Underlain by sex

 

Konica12511

 

Lostness   (60)

 

 

I need a metaphysical vacuum cleaner
for the soiled carpet of my soul.

 

Where are higher powers
when you want them?

 

“No lie in the sky!”  sounded one atheist slogan
during unbelieving rage
days upon which, looking at our planet, it seemed
maybe gods should also ask forgiveness
from creatures suffering
subject
to such creation

Here happiness appeared an irrational state
with misery and anger
taking typical positions
behind morality
against onrushing evil tides

Refusing contentment
until situations were put right
thus assuring vexation

(As argument demanding agreement
ensures its own frustration)

Perfectionism
defers living
to search after unreachables

Trying too hard
denying animality
buffoon versus baboon
or remembered child
that messed his pants
shamed before a looming parent
when my arse followed me
like a judgement.

 

There
beneath ethics
lurks aesthetics.
Beauty
underlain by sex
fired through hormones
hence desire overcomes distaste
then other bodies turn
ingestible.

 

 

In the end
at two extremes
we find
those seeing all
as evidence of divine presence
opposing those seeing the same
as showing only
divine absence.

 

Yet
if people who abhor reality
require religion more

what about this particular
isolation…

Might it grow so intense
I’d begin mumbling at deities
(while lacking faith in their actuality)
merely from an urge to complain?

Perhaps
even confessing
I need
a metaphysical vacuum cleaner
for the soiled carpet
of my soul.

 

 

 

(1993)

 

(art/atheism/blogging/drawing/life/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)

 

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Thinking about women

 

Konica12528

 

Lostness   (59)

 

 

Entangled by illness, yet still thinking about women…

 

If only I didn’t adore them so much.

 

I am mired here
amid lingering discontents
of the unloved

Alone
in a city filled with strangers
its female population
imagined
uttering many thousand variations
on “No”.

Recollecting times
women have given me a challenging look
and feeling uncertain whether it meant
“Don’t you dare speak to me!”
or
“Speak to me: I dare you!”

Then breaking eye-contact
over fear of offence.

 

Even beauty
can intimidate.

 

Recalling
when well enough for travel by bus
occasionally seated next to women
like a hungry man ignoring food
faking nonchalance
avoiding her gaze
or potential discomfort
should any trace of desire
leak from this empty chamber
called a heart.

 

Suffering an invisible disability
enables my passing as “normal”
although it shows no reason
to be lacking status

That happens once maleness
(valued through doing
rather than being)
becomes too sick for achievement
hence seen as socially useless.

 

Just fantasies persist
around she who might love me
as I would love her

Which never occurs.

 

How difficult
transcending pain
where it clings to us
like slime.

 

Now I visualise myself
sitting outside
on the doorstep of life
hoping someone turns up with a key

Passing couples laugh
but nobody wants me
in their world

So I rest there
smiling
across despair

while the portal
remains

closed.

 

 

 

 

(1993-1994)

 

(art/blogging/depression/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)

 

 

 

Fragile immunity

Konica12551

 

Lostness   (55)

 

 

For living each day as if it were my last,
I need to be fitter than this.

 

Not spending the time exhausted, housebound, and alone.
With a sensation of wearing an invisible, full-body,
pain suit.

 

Fewer things connect me to life, now.

 

I recall certain people reacting to my distress like a threat,
directed at the fragile immunity of their optimism.

 

Yet perhaps it could seem less oppressive to see suffering as meaningless,
rather than stemming from a higher power intending destruction?

 

 


 

 

I turn, clutching my pillow.
Falling, briefly, into a dream about absurd music theory:
describing relations between dominant and submissive,
then its perversion, via the demented fourth.

 

 


 

 
I wake, aching thoroughly…

As though beaten by unknown assailants
during sleep.

After forcing myself to wash and dress,
comes a need for more rest.

Energy winding down
across wasted hours
spanned by emptiness
where nothing is resolved.

While I lie, pressed with visions
of oblivion:

one that leaves no legacy
or love
only flawed attempts at beauty
amid some art and thoughts
which remain
unread.

 

Soon it grows dark, again
as, silently, I whine
against such fading
into night.

Any efforts to move forward
still find me squirming
around the hook
of fate.

 

How useless knowledge can feel
when we are unable
to act
upon it.

 

 

 

(1991-92)

 

(blogging/writing/philosophy/poetry/mental health/illness/depression/loneliness)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Illumination’s alchemy

 

konica12504.jpg

Lostness   (54)

 

I fret upon the rubble of stories my ancestors fought over.

 

Should I turn from masochistic truth
toward lies to live by?

 

Once reality seems unbearable, faith may appear essential.

 

Yet, what if current religions fail to inspire?
Despite unwanted needs for community and authority
festering beneath victorious individualism.

Where a sacred vocabulary reveals hierarchy…
does holiness subvert equality?

 

 


 

 

Which path to follow?

 

Some decisions expose reason’s insufficiency.

 

Doubts are so fertile.

Not merely when facts can be cited on opposing sides,
or that assertions occur within time,
and memory is fallible…
but, since being taught to speak by others,
can one even be sure about the meaning of words
used to describe inner experience?

Moving away from philosophy
a personal question arises:
do I lack metaphysical capacities?
Am I simply deficient in certain feelings,
required for belief…

Like those associated with beauty:
as yearning lights up the beloved
in an aura of attraction
while strangers fall outside
illumination’s alchemy.

 

 


 

 

I consider my empty life…

 

If everything desired becomes unattainable, why continue to strive?

 

 


 

 

Now
amid enduring isolation
and illness
any rare examples
of female conversation
involving myself
tend to resemble an interview
concerning a job
for which
I am unqualified.

 

Though
occasionally
I meet women
who are indecisive
about their passion

they always know

it isn’t
me.

 

 

 

 

(1990-92)

 

(aphorisms/blogging/depression/ideas/mental health/opinions/poetry/thoughts/writing )

 

 

 

Merciless neutrality

 

 

Konica12552

 

 

Lostness  (51)

 

 

Biological prisons can obscure their bars with love.

 

Marriage may reduce some potential chaos unleashed via active sexuality.

One hopes future generations will learn from our mistakes.

However, if children copy parents, adults need to embody
any change they wish to see.

 


 

 

Demanding coherence might encourage comforting illusions.

 

In a scientific age it appears more respectable to blame unspecified genes
for misfortunes, once perceived as arising from curses.

Even guilt has been preferred over the acceptance of helplessness;
or an uncaring universe, with its merciless neutrality.

 

 


 

 

Beliefs perpetuate themselves by becoming psychologically indispensable.

 

Despite many advantages, modernity leaves unsatisfied desires toward transcendence, which tempt reversion.

Spiritual frustration extends into art.

At a recent exhibition came the remark: “But anyone could do this!”
Meaning: “Where are those profound and beautiful works we yearn after: to move us?
Things requiring special abilities, beyond our capacity…”

 

 


 

 

In my own case, continual restlessness led me away from whatever I became tolerably good at.

Having wandered and dreamed through existence, I wake, unknown by the world, into a void of personal insignificance.

 

 


 

 

Now illness is closing
the doorway to life
in my face

mortality haunts me

across vague
nostalgia
for improbable faith

and ancestral perception

cyclic being
or  continuum

reincarnation…

Imagining
how different
it would feel
viewing death
as little more than
an inconvenient
change of trains
on eternity’s
timetable.

 

 

 

(1989-90)

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/thoughts/ideas/aphorisms/art/beauty/poetry)

 

 

 

 

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)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A demon of weakness

 

Konica12553

 

 

Lostness   (49)

 

 

Perhaps pain only tends to ennoble those already possessing nobility?

I experience my own suffering as rather disgusting.

Then notice, automatically judging myself harshly.

It seems so easy, believing bad things said about me.
Yet very difficult to accept any praise.

I  was taught such severity, before I could form a defence.

We cannot atone for the offence of existing
to someone who finds our existence offensive.

 


 

How to gain self-esteem without currently having it?
Breaking circles of negation…

Should I begin by directing inward, sorts of kindness I might like to receive from others?

 


 

 

When loss is unperceived, grief may be misunderstood.

 

 


 

 

In forced rest
sensing slow atrophy

drifting farther
from a once fit person
returning through dreams

where he moves
effortlessly
along streets unseen for years
while I struggle
to accept
never walking them again

lying alone
with fear
that some demon
of weakness
drags me toward
strange realms
better unvisited
which become harder to leave
the longer one stays

as a door closes
upon me
here
lacking strength
to hold it open
this exit
from my past
wished left
ajar

now
losing
what I had not realised
was even loved

my own
old life.

 

 

(1989)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/illness/loneliness/thoughts/ideas/opinions/poetry/writing)

 

 

 

 

Anything realised

 

Konica12508

 

Lostness   (48)

 

 

Though it may be enjoyable, sneering is hardly a superior use of intelligence.

 

Cultural snobbery, for example, aimed at cliched reactions to art from those stuck in their visual taxonomies.

 

(Which I associate with reviews leaving the question:”Did you like it?” unresolved.)

 

 


 

 

Vagueness forms a refuge, where precision seems threatening.

 

Situations requiring the supression of hostility.

When, if we cannot make people good, we try to make them behave well.

(As politics or law tend to result in an imposition of will, by some upon others.)

 


 

Whatever arises acts to constrain perception.

 

Anything realised involves options closed.
Perhaps constituting a burden of finitude.
Thus we could imagine that inertia preserves more possibility than action.
Yet, in actuality, a small task done outranks our big fantasy.

 


 

 

Feeling oppressed by a sense of insignificance.

 

While my certainties take negative form.
(Age, loss, illness, rejection, death.)

 

Hope no longer shields me from the truth that I am unfit to marry.

 

I tell myself sex would only leave me unfulfilled.
I mingle pity with desire
allow beauty its sadness
even admit love may reveal
what it was supposed to overcome:
a victorious loneliness…

But women remain icons
for an impenetrability
of existence.

And I end up making jokes
because life
is so serious.

 

 

(1989)

(philosophy/psychology/poetry/mental health/thoughts/ideas/writing)

 

 

 

 

Xmas lost

 

Konica12496

 

My uncle especially liked this picture of me.

He died in November.

Now I am completely alone.

 


 

 

It has been a stressful time, though I somehow managed to continue weekly posting.

I keep hoping my audience will grow consistently beyond single figures, but the stats usually arrive as a digital depressant, including many vacant days without views.

 

 


 

 

This first Xmas of blogging sparked a new worry:
could I be the loneliest person on WordPress?

 

Probably an unanswerable question.

Yet, my situation is rather unusual.

30 years of chronic illness, pain and exhaustion.

A 27th, consecutive, Xmas spent alone.

Not feeling well enough to go out.
Or make new friends.

The phone doesn’t ring.
I cannot think of anyone who would want to hear from me.
My family are dead. I am the last of our line.

Except for my uncle, no-one has visited me, socially, since 1995.

I am used to emptiness, though Xmas and birthdays still hurt.

 

 


 

 

I shall end on a different note:
by saying a big…

Thank you!

To everyone that left “Likes,” or comments, on my blog.

Your feedback was the most positive online experience, for me,
and I still get excited by it.

 

I hope you all have a good 2018.

 

Best wishes

from Ken.

 

 

(memories/feelings/loneliness/lostness/mental health/depression/life/thoughts/writing)

Postponed living

 

 

Konica12510

 

 

Lostness   (46)

 

What could save me from this abyss of the self?

 

Books have assisted in postponing existence.
Now unfit for life, I make do by reading about it.
My attempts to “start really living” led nowhere.
Or, rather, back to isolation;
and these words.

Too restless to take pleasure by mere being,
while with human company I often feel stressed,
there is a reassurance in the presence of books.

 

How should I learn to love myself?

 

Must I deny the verdicts of parents, or society?
Perhaps such problems stem from childhood,
accepting harsh judgement by others, upon my life.
Taught to internalise a condemnation,
which may then perpetuate injustice.
Thus, uttering any personal assertion that is positive,
I struggle against an internal barrier
of shame.

Yet implausible dreams still arise: of beauty, and a woman’s passion.
Visions neither nature nor nurture gave me the equipment to realise.

 

Can the head cure a sickness in the heart?

 

It is common to associate happiness with normality,
though times I passed as normal failed to dispel my discomfort.
Sometimes adding a sense of diminished authenticity.

Might reason overcome emotion?
How to change my automatic responses?

If thinking did not get me into this mess,
why expect it to get me out?

 

I hoped, perhaps, to mellow.
but despair
seems ageless.

 

 

(Jun-July 1989)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/writing/opinions/ideas)