M. et Mme Wallbourne" I thought to myself as I positioned my posterior upon my seat whilst intentionally gazing around so as to not bring attention to myself. "So this is the venerable home of the Wallbournes?" I muttered. Esquires, dames and couples. These events always leave me with a feeling of nauseous renouncement. Why do people still subject themselves to the same charade by including me on their invitee list? What is more, why do I assent and stagger over to such events? I could be at home, lolling in front of my fireplace reading Byron with a bottle of wine for companionship . "Alas", I have finally procured myself a comfortable position. I started to look around, the billowing silence made from the procession around me as their prattled intonations confessed their sins left me a little agape. They all started to stare fixedly at one other - making sure their eyes flickered at the correct time so as to not commit some kind of faux pas as they continued their garrulous assertions, in keeping with typical pompous practice.  As I stretched my arms, watching the bourgeois in their opening act, I comfortably rested my extremities on the chaise lounge that had been earlier vacated by Mr and Mrs Hamilton on account of the latter's inconsistency and the former's obedience to authority. My shoes started to shimmer its rather coarse hue of brown. "These were well priced indeed" I thought. Man knows the price of everything and the value of nothing! I am pathetic. I continued to watch what, for lack of a better word, one might call a 'broadcast' around me - trying to ascertain where the "I" of each individual lay. Could one see it in their clothing tout ensemble? Perhaps their vestures gilded personality as well as reckless and resolute colours? What does it really matter anyway? One always tries to impose categorisations upon the universe! We forcibly demarcate identity onto another and although we may affirm that we know that other people change throughout their years, including their cluster of memories, the atoms in their bodies, their personalities, their wants, whims and wishes, in practice we are but an abundance of hypocrisy and imprudence living in a laden of fallacious reasoning. I started to smug, reproachfully, in accomplishment of what I considered shrewd philosophical insight! People must have casually gazed towards me wondering why that man was smiling so boldly and without particular propriety. I am pathetic. I started to grimace at my vainglorious nature, no wonder I am always sat sullenly alone at such events. Even I would swoon away at the sight of me perched on this pew-like seat. The size of the group around me started to escalate. I was betwixt various couples harboured from France and various bachelors all of whom lugged sparkling wine glasses of various dwelling beverages. I was aghast when, suddenly, I saw Miss Princeton in the corner of my eye slowly sauntering in as she stared attentively at the antediluvian art on the wall. "Shall I arise?" I thought to myself as my eyes oscillated between the crowds and Miss Princeton who was adorned in the most courtly of dresses. We all know the type, the one that had the compulsory flower etched just below her collar bone. The beauty of her dress was only matched by her hair which had been fixedly bundled and trussed into the most stylish french-twist that I had ever witnessed. Her feet pattered melody, as though she were standing on a piano playing notes in the most graceful way. The bachelors started to turn their bodies in her direction, objectifying her in the process. They made her an object, a thing, an instrument. I know these type of men, they spend most of their adult lives in a spate of seduction and salacity. Women are only means to an end, a medium upon which women eventually become an average, commonplace, run-of-the-mill type of girl. Their eyes beleaguered Miss Princeton, they wanted to lay siege, they wanted to attack and beguile. A bunch of Casanovas! "From Whence comest thou?" I uttered to myself, haughtily, as I tried to foresee their actions. They probably sailed here from some sordid town abroad, one built upon iniquity and transgression. Damnable! Even though my eyes tried to besiege the bachelors as they continued their staring from the searing hearth, my eyes naturally glided towards her vicinity, "What must she be thinking?" I thought, "what song must be playing inside her like a narrative?". Perhaps she is admiring the brush strokes of Da Vinci. Perhaps she likes humanist art. She is refined, of course, her accosting proved that. I sat in rapt attention, I was amazed and awe-induced. How could something this beautiful and rare breeze in so unfettered, so free? Time became intermittent as she drifted from painting to painting. She assuaged everything she peered upon. The art looked even more alluring now. I even started to gaze upon it from afar with appreciation as though it finally had meaning to me now. Every invitee here, many of whom were habitu√©s, would smile in inexorable fashion as soon as they shared eye contact with her. Even though I was almost imprisoned in this enclave, I should stand up, confidently and without restraint, modulate the gawking, atone her from her fanciers, free her, renounce myself unto her, show her that she's providence, show her that I am hers, be her salvation and pray to God that she be mine..

Friday, 18 July 2014

This Morning

I awoke this morning, my sleep cut short by the nightly outcry of thunder, and slowly opened my eyes to the seeping flurry of light as it encroached itself into my pupils. The world was reserved and soundless, it numbed me, even my heart fell silent. I stared, listlessly, veering my sight into the canvas that hung on my bedroom wall. Like some kind of malady, my eyes started to become disorientated and the room started to gyre as though I had been subjected to some kind of hallucination. The world was in a spiral, it stared to coil itself into my eyes, the canvas became distorted and metamorphosed. The silence started to perforate the atmosphere. I was still numb. In a wearily sort of way, I attempted to fix my gaze on the Brooklyn Bridge that stood notably apart, without restraint, hoping to evince some clarity, a sort of foothold in the storm. But the stares became more violent and protracted, I was veering towards the abyss, the point of no return. I was lifeless and without motion. My eyes hadn't blinked since I awoke. My body was enslaved to its slumber, I was inert, my mind started to glaze, I became a thing. Why couldn't I control myself from my descent into this stupor? What I would do to have someone, something, swoon in and save me from this disease. I need not even forbearance, just someone, anything. Another hand to perforate the sealed apertures of my fingers. To have way of dance to another soul's melody. To live. But I feel my mind convulsing, I watch myself fall. I start to asphyxiate and drown. My throat was filled with an infectious malaise, a sickness, I started to die. The world was defiling me. I became infected. I became a 'thing'.

Thursday, 17 July 2014

The Human Condition

I was sat on the bus today, eyes gazing out to the world, mind rapt in its speculating, then tapered in the supposing why I am so inclined to speculate, and the peculiar term we call the "human condition" augmented in my mind like an echo. I opened the book that I had stowed away in my bag, wanting to free myself from my mental rumination and the cud of thought that was maiming me. I wanted to escape my mind, to absolve my imagination from my own alleys of thought, to be a being in that which I am not. I present my eyes with the book, wearily, staring at the dark lines that constitute the attenuated letters of the title. I tip open the book and quickly locate the bookmark. Manoeuvring myself comfortably on the bus seat whilst carefully surveying the other passengers in order to make sure that I am asunder, separated and exclusive, I allow my sight to fall once again onto the novel. I always felt that, as the French would so melodically say, un amant de romans, un amoureux d'histoires (a lover of novels, a lover of stories), is most comfortable during those reading moments when he is fleeing himself into the darkest chasms of literature without proclivity. His mind pursues the pent shapes of letters and infers words. He follows words and finds his mind roving back and forth in a sentence like a pendulum in its shifting. The reader's eyes might be fixed on the paper, but his imagination, his being, he, is all the while deluged in imagery.
Startled, I suddenly find myself taken aback by the chapter. What had been undulating became violent, my perception was solely taken, aghast, lost in the stalwart imagery of Dostoyevsky. "People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.”

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

Her Smile

She looked at him with a pressing gaze and she thought to herself "I am going to smile, I cannot help it, like a drop of dew balancing on the edge of a petal before falling, and my smile will sink down into his florid pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.”

Sunday, 6 July 2014

Je t'aime, embrayé...

They lay themselves down and clutched like two doves in winter. She was wistful as was he. They glared at one another and their faces ripened like bashful children as they nested their heads into each others bosoms. They embraced themselves, protectedly and perfectly. They appeared to the world as though they were hibernating yet hankering for something eternal. "Perhaps it was eternity itself", the moon often whispered to itself as it watched them glistening during night's twilight. The world roused itself during every kiss, every unfettered infatuation and every timeless gusto. Roses watched from the lilly-laden meadows as they played in their morning dew. Their petals glided in the zephyr as they beheld their view. They had learned in that moment that love's entwining does not veil what love need sought, but it reminds them of what they but wished.
'The Swing - Young Lovers 'by Pierre Auguste Cot

Monday, 16 June 2014

Love and the human touch

Contact is a wonderful thing, there is rarely more reaffirming things out there that remind us that we are whom we are. There are, as I see it, two types of contact by other human beings. One type of contact, that usually extended by others onto us pertaining to particular objective considerations, concerns itself with delineating a part (or all) of our bodies as an object - a thing-in-itself. I frequent my doctor on account of having a rather troubling ache with my hand, and the doctor holds up my hand to inspect it, he leers at my hand as a thing-in-itself, something demarcated from me as a totality. He divides me into parts and cordons them off appropriately as he continues his investigation. Sartre beautifully articulated this with his example of the listless lady who's in recipiency of undesired sexual attention by an inappropriate suitor. The gentlemen in Sartre's example flirts with a lady by holding her hand, yet she distances herself from her hand, it becomes an idle, lifeless, alien extremity that has been divided and segregated in the face of existential avoidance and repression. She is fettered, disconcerted and repressed and her unconscious divorcement of her self as a totality, a whole retreating from her hand, only serves as an instrument - a retaliation in the face of crisis and her lack of existential autonomy. She objectifies herself through her own fragmentation. What other species bar humans have the capacity or even the proficiency to both proliferate and restrict themselves through their own bodies according to the phenomenological experience they're environed in?
The other type of contact, the contact of the whole, the contact of love and friendship, is something that I want to also touch briefly on. Those fortunate enough to experience love are invariably able to empathise with the feelings of completion when we receive an appropriated caress, kiss or embrace from those whom we've become besotted with. When we are tenderly kissed on our necks we do not perceive nor feel our necks as being a thing-in-themselves, it is I, I is it. We take delight and delectation in this indulgence of feeling one-self as an undivided self; a whole; a conglomeration. We feel unified when we are acquire this totality in ourselves through the acceptance, passion and the perceptiveness of those whom we share in love, those who melodically play our heart's lyre. Consider just how glorious the feeling is during those first moments of eyes' opening after a romantic kiss. We look fixedly on another as we play amongst the poem's dance. We do not merely kiss a pair of lips, nor do we kiss their lips, we kiss them, beautiful, harmonious totals pattering through the currents of their own phenomenological worlds as they endeavour to complete themselves via another. We do not feel dichotomised nor disharmonised. We finally feel accepted. We finally feel one, the naked self, free of bad-faith. This is, to me, beauty, the whole of oneself through love.

Sunday, 11 May 2014

El Emado

His soul swooned and his heart fluttered as his eyes gazed at the pretty figure of the girl of his childhood dreams. Not to avoid attention unto himself, his eyes flitted from side to side as she glimpsed at him through her dark, subaqueous contour as her figure flickered and glimmered as she danced with the night. 

Thursday, 1 May 2014

Foregone friendship

Alas, I thought I might, stand so sullen with this eerie fright
Glowering her trees with a love like a starry sort
Percussing cheeks; sights seeps as wet eyes contort
But forebear me, my friend, maim my palm's sated slight...





Sunday, 9 February 2014

Luna Noctem

His soul sprawled as he fell from the sun as the moon coppered his red, refined face in its dusky midnight darkness. In a moment of impassioned foreboding, he glanced up, fixedly, and he saw birds soar in unison with the chattered flutters that birds always wish to impart those who behold them.

Tuesday, 14 January 2014

From the Hymn of Empedocles

by Matthew Arnold


Is it so small a thing
To have enjoy'd the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes; 5


That we must feign a bliss
Of doubtful future date,
And while we dream on this
Lose all our present state,
And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose? 10


Not much, I know, you prize
What pleasures may be had,
Who look on life with eyes
Estranged, like mine, and sad:
And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you; 15


Who 's loth to leave this life
Which to him little yields:
His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,
His often-labour'd fields;
The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew. 20


But thou, because thou hear'st
Men scoff at Heaven and Fate;
Because the gods thou fear'st
Fail to make blest thy state,
Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are. 25


I say, Fear not! life still
Leaves human effort scope.
But, since life teems with ill,
Nurse no extravagant hope.
Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair 30

Friday, 27 December 2013

Winter Night

As the cold winter night looms
As light flickers and dims
Hearts are flourishing abloom
Prithee romancing begins

Thursday, 5 December 2013

A Poeta

I know thee loveth not me
Nor desire nought's nigh
Erewhile hearts weep
As romances forby

Canst thou speaketh for love
Since whence art thine?
Art thy roses hast bloom,
Like a poet's entwine?

Canst my tears be thy rue
As longings amiss
Whosoever seek love's true
Read chapter's kiss

So mention not thee
For romance's dismiss
Love's song shall play
An untimely unkiss

Give thy love
And free this heart
My words art yours
For dreams impart

For we art the poets
Whose souls on paper bleedeth
Stand not as genteel heroics
For lest your soul one's seeketh

I prithee, leave not me
But if thou do so blue
Hither I as thee
Lest I be you
But the kisses are dew
And her heart is thine
The blossoms are only beau
When Love’s lips entwine

Thursday, 14 November 2013

The Death Of A Loved One

He exhumed her tears and percussed the paper with an almighty billowing patter. She acknowledged that her husband was now but a reverie in the impasse called death. With a frightful glee, she stood up and fixed her eyes on the portrait that stood aloft with its glistening nostalgia and pretty frame. She let the paper descend and lapse to the floor like a whimper and hurried over to the mantelpiece with a firm bite of her lower lip -allowing humility to ensnare her. With a quavering flounder, she picked up the picture and leered at it, trying to make sense of its disconsolation. With a woven woe, her eyes jittered as she stared at the man walking through the forest with his weary boots, his checkered and beloved fleece with  its markers of history, and his blue and rather coarse (and always durable) dungarees. As she continued to stare, she started to scowl and her grimace took firm presence over the event. "Closed eyes, heart not beating, but a living love" she repeated to herself.