Sadness tax

 

Konica10238

 

 

 

Lostness   (69)

 

 

Lottery tickets were my sadness tax

 

allowing dreams of riskless generosity
and seeing altruism shine, at last,
beyond this anxious poverty, while
stuck in rented social housing
lacking sound-insulation
thus ensuring peace
will not
break out.

 

Soon questions start their nagging:

 

About whether
(setting aside ill-health)
I ever headed toward success?

Or when brooding over
“Where did it all go wrong?”
becomes just more self-reproach?

 

Perhaps trauma
plus biology
always marked me as
eventual human wreckage?

Lying here
unable
to gain quietude
in the soul-gloom

 

Seeking light
I found darkness

Needing love
I was betrayed

 

Where is safe exit
from such muck?

Can I reach belief without dishonour?

Noticing
once life is soiled by misery
how melancholy may fetishise
an unknown.

 

If reality leaves parched the thirst
for a sublime
what remains but magical thinking’s
temptation
to those
nature flawed?

 

Some lured then follow visions
like apocalypse:

which totalise
a mean end
surmounting private ordeals
that pass generally unseen

and there
any who possess
the effrontery to outlive us
get conscripted
under fatal equality
shared through righteous fire
imagined
in gratifying flame.

 

 

So my poetry
could be another
side-effect
of suffering

Its word-steam
spouting from pain’s
warm vessel

Easing off, now
after writing
yet
still persistent

rising
cycle
upon cycle
until whatever stokes
this heat

finally

turns cold.

 

 

 

 

(2000)

 


(All art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.)
(Comments are welcome!)

 

 

 

(anxiety/art/beauty/blogging/depression/drawing/health/life/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)

 

 

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Mortal graffiti

 

Konica12546

 

Lostness   (50)

 

 

Another flagellation by remorse stings my conscience…

 

From failure to continue the family line.
Generations of care, toil, and suffering:
ending with me.

 

Have I conspired at my own futility?

 

Did I avoid decisions that led toward adulthood?

What to do next?

Where to look for answers except inside myself.

And if I find nothing there?

Who could help someone wanting only
to want something?

 

Once practical difficulties recede, personality problems can dominate.

 

Would I try so hard at expressing contentment?
Will lines of happiness remain unwritten?

I think about playing guitar,
how even writing may get lured by the blues.

I scan, without focussing, across myriad ink marks in notebooks:
like graffiti on walls of mortality.

 

Am I alienated from myself, not just society?

 

Efforts at self-analysis indicate a desire to help.
Yet illness seems stronger than health.
Or beauty.

Perhaps this lostness is quite gratifying
for hostile psychic elements?

 

 


 

 

Later
alone
in the empty house
noticing a slight glow
from another room
where an old TV set
has been left on
with sound muted

There
caged by glass
blizzards of electronic particles
surge
ceaselessly
against the screen

Calming
such pointless agitation
I click
the off switch
and trapped light
implodes

to darkness.

 

 

 

 

(1989-90)

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/thought/ideas/opinions/writing/lostness/poetry)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wounded awareness

Lostness  (12)

 

At my school any pretext sufficed for bullying. Yet perhaps this was more a sign of animal health than my own isolation from the pack.

 

Tasteful eclecticism as a method of avoiding totalities.

 

If the unknown is more exciting than the known, one could find searches for new information tinged by anticipation of inevitable disenchantment.
But do we really know any part of the universe?
In that case we could face disenchantment at the impossibility of knowledge.

 

Novels can spoil us for real people.

 

So much time spent sleeping: what we might give for some of it at life’s end. Though, if we try to live without sleep, that end will probably come a lot sooner.

 

Intellect may be sabotaged from within.                                                (31/12/1978)


 

My going to parties: as evidence for the incorrigibility of optimism.     (1/1/1979)

 

Sunlight on evening grass. Little pats of warmth touched him, like faint invitations to desire. Being alone felt somehow wrong.
He stood waiting, as life slipped past. Wounded awareness. A sliver of the infinite. Wanting to give love, while there was still time.
Yet he knew, watching the sun lower behind trees, that this would be another night of going home to silence. And a last stare, in the bathroom mirror, at his characterless face: which sealed him off from those girls he longed to know, trapping the bird of soul in clumsy flesh.