Sick of blogging?

scan 2

 

 

Ever get fed up with blogging?

I do.

Sometimes during moods of unexpected intensity.

“Why continue, then?” you ask.

(Notice me discerning your thoughts? Pretty cool, eh?)

“Because I don’t have a life,” is the basic answer.
Being chronically ill reduces capacity for enjoyable activities.

“Which activities are those?” you inquire.
(My mind-reading’s on a roll, today.)

“Hmm. Let’s see.”

“Say the first thing arising.”
“Er. Maybe the second thing.”
“Why not the first?”
“It was slightly inappropriate.”
“Go ahead. After all, who cares?”
“Excuse me?”

“Face facts. Hardly anybody’s interested.
They wearied of your existential rambling months ago.
And the depressing poetry.”

“Hang on, a minute…”

“Hence you’re left talking to yourself in cyberspace.
Like a person suffering multiple personality disorder.”

“Listen, rude inner-voice doubling as imaginary interlocutor,
such disrespect for a fellow, on his own website, appears poor etiquette.
Can’t you find redeeming features?”

“There’s no compulsory optimism, I suppose.”

“OK. Now please be quiet, as I wish to address my audience.”

“Both at once? LOL!”

 

Dear Reader, do you ever get sick of blogging?

Does anything help?

 

I remember advice articles suggest ending on a question.
Though people often ignore mine.

Perhaps engagement stays low since I’m a bad writer?
Yet, no-one wants to admit that, about their work.

Except, I just did.

But, wait:
isn’t honesty a positive quality?

So, might this downbeat post negate its own negativity?

Has my failure gone meta?

Could meta-failure
form a kind of success?

 

 

(Thus, when I’m trying to think the way out,
philosophy pulls me back in.)

ūü§Ē

 

 

 

 



 

Hi all!

Attempts at spontaneous writing took a silly turn this week. ūüôÉ
(Influence of British humour upon me, since childhood, is not easily escaped.)

Comments are always VERY welcome?

Art on the blog is mine, hope you like it?

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 


( anxiety /art / blog / depression / humor / humour / life / mental health / poetry / prose / reading / thoughts / writing )

Sulphur shadow

 

10

 

 

A muffled cry rang out.

His colon issued plaintive sounds.
As if small beings were imprisoned there.

“What sort of person even pities their flatulence?”¬† he mumbled,
after feeling sympathetic emotional responses.

 

Pressure continued building.
He tried abdomenal relaxation. (Visualising a smooth snake, gently making an exit.)

But the source of disturbance was stubborn. Approaching release several times;
only to shrink back, as might a timid mammal, hiding in its burrow.

 

Then, suddenly, casting off all inhibition with scandalous impudence,
a profound explosion burst forth, echoing around the flat.
Pain sparked across his anus, resembling the cut from a laser blade,
while he jolted upward, spasmodically.

Battling urges to lie down, he resolved on checking potential toxicity levels.

Nothing was detectable.

Suspicious of apparent odourlessness, he quickly leaned back, sniffing over one shoulder…

“Yes!”

Lurking behind him like a sulphurous shadow, hung an invisible gas cloud.
Redolent of warm exhalations from some unseen jungle. Elusive yet corrupt.

 

“Dignity is undermined by our own innards,” he complained.

The powerful blast could also be viewed as a coarse reproach, against absent vigour.

“My farts are more masculine than I am,” he said, ruefully.
“If a blind woman heard one, perhaps she’d mistake me for an alpha male,
and not this feeble weed?”

 

He made efforts to regain composure, hoping the worst had passed.
Beyond that distressed orifice, spread weary emptiness.
Plus primal fear.
Of eventual anal nemesis.

And the road to fartmageddon.

 

 

“A man cannot escape his end. Or his rear end,” he mused.

 

“Ass is destiny.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

(2003)

 


 

 

Hi everyone!

 

Hope you are well?

 

My old prose resisted transitioning to poetry, during rewriting, this time.

Sorry for slightly lowering the tone, but I decided not to exclude an attempt at, ahem, milking a little humour, from the experience of lactose intolerance.

 

(Any art on the blog is mine.)

Comments are VERY welcome!¬† ūüėÄ

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 


(PS: Next week will be my 200th post.)

 


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / fiction / humor / humour / life / mental health / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Mutant Zen

scan 6

 

 

Scree      (Part  4)

 

 

Bizarre symptoms of spiritual anarchy broke out in city hall, today.

A strange game, baffling to healthy minds, besmirched the Zen ideal. As an
unruly mood, tainted by pathological iconoclasm, suffused civic space.

(Extracts from our agent’s account are given below.)

 

 

…Accusations had led to such noise, that order was called.

Being woken up, the Lord Mayor opted to speak:
“I strive to please, whenever possible,” he said,
“Yet life is grave and shadowy.
We need more occult wisdom.”

The crowd fell silent.

“Let’s have another freaky lines time.
Suggested a clerk, attempting to lighten the tone.

“How about a theme?”
“Zany Zen.”
“OK. You go first.”

“Multi-coloured fish
in cold mountain stream
swam toward haiku.”

The audience began shouting lines of their own.

“What joins the myriad things?”
“The unlimited,” someone replied.

“Thoughts screech like trapped sonar.”
“Vacant skulls pontificate.”
“Sounds through lost auricle ducts.”

“I saw spear-huts with mysterious doors!”
Yelled a janitor.

“Experience batters at stoical rectums.”

“The Void shall end supreme.”
“Emptiness is purity.”

“What taste nears enlightenment?”

“Have a cup of tea!”
Cried the mayor, eager for his koan point…

 

 


 

 

Official response

 

The above account is cut short on psychic hygiene grounds.
It has been filed under “Mutant Zen”.

Hopefully, after reading reports of degeneracy, people will still enjoy calm evenings; followed by untroubled slumber: where dreams are as beautiful as dewdrops shining upon an orchid.

(And free from those urges to fondle oneself.)

 

Now I must wish you a conceptually-fragrant
goodbye,
dear friends.

While remaining,
your faithful servant,

 

Agent O.

 

 


 

(1973)

 


 

( This is the final part of “Scree”, written over Christmas and New Year 1972-1973,
when I was 16.

Though fundamentally prose, a few poetic elements crept in.

Art on the blog is mine. I hope you like it?

Comments are always very welcome!

Thank you for reading. )

 


 

( art / blog / drawing / fiction / humor / humour / mental health / poetry / quotes / reading / thoughts / writing / Zen )

 

 

 

Alien data?

Konica12853

 

 

Scree        (Part 3)

 

 

A strange anonymous report, seems to contain alien data.

(Transcript follows.)

 

 

“Two messages detected, Captain.”
“Are they translated?”
“First fragment on screen now, sir.”

 

“…Planet three of system shows potential.
Biped dominance may regress. Their awareness is quite limited.
Situation uncertain. Future projection…”

 

“Contact was lost at that point.”
“Hmm. Can you track it?”
“Probable origin enigmata minoris.”

“What came next?”
“Words from an unrecognised entity. Source is masked.”
“Go to view.”

 

“Hello mortals!
Do you search for answers?
Your time might be better spent in bewilderment.
Evolution needs no god.
Why worship any psychic excresence?
Just return, through death’s metaphysics,
to unknowingness.
Release all masochistic faith.
Blaspheme from atheistic incompleteness.
Pray only for inspiration:
across the dreadful night.”

 

“I’ll be lucky to get a decent sleep, after reading this shit!”
muttered the captain.

 

Then his communications operator turned emotional.
“A miserable existence drives my writing.
Trying to reduce internal pressures.
Waking each day burdened by unavoidable selfhood.”

“One’s substance appears disturbingly inessential, I admit,” replied the captain.
“Theories hold such danger. Especially for authority.
Living with suppressed fear of its own nothingness.

And our ultimate course may curve toward some great black hole in space.
That we perhaps visualise as a vast, obscenely powerful, devouring anus,
ripping cosmic farts called energy,
around fatal gaseous depths.”

 

 


 

 

 

Official response

 

The above text should be disregarded.

Like an unkempt armpit at the end of the universe,
we are filing it away in the neglected category:
Masturbatory excess.

 


 

Hail our glorious collective!

 

Take care, dear friends.

 

I remain, your humble servant,

Agent O.

 

 


(1973)

 


 

 

( I wrote “Scree” at age 16.
It was basically prose, but a few poetic elements crept in.

Any art on the blog is mine. I hope you like it?

Comments are always welcome!

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / depression / drawing  / fiction / humor / humour / mental health / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Anal textuality

 

scan 7

 

 

 Scree       (Part 2)

 

 

Message from agent Bubo

 

Like some beautiful marble face encased by muck
history can also be favourably cleansed, dear friends!

(While, with the excellent results of God’s mysterious love
our opponents shall appear deservedly languishing in slime.)

Let us promote an end to psychic hierarchy and unpleasantness.

What joy!

 

Indeed, we should find life energy-possessed.

Yet certain people still write about “infinite exhaustion”.

Alas! The toxic union which links sensitivity and depression has even engendered a reluctance to breed (producing more suffering).

Yes! Philosophical infections persist.
Among victims, doubt knots its unsettling intimations through their very bowels:
insidious as a tapeworm!

Thus, noticing how things decay (becoming fodder for plants, plus tiny repulsive organisms), these types dwell anxiously upon death.
Because they are without faith in soul’s renewal:
when signs release transcendent meaning.
Undestroyed by halted blood.

 

Rest assured, all your activities have a function.
Remember that discussing fallibility could form another nexus for weakness
or anal textuality.

If stressed, simply contact a nearby security centre, using the code, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star”.

 

Always remain confident over our collective power.
Repeat its positive mottos.

Just ignore any diabolic shapes
briefly sensed pulsing

in darkness.

 

 

 


 

 

Feedback recieved.

1 recent item.
(Unapproved)

 

 

Mottos ? Oh yeah,

“From each according to his stupidity.
To each according to his greed.”

Ha ha!

 

Until next time,

Limbo dancer.

 

 


 

(1972)

 


 

(This is part 2 of “Scree”, which I wrote at age 16.

Though basically prose, a few poetic elements crept in.

Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are always welcome!

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / depression / fiction / humor / humour / mental health / poetry / politics / reading / thoughts / writing )

Scree

 

 

Konica1250

Part 1

 

 

Anal traits.

 

Alert all agents!

Field report from narcosis section (filed under code: “Degenerate”)
recently found on data channel, at a vacant location.

Text appears subversive in spirit, beginning:

“Great deal, man! Fifty pounds of uncut.
We need drugs for a life lacking poetry.”

 

It continues:

“An avalanche of impressions doesn’t constitute a self.
While metaphysics has grown tiresome.
Let us curse anal traits, distorting minds,
setting traps for normal eyes.
Keep vision running, yet, along much other lines…

Endless bumholes tunnel space.”

 

(Suggest “wormholes” in previous sentence?)

 

“Time could see the whole operation go asswards.
Just take a shot.
Feel heat cross flesh.
Imagine obscene structures collapsing
amid a gush of verbs.”

 


 

 

Official response

Thus far we have difficulty tracing or explaining this message.
No agents are manifesting observable pathologies.

Please maintain healthy and appropriate conduct.

Glory to the eternal cause!

Your obedient servant,

Agent O.

 


 

 

Feedback   ( 4 items, received)

 

1)  Dear friends,

Our department intends healing all deviance, once given total access to psychic residues.

Pay full attention!

 

2) I’ve paid attention!

 

3) May only approved words, throughout
the breathless void, be heard!

 

4)  Amen!

 


 


 

 

This is the first of my prose, dated 1972.

Reflecting tensions between order and freedom.
Using experimental writing, surrealism, wordplay, humour, poetry.

I was 16 years old then, with no prospects.
Poor, jobless, lonely, friendless, alienated.

 

(My situation is similar today: with added disadvantages from age and chronic illness.)

 

 


 

( Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.

Comments are very welcome!

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / drawing / fiction / humor / humour / lostness / mental health / poetry / thoughts / writing )

 

Fun with Comments!

 

scan 3

 

 

                Lostness   ( 107 )

 

 

Have you ever found comments more enjoyable than a text?

Or been drawn by the threads below news website articles?

 

Lacking any previous online voice, I opened a reader account in 2012.
Reacting around current events, and seeing my responses appear in public for the first time, seemed quite exciting.

Though many people’s debating skills hardly rose above playground levels
(fast communication allowed expression ahead of sober consideration)
there was fun to be had!

Especially under pieces which were fairly lightweight.

 


 

 

Here are a few examples of mine, from those days, with their related topics in brackets.

 

( Please note: these tongue-in-cheek remarks should not be taken seriously!)

 

1) ( Weekend “zombie walks”)

“I wouldn’t be seen dead looking like that!”

 

2) ( Complaints over paganism being taught at school)

“Perhaps certain sacrifices may be required, in the cause of inclusion?”

 

3) ( On the spread of veganism)¬† “Resistance is fruitile!”

 

4) ( Embarrassment when gay porn got accidentally shown behind a newscaster)

“Nice to watch him bend over backwards to apologise!”

 

5) ( The theory dinosaur flatulence contributed to climate change)

“This sounds like a lot of hot air!”

 

6) ( Discussing female sexuality)

“I thought the quickest way to arouse a woman was telling her there’s a shoe sale on?”

 


 

 

But comment threads soon sank into digital obscurity.

So, fearing frivolous new interests leading me astray
while all my past creative work lay neglected and unseen,
I gave up such commenting.

A severe health crisis during 2014-2015 increased my sense of urgency to finally publish something.

Yet it took until 2017 before I felt able to commence blogging.

(And, 2 years later, I’m still struggling.)

 

 

Now, however, I would advise anyone unsure about getting started:

Don’t¬†be hesitant, like me,
or you might also regret
delaying your experience of WordPress!”

 

 

 

 


 

( Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are very welcome!

Thank you for reading. )

 


 

( art / blog / blogging / fun / humor / humour / life / lostness / mental health / news / reading / thoughts / writing )

 

Behind the mask

 

Konica128522

 

 

           Lostness    (101)

 

 

Sexualized offers soon began to arrive
after opening an e-mail address.

Promising male enhancement
firm arousals.
Even dates with eager
women.

I claimed to be a bit disturbed
being targeted these ways…

“How come total strangers know my wishes so well?”

I complained at chess club
in mock anxiety.

Attuned to such deviant banter
guys returned only laughs
not advice.

 

My humour, also, may fall flat…

“You shouldn”t put yourself down!”¬† Had been a response.

“Why let others have all the fun?” I answered.

Growing up much criticised I found
when later aiming barbs toward myself
internal voices slightly mollified.

 

Identifying as a loser reduced effort, generally.
Achievement tended to involve discomfort.

Shared failures
soothing wounded egos.
Seeing great success can grate
upon defects
comparisons adding irritation.

Fame attracts new tides of gossip
keenly seeking hidden flaws.

 

But then, versus appearance
run desires to strip away
our social roles
uncovering who we “really” are.

 

Though analogy would yet mislead
if beyond such roles
lay increased nullity.

Results thus
less like shedding clothes
than tearing at the skin.

 

Or perhaps I’d just
wrongly imagined
again?

 

Creating
this fear
for removing a mask

that might lift off
some part of
my face.

 

 

 

(2011)

 


 

( Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.

Comments are very welcome!

I always look forward to hearing from visitors.

Thank you for reading.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / beauty / culture / depression / drawing / humour / life / lostness / mental health / poem / poetry / thoughts )

 

An alien dream

 

Lostness  (4)  1976

 

Rain patters in an upturned dustbin lid.
One street ruptures into another.
Which way next?
What to do with freedom when you have no money?

 


 

 

Dream

 

An alien walks into a crowded cafe. Its internal organs are visible through transparent flesh. People stare.

I shout:¬† “Hey waiter! Get me one of those.”

A laugh goes around.

I wake up saying:¬† “They really¬†do have a ‘special’ for today.”